Ginger Tom

Just a few seats down the carriage, a peevish voice was protesting:  “’Astings, please not to tell me any more stories about ze ladies, I do not weesh to know how often you are what you call ‘aving eet orff.  ‘Astings, you do nat ave ze clue, and wot we need is ze clues, n’est-ce pas?”

Opposite Achilles Parrot, lounging negligently on one elbow, although fortunately it wasn’t one of his own, somewhat red-faced, and slurping from time to time from a bottle of 12-year old malt whisky, was the elegant figure of Foyles Hastings, well-known bon-viveur, connoisseur, entrepreneur and part-time veterinary chirurgien.

“And then her father opened the door to see what all the noise was, and…”

But Foyles’ voice tailed off at this point, for the altercation taking place a few seats in front had reached a Fujian peak of volcanic vituperation.

“Listen, you pomaded yankee cross-dresser!” Flugelpik was screaming.  “I need that haggis, and I need it now!!”  His speech was considerably impeded by the savage blows being rained on his head by a raddled-looking old harridan, wielding what appeared on first examination to be an up-market version of a Davy Crockett hat, although it might equally have been a catatonic ginger tom.