Announcements

Sir Richard Arcos writes:

The Green Man has asked me to update this blog, explaining that rumours of his demise are exaggerated. As are rumours of mine. I just went to sleep for a week or so after my niece swapped my tablets for some different ones.

The Green Man has been busily biffing the wicked, while I have been reading and doing other things. Like improving the Baboon Walk at the mansion. We had burlars attempt to get in that way once. Only once, mind you. The baboons didn't like being woken up. And upset baboon is, as anyone will tell you, no good at all.

Well, brave new world and all that. We did think of swapping someone's head for their feet, but decided not to. Suffice it to say, the regular doeses of doom will be resuming shortly.

Loving Kindness?

Sir Richard Arcos here again... Last Sunday saw my visit to St. Horace's, Much Wailing in the Bath, Salop, at the request of some relative or other. I think it was a niece, but it might have been a granddaughter. Anyway, female and related to me in some manner.

The service was what passes for 'traditional' in some circles of the Anglican Church. That is to say, we were presented with hymnbooks at the entrance, and sat down at the front. After which we were told not to sit on the altar rail, so sat down somewhere else.

The congregation, which consisted of several elderly to middle aged people, proceeded to rise on the entry of the (female) vicar, and choir. The latter consisted of three men, two women, and a cat, who appeared to be in charge. The organist played a couple of wrong notes, apologised, and hummed the tune instead.

At the greeting, we were all asked to share a sign of peace. I stuck my tongue out at the woman opposite me, a traditional Nepali greeting, and she ran away. The lass with me made a 'V' sign and muttered 'peace, man...' to the chap opposite her, who just looked confused. Some chap then grabbed her and kissed her. His wife laid him out with a straight left to the jaw, before berating the lass for leading him astray. I had to separate the pair before something happened. I'm sure the couple in front of us were up to something. Well, until someone in the choir threw the cat at them.

Memberships

Sir Richard Arcos reports... After my glorious role in the General Election, where I tried to stand as Unionist candidate for Cork County, only to discover Cork has not been part of the United Kingdon since the 1920s, and thus does not elect a Member of Parliament, I resumed my role as roving reporter for this blog. So, having convinced my granddaughter to come with me, we decided to visit the Ebenezer church, Pontwen, in Mid-Wales. This church, operating in the fashion of an American independent Fundamentalist Baptist church, boats a membership of almost ten thousand, a remarkable figure in this day of small things.

On the Sunday, we set off from my holiday cottage in Mid-Wales, an old chapel called Ichabod (the manor house was rather inconsiderately being used by my son-in law, some excuse about having seven children and the cottage only sleeping three and a half), for the chapel. Naturally, we wore our best Sunday clothes. I took the Range Rover rather than the Rolls, not wishing to be too ostentatious.

On arriving at the church we found a vacant car park, big enough to fit the car in, but not much else, and a sunken lane leading to the chapel. There was a noticeboard, but it did not seem to have been repainted for a good many years. Proceeding along the lane, we found what is best described as a small jungle, so we returned to the car for a machete. With the aid of this tool, we slashed our way through the undergrowth to the chapel, which is depicted. It appeared to have fallen down a long time prior to our visit.

Further research disclosed that the almost ten thousand members included people born in 1750, and the membership figure was arrived at by the simple expedient of never removing people from the membership lists.

England Expects...

Sir Richard Arcos writes: If you can vote, do so. I remember when I stood for the County Council once, and had my grandaughters wear sweaters with my name on them. I did not tell them to swap votes for kisses, however. That was their own idea. Still won with 92% of the vote, mind...

Remember Me? Part Five

The little boat was pulled onto the beach by three burly sailors, Lady Sylvia watching with interest. Sir Richard Arcos stood in the prow, looking up at the ancient fortress which overlooked the harbour. While Lady Sylvia allowed one of the men to hold her at the waist, lowering her down onto the sand, Sir Richard refused offers of help, leaping down onto the sand with a lightness of step which belied his years. Adjusting his black bowler hat, Sir Richard drew a cross in the sand with his cane, handed each of the sailors a substantial tip, and strode off towards the little fishing town, somewhere on the Balkan coast, Lady Sylvia hurrying after him, her travelling clothes blowing in a chill breeze.

"Sir Richard!" she exclaimed, "where are we?"

