Riotous Assembly by Tom Sharpe

himself.
     “The harbingers are come. See, see their mark;
    Black is their colour, and behold my head.
    But must they have my brain? Must they dispark
    Those sparkling notions, which therein were bred?
    Must dulnesse turn me to a clod?
    Yet have they left me. Thou art still my God.”
     It was called “The Forerunners”, by George Herbert, and while old Sir Theophilus

    had revised it by changing white to black in the second line, and had assumed that

    “sparkling notions” referred to his murderous haha, the Bishop now saw that it applied

    perfectly to the vulture and was grateful to note that the harbinger had indeed left him.

    With a silent prayer to the Lord to assume a less ominous form in future, the Bishop of

    Barotseland entered the pavilion to fetch his clothes.
     Fifty yards away Kommandant van Heerden was making up his mind to give the order

    to storm the house, when Miss Hazelstone appeared in the main entrance.
    “There’s no need to shout,” she said demurely. “There is a bell, you know.”
    The Kommandant wasn’t in the mood for lessons in etiquette. “I’ve come for your

    brother,” he shouted.
    “I’m afraid he’s busy just at the moment. You’ll have to wait. You can come in if you wipe

    your boots and promise not to knock anything over.”
    The Kommandant could imagine just how busy Jonathan Hazelstone must be and he had every

    intention of knocking things over if he had to come into the house. He glanced uneasily

    at the windows on the upper floor.
    “What is he so busy about?” as though there was any need to ask.
    Miss Hazelstone didn’t like the Kommandant’s tone of voice. “He’s about his ablutions,”

    she snapped, and was about to turn away when she remembered the breakage. “About that Ming…”

    she began. With a slam of the turret-top Kommandant van Heerden disappeared. From

    inside the armoured car came the muffled sound of his voice.
    “Don’t talk to me about the Ming,” he yelled. “You go in and tell your brother to unblute

    the fucking thing and come out with his hands up.”
    Miss Hazelstone had stood as much as she could take. “How dare you speak to me like that,”

    she snarled. “I’ll do no such thing,” and turned to re-enter the house.
    “Then I will,” screamed the Kommandant, and ordered his men into the house. “Get the

    bastard,” he yelled, and waited for the roar of the deadly Ming. He waited in vain. The men

    and dogs pouring over Miss Hazelstone’s prostrate body encountered no further

    resistance. The Dobermann, knowing now what lack of foresight it had shown by disputing

    its patch of lawn with Konstabel Els, lay on the drawing-room floor pretending to be a

    rug. Around it policemen and dogs charged, searching the house for their quarry. There was

    no human obstacle to the policemen who dashed upstairs and along corridors into

    bedrooms in search of the killer. Disconsolate, they reported to the Kommandant who was

    still cowering in the Saracen.
    “He’s not there,” they yelled.
    “Are you absolutely certain?” he asked before opening the lid. They were, and the

    Kommandant clambered out. He knew there was only one thing left to do, one slim chance of

    capturing Jonathan Hazelstone that night.
    “The dogs,” he ordered frantically. “Bring the tracker dogs,” and dashed

    despairingly into the house and up the stairs followed by the pack of breathless and

    eager Alsatians. The pink floral bedroom was just as the Kommandant had seen it last -

    with the notable exception of the naked man. Grabbing the bedspread from the bed he held

    it out to the dogs to smell. As the dogs sniffed the cloth and passed off down the corridor

    they read its message loud and clear. The thing reeked of Old Rhino Skin brandy. Ignoring

    the odour of bath salts on the stairs the dogs bounded down into the hall and out on to the

    drive. A moment later they had picked up the trail Konstabel Els had left and were