I didn’t panic.

I could have, but I didn’t.

I was far too angry this time. I’d had sufficient. I mean to say, one cold-blooded murder at your party is bad enough. But two! That’s really taking the piss.

I glanced about in search of the assassin. But none was to be found standing conveniently by holding a blow-pipe in one hand whilst waving to me with the other.

Folk were gaily dancing now to the music of the mariachi band upon the minstrels’ gallery. Everyone seemed to be having a jolly good time.

Everyone but me.

But I didn’t panic. No. I was angry, but I was cool. I was so cool. Do you know what I did? Well, I’ll tell you what I did. I dragged Danbury to his feet. Danced him over to the invisible suit of armour. And then rammed his body into the back of it. Pretty damn cool, eh?

And if you’ve ever tried to ram a corpse into the back of an invisible suit of armour, you’ll know that it can be pretty tricky.

Especially if the corpse is sporting an erection.

Then I went searching for Norman.

I was angry with Norman.

The shopkeeper wasn’t hard to find. He was doing the Twist. All on his own. But being cheered on by a circle of adoring females. I thrust my way through this circle, much to their annoyance.

‘Norman! You twat!’ I shouted at him.

Norman flapped his fingers at me. ‘Go away,’ he shouted back. I ye got these women eating out of my hand. Look at Tear-apartmy-two-limbs-son’

‘Who?’

‘Tara Palmer—Tomkinson’

It wasn’t bad, but I wasn’t in the mood. ‘Norman!’ I shouted. ‘It’s happened again!’ Then put some more iodine on it.’

I made fists at Norman. Much to the horror of the womenfolk ‘Stop dancing,’ I shouted. ‘There’s been another murder.’

‘Oh,’ and Norman stopped dancing.

‘Aaaaaaaaaaw,’ went the womenfolk. ‘Dance some more for us, Norman.’

‘Switch your bloody suit off,’ I told him. Norman did so, grudgingly.

The womenfolk lost interest in Norman. They sort of coughed politely and drifted away and I stopped hating Norman quite so much.

‘Another murder, you say?’ he said.

‘Danbury Collins.’

‘Danbury Collins?’

‘Danbury Collins.’

Norman lifted his trilby and scratched at his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t get that one. Do you want to give me a clue?’

I shook Norman by his smart lapels. ‘It’s not one of your stupid name-pun things. It’s the victim’s real name. Danbury Collins.’

‘Not the Danbury Collins?’

‘The very same.’

‘Not the one who’s always...’ Norman mimed the appropriate wrist actions.

‘He was doing it when he died.’

‘It’s how he would have wanted to go.’ I couldn’t disagree with that.

‘But dip my dick in Duckham’s,’ said Norman. ‘Lazlo Woodbine and Danbury Collins on the same night. If P. P. Penrose were alive today, he’d be turning in his grave.’

‘Listen,’ I yelled at Norman, ‘we can’t waste any more time. We have to find this murdering—’

And the music of the mariachis ended.

‘—bitch!’

It was quite amazing, the way my voice carried right around the momentarily silent hall. And as for the way that all heads turned in my direction.

That was quite amazing too.

It was the second major embarrassment of the evening. And it was early yet.

‘Nice one,’ whispered Norman. ‘Very l990s. Very PC.’

And then clash went some cymbals, sparing Norman a walloping.

‘Boom shanka,’ came a voice from on high, the voice of Professor Merlin. Heads turned and tilted. The ancient showman stood upon the balcony rail of the minstrels’ gallery, arms flung wide and long fingers wiggling.

‘Boom shanka boom boom boom,’ cried the oldster. ‘I am Professor Merlin and I welcome you to the Great Millennial Ball.’

The crowd, well-fuelled on drink and drugs and all loved-up by the Hartnell Home Happyfier, roared approval and clap-clap-clapped.

‘I hate that old bugger,’ said Norman.

I displayed my fist. ‘As soon as he’s finished, we search for the murdering you-know-what’

‘Dearly beloved,’ said Professor Merlin, folding his hands as in prayer. ‘We are gathered here tonight in the presence of this recherché décor...’ He gestured towards Lawrence’s dangling dog-dragon thing and the crowd guffawed aplenty. ‘We are here’, the professor continued, ‘to celebrate the birth of a new millennium. But also to celebrate the life of a most remarkable man. You knew him as the King of the Corona. The Grandee of the golden leaf. The Caesar of the ciggie. The Rajah of the roll-up. He was the

Saxe-Coburg-Gotha of the small cigar. He was the Sheik of snout. I speak to you, of course, of Mr Doveston.’

Clap, clap and whistle went the crowd. And cheer, also.

‘You’ — Professor Merlin raised a forefinger and swung it about to encompass all — ‘you folk are the great folk. The rulers and makers of men. The lords of high office. The grand muck-a-mucks. The captains of industry. The fair maidens of fashion.’ Professor Merlin bowed gallantly. ‘You are the stars of the silvery screen. You are the thespians. You are the musicians. You, my dear friends, are the business.’

More cheenng and clapping and whistling too.

‘And so you are deserving of an entertainment.’ Professor Merlin snapped his fingers and a glittering yo-yo appeared in his hand.

‘OOOooooooooooooh,’ went the crowd, most impressed. ‘Easy trick,’ muttered Norman. ‘I could do that.’ Professor Merlin twinkle-eyed the mosaic of faces beneath him and then sent the yo-yo skimming above. It sparkled like a gemstone as he whisked it in mighty arcs out to the left and the right.

‘Piece of piss,’ muttered Norman.

‘On this night of nights,’ called the professor, ‘on this final moment of our age, I shall present a special entertainment. An amusement. A frippery. A bit of fol de rol—

‘To bewitch and bewilder, beguile and bemuse.

To instruct and construct and perhaps to bemuse.

Will you see what you’re seeing?

Or hear what you hear?

Will you say to yourself

This is all rather queer?

Does it mean what it says?

Does it say what it means?

Is he bashing the bishop

Or straining the greens?’

And he danced his yo-yo through a dazzling series of tricks which naturally included the ever-popular ‘stuffing the stoat’. As well as porking the penguin’, ‘furtling the flounder’ and ‘giving the gibbon a gobble’.

‘You can’t do that,’ I said to Norman.

‘I’m not altogether sure I’d want to.’

‘Now be mindful, my friends,’ said Professor Merlin, ‘because the swiftness of the hand deceives the eye.’ And he flung his yo-yo once more over the crowd. And lo and behold, it just wasn’t there. ‘The more you see,’ the old man said, ‘the more you think you know.’

And then he clapped his hands. ‘Come, carpets, cushions and kilims,’ he called. ‘Come cosset and comfy our cool congregation.’

From all sides of the great hall came serving folk, members of the catering staff, baldy-headed lady dwarves and those littlest-said-about-them-the-better human ashtrays. They carried carpets and cushions and kilims and they walked about amongst the guests, setting these down on the flagstoned floor.

‘Please be seated,’ called the showman. ‘Sit ye down, oh yes indeedy do.’

With general hilarity all round, and with much trouser-knee-adjustment from the men and tight-skirt-bottom-wriggling from the women, the party guests set to settling down on the out-spread rugs and comfy cushions.

‘I think I’ll just nip off to the bog now,’ said Norman.