"You have a plan of your own you would like to discuss?"

"Not as such."

"Well, until you do, perhaps we might try mine."

"Fair enough. I just felt it needed saying."

"Quite so."

"Thank you."

"Might I continue?"

"Certainly."

"My plan is this. I go now to the canal and attempt to recover Marchant. You go to the Memorial Library, dig out all the ancient maps of the borough you can find and photocopy them. Can you manage that?"

"Don't patronize me, John."

"My apologies. Bring the photocopies and meet me in the Swan at, say," John looked down at his naked wrist, "precisely twelve noon, that's an hour and five minutes from now."

"John," said Jim.

"Jim?" said John.

"I hope you get your bike back OK."

"Thanks. I'll see you later, then."

"So there's this Eskimo," said Old Pete. "And his snowmobile breaks down, so he hauls it to the garage. And the mechanic has a look at it and says, 'I think you've blown a seal, mate,' and the Eskimo says, 'No I haven't, it's just frost on my moustache.'"

There was a moment's silence in the Flying Swan before the lunchtime patrons took in the enormity (and indeed the genius) of this particular joke. And then there was a great deal of laughter.

"Surely," said Small Dave the postman, "that is somewhat racist."

"Not if it's told by a policeman," said Old Pete.

John Omally entered the bar, sighted Jim in a far and private corner and squelched over.

"You're squelching," said Jim, looking up.

"I had to wade."

"But you got Marchant back?"

"What's left of him. I carted the old boy around to Norman at the corner shop. He has agreed to rebuild him for me."

"That will cost a bob or two."

"Not a penny. I have offered Norman a seat on the board of the Brentford Millennium Committee. He was happy to accept."

"Did you mention to him that all depends upon us finding the Brentford Scrolls?"

Omally tapped his forehead. "It somehow slipped my mind."

Pooley grinned. "I've got you a pint in."

"Cheers. Are those the copies of the maps?"

Jim spread the photocopies before him. "There's not a lot to go on, but we have to start somewhere."

Omally sat down, tasted ale and joined Jim in perusal.

"The Professor must have been through all these," said Jim.

"The Professor is a scholar, Jim. A magus, an illuminatus."

"And we're a couple of louts."

"I am not a lout. What I mean is, his approach to a problem differs from ours. We are free spirits, we think differently."

Jim swallowed ale. "I know exactly what you mean. It's always been like that for me. I could never be one of the gang. When everyone else was being a mod, I was being a beatnik."

"I was a mod," said John. "I had a Vespa. Now that was a fanny-magnet."

Pooley thought Sandra and said, "Well, we're certainly not part of the herd, whatever we are."

"We are individuals, Jim, and you are a character, sir."

"So does this mean that we can find the scrolls in a couple of days, when it's taken the Professor God knows how long not to find them at all?"

"It means that if we set about the task and do it our way, we'll succeed."

"So, where are the scrolls hidden, John?"

"Good question."

John gave the maps further perusal. "Which is the earliest one?"

"This one. It's dated 1580."

"About the right period, then. So what's on it?"

"Very little really." Jim swallowed more ale. "A few tracks, some farms. A tavern, right here, Ye Flying Swanne, a manor house, and a few rude huts."

"Why do they call them rude huts, do you suppose?"

"Because of the arse-ends, I think."

"The what?"

"Arse-ends, wooden trusses that support the roof."

"Fascinating. Anything else on the map?"

"Only the monastery."

"Not a lot to go on. But I suppose we should check the obvious places first."

"Absolutely," agreed Jim. "And where might those be?"

"Well, if you were a monk, where would you hide something precious?"

"In my boots."

"In your boots! Very good, Jim. And there was I thinking that monks wear sandals."

"Oh yeah. Do monks wear underpants, do you think? Or are they like Scotsmen with kilts?"

John drummed his fingers upon the table. "I will ask the question again. If you were a monk, where would you hide something precious?"

"I know. In the monastery." Jim gave John the old thumbs up.

John gave Jim the old thumbs down. "No," he said. "Not in the monastery. In the pub."

"Eh?"

"When you're really pissed ..."

"Which I can rarely afford to be."

"But when you are, what is the last thing you say before you leave the pub?"

"Goodnight?"

"No, you say, 'Neville, please mind my wallet.'"

"Do I?"

"You do."

"Oh yes. And the next morning I wake up and I can't find my wallet and I get all depressed and I'm really hung over, so I gather up some pennies and halfpennies for a hair of the dog and I come into the Swan and Neville says, 'You left your wallet here last night,' and I get really cheered up."

"Exactly. So if you were a monk and you'd just come back from this pilgrimage to Rome and you were really proud of yourself because you'd pulled off this great deal with the Pope and you wanted to get a skinful for celebration, where would you go?"

Jim pointed to the map. "I would go to Ye Flying Swanne."

"And so would I. So let's check here first." John finished his ale, took up the two empty glasses and went over to the bar.

"... the Irish Uri Geller," said Old Pete, "rubbed a spoon and his finger fell off"

"You old bastard," said Omally.

"Who are you calling old? That's an ageist remark. There should be a law about people making comments like that!"

John held the glasses out to Neville. "Two of similar, please." And the part-time barman did the business.

"Neville," said John. "Do you have a lost property cupboard?"

"Certainly do. It's a priest hole, been there since the pub was built."

"Really?" said John, in a casual tone.

"It's got stuff in it going back years."

"Really?" said John once again.

"Oh, yes. Umbrellas, packs of cards, a couple of top hats, some flintlock pistols, even a monk's satchel."

Omally tried to say "Really?" but the word wouldn't come.

"I should have a clear-out, I suppose," said Neville. "But I never seem to find the time."

"I wouldn't mind doing it for you," said John, in a curious strangled kind of whisper.

"Something wrong with your voice, John?"

"No." John cleared his throat. "Lead me to it. I'll clear it out right now."

"Oh, I wouldn't put you to the trouble."

"It's no trouble, I assure you. Consider it my good deed for the day."

"Well, if you really want to."

John rubbed his hands together.

"No, it doesn't matter," said Neville.

"Oh, it does, it really does."

"Well, please yourself," said Neville. "But there's nothing of value down there."

"I never thought there was."

"Oh, good," said Neville, "then you won't be disappointed when you don't find the Brentford Scrolls."

John returned to Jim's table with the drinks. "Why is everyone up at the bar laughing?" Jim asked. "And why have you got a face like a smacked bottom?"