The Transfiguration of Mister Punch by Mark Beech, Charles Schneider, D P Watt, Cate Gardner Page B

that you had to add a little arsenic to make it taste of something. Although, joking aside, there was an air of the sinister about Mrs Keepum and Rupert preferred not to dine there, or even take drinks with Smythe unless it was in a nearby tavern.
    It was a late November evening when finally he could meet with Smythe, and only on the promise of a hearty supper at ‘The Toby Jug’. So there they were, quaffing their ales and picking over a chicken and a hock of ham. Rupert Robertson dominated the conversation, with brief talk of Roseanna, and his financial predicament, but mostly with lengthy description of his sightings of Pollyanna Pickering, her attire on each occasion and the enchanting nature of her laugh. Finally losing his steam, and sliding back into his ridiculous fantasies, he became despondent.
    “Oh, there’s none like Pollyanna Pickering,” he said, wistfully. And then, humming an old melody that he could neither recall the name of, or its original words, he began to softly sing. “ Of all the girls that are so smart, there’s none like Pretty Polly. She is the darling of my heart. She is so gay and jolly. ”
    “Good Lord, Robertson,” Lieutenant Smythe gasped. “What a strange little song. You really have got it bad haven’t you, my poor fellow.”
    “Oh, goodness,” Rupert blushed. “I didn’t mean for you to hear that. Well, it must be said, it is true ! I have fallen for her with all of my heart. I adore her. What more can I say? It will have to be a love that remains forever hidden unless I can find some means of gaining an introduction. If all else fails I shall worship her from afar and be content merely to glimpse her angelic form around the town, as God wills it, occasionally having chance to be near enough to her perfection to catch faint echoes of her melodic laughter.” Lieutenant Smythe raised an eyebrow at the gushing speech but sympathised, having been besotted for many years with a young milk maid from his uncle’s farm. Although the infatuation had not lasted long after he had finally enjoyed her one stormy August afternoon in a convenient haystack. So, already sensing that it might be a mistake, but compelled by sympathy for his poor, wretched friend, Smythe offered to help.
    “What say I arrange for you to go along to Colonel Pickering’s ball this Christmas?” he said, taking Robertson squarely by the shoulders and looking intently at him. “But you must promise me you will, between now and then, put your mind to all efforts at resolving your financial dilemmas, and putting Roseanna as far from your mind as possible.”
    “Oh, would you, Smythe— could you! ” Rupert squealed like a schoolboy with a penny liquorice. “I shall make preparations for a fine costume with which to impress her.”
    “Did you hear what I said, Robertson?” Lieutenant Smythe sighed.
    “Yes, yes, you will get me an invitation to the ball,” Rupert jabbered. “And I shall have my chance to speak to Pollyanna, to tell her my hopes and my dreams.”
    “Yes. But did you, by any small chance, hear the second part of what I said?” he asked, watching the face of Rupert Robertson light with the fever of his imagination.
    “Oh, yes, certainly. I shall re-open my negotiations with Mr Gruff, concerning that plot of farmland. That will buy me some time,” Rupert said. “That should leave me just enough for a costume and the household expenses until the New Year, by which time I will have met with Miss Pickering and our courtship will have begun. Roseanna will not pose any problem, although I do wish she’d get what she deserves. I have already received a letter from her concerning the divorce, which she wants resolved as soon as possible before she departs for Italy. Oh, Smythe, who’d be plagued with a wife, that could set himself free ...” And here his mind danced again with thoughts of brutal revenge and, what he considered rightful, bloody justice.
    “Well, as long as you remain calm and