The Mysterious Disappearance of the Canoe Shaped Jesus Sandals by Catherine

It was a typical November day in South London. The trees were losing their leaves to the cold north wind which seemed to blow constantly. A sad, watery sun had tried desperately to warm the streets but it had failed. It was only 4.30 p.m. but darkness was starting to creep in.
The office of MDA was warm and stuffy – a combination of dodgy heating and cigarette smoke. The windows hadn’t been opened once in the two years that Gerard and Richard Hastings had run their detective agency. The whole scene was rather shabby. The brothers’ mother had tried in vain to brighten the place up, a few scattered cushions, a pot plant or two. The cushions were now lumpy and the plants had long since died. Their father was sick to the back teeth of them and was giving them six months to turn the business around or he would withdraw all financial support and disown them into the bargain.
Disownment wasn’t a new threat, he’d used this twice before. First when the brothers had dropped out of university in order to realise a lifelong dream; to become world famous mountaineers! The second time was after the ill-fated trip to climb Mount Everest. After two weeks they had failed to find the huge mountain, got drunk and came home – penniless.
God! Their father went mad, and under the threat of murder, the Mountaineering Detective Agency (MDA) was born.
Now the same threat was looming again. In the two years since they’d started MDA they’d made £5.20, and the Hope family were going to court to get this sum back.
They’d had two cases: first the Hope case; but they tried to forget about that! Then the very prestigious case at the British Museum, very unfortunate, the Rosetta Stone could no longer be displayed, or so the museum said.
It took Gerard some time to realise that the noise he could hear was not Richard snoring but the phone. It took even longer to find it.
“Hello, MDA – we’ll get to the bottom of the truth.” Gerard said in his best American cop accent.
The voice on the other end was old, wealthy and rude. “This is Lord Pettigrew, get down here, I need to employ your services immediately!”
Gerard smiled, “And what can we do for you, Lord Pettigrew?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions boy, just get here!” Pettigrew barked.
Who was this old man?
Gerard looked up his copy of Who’s Who and found the entry for Lord Percy Pettigrew: “90-year-old multi-millionaire widower – made his fortune in holiday camps. Only relative, nephew: Clarence Chumley.” According to Who’s Who, ‘Clarence is the sole heir to Pettigrew’s vast fortune; has more teeth that brain cells.”
Perfect, thought Gerard, this case would make them rich; they could pay off the Hope’s and the museum and go mountaineering again!
Pettigrew Hall was only a four hour drive away but it would take nine hours on the train with a change in Milton Keynes. They always had to travel by train, Richard couldn’t go in a car, not on a motorway, not anywhere, he had a problem. Gerard looked at him sleeping in the chair, poor soul. Richard had a pathological fear of caravans – he hated them. He would sweat, hyperventilate and eventually wet himself. It wasn’t worth the hassle so they travelled by train.
Gerard woke Richard, “Pack the rucksacks, we’ve got a case.” The train journey was a nightmare – according to the timetable it should have taken nine hours – it took 16 hours. Thankfully, Gerard and Richard were always prepared. Being first-class mountaineers they came with water, food, tents, ropes, ice picks, axes, warm clothing, pots, pans – you name it they had it. The rucksacks were enormous; clanking noises followed them wherever they went.
By the time they reached the small village of Wode, it was two in the morning. Luckily they were both wearing strong hiking boots and both had torches. The night was cold and clear, perfect for walking.
Finally they reached the outer wall of Pettigrew Hall. They set up base camp and had some tea followed by a cigarette.
“OK.” said Gerard “Let’s start the climb.” They managed the first leg of the operation with ease; they didn’t even need the rope. Over the wall the two brothers gasped as they looked out over the huge perfectly manicured lawn. The large, rambling Pettigrew Hall lay in the distance, a single light could be seen on the upper floor. The grass looked slippery and wet in the moonlight.
 “This will be tricky,” said Gerard, “I think we need to pick a route and stick to it.”
“What about that dark stripe in the middle?” said Richard, “It looks more solid than the rest.”
“Good plan, OK, let’s secure the rope and get started, this could take a while. I’ll go first.”
