“Is this bloke bothering you, Bobby?” asked the Young Master’s burly monopedal companion.

“No, Sandra. The gentleman is just leaving.”

“Sandra?” said Omally. “Sandra, it’s you.”

“Omally, it’s you!” Sandra hopped to her foot and gave Omally a bone-crunching hug. “After all these years and you haven’t changed a bit. Apart from looking so much older.”

“Nor you,” said John, “apart from…”

“The leg?” grinned Sandra. “I got fed up with it. So I had it amputated. Did it myself with a chainsaw.”

“It suits you,” said John.

“Thanks. It’s a great bird-puller. You should have one of yours done.”

“I’ll give that some thought.”

Young Master Robert made agitated finger flutterings. “I hate to break up this happy reunion, but will you please bugger off, Omally.”

“But I want to talk to you about your plan for the Swan’s renovation. The Road to Calvary, England’s first religious theme pub. Well, I say first, but there’s the one along the road of course, and two in Ealing, and…”

“Forget it,” said Young Master Robert. “The Road to Calvary it will be.”

“We’ll speak more on this. Farewell, Sandra, splendid to see you again.”

“And you, John, and if you ever fancy having any body parts removed, you know where to come.”

“I certainly do.” And John Omally returned to the bar.

“Well?” said Neville.

“Sorted,” said John.

“What?”

“Well, almost sorted. Give me time. You can’t just rush at these things.”

“That little bastard can. You will have to do something, John. I hold you and Jim directly responsible for this.”

“Trust me,” said John. And Neville served the drinks.

“That woman with Young Master Robert looks strangely familiar,” said Jim.

“It’s Sandra.”

“Sandra? No. But surely she used to have…”

“She cut one off. It’s a fashion statement or something. Big birdpuller, she says.”

“Bird-puller? Dear oh dear.” Jim shook his head. “That’s put your rhyming slang all to pot.”

“Yours remains unaffected, however. Cheers.” John raised his glass.

“To the future,” said Jim.

“Have you really got the Brentford Scrolls in here?” Neville asked.

“True as true,” said John. “Want to take a look?”

“Yes please.”

John turned the casket towards Neville and lifted the lid. The part-time barman took a peep inside.

“Oooooooh!” he went.

“Pretty impressive, eh?”

“Staggering,” said Neville. “Truly staggering.”

“Jim found them,” said John. “I told you he did.”

“And there was I not believing you.”

“You are forgiven.”

“And which emperor did you say they belonged to?”

“Not an emperor, a monk.”

“No, I’m sure it was an emperor.”

“Monk,” said John.

“Emperor,” said Neville.

“Monk.”

“Emperor.” Neville reached across the bar and snatched John’s glass from his hand. “The one with the new clothes. Get out of my pub, you’re barred for life.”

“What?” John swung the casket round and looked inside. “Aaaaagh!” he went.

“What’s happening, John?” Jim Pooley took a look. “Aaaaagh!” he agreed.

“Out,” cried Neville. “The both of you, out.”

“No, Neville, no.” Jim’s hands began to flap.

Omally’s did likewise.

“They’re gone,” cried Jim. “My God, they’re gone.”

“And for best actor nomination in Farewell my Scrolls, we have James Pooley and Jonathan Omally. Get out!” shouted Neville. “Never darken my drip trays again.”

“No, Neville, this is serious. Deadly serious.”

Neville reached for the knobkerrie he kept beneath the bar. “Out, Jim,” he shouted. “Or know the wrath of my displeasure.”

Jim snatched up the casket. “What do we do? What do we do?”

“We go back,” said Omally. “To the Professor’s. Unless you think they might just have fallen out while you were carrying them here.”

“No, I don’t think that.”

“Nor me. Come on, let’s go.”

They went at the trot.

“Oh dear,” wailed Jim, while trotting. “Oh doom and gloom.”

“Be silent, man. There must be some simple explanation.”

“They were nicked. While we were all at the town hall.”

“Too simple,” said Omally. “Though all too possible.”

“But no one can sneak into the Professor’s. There’s magic all over the place.”

“Perhaps these lads have magic too.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. Come on, let’s run faster.”

By the time they reached the Professor’s, Jim was half doubled up with a stitch. “Leave me here to die,” he croaked.

“Let’s go in.” John pushed upon the garden gate.

The garden gate refused to budge.

“But it’s always open. Come on, I’ll give you a leg up over the wall.”

“No way.” Jim shook his head fiercely. “Remember that time we saw a tom cat trying to climb over the wall and he sort of…”

“Ah, yes. Horrible smell of frying. Put me off beefburgers for a week.”

“So do you want me to give you a leg up?”

“I don’t think so. No.”

“What shall we do, then?” Jim clutched at his side and did deep breathing.

“Round to the front. But slowly. Take a little peep.”

“I’m right behind you.”

“Come on, then.”

John crept along the garden wall.

Jim put down the empty casket and followed.

John reached the corner and took a little peep around it.

“All clear,” he whispered. “A couple of soldiers over the other side of the square having a fag, but they’re not looking over here.”

“It could be a trap. Perhaps we should come back later.”

“Poltroon,” said Omally. “Let’s knock at the front door. See what happens.”

“OK. I’ll stay here as look-out.”

“Good idea.”

“Why, thanks very much.”

“I was joking. Come on, let’s do it.”

John marched up to the front door and knocked. KNOCK from the outside sounds different from the inside. There’s not quite so much of it. KNOCK went Omally again, KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

“All right,” called the voice of Gammon. “I’m coming.”

“It’s Gammon,” said John.

“And he’s coming,” said Jim.

Gammon put his eye to the little spy hole. “Are you alone?” he asked.

“I am,” said John. “What about you, Jim?”

“Yes, I am too.”

“All right, come in.” Gammon pulled upon numerous bolts and turned several keys in heavy locks. “Hurry, now. They’re back, Professor,” he called.

“Send them in then.”

Gammon hustled the pair towards the study.

Professor Slocombe sat at his desk, quill pen poised above a sheet of vellum. “I didn’t expect you back,” said he.

“We came at once,” said Omally. “As soon as we could.”

“Very good. And you put the scrolls somewhere very safe?”

Jim Pooley groaned.

“Why are you groaning, Jim?”

“The casket was empty.”

Professor Slocombe laughed. “A most convincing ruse, you will agree.”

“What?”

“An illusion,” said Professor Slocombe. “A little magical camouflage. It obviously had you convinced. Let’s hope it does the same should anyone else take a look in the casket. So where did you put it? In the priest hole?”

John looked at Jim.

Jim looked down at his empty hands. “Aaaaaagh!” went Jim.

The garden gate opened without difficulty from the inside. Jim plunged through it and out into the street. And stared down at the place where he had put the casket.

“Aaaaaagh!” went Jim again.