"Best you didn't know, lassie," he drawled urbanely. "After all, if this all goes wrong, the less you know the better. Suffice it to say, we are in a country friendly to ours, with a Minister of the Interior who owes me a few favours. The least he could do was facilitate our undetected entry into the country."

"So this isn't our target?" Lady Sylvia was slightly breathless.

"Right first time!" Sir Richard gestured towards the town with his cane. "We hire a car here and prepare to cross the border. Do you think you could be Alice Caine, dear?"

"False papers?" Lady Sylvia smiled.

"Well, how else does one enter a country to bump off a septic wart?" Sir Richard laughed "-of course, lass. Mostly as people might pay a little too much attention to an English knight and the daughter of an earl, if they just turned up in a little Balkan country."

"Of course," Lady Sylvia shook her her head. "Where now?"

"The car hire place and the hotel," Sir Richard nodded. "After which we are going to climb a couple of mountains."

Lady Sylvia sighed deeply.

Remember Me? Part Four

Lady Sylvia walked with Sir Richard, away from the church, towards the little old house where the aged widower, formerly pastor of the chapel, lived, listening intently to Sir Richard's tale. He swung his cane, rather than leaning on it, shaking his head as he retailed some information.

"Are you ready to get your brother in trouble, my dear Sylvia?" he smiled mischievously "- I mean, swanning off to somewhere distant with a fairly notorious character..."

"I don't have a reputation," she laughed "-and you won't be able to do this alone, Sir Richard. How old are you?"

"Not apparently old enough to know better," he sighed. "You know, I used to think I was. That the world I lived in back then had changed for the better. But the more I hear today, the more I realise that the struggle between good and evil goes on, and I have no way of dealing with it. All I can do is fight, as I have always fought, trying to adjust the balance where I can. And in the case of Oulton, I can do that."

"When?" Lady Sylvia breathed the words softly "-Sir Richard, I..."

"Well, I hear Central Europe is wonderful this time of year." Sir Richard drawled urbanely. "I thought we might hire a car in Austria and drive about in what used to be the Austro-Hungarian Empire - how does that strike you?"

"If he's there," Lady Sylvia laid a hand on the old warrior's arm, "then I'll go with you. Whatever happens to me after that."

She cast a last, lingering gaze back to the graveyard, where the spring flowers were starting to bloom.

The Return of the Green Man: Part Two

Robinson Way looked at the card, scarcely able to believe his eyes. His breath caught in his throat, as he looked to the card, to his guests, and back to the card. His mouth opened and closed, no sound escaping it.

"The Green Man!" He gasped in horror, as breath returned to him "-it can't be!"

"I heard," the whisky exporter joined him. "You said he was dead."

"We all heard," the young woman concurred "-but how can you know?"

Way shook his head, pale as death. He stumbled forward, causing the guests and footman to make to stop him from falling. But the rich man did not fall. Taking a pull at himself, he strightened up, crossing to the window, looking out at the snow.

"The Green Man is dead", Way at last announced. "No-one has heard of him for months. Almost a year. He is dead. How, I don't know, but he is dead. This is a joke played by one of my guests."

"If it's a joke," the whisky man observed, "why is no-one laughing?"

The Return of the Green Man: Part One

The winter was unusually harsh, with snow just before Christmas. And that snow stayed, being renewed in early January by further falls, rendering the lanes around the isolated mansion impassable. Food, however, was not a problem, given the fully stocked freezers. Even so, there were some in the house party who were less than pleased when, a week after New Year's Day, the house was still isolated. There were city types who wanted to be back in the office, and models who would have liked to go off to the South of France. Even their host, the resclusive Robinson Way, was less than happy, after someone decided that this was an emergency and drank a great deal of his best claret. But beggars cannot be choosers, and there was little of the less expensive wine left.

An elegantly-dressed female looked out over the frozen landscape from the warmth of the the house and shuddered, looking at the snow. It had been fun the first few days, but now the sight of it was starting to bore her.

"Is there no way of getting a helipcopter or something out here?" she demanded testilty.

"It can be done, Miss Powell," her companion, a bearded man in a tweed suit who was usually involved in the whisky export business, in spite of his old Etonian accent, replied, "but would you take the risk in this visibility?"

