The Peaceful Affair: Chapter 24
Sir Benjamin Hall, the Chief Lord of the Woods and Forests, lifted his large ponderous frame and gave a lengthy speech on the subject of naming the newly erected Great Clock of Westminster. His oratorical epic complete, Sir Benjamin submerged into his seat, to be greeted by a witty cry in the chamber proposing the clock be named after him. Amidst roars of laughter, when nobody was paying much attention, the proposal leapt, bounded, and clasped Lady History by the left heel at the very last minute, when she had all but disappeared through the door.
Sir Benjamin Hall was known affectionately in the House as “Big Ben.”
Summer came — and went. Autumn came — and went. Winter came — and stayed. Spring came from behind — and kicked Winter in the behind. Children were born, grew up, learned to play cricket, understood that in order to be loyal subjects they needed honest verbs and direct objects, and went on to become prime ministers — the lot. Seedlings became little trees, little trees became big trees, big trees became newspapers, and newspapers became fish wraps. Moving pictures turned into motion pictures, then into pictures, next into movies, and finally into subjective records documenting the state of humankind in a post-post-modern era. The little counter at the bottom-left corner of the screen advanced relentlessly, displaying the passing decades in sixteen million colors. Suddenly it stopped reckoning.
The present was present.
Lord Dogsworth entered the clock tower and marched straight into the lift, which wasted no time in ascending vertically, whisking its single occupant all the way to his office at the top. As the automatic doors slid open, the head of the British campaign against the United States stepped outside the car to marvel — as he did every morning — at the site of London barging in through Big Ben’s semi-transparent clock face.
“Ring, ring,” rang something, rousing the lord from his marvel. Making full use of his marbles, Dogsworth deduced that the caller was a dead ringer for the telephone. “May I pick up the receiver?” he asked politely.
“Be ready in a jiffy,” replied the eloquent machine as it readied itself for the incoming call. Three jiffies later it announced, “Champing at the bit, milord.”
Dogsworth lifted the handset and said, “Hullo,” his British accent evincing such purity one was given to wonder how he had lost the elections for king.
The voice on the other side of the string communicated, “Hullo, Uncle Hound.”
“Young Man!” exulted Dogsworth. “How have you been? How are things in America?”
“Fine,” conveyed Young Man in response to the first question, and progressed to address the second without further ado. “Fine.”
Lord Dogsworth was doubly pleased. “Glad to hear that, old boy, glad to hear that.”
“Is this string secure?” asked his interlocutor.
“My dear Young Man, I secured it myself,” replied Dogsworth sanguinely. “You know I allow none but I to pull strings around here.”
“Sorry to have doubted you, Uncle,” apologized Young Man, and went on to pass on, “I bear good news.”
“Go on,” nudged Dogsworth.
Young Man continued. “I’ve managed to infiltrate the king’s entourage.”
“I think you mean ‘president’,” explained Dogsworth thoughtfully. “They do not retain a king in America.”
“My mistake, Uncle. Must be the jet lag. Anyway, you wanted to learn more about Charles Dodgson.”
“Indeed I did,” confirmed Dogsworth, and passed from past to present. “Indeed I do. Since Agent scratched Mac’s surface and found Dodgson lying underneath I’ve been anxious to learn as much as possible about the chap.”
“Any luck?”
“A modicum,” replied Dogsworth. “I have managed to ascertain that he’s the son of one Lewis Dodgson, who, regrettably, seems to have vanished off the face of the earth several years ago.”
“Face to face,” said Young Man.
“I beg your pardon?” replied Dogsworth bewilderedly.
“Sorry I made you beg. I was simply alluding to my discovery: Lewis Dodgson had not vanished off the face of the earth all those years ago, but had simply changed faces. He came to America.”
Dogsworth was still confused. “Dear boy, do cease the riddling. What on earth are you talking about?”
“I’ve just returned from a most agreeable and informative evening at the Jeffersons.”
“You mean Captain Jefferson, who’s in charge of the American treaties’ security, and Lieutenant Colonel Jefferson, aide-de-camp of General General?” Mentioning the general, an eerie tip-of-the-tongue sensation took hold of Dogsworth momentarily, which he quickly brushed away with a sensible broom.
“Precisely,” Young Man confirmed, “except that the captain is now a general. Anyway, I found out the two are vine collectors, so I brought along a nice box of Swiss shocklets.”
“I’d expect no less of a gentleman with your fine breeding,” said Dogsworth resolutely.
The young man nodded and continued. “To my utter delight, the box proved to be quite a smash, and I was invited by the then-captain to accompany her to the couple’s well-stocked vine cellar.”
Dogsworth hit a hidden button, and the Applause sign lit up. At the other end of the string, Young Man Coronet experienced a moment of gratification.
“Quite a tour it was,” continued Coronet. “They possess a number of inestimable items. More importantly, I was lucky enough to become privy to their most recent acquisition: Noro Myx’s Case Puzzle.”
