From behind her, Fred appeared. His whole demeanour was altered. He looked humble.
‘Come to kiss me feet, Fred Bowlby?’
‘In a manner of speaking, Fr Duddleswell.’
When Mrs Pring had left to wash up, Fr Duddleswell said curtly, ‘No, you cannot have it back. I have just given it to Madame Tussaud for her chamber of horrors.’
Fred said, ‘That’s not The Doomsday Chair.’
‘How did you …’ began Fr Duddleswell. ‘I mean, what d’you mean?’
Fred went as red as a poppy. ‘Well, Father, as you know I’m not …’
‘Superstitious,’ I said in anticipation.
Fred nodded, ‘But after Charlie Skinner got drowned three months back I decided to get rid of it. In case somebody else—you, for instance—accidentally died on it and I was had up for manslaughter.’
‘So?’ encouraged Fr Duddleswell.
‘So I found another just like it.’
‘In the Portobello Road.’ Fr Duddleswell wasn’t asking but telling.
‘How did you know?’
‘The obvious place to look.’
‘Only cost me a couple of quid,’ said Fred.
‘In Tompkins’,’ I said.
‘Yeah.’ Fred was more mystified than ever.
‘Where else?’ I said, pleased to regain a bit of self-respect.
‘I put it in place of the real one,’ Fred continued. ‘Didn’t even tell the wife. Too proud to, I suppose.’
Fr Duddleswell’s brain was working faster than mine. ‘What did you do with the “real” one, Fred?’
‘I would have preferred to bury it in the garden but Eileen’s a keen gardener.’ He blushed again. ‘So I took it back.’
‘To Tompkins?’ I gasped, edging away from the Chair.
‘Yeah. Told ’em it didn’t suit the decor of my place. Sold it back to ’em for one pound ten.’ He shuffled his feet. ‘I only came to say, Fr Duddleswell, that though you didn’t sit on my Doomsday Chair, you thought you did. That’s the main thing, isn’t it?’
Fr Duddleswell was muttering, ‘I don’t know, I don’t know.’
‘You’re the brave one not me, Father. Well, I didn’t mean to, but I stole your thunder a bit tonight and I hadn’t the heart to steal your hundred quid as well. So here.’ He handed over a thick wad of notes. ‘Now I’ll leave you in peace.’ He turned to go and since neither of us stirred, he said, ‘Don’t bother. I’ll let myself out.’
Fr Duddleswell collapsed in his armchair, ashen-faced. ‘Leave me in peace? he says. I nearly bloody-well massacre meself six or seven times over and that dirty double-crosser says he will leave me in peace.’
‘What shall we do with that thing, now?’ I asked. ‘Take it back to Tompkins’?’
‘And do the cowardly thing like Fred Bowlby? Never! I will coax herself to let me have it back for fifty pounds. Meanwhile, Father Neil, grab a spade and start digging another bloody great hole in the garden.’
THE END
About the Author
Neil Boyd is a pseudonym of Peter de Rosa. After attending Saint Ignatius’ College, de Rosa was ordained as a Catholic priest and went on to become dean of theology at Corpus Christi College in London. In 1970 de Rosa left the priesthood and began working in London as a staff producer for the BBC. In 1978 he became a full-time writer, publishing the acclaimed Bless Me, Father, which was subsequently turned into a television series. De Rosa went on to write several more successful novels in the Bless Me, Father series. He lives in Bournemouth, England.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1977 by Neil Boyd
Cover design by Jesse Hayes
ISBN: 978-1-4976-9873-4
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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