She made a face, and turned back to the fire, where Mr. Way say, a glass of vintage brandy in his hand, watching the flames dance in the grate. He seemed lost in thought, and had missed the conversation. Only the approach of a footman caused him to look up. The man carried a silver tray, on which rested a card. While the young woman looked confused, windering how a card could have been delivered, Way read the card idly.


The glass slipped from his fingers, shattering on the floor. Way rose to his feet, pale and trembling. The guests rushed to attend to him. The young woman saw the card on the tray, on which the milionaire's eyes were fixed. She gasped, reading words which she could scarecely credit.

"Surely this is a joke?" she looked up at him, then back at the card.

"No..." the man shook his head, his voice faltering. "No... no... c... c...can't b...b...be - dead! The G...G...G...Gr...Green M...M...Man is DEAD!"

Remember Me? Part Three

A chill wind disturbed Lady Sylvias hair, as she and Sir Richard Arcos stood by a little grave in Mid-Wales. The earth on the grave was fresh, turf newly laid on it. The two figures wore mourning clothes, and the flowers on the grave were fresh. Marking the grave was a wooden cross, a brass plate on it bearing the words: Yvette Trevelyan: 1920-2009.

"We were once engaged to be married, you know," Sir Richard smiled nostalgically. "But she fell for my best friend. And I let her go. They had a wonderful life together. He was pastor of the church here for a long time. I remember visiting him and his family."

"I know..." Lady Sylvia smiled. "My grandad was your friend too, after all. But something happened, didn't it?"

"Their son, Cakvin Trevelyan," Sir Richard nodded. "He joined the army - against his mother's wishes. Norman told her that she had to let him make his own way, just as we all had, but that's easier said than done. Well, Lieutenant Calvin Trevelyan was seconded to the Secret Service, and sent to Russia to do something awfully hush-hush."

Lady Sylvia looked down again at the grave. She remembered the funeral, the old man in the wheelchair who wept as the woman with whom he had shared his life was buried. And also though of the way that Sir Richard had been unable to be present at her death.

"Oulton was a senior man at headquarters," Sir Richard continued the story. "Some people thought he would be the next head of the Secret Service. But he'd been a Red agent since his Oxford days. Norman and I learned a little of his secret from some party or other we were at. My daughter - the girl called Sparrowhawk - saw him speaking to a man she didn't like, followed them, and found he was passing on secrets to the Russians. Well, Norman and I were able to expose him, forcing him to defect. But before we could stop him, he had Norman's son arrested. Norman had to choose; let Oulton go on working as a mole in British Secret Service, of sacrifice the life of his son." Sir Richard's eyes narrowed. "He chose to sacrifice the life of his son, so that others would not die."

Lady Sylvia could only shake her head.

"The shock almost killed Yvette then," Sir Richard looked again at the grave. "Norman and I travelled to Russia, and there Norman confronted Oulton again. This time, Norman shot him. We all thought he was dead."

"But?" Lady Sylvia sighed.

"The other day," Sir Richard replied, "I learned that Oulton is still alive. Not only that, but he's still dangerous. How do you fancy a trip to Eastern Europe, my dear?"

Remember Me? Part Two

Lady Sylvia looked at the old gentleman for what seemed like an age, incredulous. He only nodded, leaning on his cane.

"You heard me correctly, my dear," he spoke softly. "I need you to help me do something that could see both of us in prison - or maybe even dead."

"What is it?" Lady Sylvia spoke in a shocked whisper. "Why not...?"

"Speak to the Green Man, lassie?" Sir Richard chuckled. "While I appreciate your point of view, there are some things that I prefer not to leave to the Green Man. And one of those is the little trip I have in mind."

Her lunchbreak about to end, Lady Sylvia had to bid farewell to the elderly adventurer. All through the day, however, she could not keep his words from her mind. She was afraid for him, afraid that Sir Richard Arcos was about to embark on some foolish crusade. She hurried over to his London house after work, dreading what she might find.

She ought not to have worried, she reflected, as she reached his door, and found Sir Richard standing there, smiling. Hurring up to him, she embraced him, kissing his cheek.

"I must give you the idea that I've gone comletely bug-house more often, my dear," Sir Richard smiled wryly. "Come on in."

"Not so loud," Lady Sylvia smiled nervously. "People might get the wrong idea..."

