“Well sir, I rather think that’s that,” said Spiggot, retrieving his truncheon from Bloatmingle’s surprisingly limp hand. The young constable looked hard at his boss. There was something different about him. “Cor, lumme!” said Spiggot, “’is mind’s snapped!”
And indeed it had. Chandeliers, bombs, shotguns in the boxers, poisoned corsets, ocularly challenged Scandinavians, Spiggot, rank begonias, dead Egyptians, and dreadful Dorothy Knickerthwaite had all gone. Once like a steel trap, as precise as a surgeon’s scalpel, as brilliant as an exploding nebula, Bloatmingle’s mind had switched off!
He stood, swaying slightly, and fixed Spiggot with a baleful glare. “And who the hell are YOU?” he gritted. Spiggot looked crushed. “I’m your faithful sidekick sir – PC Spiggot wiv two Gs”
“Never heard of you!” roared Bloatmingle, “And more to the point, Spittog, if that really is your name, who in blazes am I?” Constable Spiggot flinched as if to ward off a blow then saw a strange faraway look in his superior’s eye. He passed a hand across Bloatmingle’s field of vision. Nothing. No blink. No twitch. Just a blank stare into regions beyond Spiggot’s limited ken. “Huh” thought Spiggot. “Limited Ken. Played a couple of seasons for West Ham. Very left sided. Fell over a lot.”
But loyalty is a tremendous thing, as is an ability to recognize the obvious. Spiggot had these qualities in spades. He gazed again at Bloatmingle’s aimless stare. “Hmmm. Definitely lorst ‘is marbles this time ‘an no mistake”, thought the Constable. Gently, he took Bloatmingle’s arm.
And so it began. The long, slow tortuous journey back to sanity. Constable Spiggot faithfully accompanied the muttering Bloatmingle back to Scotland Yard.
News of Bloatmingle’s condition spread through the crime-fighting nerve centre like wildfire, ably assisted by Spiggot shouting,”Make way! Make way! Inspector Bloatmingle’s gone loony!” as he guided the stricken ‘tec towards the office of the only person in the Yard who could help Bloatmingle regain his senses. “Ere we are Sir. Soon ‘ave you back to normal now”, said Spiggot, knocking on the door, just below the nameplate which read, “Dr. A.W. Pinkthynge. M.D. Psychology, Drugs, and Stuff Like That.” Bloatmingle muttered, “Corsets.”
“Enter!” The voice was a deep, commanding baritone, which was strange, emanating as it did from a slight, tweed clad woman in her mid forties.
“Ah, so he finally snapped, eh? said Dr Pinkthynge. “OK, Spinach, get him up on the couch and let’s see if we can’t untangle the old brain-box, eh. I’ve been expecting this”.
“Spiggot”, said Spiggot.
“Pardon?” said Pinkthynge.
“My name – it's Spiggot”, said Spiggot.
“Well that’s nice for you,” returned Pinkthynge.“Pass me that bottle of Hydro chlorideparametacetadioxide and a syringe, and let’s get this show on the road!” Dr Pinkthynge expertly tore off Bloatmingle’s left sleeve and plunged the loaded needle into his trembling flesh. Spiggot fainted.
Over the next few weeks after innumerable visits from Mrs Bloatmingle complete with home-made spotted dick and soothing words, our hero regained most of his wits. With Spiggot’s help, the Inspector pieced together the recent events. Bloatmingle realized that he owed Spiggot much. Had the young constable not sought Dr Pynkthynge’s expert help, had Bloatmingle not spent weeks in Dunabbin, the Police Rest Home, things might have been very different. Now, here in Dunnabin’s spacious lounge, dotted here and there as it was with elderly, confused ex-coppers shouting, “Take that!”, and “’Ere, where’s me bung?” Bloatmingle felt ready to clear up any loose ends in this, the most complex investigation he had ever led.
Bloatmingle turned to Spiggot, took him by the right hand and shook it. “Thanks for all you’ve done, Spottig. There’ll be sergeant’s wossnames waiting for you back at Scotland Yard.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” observed Spiggot. “I ‘adn’t realised they ‘ad different wossnames to ours, Sir.”