The Problem of the Blue Blood Cell

by Grobius Shortling

After the Islamic Revolution of 2044, when the de facto majority of the population of Great Britain had overthrown the government and put the mullahs in charge under the puppet King Charles IV, quality of life had gone from bad to worse, especially for the likes of Prince 'Dickie'. What rankled most to the young man was the Hookah Bar Act of '53, which banned the sale of alcohol in public houses and mandated the conversion of pubs to smokers' emporia serving tea and orange squash and Egyptian and Turkish tobacco products. Almost as upsetting was the banning of prostitution, adultery, public exposure of female limbs and the like. This did not suit the prince at all, so as so many before him have done under prohibition laws, he resorted to the underground of speakeasies, what the Cockneys called Peter Pans (slang for Hooker Bar). Unfortunately, Scotland Yard's Department of Public Morality was very efficient and ruthless at its task, and not even the Royals were exempt from their raids and punishments. Being privileged saved Dickie from public flogging, but resulted in his incarceration at Glamis.

"And how is Your Mightiness today?" sneered Inspector Ahmed Wesley Wisham through the Judas window, shortly after Dickie's arrest. "Are you ready to appear on BBC/Al Jazeera Five for your recantation of the evils of wine and women?"

"Bugger off, son of the Great Satan's favorite sow!"

"Tsk, tsk, my dear infidel. You will be pleased to hear that the Great Imam has taken it upon himself to undertake your rehabilitation. He will be here later today."

And such was the beginning of that awful summer.

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Glamis Castle is one of the grand landmarks of Scotland, and a quintessential monument to the Baronial style. It dates originally to the Middle Ages on a site dating back to the time of Macbeth, but was extensively expanded and embellished in the 17th Century and early 1800s. A massive pile topped by candle-snuffer conical-roofed towers, with too many rooms to count. It was an ideal place to dump members of the extensive Royal Family, to keep them far from the public eye and out of trouble now that the established political parties had been abolished, and the monarchists had become the upholders of British tradition and resistance. Parts of it also were ideal for use as a prison for the more recalcitrant of the Plantagenites, as the anti-Islamic traditionalists were called.

The 'secret room' is a small chamber located within one of the thick walls, possibly once designed as a refuge for Catholic priests during the days of the Covenant. Some of the more fantastic guide books say that this room is only detectable if one counts the number of windows from outside then assigns each to rooms inside -- leaving one extra window to account for. Dickie did not care one way or another how the room got there or what it had been used for, only that it was now his private dungeon cell. Wisham, whose parents had been ardent Labourite republicans, called it the Blue Blood Cell. Dickie called it the Cyst.

But this tale is a detective story, not a political or social tract about the proper interpretation of religion in day-to-day life, or the mores of the upper classes. Let what has been said already set the scene. The principal characters have been mentioned: Prince Dickie (Royal prisoner), Inspector Wisham (Glamis Castle chief of security), and the Imam of Balmoral (Instructor of the Defender of the Faith). It remains to introduce additional suspects, and of course a clever detective, and then to solve the case of the murder of the mullah on Lammas Day.

His body was found early that morning in one of the corner turrets (which was used as a muezzin), impaled by a claymore taken from the wall of the Great Hall. The discoverer, always a prime suspect to the likes of Inspector Wisham, was Archibald Connery, head of building maintenance, who had been inspecting the many roofs from inside. He is our detective because he of all people had the most to lose if no-one else were found to take the blame and undergo public beheading in Parliament Square.

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"And where were you at day-break, little man?" Inspector Wisham asked Connery accusingly.

"In ma bed, a course, as all decent folk are at that hour. Thon holy man may rise wi' the birds tae chant his caterwaul tae Allah frae the rooftop. 'Tis not for the likes of masel' tae interfere."

"So you rightly say. But you just happened upon his body not two hours after his death, and who else knows that part of the castle or has any business going there? It is the Imam's private sanctum and you had no authority to intrude, leaky roofs or not."

"If I hadna done, I'd not be here wi' ye noo and he'd nae ha' been found til Doomsday. Get on with it and earn thy wages. I'd nothing to do with it."

The Inspector snorted, and proceeded to call in the other employees whose business it was to be up and about at dawn, preparing kippers and pita haggis for breakfast, or ensuring that the aged water heaters were functioning to provide Royal baths. It was a pointless effort -- nobody knew anything or could not vouch for the whereabouts of each other. The Islamic Guard were of course above suspicion. He sighed. A case involving the blue-bloods, and that would not go down well with the Islamic Council. Wisham secretly supported the Purist faction who advocated the expeditious execution of that whole aristocratic lot. But he could never express that publicly, as the Reconciliation crowd were in control for the present.