"I'm afraid, lass," Sir Richard shook his head, "that I passed the age when people drew such conclusions a long time ago. I've aged far too gracefully to seem to be that sort of old man." He escorted her indoors. "Now, where were we?"

"A plan that might land us both in prison." Lady Sylvia took his arm. "What is it this time?"

"Yesterday," Sir Richard pointed to his desk. "I received two letters. One was from Wales, the other from a closed country in Eastern Europe. The Welsh one was from Dr. Norman Trevelyan, a retired pastor. His wife's just died unexpectedly, and he doesn't know how long he has to live. The other was from a source in Eastern Europe, a man I knew during the Cold War. Oulton, the defector is still alive."

Lady Sylvia gasped.

Remember Me?

Lady Sylvia Vaughan looked out over the Thames from the office of Lord Ambrose Vaughan, MP for Greyminster, as she sorted through his mail. She checked it for junk mail, then constituency mail, and other policical stuff, all the while hoping that it wouldn't be long before her brother got himself a proper secretary. But he had not expected to be elected, and so nothing was in place yet. Still, after life with the Green Man, this was the most boring thing on earth. Looking away from the river, she turned her attention back to the mail.

Only to almost drop everything, as she found a letter addressed to herself. Typed on an old manual typewriter, it was an invitation for her to meet someone in the Victoria Tower gardens, that green space lying between the Palace of Westminster and Lambeth bridge. The letter was not even signed. By all rights, she should have ignored it, but bored people often do things they shouldn't, and so, at the stated hour, Lady Sylvia Vaughan was stood in the Victoria Tower Gardens, wondering just who had written to her, and why.

And, more importantly, just how she was supposed to know who it was. After all, there had been no signature on the letter. And the number of people in the gardens was always fairly substantial. Mostly tourists, and, on good days, people having their lunches (although she preferred a nice little Cafe near the Home Office). That made it safe, however, for surely no-one would try to attack her in such a public place, where every building overlooking her was in some way connected to the business of Government?

"I see you came, lassie."

A familiar voice caused Lady Sylvia to start. She turned round, a smile on her pretty face, to see a patrician figure in bark suit and bowler hat, carrying a cane, rather than an umbrella.

"Sir Richard Arcos!" she exclaimed. "You wrote that letter?"

"All on my own," Sir Richard gave her a courtly bow. "I apologise profusely for any howlers in the spelling, of course. After all, I am used to having a girl do the typing for me. But this is a rather sensitive matter. Hence meeting you here, rather than at the House of Commons or my place."

"What's wrong?" Lady Sylvia moved closer to the old gentleman.

"Nothing, my dear," Sir Richard shook his head. "Absolutely nothing. I simply need your help in a little matter - a little matter that could see us both in prison."

From the Green Man's Private Files: Eleven

Stannard's finger tightened on the trigger. The two girls stood silent, ready for the shot when it came, each prepared to attack while the other died. Ms. Madison saw the ghost of a smile cross the face of Sparrowhawk.

But the shot which rang out did not come from Stannard, but from the lift, shattering Stannard's wrist. The criminal turned looked up, cursing, as he tried to staunch the bleeding.

"Cliveden Stannard." The unmistakable voice of the Green Man caused the girls to smile happily. "You have been given the chance to show that you were no more than a harmless con man. Instead, you have demonstrated that you are a heartless monster. You would have blotted out two lives because they threatened your career of crime. You have stolen from the most vulnerable and trusting in society, in order to line your own pockets."

"You!" Stannard fell back, trembling. "But how...?"

"You are not the only one who has tracking devices and silent alarms, Stannard." The Green Man walked slowly out of the lift. "When my agent went to that house, I suspected that she might be walking into a trap. She has several homing devices on her. Now I have found you."

"Kill him!" Stannard shouted to his men.

At once, Sparrowhawk and Ms. Madison turned, kicking the men closest to them, before tackling the others, both showing a good grasp of unarmed combat techniques. The Green Man continued to approach Stannard.

"You cannot hide behind your hired thungs now, Stannard," he snarled. "The day of reckoning is here, and you will have to fact that alone. Every man, Stannard, is to be put to death for his own sin."

"Please..." Stannard shook like a leaf. "I'm a rich man, I can..."

"Your wealth will not save you." The Green Man shook his head, raising his gun. "Whether you have killed directly or just given the order, there is blood on your hands, Cliveden Stannard. And that blood cries out for vengeance..."