“Myx’s Case Puzzle!”
“Indeed,” continued Coronet. “I was given a most singular opportunity to inspect it up close — an opportunity I chose not to let slip.”
“Excellent, excellent.”
“So inspect I did,” narrated Coronet cheerfully. “Which is how I found out Charles Dodgson is the son of Noro Myx.” He paused for a reflective moment, and added, “Combined with your recent revelation concerning Charles’s untraceable father, one might infer …”
“Infer one might,” agreed Dogsworth. “Lewis Dodgson vanished off the English face, only to resurface in America as Noro Myx.”
“And Mac is his son,” added Coronet eagerly, tearing the string in the excitement.
At the other shorn end, Dogsworth muttered to himself, “Like I always say: Young lads should not be allowed to pull strings.” Heaving a sigh, he took a ball of loosely coiled cord out of the bottom drawer of his desk, and embarked on a recon mission to reconnect the string.
“Why if it isn’t my favorite Agent along with my favorite McGregor,” Dogsworth greeted the two operatives with relief, glad to be gifted with a dense reason to put aside the skein of string he’d been trying to untangle over the past hour, in a futile attempt to find the tip. He was just about to arrive at the end of his tether and cut the Gordian knot by donning his special “wear and tear” outfit, when the pair had entered at the bottom and elevated to the top.
“Good morning, Lord Dogsworth,” said Agent, as he tipped his bowler with the tip of his black collapsible-shade-for-protection-against-weather.
“Good morning, Lord Dogsworth,” said McGregor, as he tipped his own bowler with the tip of his black umbrella, thus evidencing a superior vocabulary.
“Isn’t it now?” rejoiced the lord.
“Quite,” agreed McGregor.
“To be sure,” concurred Agent.
“Such fine weather we’ve been having of late,” stated Dogsworth positively.
“Hasn’t rained for nearly three hours,” agreed McGregor.
“Probably won’t rain for another hour, they say,” avowed Agent joyously. “Maybe two.”
“Although,” Dogsworth reminded, “it did rain yesterday.”
“But just for a few minutes,” Agent sharpened the recollection.
“Twelve minutes precisely,” said McGregor, and went on to land a bombshell. “I saw the sun just now.”
“No!” negated Dogsworth disbelievingly.
“She poked her sunny head through the clouds,” McGregor waxed lyrical.
“Clouds indeed!” enthused Dogsworth, and with nary a brake went Blake:
Bring me my bow of burning gold:
Bring me my arrows of desire:
Bring me my spear: O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire.
Picking up on Dogsworth’s fervor, Agent went effusively Wordsworth:
There’s something in a flying horse,
There’s something in a huge balloon;
But through the clouds I’ll never float
Until I have a little Boat,
Shaped like the crescent-moon.
Delighted, Dogsworth said, “It’s been a while since I’ve savored such fine weather talk. How often I commiserate with those bereft of a weathered sense of weather.”
Agent nodded gravely, and remarked, “Benjamin Franklin — an American no less — had understood this only too well when he’d stated, ‘Some are weather-wise, some are otherwise’.”
“Weather-wise … Reminds me of a weatherman I once knew,” whispered Dogsworth absentmindedly, and lost himself in daydreaming for a moment. Then, with finality, he snapped out of the reverie and assumed a businesslike mien. “Your performance of two days ago on the HMS Thatcher is to be commended.”
Blushing lightly, Agent said, “Thank you, sir. Too bad, though, our boys lost the dogfight.”
“Think nothing of it,” consoled Dogsworth. “After all, losing is identical to winning, only in reverse.”
“Has there been any progress since our discovering Mac is Charles Dodgson?” asked Agent.
“Indeed there has,” replied Dogsworth with satisfaction. “We’re in possession of two more slices of information. One: the boy’s father is a chap named Lewis Dodgson.”
“Lewis Dodgson?” repeated McGregor hollowly.
“Two,” Dogsworth cut to the second slice, “Lewis Dodgson had emigrated to America several years ago, establishing himself as a famous detective of whom you may have heard: Noro Myx.”
“Jumping jeepers!” exclaimed Agent.
“Jeeping jumpers!” cried McGregor.
“Go figure,” remarked Agent pensively once he’d settled down.
“A most accurate statement of your mission,” smiled Dogsworth.
“Sir?” McGregor displayed his bafflement with a play of eyebrows, defined by a certain critic who shall remain nameless as “one of his minor plays”.
“Forget the son personage — figure out the father figure,” Dogsworth clarified the mission objective opaquely. “I want you to follow Noro Myx. See what dodgy deeds daddy Dodgson does.”
“Forget Mac?” questioned Agent.
A dreamy look appeared in Dogsworth’s eyes. “An old man I once knew used to say, ‘Forget the forgettable and remember the memorable’.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, sir,” vowed Agent keenly.
“No need to remember it at all,” said Dogsworth calmly. “Quite a forgettable aphorism, really.”