Gerard hammered a peg into the edge of the lawn, slipped the rope through and fastened the slack to his belt. Richard did the same. Tentatively, Gerard lay belly down on the grass and with the use of his ice pick, slowly started to crawl forward. Richard stayed close behind. They were progressing well and had almost reached the middle of the lawn. The moon was shining down on them, illuminating everything.
Suddenly, the rope tightened around Gerard, his foot slipped and he careered into the light grass. His heart pounding, he looked behind him. Richard was frozen to the spot. You could see him shaking; beads of sweat ran down his face, his eyes wide and staring. Gerard followed his gaze. “Oh, God,” he said.
There in front of the great house shining in the moonlight was … a Volvo – the caravan’s friend.
Gerard looked at his brother. “Richard, listen to me,” he said, “it’s just a Volvo. On its own. We have to go on, we can’t stop now.” Richard swallowed hard and nodded. They set off again. Finally they reached the house. Exhausted, they set up tent and crawled inside.
When they awoke, Gerard’s watch said 11.00 a.m. “Bugger.” he said “We’ve slept in.”
“I really need the loo.” muttered Richard.
They crawled out the tent and looked around. “Very impressive place.” thought Gerard. He looked at the huge house, then turned and looked at the perfect garden. Perfect, except for one stripe in the middle of the lawn. “Mmm, must have moles,” he said to Richard, but Richard had spotted the Volvo and was trying to say something but couldn’t. Gerard steered him to the front door and banged loudly three times.
After a while the door opened and there stood a tall, thin man with wild hair and huge teeth. “Hi,” he said, “Pleased to meet you, I’m Clarence Chumley.” Gerard looked at him and tended to agree with Who’s Who. “I really need to use your loo.” said Richard, “Is that your Volvo?”
“Please do come in. My uncle is expecting you, the Volvo belongs to him but since his accident I drive it. The toilet is just through on the right.” Clarence managed to say all of this in one breath. Richard ran off to the toilet, Gerard ambled about the front hall.
It was a massive place, a huge staircase took centre stage and lots of doors lined the walls. “I’ll just tell Uncle you’ve arrived.” Clarence said as he disappeared round a corner at the side of the stairs.
Gerard wandered over to a large reception table; there in four neat piles were about 20 copies of Caravan Monthly – this wasn’t a good sign, the Volvo outside and now this. Richard would have a fit; he had to get rid of them.
Just as he was tearing up the last few pages and stuffing them into a large plant pot, he heard a commotion from some distant corridor which was getting steadily closer. Two men, one shouting loudly, the other trying to pacify the first. The second voice was Clarence, the first, he assumed, was Lord Pettigrew. At the same time, Richard rushed into the hall looking rather pale – “I’ve broken the toilet,” he gasped “It won’t flush; the handle just came off in my hand.” Before Gerard could answer, Clarence entered pushing a man in a wheelchair. He was very old, very fat with a large red face and teeth and hair to match Clarence. A tartan blanket covering his knees also matched his face.
“What the bloody hell has happened to my lawn?!” the old man was spitting all over the place.
“I’ll ask the gardener, Uncle, don’t worry he’ll know what’s happened.” Clarence seemed to just be repeating himself over and over.
Richard went to open his mouth but Gerard nudged him. “Good morning, Lord Pettigrew, we are from MDA, pleased to meet you.” Gerard bowed slightly as he spoke to the old man.
“Open the door, Clarence, so I can get a better look at it,” the old man spluttered. Clarence did what he was told and pushed the old man out into the garden. “What’s this bloody tent doing here?!” The old man’s voice was getting louder by the minute.
Clarence reappeared, “I’m sorry about this, he is easily upset.” He went outside and brought the old man back into the house. His face was now purple and his chin was wet. He looked at Gerard and Richard, “Who the bloody hell are you?” he demanded.
Gerard cleared his throat, “We are from MDA, you requested our services.” Gerard was trying to stay professional, Richard just stood there still looking flustered.
Lord Pettigrew grunted, “You better be good, I don’t like wasting money.” He motioned towards one of the many doors of the main hall and Gerard opened it.