"Please!" a tear rolled down Stannard's cheek, give me a chance, I..."

"You have had your chance." The Green Man was unmoved. "This was a test, Stannard. And you have failed. All that remains for you now is vengeance. The vengeance of the Green Man."

The gun spoke. Stannard screamed, as the impact of the bullet punched him through the glass of the penthouse window. The scream he gave as he fell indicated that he was still alive. Until he hit the ground.

Sparrowhawk and Ms. Madison followed the Green Man from Stannard's penthouse, leaving battered thugs behind them, and an open case of domuments detailing Stannard's activities.

From The Green Man's Private Files: Ten

The girls had no choice but to surrender to the goons who filled the office. Sparrowhawk's whip was removed from her, while Ms. Madison was frisked for weapons. Disarmed, they were led to a waiting car. The masked girl gave the Green Man's assistant a hard look.

"Don't blame 'er, sweet'eart," one of the men delivered a sharp tap to Sparrowhawk's rear end. "You set off a silent alarm the moment you opened that safe. She's just a bonus."

The girls were silent, as the car drove them from the suburbs into the city, eventually stopping under a towering partment block. Waved out by the goons, they moved obediently to the lift, aware that while the men's guns could no longer be seen, they remained trained on them. Crossing the foyer, they were herded into the lift, and one of the men pressed the button for the penthouse.

"The boss at least has a sense of occasion," Ms. Madison managed a smile. "I suppose this is the end of the line."

"You got it, sister," another of the men managed his best impression of an American gangster. "After this it's the 'igh jump for both of yer."

"You know," Sparrowhawk observed offensively, "you really sound stupid."

The man hit her, with no discernible effect on Sparrowhawk, except to cause her mouth to curl in a rather worrying smile. The tension in the lift was palpable. And even worse than the usual tension in lifts. Ms. Madison worried that the girl in leather might do something foolish all the way to the top, smiling with relief as the door opened into the luxurious penthouse that was Stannard's lair. The man himself was waiting to greet them.

"Lynette," he shook his head. "And I really thought I might be able to trust you. "I'm disappointed, I suppose you know that."

"That's rich," Ms. Madison raised her head proudly. "Coming from a con-man, like you."

"Con-man," Sparrowhawk shook her head. "Lynette, this guy's more than just that. He's an all round piece of scum - I've stood in better."

"And the ever-predictable Sparrowhak," Stannard shook his head. "I thought masks and costumes went out with the 1960s. You know, I spotted you weeks ago. I've been waiting for you to make your move on that office. My men were just round the corner, waiting for the alarm."

"Well, that 'ld be 'cause they're yellow," Sparrowhawk's tone remained offensive. Ms. Madison had to marvel at the cool insolence of her fellow captive.

"No," Stannard shook his head, as one of his goons made to hit Sparrowhawk. "No violence, not yet."

"Don't like to see it yourself, huh?" Ms. Madison winced, as Sparrowhawk spoke again. "Well, what 're you going to do with us? Are you going to have your boys take us someplace and kill us? After all, now that we've seen those papers, you can't let us go, can you?"

"Take you somewhere?" Stannard shook his head. "I'd love to, but I know that you'd probably escape. Here, tenty floors up, there's no escape." Reaching into his desk, he extracted a gun. "I'm very much afraid I'll have to kill you myself."

From the Green Man's Private Files: Nine

"What the hell are you doing here?" Ms. Madison looked, wide-eyed at the leather-sheathed figure of Sparrowhawk.

"Looks like the same thing as you." There was a light of mischief in the eyes of the masked maiden. "I came here to crack his safe. But I got here first." A satisfied smile spread over her face."So, the Green Man got the memo at last."

"What do you know?" Ms. Madison drew closer. "What have you found out..."

"Right now? Sparrowhawk walked back to the open safe. I only got here a few minutes before you. Wanna help?"

The two young women emptied the safe between them, taking piles of documents of equal size. Ms. Madison laid her documents on the desk, while Sparrowhawk took the floor. They sorted through them with as much speed as they could muster without running the risk of missing something. At last, Sparrowhawk looked up, eyes wide.

"Samwell Estates, right?" she addressed Ms. Madison in that odd tone of hers.

"That's right," Ms. Madison nodded, kneeling beside the lass in leather. "What have you found?"

