II.iv Clench! The Gazebo!

A few large drops of rain, mistakenly presupposed as another irksome barrage from the starlings’ tail ends, heralded the beginning of the end of the evening. What began as a light shower gradually turned to heavier rain causing the crowd to reluctantly disperse, the majority heading back towards the shelter of the house. All except Rotunda Asquith, who managed to stave off most of the downpour by sheltering under one of the stately monkeypuzzles alongside the gazebo. Alone, lost in quiet contemplation of 'Arse Birds', Rotunda found herself slowly sinking heels first into the rain-moistened lawns, her loose dentures clacking against the best crystal with each additional sip of scotch. Spying something moving stealthily in her direction some way off, she crouched, squinting. As it scampered closer, too late she saw it for what it was- that abhorrence ‘Marzipan’. Unable to escape the clutches of the sucking turf, she swayed, goggling, as it raced towards her at what seemed an almost supernatural speed. For want of a better weapon, she did what came naturally; panicked, thrusting the remains of her wine in its face. Spurned, it leaped away into the trees, its overlong tail spinning one of the engraved gilt candelabras, which teetered on the brink of disaster for what seemed like an eternity, before finally tumbling into the bandstand’s sumptuous velveteen drapes.

Delicate licks of fire began to curl greedily up and around the entranceway, swiftly putting paid to any vain ideas of rescuing the extraordinary picturegraph. As everyone knew, Constance had had the foresight to destroy the original copy of the print along with its negative, thus making this one truly unique and so much more valuable. 

‘Clench! The gazebo!’ brayed Thrust-Munch, gesticulating wildly as he emerged from the house. This he followed with further incoherent bellowings.

It was too late. The fine dry wood of the magnificent teak gazebo, sheltered from the worst of the storm by the surrounding monkeypuzzles, went up like a tinderbox, and in no time at all the blaze had consumed it entirely, leaving little but smoke and smouldering ashes. Within a little under seventeen minutes, all was lost.

Weeping bitterly and uncontrollably, Miss Bintwrangler collapsed in a sodden heap, a toe-curling wail of anguish wrenched from her very soul echoing across the grounds. Norbury helped her to her feet and they made their unsteady way back towards the house, the Colonel taking the opportunity to rest his plump, meaty hand reassuringly on her ample behind.

Bean Weevil, having drunk himself into a stupor, was now lying prostrate on the gravel driveway and had missed the entire debacle. Stirring, he rose to his feet, staggered slightly, and carefully drew himself to his full height, only to find himself face to face with the chinless wonder that was Mrs Theodora Flumpet Thrust-Munch, the Colonel's clandestine wife. The one he had nefariously omitted to mention to Constance.