Cousin Glabia and the Splendidly Strange Circus Murders

Good afternoon, my little knapsacks, I do hope my followers are in good health, both of you. The weekend proved to be an unexpectedly thrilling time, I was thoroughly anticipating marvels and wonders when I realised the circus was coming to town. My cousin Glabia (pictured above with her late brother, Glevum) has been a circus artist for the past two decades. I haven’t seen her since Hadrian’s Wall FC won the cup, so I was so looking forward to a good natter over a cup of pondweed wine, and a hessian cracker or two.

Late upon a balmy Thursday eve, Philo Oblong’s Travelling Circus arrived in a long convoy of trucks and caravans. I cemented arrangement with my cousin to dine the following day, then attend the circus. We met at The Belching Frog in the village for a modest lunch of stretched turbot, black potatoes, flat nettles and a white wine jou with a dash of spam. Not bad for a Wetherspoons, and the price was thoroughly agreeable. We discussed the sad loss of Glevum two summers ago, he died tragically from a fall from the tightrope. It had been the second time he’d fallen. (Interestingly, Glevum was just a nickname, he’d deviated his glevum after the first 40ft fall onto a juggling unicyclist). Nowadays, Glabia is still firewalking, which is handy, as one of the circus hands is a splendid arsonist when not in the clink. Lovely chap, apparently, very warm manner, with an earthy whiff of charcoal. Glabia enquired about the health of the bats, and asked politely about my hedge. They were also very complimentary about Clopton Mandrill, stating how pretty it was despite the cricketers. Just as we were finishing our meal, we heard a bang so loud, my chair lifted from the floor. It blew the feathers from a startled pigeon on the table. We rushed from the restaurant, and straight through the entrance of the Big Top. The huge crowd inside fell silent and open-mouthed.

A huge splash had just occured in the Pool of Death, a woman screamed ‘MURDER!’, and the hysteria spread around the arena – although Mandy O’Bandy’s Acrobat Trio persevered with their routine. They were not unfamiliar with being interrupted by a spot of murder. The arena was in pandemonium as some fled their seats, leaving others to attack one another with egg whisks and swallowing swords. Smoke was billowing somewhere on my left. Hubert Fartingale and his Pyramid of Dogs were less calm, and one could hear his plaintive wails as the pack of six rottweilers turned on him to attack. The rozzers arrived, and entered through the curtains to a drumroll and a crash of symbols which someone applauded. They weren’t amused. They cordoned off the Pool of Death, and set to placing chalk outlines on the water, which wouldn’t keep still.

Inspector Bludgeon, of Greater Mandrill Constabulary concluded immediately that there it was a double murder, with two suspects, one attempted shooting, one of stabbing. Glabia thought him so clever, but I was not so daft – the chalk outlines clearly showed one figure with a long dagger, and one with a stage pistol. Hardly nuclear physics. I didn’t like this bugger, he’d nicked Aunt Vom several times on her visits, and I considered he needed taking down a peg or five. I noticed he kept saying words like ‘conflagration’ and ‘pamphlet’ in order to make his moustach wobble in a dramatic manner. I had a flashback to the time Dear Vom called him a total cock. Notwithstanding, he summoned eight more uniformed men to keep the chalk outlines from floating to the edge in the breeze.

But what in the name of the Devil’s Nutsack could have gone so horribly wrong? Amidst the brouhaha, I heard talk. There had been no less than four murders.

Well, this….The Flying Drummer. As you may deduce from the photograph, he’s carked it. It seems he had a six month tryst with another performer by the name of Belicca Diddytoe (below, with Titan the Amazing Cycling Poodle). He would write Belicca heartrending love letters twice daily, and shower her with origami dogs, a habit came under the watchful eye of her husband.

Belicca, it appears, was unhappily married to one half of The Flaming Yodellers (below). They consist of Raymondo and Phleb Pyrothwaite from Barnsley. Raymondo would let his brother yodel expertly for seven minutes before dousing him in petrol and setting him alight. They were an absolute sensation despite the singular performance. Belicca and the Flying Drummer hoped it would be Raymondo who decided to yodel in their premiere, but alas, the coin toss fell in favour of Phleb. As Phleb burst into yodelling (and an epic blaze), Raymondo seized his moment. He whipped his stage pistol from the front flap of his long johns (this caused an amorous woman in the front row to lose all fascination in him). While the crowd were distracted by Phleb, who’d fallen and set light to the furniture, Raymondo fired upward to the sound of flying drumroll. His aim was perfect, and there the Flying Drummer hung in the air, silenced for eternity.

Heartbroken at seeing her beloved’s demise in the air, Belicca clutched her bosom, before seizing a cutlass from an escaping nun. She pushed past Phleb, who was still blundering about on the stage, just as he found his feet, he tripped on the bucket of petrol, and I’ll leave that story there. She crossed the floor, and with one swipe of the cutlass, she sliced Raymondo in two. The more senile in the audience who’d not noticed the chaos, applauded loudly. I feel the need to clarify that he was sliced lengthways, as that is what the rozzers were mostly concerned with.

The bizarre twist in the tale is that Raymondo had also engaged in an unsavoury trend of coitus with yet another of the circus performers. For nine years, he had been indulging in his fetish for beaks with this woman – The Terrifying Owl Woman of Saskatoon. As Raymondo lay on the stage, not half the man he used to be, she struck like lightning. Brandishing a dagger, she chased Belicca up the steps to a podium where they grappled for several minutes. Finally, after a stout punch to the bliffin, Belicca’s strength gave out, and the Owl Woman ran her through. Belicca fell over the edge, with the Amazing Titan cycling after her. The blessed relief is that the Owl Woman was arrested immediately. I’d seen her act some years before in Eastbourne. Frankly, it was shite.

So, there are the four murders. The alert among you may only have counted three – the confusion was due to Raymondo being carted out in two wheelbarrows not one. Allegedly, two separate rozzers thought each half was a whole person after spying his sleight frame on the poster. A misreporting that still made the evening news. Glabia is thrilled at the notoriety the whole episode has brought to the circus. The fame has done wonders for business, earning her two shillings a week and a monthly allowance at Madame Planchette’s Tutu Emporium. She is set to wed Philo Oblong at the next equinox while travelling through Norway. They are set to exchange their solemn vows while death diving. I can only think that Mr Oblongs’ considerable wealth may be a factor in this decision.

I am now sitting with my feet up, telling the dangling bats above my head all about the days mayhem. Thank goodness I have not attracted a mate since my late teens in the tudor era – one can only surmise it is a blessing. Now time for a nip of some brandy that Aunt Vom kindly pilfed from Inspector Bludgeon during her last visit. I have a monkshood bhuna blipping away in the cauldron, and a cowpat flatbread drying on the hot stone which should be ready in 5. Pip pip – and never argue with sixteen geese by a post box, you shall find why in my next ramblings.