"Only this." Hawkie brandished a couple of documents. "Two copies of Samwell Estates' trading account. Both addressed to Stannard."

"That's enough to prove a relationship between Stannard and Samwell Estates." Ms. Madison smiled. "And that's enough to prove that what happened with the church was no accident. And that's enough to get Stannard prosecuted."

"If you can get those papers to a judge."

A voice behind the two girls caused them to start. They saw two big men with guns. Guns that were pointed at them. Slowly, they rose, rasing their hands. The two men nodded approvingly.

"The boss is going to want to see you." One of the men spoke, in a definite Estuary accent.

"I think," Sparrowhawk turned to her friend, "we're in trouble."

From the Green Man's Private Files: Eight

Ms. Madison parked her car a couple of streets away, and walked briskly to the house. It was elegant, built towards the latter end of the nineteenth century, with servants' quarters to the rear, and a single-storey drawing-room extension built out to one side. A plaque by the door indicated that it was the registered offices of 'Atlas Training'. Ms. Madison narrowed her eyes. Companies House listed Stannard as the managing director of the comapny, and she knew the other directors were but his dupes or his cronies.

Dodging into the alleyway to the rear of the property, she shed the raincoat that covered the black jeans and sweater that constituted her burglary costume. A back balaclava, more functional than elegant, completed the ensemble. She scaled the wall gracefully, shinned up a drainpipe, and entered the house through an upstairs window. As she had been told, it was destered. Her rubber soled pumps made no sound, as she crept downstairs, following the map of the ground floor that she had memorised.

The safe was in what had once been the library of a Victorian Member of Parliament. It was of the same vintage as the house. Nothing fancy. Which would probably make opening it a lot harder.

As she entered the room, however, Ms. Madison saw the safe open. She drew back cautiously, wondering whether her information has been defective. No-one moved, however, so the burglarious blonde hurried forward stealthily once more.

A movement behind her causedher to turn. She was only just able to keep the blow aimed at her from knocking her out. Even so, it sent her staggering into the desk. She turned, adopting a fighting stance, ready to face whatever Stannard had planned for intruders.

Instead, two young women gave exclamations of surprise.

"Sparrowhawk..." Ms. Madison looked into the wide eyes of the girl the Green Man had once loved.

From the Green Man's Private Files: Seven

Ms. Madison and the vicar left the hall for the more private surroundings of the clergy house. There, seated across a table from the priest, she heard his tale of woe. How Stannard had approached the church with plans for a youth centre, explaining thathe desired to do good in the community, and that he would put a great deal of his own money into the project, provided they could match it. The people of the church had risen to the occasion, raising a sum in excess of a hundred thousand pounds, land had been bought, and work started, Stannard being photographed cutting the first sod. It had brought him good publicity, but almost as soon as the press had departed, work had ground to a halt, when it was discovered that the land was contaminated, and the cost of decontamination was far in excess of the church's budget. Stannard had explained that he was unable to pay any more, and ended the conversation there. Ms. Madison shook her head, muttering platitudes, and explaining that there was no evidence of wrongdoing on Stannard's part.

Later, in the derelict chapel, the Green Man in attendance, she was far more forthcoming.

"Stannard should have checked what the land had been used for before," she blazed, "at the very least..."

"It is not the least I am concerned with." The Green Man shook his head. "I suspect that Stannard knew exactly what he was doing. The land was bought from Samwell Estates, a mysterious property company which Stannard has done business for before. It is my belief that Stannard is in fact the guiding hand behind Samwell Estates."

"So the deal with the land..." Ms. Madison gasped.

"...was neither more nor less than Stannard duping the church and its people in order to dispose of land he could do nothing with." The Green Man shook his head. "As I said, Stannard has been badly hit by the recent financial turmoil, and now he's trying to get as much money out of his empire as he can before it collapses. But I believe that there are papers establishing a concrete connection between Stannard and Samwell estates. Return to your hotel room. Directions to the place they will be will be there."

From the Green Man's Private Files: Six

The church was in a slightly down-at-heel part of town, a grand gothic edifice dating from the Victorian era. A large vicarage occupied part of the site, together with what had once been schools, but were now part of an outreach project. Ms. Madison paid her taxi fare, and hurried to the open door of the schoolroom. Acending the steps, she passed through a vestibule, into a room filled with teenagers, who were talking to a number of youth workers and a couple of men in clerical collars.

