“You’re listening to ‘Today’ on BBC Radio 4 on Monday 11th July. The news is read by Corrie Corfield.”
“Donald Trump, the Republican candidate for the US presidential election ….”
Wragg groaned and snuggled further under the quilt, trying to pretend that it really wasn’t Monday morning and that he really didn’t have to get up for work. It was certainly too early in the morning to hear about the latest sayings of Donald Trump. Why did they always say ’Republican candidate Donald Trump’? Who but a visitor from Mars didn’t know he was the bleeding Republican Party candidate?
Wragg was always grumpy on a Monday morning.
Suddenly and unexpectedly, Corrie said something interesting. “A painting thought to be by Rossetti, one of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, is expected to fetch a record price at Sotheby’s this afternoon. The ‘Thousand Yard Stare’ depicts a crucified woman, the model bearing a striking resemblance to Eulalia Wilding, a known model of Rossetti’s. A reserve price of $5,000,000 has been set. The painting is being sold by the Earl of Cruxton to raise money for death duties.”
Wragg got out of bed, frowning slightly. He reached for his tablet PC, his spectacles, and his dressing gown in that order and departed downstairs to put the kettle on. Luckily he’d emptied the dishwasher last night, so once the kettle was on he sat down and logged on to Crux Forums.
The screen was alive with alerts, as it often was. Racing Rodent had posted a hilarious response last night to Wragg’s latest episode of Crux Trek, the tale of Captain Wragg and the intrepid crew of the Starship USS Cruxton Abbey on its five year mission to the stars, to boldly crux where no man had cruxed before. Repertor had replied with a string of pictures which had had Wragg almost wetting himself with laughter. And Barbaria’s latest tale Tallahassee Lassie (with input from and apologies to Freddie Cannon) was going great guns. Messaline was back in Anjou, Tree was busy doing something unspeakable to the Celtic Virgin in CV writes her final CV and Top Cat had been busy overnight, too.
But Wragg needed to go back to Venus Verticordia. Because, in real life, there was no such painting as the Thousand Yard Stare. Phlebas and Wragg had concocted the tale of the painting purely as part of a story telling how Tree had been mistaken for a notorious nineteenth century art thief known as the ‘Racing Rodent’, and how he’d been saved from a long stretch in chokey only because Repertor had gone back another five years, trained to be a London bobby purely in order to spring Tree back to the twenty first century. Yes, there it was, there was the episode that he’d asked Phlebas to post, there was Phlebas picture of the painting.
He switched over to Google and typed in ‘Thousand Yard Stare Rossetti’
There it was. Exactly the same painting. Not only that, but the website referred to ‘Dante Phlebas Rossetti’, not Dante Gabriel Rossetti!
‘What the hell is going on?’ he muttered, as the kettle boiled.
He poured the water on the teabag, and grabbed the computer back.
‘Is Tree OK then?’ he began to be worried. But The Hanging Tree still seemed to be active, he'd got poor Celtic Virgin mounted on a wheel, and he certainly showed no sign of being stuck in the 19th Century, and a quick check on Old Slave showed that he, too, showed no evidence of having been caught in a timeslip.
Wragg breathed a sigh of relief. He poured two cups of tea and took them upstairs.
All his married life he’d made the tea. Sometimes he wondered how Mrs Wragg managed to get up on those odd occasions when work had taken him away. But today he didn't speculate on that. Today he couldn’t get the Venus Verticordia mystery out of his head.
Mrs Wragg drank her tea and departed to the bathroom. Wragg grabbed his tablet again. Crux forums was still logged in. He looked back at the episode where Tree and Repertor had escaped back to 2016.
“You’re a lucky bastard, Tree,” said Slave, as the carriage got under way. “I know you did that girl. I can’t prove it, but I know you killed her. You should be heading for the rope! You won’t enjoy Newgate, but you can count your fucking blessings for every minute of those fifteen years!”
Did what girl? What was Old Slave saying? Wragg had never written that! Murder? Wragg had only put art theft into the story!
The electric toothbrush was running next door. Coast still clear. Frantically Wragg looked back through his own story, a story that seemed to have taken on a chilling life of its own.