But which of them had a motive against the Imam, or indeed any grudge beyond mere resentment? There was only the Prince, and he was locked up tight, and Wisham had the only key. (Dickie was fed only through the Judas window in the cell door, and if a servant had to enter the room, Wisham was always there.) Princess Alice, perhaps? She was a notorious feminist. Ex-king William? No, too gaga these days. The Duke of Cumbria? Possible, as he was the de facto head of the underground Tory Party. Then there was Sir Smithers Marmasite, once Home Secretary in pre-revolutionary days -- Wisham's titular boss back when he was driving a police car. Old, but not decrepit, and he had plenty of minions still to do his bidding. Best, though, if the Inspector could hang it on that impertinent Connery chap. Some heavier pressure might bear results....

***************************

"I will not be browbeaten," Sir Smithers snarled. "I once was responsible for the entire policing of this country, and while I was forced out of office by your so-called Jihad for an Islamic Britain, I left with my reputation intact and unsullied. I did not even act against your own people when I could have at the time they were fomenting sedition. It is absurd to suspect me, or any of my servants, of being involved in this deplorable crime." His choleric red face glowed over his famous white walrus mustache.

"I only need to know your movements this morning, and those of your entourage, for the purposes of elimination." Inspector Wisham was awed and humbled, to his chagrin, by his instinctive respect for the protocols of the police bureaucracy. "There is no question of guilt, but you or one of your colleagues may have seen something that could aid us in our investigation."

"Yes, I see your point. In any case, I did not rise before 10, and my wife can verify this. I heard or saw nothing out of the ordinary. As for my men, they do not live in the castle proper but in the outbuildings. One of your guards should have seen anybody who entered the tower before breakfast."

So much for that, the Inspector thought, as he went to interview Princess Alice.

"You are browbeating me, Inspector," she said. "I am a mere woman in a man's world. It was different in my day, when we had rights and entitlements. The Imam would have cried out 'Avaunt, witch' if I had approached him, especially in my dishabille as I am wont to appear before noon. In any case, I am confined to the women's wing during the night hours before breakfast call. You well know that. Please leave me now. I find persons of your sort too tedious to bear."

Another blank wall, the Inspector mused, feeling the hopelessness of his efforts. Perhaps Cumbria will be more enlightening. If I hate anyone, it is men of his sort, and what a coup for me were I to discredit him and the Tories once and for all. (We will not delve further into the irrelevant matter of the Inspector's fantasies.)

"I will not brook your browbeating ways," Lord Cumbria shouted.

(Is this déjà vu? thought Inspector Wisham. Must they all react in that high-handed manner when I ask a simple question in the line of duty?) "An important holy man has been brutally murdered in his prayers. It is not browbeating on my part to identify his killer as thoroughly and expeditiously as possible. It is my duty. As it is yours to cooperate with the police in every way."

"Put in those terms, I can only agree with you. I had no liking for your holy man, or for any of his kind. Britain properly is under the guidance of the Church of England and it was a mistake ever to emancipate other religions. At the rate your lot are moving, the Archbishop of Canterbury will be forced to wear a turban and grow a beard, if he and the church are not outlawed entirely. But I cannot help you. In fact, I was not in the castle at all until an hour or so ago. I spent the night at Paddy Corcoran's shebeen down the road, and I dare you to do anything about it."

"We are aware of that illegal establishment, and steps are in progress to shut it down. But as you well know, it moves from house to house in a random fashion. It is a pity that I cannot bring you to book for violating the law, but that is beyond my purview as head of security here. But I will need verification of your whereabouts last night, and I shan't baulk at using threats to determine that. Mr Corcoran will be pulled in for questioning this very afternoon, and you will not be permitted any communications beyond this precinct until your alibi is either verified or shown to be a will-o-the-wisp. I will bid you good-day now, sir."

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"So, no catechism lessons today over the Koran," Dickie said to the Inspector, who had entered the narrow cell and stood by the window as the Prince lay in bed. "Somebody did the old goat in. Good for him!"

"There will be a replacement soon enough. The new regime is here to stay, whatever you think of it, and thankful I am that it is so, although I remain a Methodist and only took on the name Ahmed to further my career. See how forthcoming I am with you, young sir!"

"They say that hostages become attached to their captors. Is it that gaolors in turn become attached to their prisoners?"

"I suppose there is some truth in that. While I abominate your morals, yet I find you the most sympathetic amongst my charges. Princess Alice gave me a real bollocking this morning, and I lost my temper with Cumbria. I've yet to do the baker's dozen of the rest of your lot, so I've come here for a break. At the moment you are my only true prisoner, the rest being kept under wraps for their own safety and the good of the nation."