"Father Matthews?" Ms. Madison spoke nervously, voice high, tembling a little.

"Yes, child?" a man in late middle age looked around, taking in the stylish clothes of Ms. Madison.

"Amy Charles," the blonde produced a business card bearing that name. "I'm a freelance journalist."

"Oh!" The priest beamed. "Are you here to let the country know what splendid work we are doing with the young people of this district?" He leaned towards her.

"I'm afraid not," Ms. Madison smiled becomingly. "The world's a terrible place, Father, and people want to know that, rather than the good work you do. It's Mr. Stannard and the extension..."

"While I am loathe to speak ill of anyone," Father Matthews shook his head, "Mr. Stannard surprised even I, well-versed as I am in the ways of sinners as I am."

"Mr. Stannard claims that the money ran out before building could start," Ms. Madison lowered her voice confidentially.

"And under the law, he committed no crime." The Priest looked into her eyes. "But sin and crime are not the same. Not every sin can be a crime. Sometimes innocent men can be caught by such laws. God, who knows the heart, can judge where men remain silent."

"I understand." Ms. Madison nodded. "The estimates were probably deliberately falsified, to show the money running out before building work could begin. But there's no evidence to support that. Still, why didn't you go public?"

"It is not our place as the church of God to carry out that sort of campaign." The Priest smiled graciously. "We must trust in God for our ultimate vindication. Maybe we sound strange to you..."

"It's all right, Father," Ms. Madison took his arm. "I understand. Just tell me the background, and I'll keep my source to myself."

From the Green Man's Private Files: Five

By the time that Stannard had finished going through the 'guaranteed rates of return' on his investments, Ms. Madison appeared to be hooked. Any person in any sort of financial difficulties would have jumped at the opportunity he seemed to be holding out to her, with thirty, forty, even fifty per cent profits guaranteed, the blance sheets of other clients being used to show just how wonderful his businesses were, and how small fortunes could be made from relatively small investments. Not that Ms. Madison was as impressed as she seemed. She knew that Corona was little more than a glorified pyramid scheme, the money paid in going out almost immediately, most of it to pay these inflated returns, the rest to fund Stannard's lifestyle and his other enterprises.

She also knew that Stannard was unlikely to check her credentials too closely. The recent slump in property prices mean that his property empire, mortgaged to the hilt, was in serious trouble. The whole edifice was tottering and Stannard, like most criminals, had not prepared for the lean years that must invariably follow the fat. And a large inheritance belonging to an air-head heiress was bait that he couldn't possibly resist.

As the interview ended, Stannard rose, still smiling.

"Well," he nodded, "of course, I don't expect you to make an immediate decision, of course, but I do hope you'll consider investing in our operations. I like to flatter myself that this is still the best investment, even in these difficult times."

Playing hard to get, Ms. Madison noted. She gave him a smile of approval.

"I'll certainly give it serious thought, Mr. Stannard." She shook his hand. There was no point in her pressing things now. That would almost certainly arouse his suspicions, especially if he knew Sparrowhawk was creeping round.

She left the office, escorted by Vance, who handed her back her attache case, still smiling. After thanking him, Ms. Madison hailed a cab.

"St. Morton's Church," the blonde hopped inside.

Unlucky For Some

Academic plagarism. It is on the increase. Mostly among students, many of whom go to university at least as much for the student lifestyle as the scholarship. If it is detected then the most severe penalty is expulsion. But what happens when the person who has done it is not a student but an academic? Professor Douglas Stibbs of Cardigan University knew the answer...

But the penalty was paid not by him but by Jacqueline Lake. A brilliant student, she submitted an essay on town planning for Professor Stibbs' Second Year module. Pushing a deadline and suffering from writer's block, Professor Stibbs put his own name to the essay, which was published in a prestigious journal.

A few months after the publication, Professor Stibbs answered his door to find Jacqueline standing there, her expression thunderous. She point-blank accused him of having stolen her work and threatened to report him to the University authorities. Although he told her that no-one would believe her, he still gave her a cheque for a thousand pounds and told her that there was more where that came from if she would write a couple of chapters for a book he was writing. More, that he would credit her as his co-author. She was suitably grateful, believing that this would make her reputation, ensuring her an academic post once she graduated. So the matter of the copied article was allowed to drop, and the student worked hard on the chapters she had been allocated. Stibbs told her not to let anyone know, in case other students objected, and the quiet, bookish girl agreed.