The room was a library. Shelves of red leathered books lined three of the walls and a large fire burned at one end. It was rather cosy, except for the smell. Not the sort of smell you would expect from a library. As they moved towards the seating area in front of the fire, Richard let out a little squeal of delight. There in front of the fire was a large, black Labrador dog, lying on his back with his legs wide open, snoring like a drain. As they moved closer the dog grunted into life, struggled to its feet and started wagging its tail vigorously.
“This is Humphrey,” said Lord Pettigrew, “he has a flatulence problem.” He said this last statement quite matter of factly. Humphrey was in dog heaven; he’d taken an instant shine to Richard and was now sitting on his knee.
“Right,” said Lord Pettigrew, “This is the problem – someone in this house has stolen my Jesus sandals.”
Gerard looked at Richard but he was trapped underneath Humphrey so he looked back at Lord Pettigrew. The old man continued. “They have huge sentimental value to me. You see, my fortune was made buying and selling caravans.” Gerard shot a glance at Richard, there was no reaction. He’s either gassed or crushed to death, thought Gerard. Lord Pettigrew was now onto his first caravan park. “After my fortune was made, the wife made me retire. We bought a 27-foot tourer, beautiful van, one of the best. I always wore my shorts, socks and Jesus sandals, the wife liked me to wear them and now she’s gone, God rest her soul, and my only true memory has been stolen from under my very nose.” Gerard knew he should say something but words escaped him. Lord Pettigrew said, “You have twenty-four hours to find my sandals or you’re fired.”
Clarence jumped to his feet and, pushing the old man to the door, he turned to Gerard. “Dinner is at seven; I’ll come back and show you to your rooms.” As they left the room Lord Pettigrew bellowed back, “Move that bloody tent from my front door! Come on, Humphrey.” The dog leaped off Richard’s knee, farted and left the room.
Richard was definitely suffering from methane poisoning so Gerard quickly got him out into the fresh air. “God I really need a fag,” said Gerard, “It was too dangerous to light one inside, could have blown us all sky high.”
Richard suddenly grabbed hold of him, “We have to go home,” he said, “I knew that Volvo wasn’t on its own, did you hear what he said – he owns a caravan park! God knows how many caravans he’s got – it’s too much, I can’t cope. What if he makes us stay in one? What if he tries to sell us one? What if …”
At this point Gerard slapped him. “Get a grip, Richard! He used to own a caravan park but not anymore, his wife made him give up – calm down!”
Gerard looked across the lawn; a huge burly man was examining the damaged grass. He looked at Gerard and Richard then back at the lawn, then came marching towards them very quickly. Gerard threw away his cigarette and bundled Richard back into the house closing the front door behind him.
Their room was huge, plenty of room for their tent. It had been a monstrous climb up the stairs with all the equipment. Altitude had been a problem and oxygen had been scarce. They dressed into smarter clothes and went down to the dining hall for dinner. They arrived just in time to hear Lord Pettigrew say, “First my sandals, then my lawn, then my toilet, now my Caravan Monthly’s! What the bloody hell is going on, Clarence?” They shot nervous glances at each other and sat down at the table. The soup was served.
Lord Pettigrew looked at the brothers “Well, what are you two intending to do about my sandals then?”
“Well,” began Gerard. Suddenly, Richard leapt out of his chair. “I can’t take it anymore! First the Volvo, then the caravan parks and now these Caravan Monthly’s! I just can’t take it!” Richard started to back away from the table. “I told you that we should have gone home! I told you …” Richard tripped over Humphrey who let rip a huge fart. Overwhelmed by the fumes he fell into Lord Pettigrew’s lap, pulling off the tartan blanket.
There on the end of Pettigrew’s artificial legs were a pair of white socks and, the Jesus sandals.
“The Jesus sandals!” everybody cried. “Oooo, they’re canoe shaped.” said Richard.
“Who the bloody hell put them there!” barked Lord Pettigrew.
Back at MDA central in South London, Richard is fast asleep in the chair and Gerard is content with the outcome of the case. After paying for the lawn, the toilet and the ‘Caravan Monthly’s’ they have earned £5.20, again.
Well, it’s a start …