Bronte's Inferno XVII (Probably In His Underpants)

Just past the junction of Victoria Road and Jepson Lane, the road was blocked by two patrol cars, so there was no way to reach Consort Street by Mini, never mind in a Rolls the size of the one I was travelling in. There had been little conversation on the way back from Haworth. I was a little woozy from the Widow. The last piccolo was in my coat pocket: the three empties were on the plush carpeting in the foot-well. Charon opened the window between driver and passenger. Her breath smelled of cinnamon. Her head jerked backward, so I presumed that mine didn't.

'I'll have to drop you here.'

'It was nice to meet you.' I slurred a little.

'If you need me -'

'Just whistle. Yes, I know how to whistle, thanks.'

'Use the number on your 'phone. "Underworld Limo Hire".'

She got out to open the door for me, oblivious to the honking of Elland Taxis, Ubers and Ocado delivery vans lining up behind us. I didn't bother asking how that number had ended up on my dumb-phone. I had no doubt Kobold had worked some dark magic in a room with no-windows and arrays of servers against the walls – probably in his underpants.

I watched the Phantom V tear down the rest of Victoria Road and take the corner onto the Huddersfield Road with a fishtail turn that I took as a sardonic farewell gesture. On Consort Street, about half-way down, there was a smouldering pile of rubble where number 35 had been. It had been a two-engine fire. It must have been the fastest response in the history of Elland, if not the "West Yorkshire Fire and Rescue Authority". I walked down the street towards the barrier tape marked "WYFARA Do Not Cross" and hopped nimbly over it, if I say so myself.

The nearest firefighter loomed over me, I could see several bristles on her chin.

'Get back behind the barrier, Sir.'

'That's – was – my house.'

'Did you leave the gas on?' Her tone was sufficiently accusatory as to make me think I had, and to show that she thought so too.

I stuttered a reply in the negative, anyway.

'How come my neighbours' houses are undamaged? That's hardly possible, is it?'

'When did you last check your boiler?' Another firefighter said.

This one's hi-vis tabard read "Fire Chief". I suppose that's what you get when an "authority" deals with fires, instead of a brigade. I shrugged.

'It's your own bloody fault then, isn't it?' Bristles said. This was accompanied by some spittle, most of which landed on her boss, who stepped backward and stumbled over something on the pavement behind her.

When she recovered her balance, she pointed at what she'd tripped on and said,

'It's not the only thing that's hardly possible at this scene. We found that where the living room used to be.'

She was pointing at the mysterious box delivered by Andrej Warhola, only 24 hours before.