At last, the book was finished, and Stibbs took Jacqueline out for a quiet celebration. On the way back, he pulled the car into a drive in an isolated spot by the sea. He told her that he loved her, flattered her, and she offered him her lips.

He took them. And her life as well, throttling her to death and casting her lifeless corpse from the cliffs. When her body was recovered, it was too badly decomposed for the cause of death to be established. And when the book came out, it was in the name of Professor Stibbs alone.

The man's conscience gave him little trouble over the years. Occasionally, he thought that he saw Jacqueline Lake out of the corner of his eye. But these were isolated occasions. However, when the next round of assessments came up, he found the old block had returned. Asked time and again for an article or two, he had to put the dean off with excuses time after time.

Until, marking part two essays, he read one of such brilliance that he could scarcely believe it was written by a student. Yet it was, a new student, a transfer from another University. Martha Adare. In due course that, too, appeared in a learned journal. And, in due course also, he received a note from Miss Adare, accusing him of plagarism. She bluntly instructed him to come to the stairs off the old quadrangle and bring five thousand pounds in cash. Naturally he came, although not with the cash. He meant to buy her off in the same way he had bought off Jacqueline. And with the same ultimate pay-off.


He reached the little stairwell with pounding heart, wondering whether Miss Adare would fall for his blandishments. Or whether he might have to take more permanent steps there and then.

But the stairwell was empty. He waited, wondering what could have delayed the blackmailer. Until the lights went out.

"Professor Douglas Stibbs," a male voice delared. "Five years ago, you killed Jacqueline Lake, after you stole her work, to pass off as your own."

The professor began to speak, but the voice cut him off brutally.

"Do not try to deny what is true, for I know. Tonight, you came here meaning to kill another. With one difference. Martha Adare, as you call her, is not a student, but a Private Investigator. Tomorrow, the newspapers will publish the story that you passed off an essay written to order by an Oxford Professor as your own. Your career will be over."

When the lights went on, the Professor was alone once more. He hurried from the college buildings and leapt into his car. As he left the car park, he almost ran over a couple of students.

His body was fished out of the sea a week later. A full confession was in his abandoned car.

From the Green Man's Private Files: Four

Early the next morning, Ms. Madison made her way down an almost desterted city street, heading for the offices of Cliveden Stannard's investment bureau. She allowed herself to whistle carelessly, as she swung her attache case. The receptionist saluted her again, as she made for the lift.

"Appointment with an adviser," she explained earnestly, hitting the button that summoned the lift.

"Good luck," the receptionist smiled back. "But be careful, huh?"

"Natch." She grinner. "I can look after myself, you know - a girl's got to in these uncertain times."

Before the receptionist could observe that the elegant blonde didn't look like she could, Ms. Madison had entered the lift. As she walked into the office, the young man called Vance stepped forward to greet her.

"Lynette," he took her hand, "it's great to see you. How are you? Did you get up to anything last night"

She coloured becomingly, not all that comfortable at being asked what she was still old-fashioned enough to believe was too personal to be appropriate in the circumstances.

"I... I brought the details you said," she held out the case.

"Great!" he took them eagerly," I'll have one of our analysts take a look at it. "Now, why don't you came this way? Mr. Stannard, our principal, is going to talk to you himself."

"Me?" Ms. Madison looked at him, wide-eyed, "why, that's lovely of him! I'm sure he's a busy man..."

"Never too busy for a prospective client," Vance beamed insincerely. "This way, Lynette."

Since the dossier on the company that the Green Man had sent her indicated that the company normally preyed on poor and desperate people, Ms. Madison was not, in fact, surprised at the fact that Stannard wanted to see her himself. Money talks, and the more the louder.

She was shown into an oak-panelled office, where a man in his early forties, with prematurely greying hair rose to greet her.

"Miss Mason," he extended a friendly hand, his charming, old-fashioned manner a marked contrast to that of his subordinate, "I'm so glad to meet you. Vance tells me that you've recently come into some money, and that you'd like help to invest it."

"That's right." She nodded shyly. "You see, I'm not very good with money..."

The smile on Stannard's face was almost predatory.