“Thank you, milord. The sexton of St Leonard’s Church, Shoreditch, rose early on the morning of 12th February. He had a grave to dig for a funeral on the 13th, and he noticed as he rose that the night had been a cold one, with frost upon the ground. He realised that the ground would be harder to dig, so he made haste to the church in order to begin his task. Upon arriving at the church he was met by a fearful sight. At some point after 9:30pm the previous evening, when the vicar had left the church after saying Compline, and 7:30am, when the sexton arrived, a large wooden cross had been erected in the churchyard. Upon the cross was the body of a young woman, completely naked, with fair hair and big ti…er…nails sticking out of her wrists and feet. The sexton discovered quickly that the victim was deceased, and he made haste to alert the local constable.
“I reached the scene within the half hour. Hearing that I was to see a young woman upon a cross, I had to steel myself for the ordeal, but my duty lay in that churchyard, and to that churchyard I went.”
“Very commendable, Inspector,” commented Fife. “A true public servant always puts his duty above any other consideration.”
What young woman? Wragg was aghast. He’d got no idea that there even was a St Leonard’s Church in Shoreditch!
“Were you able to identify the victim?” Madiosi finally managed to take over questioning from the judge.
“Eventually, yes. A Mrs Fanshawe, who runs a boarding house in Virginia Road, identified her as one of her tenants, a Miss Dorothy Rose Brown, from Leeds in Yorkshire. She had only been staying with Mrs Fanshawe for a few days, hoping I expect to make her fortune in London. Except that she met her cross instead.”
Dorothy Brown! Nooooo! But she’d been posting on the forums long after he finished Venus Verticordia! But suddenly he realised that he hadn’t heard from her for about three weeks. Frantically, he looked up her profile.
‘Dorothy Brown was last seen: June 15 2016’
His eyes widened in horror as he saw her last message on her status. ‘Got a hot date in Shoreditch! Don’t tell hubby! ;-)’
“Your turn!” He snapped the cover onto the tablet as Mrs Wragg emerged from the bathroom. Luckily she didn’t notice.
As he headed for the bathroom, he told himself that he was being ridiculous. Even if Dorothy had gone to Shoreditch, how could she have got into the story? She’d only been gone three weeks, anyway. She’d be back soon, boasting about wild sex with Bull and Gunner (or worse.) Try not to worry, Wragg, old chap.
Suddenly he realised that his wife had been speaking to him, but he hadn’t heard a word.
“Are you all right, dear? You seem awfully distracted this morning?”
“No, no, I’m fine, sorry, I was thinking about work,” he lied. “What did you say?”
“I said, don’t forget that the Blenkinsopps are coming for dinner tonight. Don’t be late home from work!”
Wragg had forgotten every word about the Blenkinsopps. “Oh, OK. I’ll try and be home about 5:30, then there’ll be time for some Coq au Vin to cook. “
She smiled. “I love your Coq, au vin or otherwise!”
He playfully smacked her on her bum, and made a big play of looking at his watch, as if considering whether there was time for a quick one before work.
“No! You haven’t got time for any of that – now hurry up or you’ll be late for work!”
She departed to make the breakfast. He grabbed the tablet again. ‘Send a pm to Eulalia, he decided. ‘Ask her if she’s seen or heard from Dorothy.’
The conversations alert was on, but as yet he’d not looked at them.
His mouth opened in shock. ‘How the hell…?’
Although her profile had said she’d not been on since June, Dorothy had pm’d him.
“Well, thank God for that! I was quite worried there!” he said aloud (Mrs W had put the radio on downstairs.)
He opened up the thread. Six successive messages from Dorothy. The smile froze on his face.
10:47 pm: “That was fun, Wraggie! Sure, it hurt a bit but the orgasm nearly blew my brains out!”
11:12 pm: “OK, Wraggie, I’ve had enough now.”
12:34 am: “Wragg, please! It hurts and it’s cold! My shoulders are killing me! Please, Wragg, come back and get me down!”
1:21 am: “WRAGG! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU????”
1:23 am: “Please, Wragg, don’t leave me here!”
1:34 am: “Wragg…..I can’t……last…..much…..longer…..”
THE END
,
)
You guys sure about this?
...but not only math.
in trouble now ....
But only after numerous cups... 
en.wikipedia.org
