Still pretending to be unconscious, Alec peered surreptitiously at his tall, bowlegged interrogator. Scale’s nostrils flared in and out, his body tense. At last, satisfied there was no one coming and realizing that Alec was back from his swooning fit, Lucas Scale resumed his interrogation, punctuating each question with a painful shake to Alec’s throat.

“Did you really think I would believe you’d killed my Wolven, cretin?” he snarled, inches from Alec’s face.

“Oi, oi … who are you calling a cretin?” spluttered Alec Tate, trying to recover some dignity. “I swear, he worried my sheep, he was a lunatic.”

Scale shook his head in mock sadness. “If you do not tell me, I will simply maim you for now, then send worse interrogators. They will rip the truth from your lying lips, and tear your lily liver from your body.”

Tate closed his eyes. He could not imagine a worse interrogation than the one he was on the receiving end of right now.

Out in the passageway, Ophelia’s fury reached two hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Over her dead body was she going to let Scale, who had been responsible for her cousin Robert’s downfall, terrify Alec into telling him where Woody was. She bit her lip. Alec had done a very bad thing by letting Mick Smith and his grandson drive off with such a valuable secret. If Scale found out where Woody had gone, Mick and his family would be in terrible danger…. Oh, good grief, what had Alec done?

There was silence now; all she could hear was the old clock ticking in the hallway. The sun had crept below the horizon, and the evening air felt thick and clammy.

Sneaking a look through the crack in the doorway, she was able to see her husband, suspended several inches above the floor. He looked like a weasel being hypnotized by a snake. Ophelia dared not wait any longer. If she did, she knew that her husband would shortly be missing an eyeball.

“AHAAAAAAAAAYYA!!” she screamed as she shot across the floor like a fiery comet, propelled by an energy even she was shocked to have mustered. Scale didn’t have time to compute what had hit him. By now, the amount of static electricity manufactured beneath Ophelia’s bathrobe was making a humming noise like a top and sending out sparks. Tate watched his wife in pure wonder, sparks flying from her body as she clashed with the fireplace’s metal guard screen. Scale was knocked into the hearth, losing his cane, his long, bowed legs scrabbling as they tried in vain to get a grip on the polished tiles. The next thing he was aware of was a huge bottom encased in sapphire blue polyester bearing down on him.

“Gedoff!” he screamed.

Ophelia was enjoying herself. She pressed down with all her weight. Scale had never known such painful humiliation.

“Who’s the mummy?” asked Ophelia grimly.