"I am not a detective, but surely it is obvious that this was a spur-of-the-moment crime committed in a fit of rage. It could be anybody who had the opportunity to enter the turret during Imam's morning prayers. What set off the fit I cannot surmise, but surely the most likely person to disturb him at that time had to be one of you Musselman chaps. None of my sort would ever have dreamed of doing that."

"La-di-da, it is your Eton background speaking. 'Surmise.' 'One of you Musselmen chaps.' I don't deny it could have been one of us. Not me, that goes without saying. The guards are being dealt with by their own commander, and I shouldn't like to be wearing the shoes of anyone found to have shirked their duty. But I rule them out of the role of murderer, just because it is not in their nature to kill a holy mullah. That would lead to instant hell, or whatever they call it in their sacred book."

"What about all those mullahs killed back in the days of the Arabian upheavals?"

"That was a combination of politics and religious schism, extremists versus moderates. In this enlightened nation of Britain, we no longer suffer from such barbarities. After all, only the Prime Minister and a couple of Cabinet members were killed during our revolution. We even kept your King, well, replaced him with another of legitimate background who is more malleable to our purposes. My father would have had the lot of you Royals shot on Tower Green, and I can't say I'd have disagreed."

"Right, then. I already know your attitude. But I also know your sense of duty. And the pressures you are under. I must say you are in an awful pickle."

"Don't I know it! What do you think of Archie Connery as our chummie? Whether or not he did it, he'd make a convenient goat."

"Nonsense," sniffed the Prince. "He is as upright as a honky-tonk piano, and would no more murder an Imam than dance on the Sabbath."

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"Tell me, George," Connery was saying to the Duke of Cumbria, "how is Paddy gettin' on? I canna keep track of where he sets up shop."

"Well enough, considering those teetotalling bastards on the prowl of nights. I told that Inspector Snot-nose I was at Paddy's all night. Well, I was, but was back in the castle just before dawn. If that becomes known, that puts me up a creek, as the Yanks put it, since that Ayatollah prig was killed about that time. You won't say a word, of course."

"A course not. How did ye get past the guards?"

"Bakhsheesh, eh what? You know Abdullah? Nice fellow from Yemen."

"Ach, Abdullah. A fine lad, and a dab hand with a grouse snare. Wins over all the lassies hereabouts too, from what I hear."

"That's the one. Well, he won't talk, because they'll flog him to death. I didn't kill the Imam, by the way, although I saw him shuffling up the stairs."

"A course ye didn't...."

Archie walked away. He believed his friend, but that did not put him much at ease, as he had a sixth-sense feeling of the Inspector breathing down his neck. Now for Sir Smithers.

"Archibald, I'd kill all of them if I had a shot at it, but never in that way -- with a claymore no less, and in our own nest. Take a leaf from their own history book: A car bomb on a side street, a belt of gelignite hitched to a martyr, not that any of my men would go so far for self-sacrifice. No, I didn't murder him. But I was with him briefly up in his tower. Agnes was sound asleep. We were having a hot discussion about human rights versus the rule of law, and I fear I left him seething with anger. Not a tolerant man at all, in spite of his sanctimonious benevolence and harping about the compassion of Allah and the Prophet. Mum's the word, right?"

"A course, Smitty." Hmmm.

"How many wives did that man have? How many has he divorced with a simple phrase and not a penny in compensation? How many times has he taken me to task for unfeminine behaviour, when he deigned to notice me at all? No, I shall not talk more of that person. I have no idea who killed him, but good riddance I say."

"A course, Alice, ma'am."

He sat in one of the belfries and sipped from his pocket flask, watching the clouds fly by. This one looked like an eagle. That one like a map of Barra. Those like a dog harrying sheep. How to resolve this problem, now that he had solved it to his satisfaction? He could be wrong, it could be political after all -- leave that to the holy mob. But this was a matter of personal pique and a deep-seated anger at Kismet, and he did not know what to do. To save his own life, if it came to that, there was no choice but to talk. Otherwise, it was a matter of Sabbath guilt versus Clan loyalty.

***************************

The forensic squad had been working overtime on this most important case in their careers. The claymore had been microscopically examined; no possibility of fingerprints on the gnarled surface of its hilt. Its original position in the Great Hall was photographed, with and without it ensconced in place. All signs of human presence in that room and likewise the scene of the crime carefully searched for, down to analysing the dust left by random footprints, bits of hair scrupulously checked for DNA patterns in their Microsoft Molecular Palm Scanners, all CCTV tapes from all the public areas viewed on large screen in slow motion. Time of death was verified by the pathologist at 5:07, possibly as late as 5:12 AM (in this year 2056 there was no shilly-shallying maybe two hours, as much as six).

They even went so far as to search for secret passages, for in a place with such a history of intrigue, with its priest holes and the like, it would not have been beyond belief to discover such. There was one, in fact, rising behind the fireplace of the Great Hall into the upper storeys, but this proved nothing, as there was no evidence found in it. It was vacuumed weekly by the maids for the sake of the tourists who used to come, and like all such conventions was never discontinued when it became irrelevant to needs.

