on the night of the massed parade outside the Vicarage, Cyril Woods-Denton knew absolutely nothing about it.
He was tucked up, sweating slightly, and dreaming peacefully.
By now, reports of gnome massings were becoming something of a commonplace. They were relegated to the middle, or even back pages of the popular journals; and they occupied only the last thirty seconds or so of TV and radio bulletins. A fully authenticated account of a company of more than forty marching down Amersham High Street at three oâclock in the morning and all whistling cheerfully, received no national coverage at all.
Then broke the truly dramatic news, the sort of item that sends up the pulse-rate of a jaded copytaster. It came over the tape in the usual way, amid reports of murders, kidnappings, derailments, broken-off engagements and unemployment figures. And it hit every front page in the country. GNOME WAR was what the banner headlines said. Apparently, at Scotch Corner where the A66 meets the A1, a company of vigorously marching gnomes had encountered another contingent of approximately the same strength, stepping out equally energetically, and both heading south. But instead of joining up and proceeding towards London, a small army of some two hundred strong, they immediately fell to fighting. In consequence the traffic in all three directions was disrupted. The AA reported a tail-back of over a mile and a quarter, and recommendeddiversions at Richmond (Yorks) and Darlington. Meanwhile the battle continued unabated. The two companies continued to hurl themselves upon each other, wave after wave attacking fiercely, only to give way to fresh recruits ranged up ready in the rear.
Casualties were correspondingly heavy. An eyewitness, trapped in the cab of his lorry on the very point of the intersection, described the scene as unparalleled by anything in the whole of his twenty- six yearsâ driving experience. Even so, some of the newspaper reports were regrettably exaggerated. Accounts of shallow graves, hastily dug and marked by swathes of hedgerow flowers, were exposed as no more than the invention of sentimental sensationalists. On the other hand, there was ample corroboration of accounts of small bands of walking wounded, supported on the shoulders of their comrades, seen hobbling off across adjoining fields in search of rest and shelter.
As soon as the new Deputy Commissioner had studied the in-coming reports he despatched his. team of experts up north to pursue enquiries of a rather more penetrating nature. And it was just as he had expected. A sub-postmistress on the Gateshead road, awakened by the sound of marching feet, expressed surprise at the conspicuously diminutive stature of the gnome soldiery endlessly filing past her window, while a retired bank manager in Hartlepool assertedthat he had never seen a more robust-looking or better-fed gang of small outlaws in all his life. The Deputy Commissioner made his own deduction, and began probing deeper still. Sales records and delivery sheets revealed the truth. Those coming down from Newcastle-on-Tyne and thereabouts were predominantly from the Nursery Gardenware area, whereas the copy invoices showed that the East Coast and those parts were practically controlled by Ornamental Pottery Associates.
The Deputy Commissioner, however, soon had more than gnome turnover figures to think about. Fireworks were not the only dangerous merchandise that had been stolen. There were now matches as well, and these presented a unique and baffling problem. They were not being purloined in quantity. There was nothing organized or wholesale about it. Indeed, at first glance it all seemed disconcertingly trivial, even domestic. The task facing the Police thus appeared insurmountable. Within the United Kingdom some two hundred million matches are consumed every year. What is more, the flat cardboard ones are deliberately designed to be appropriated, taken away and exhibited on the coffee tables
He was tucked up, sweating slightly, and dreaming peacefully.
By now, reports of gnome massings were becoming something of a commonplace. They were relegated to the middle, or even back pages of the popular journals; and they occupied only the last thirty seconds or so of TV and radio bulletins. A fully authenticated account of a company of more than forty marching down Amersham High Street at three oâclock in the morning and all whistling cheerfully, received no national coverage at all.
Then broke the truly dramatic news, the sort of item that sends up the pulse-rate of a jaded copytaster. It came over the tape in the usual way, amid reports of murders, kidnappings, derailments, broken-off engagements and unemployment figures. And it hit every front page in the country. GNOME WAR was what the banner headlines said. Apparently, at Scotch Corner where the A66 meets the A1, a company of vigorously marching gnomes had encountered another contingent of approximately the same strength, stepping out equally energetically, and both heading south. But instead of joining up and proceeding towards London, a small army of some two hundred strong, they immediately fell to fighting. In consequence the traffic in all three directions was disrupted. The AA reported a tail-back of over a mile and a quarter, and recommendeddiversions at Richmond (Yorks) and Darlington. Meanwhile the battle continued unabated. The two companies continued to hurl themselves upon each other, wave after wave attacking fiercely, only to give way to fresh recruits ranged up ready in the rear.
Casualties were correspondingly heavy. An eyewitness, trapped in the cab of his lorry on the very point of the intersection, described the scene as unparalleled by anything in the whole of his twenty- six yearsâ driving experience. Even so, some of the newspaper reports were regrettably exaggerated. Accounts of shallow graves, hastily dug and marked by swathes of hedgerow flowers, were exposed as no more than the invention of sentimental sensationalists. On the other hand, there was ample corroboration of accounts of small bands of walking wounded, supported on the shoulders of their comrades, seen hobbling off across adjoining fields in search of rest and shelter.
As soon as the new Deputy Commissioner had studied the in-coming reports he despatched his. team of experts up north to pursue enquiries of a rather more penetrating nature. And it was just as he had expected. A sub-postmistress on the Gateshead road, awakened by the sound of marching feet, expressed surprise at the conspicuously diminutive stature of the gnome soldiery endlessly filing past her window, while a retired bank manager in Hartlepool assertedthat he had never seen a more robust-looking or better-fed gang of small outlaws in all his life. The Deputy Commissioner made his own deduction, and began probing deeper still. Sales records and delivery sheets revealed the truth. Those coming down from Newcastle-on-Tyne and thereabouts were predominantly from the Nursery Gardenware area, whereas the copy invoices showed that the East Coast and those parts were practically controlled by Ornamental Pottery Associates.
The Deputy Commissioner, however, soon had more than gnome turnover figures to think about. Fireworks were not the only dangerous merchandise that had been stolen. There were now matches as well, and these presented a unique and baffling problem. They were not being purloined in quantity. There was nothing organized or wholesale about it. Indeed, at first glance it all seemed disconcertingly trivial, even domestic. The task facing the Police thus appeared insurmountable. Within the United Kingdom some two hundred million matches are consumed every year. What is more, the flat cardboard ones are deliberately designed to be appropriated, taken away and exhibited on the coffee tables
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