Mustapha Belim, head of the Islamic Guardian Contingent's Internal Affairs department did a thorough job of interrogating the entire Glamis squad, including those not on duty at the time, and turned up some minor defalcations and improper activities -- immediately punished with great severity -- but readers will be glad to hear (one hopes) that Abdullah was not detected.

Inspector Wisham and his team of CID detectives were in a state of near panic with frustration, as Commissioner Abou bin Saddam was screaming for results. To hear this man scream literally froze one's blood, those who heard it, but he was away at a Pan-Islamic Interpol Conference, so only Wisham went through this trauma over the telephone (and forthwith went fierce and passed it down to his men). All seventeen of the resident Royals were questioned closely, as were the ninety-three personal attendants and servants. No results to speak of, except for the usual run of embarrassing personal peccadillos that came to light.

Archibald Connery was arrested and set aside in the old bottle dungeon in the basement for later intensive interrogation. The Inspector was willing to wait while the rest of the formalities took their plodding course.

Prince Richard slept uncomfortably in his tiny cell, but what he dreamed of is beyond conjecture. He was dying for a drink and a good swiving, and that is all that can be said at this point.

***************************

Three in the morning, an hour or so before the early Scottish summer dawn, and the ghosts of Glamis were afoot. Archie Connery, who knew the castle better than anybody, wriggled his body through the small drain and ventilation hole of the bottle dungeon (an opening he had enlarged many years before for his own amusement). The Medieval idea of plumbing left much to be improved in later times, consisting of narrow shafts running down through the walls into vaulted cesspits. (For those who are interested, these pits were cleaned by removing an exterior slab called the 'grund wa' stane'. It is famous in siege history that Richard the Lion-Heart's French fortress Chateau Gaillard was captured by a daring raid up through one of the privy pits, a vulgar variation of the Trojan Horse gambit.) This network of cramped, unlit tunnels ran throughout the building -- a convenient highway for rats. They were now unused and free of sewage as they had been made redundant by exterior iron pipes in Victorian fashion, that is, subject to freezing and bursting at inconvenient times during cold winters. In many places the original privies had been replaced by flush toilets, but in others the old lidded holes remained, providing 'access' into what were now simply closets.

"Well, Dickie," Archibald said, "are you surprised to see me?"

"Not really, Archie," the Prince replied. "If anybody were to discover my secret, it would be you. What do you propose to do about it?"

"I removed the grund wa' stane at the bottom of yon shaft. We are going to make our escape."

"And where to, may I ask?"

"Canada, a course. Nova Scotia is looking for a new king after the Dominion fell apart and the Frenchies went independent. Paddy has agreed to help us to Ireland -- I saw him earlier when the Inspector had finished wi' him. And the lad Abdullah will get us past the guard-post."

"Very loyal of you, Archie. What's in it for you?"

"Chancellor of the Exchequer at the least. You always were a selfish and wilful brat, but a man must do what a man must do."

"I see you've dropped your Scottishisms. No more playing the gillie for you!"

"Dinnae push thy cess, Dickie. 'Tis a long road we must travel and it pays to be on bonnie terms with your guide."

"Sorry, old chap. This has been a stressful summer and I am not my true self. What led you to me as the culprit?"

"The drains, ya damn fool! A didny conceive the others doin' in the Dominie, too risky and no pay-off. A headstrong lad like yersel', howbeit, ever prone to take offense... Ye always took against chastisement. And who else but you took lessons from the man who knew the innards-most secrets o' Glamis? Let us be off. Quickly now!"

And they went down the privy chute, as spelunkers and rock-climbers inch down a crevass, back and knees on opposite walls, or as in a pothole, spreadeagled to both sides. There were plenty of hand- and footholds, as the mortar had crumbled away in many places. Down past the garderobe of the Great Hall (where Dickie had made his exit to grab the claymore and proceed up the secret passage to impale the Imam) and right to the bottom of the tower. Readers may scoff at the probability of this procedure, but the architects of Glamis did nothing on a small scale -- no minuscule holes jutting out over the wall to drop the unmentionable down to the bare ground.

***************************

What, then, was the upshot of all this? That must be left to the reader's fancy. This story was compiled from a seance conducted by Madame LeRouge, who is well known for her delvings into the future. Unfortunately, the session was interrupted by the intercession of a mischievous spirit, and we do not know if the Prince succeeded in becoming King Richard I of Nova Scotia and Archibald Connery Chancellor of the Exchequer, or whether Inspector Wisham lost rank for letting the murderer escape.

copyright © 2005 by Grobius Shortling

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