The Truth

Tulip snatched the silver stick out of his partner’s hand.
    “I mean, look at the —ing thing, will you?” he said, ignoring the bemused priest. “That’s a genuine Sellini! Five hundred years old! Look at the chasing work on that snuffer, will you? Sheesh, to you it’s nothing more than five —ing pounds of silver, right?”
    “Actually, mm, it’s a Futtock,” said the old priest, who still hadn’t yet got up to mental speed.
    “What, the pupil?” said Mr. Tulip, his eyes ceasing their spin out of surprise. He turned the candlestick over and looked at the base. “Hey, that’s right! There’s the Sellini mark, but it’s stamped with a little f, too. First time I’ve ever seen his —ing early stuff. He was a better —ing silversmith, too, it’s just a shame he had such a —ing stupid name. You know how much it’d sell for, Reverend?”
    “We thought about seventy dollars,” said the priest, looking hopeful. “It was in a lot of furniture that an old lady left to the church. Really, we kept it for sentimental value…”
    “Have you still got the box it came in?” said Mr. Tulip, turning the candlestick over and over in his hands. “He did wonderful —ing presentation boxes. Cherrywood.”
    “Er…no, I don’t think so…”
    “—ing shame.”
    “Er…is it still worth anything? I think we’ve got another one somewhere.”
    “To the right collector, maybe four thousand —ing dollars,” said Mr. Tulip. “But I reckon you could get twelve thousand if you’ve got a —ing pair. Futtock is very collectable at the moment.”
    “Twelve thousand!” burbled the old man. His eyes gleamed with a deadly sin.
    “Could be more,” Mr. Tulip nodded. “It’s a —ing delightful piece. I feel quite privileged to have seen it.” He looked sourly at Mr. Pin. “And you were going to use it as a —ing blunt instrument.”
    He put the candlestick reverentially on the vestry table, and buffed it carefully with his sleeve. Then he spun around and brought his fist down hard on the head of the priest, who folded up with a sigh.
    “And they were just keepin’ it in a —ing cupboard,” he said. “Honestly, I could —ing spit! ”
    “You want to take it with us?” said Mr. Pin, stuffing clothes into a bag.
    “Nah, all the fences round here’d probably just melt it down for the silver,” said Mr. Tulip. “I couldn’t have something like that on my —ing conscience. Let’s find this —ing dog and get right out of this dump, shall we? It makes me so —ing despondent .”

    William turned over, woke up, and stared wide-eyed at the ceiling.
    Two minutes later Mrs. Arcanum came downstairs and into the kitchen armed with a lamp, a poker, and, most important, with her hair in curlers. The combination would be a winner against all but the most iron-stomached intruder.
    “Mr. de Worde! What are you doing? It’s midnight!”
    William glanced up, and then went back to opening cupboards. “Sorry I knocked the saucepans over, Mrs. Arcanum. I’ll pay for any damage. Now, where are the scales?”
    “Scales?”
    “Scales! Kitchen scales! Where are they!”
    “Mr. de Worde, I—”
    “Where are the damn scales, Mrs. Arcanum?” said William desperately.
    “Mr. de Worde! For shame!”
    “The future of the city hangs in the balance, Mrs. Arcanum!”
    Perplexity slowly took the place of stern affront. “What, in my scales?”
    “Yes! Yes! It could very well be!”
    “Well, er…they’re in the pantry by the flour bag…the whole city, you say?”
    “Quite possibly!” William felt his jacket sag as he forced the big brass weights into his pocket.
    “Use the old potato sack, do,” said Mrs. Arcanum, now quite flustered by events.
    William grabbed the sack, rammed everything in, and ran for the door.
    “The university and the river and everything?” said the landlady, nervously.
    “Yes! Yes indeed!”
    Mrs. Arcanum set her jaw. “You will wash it out thoroughly afterwards, won’t you,” she said to his retreating back.
    William’s progress slowed towards the end of the road. Big iron kitchen scales and a full set of weights aren’t carried lightly.
    But that was the point, wasn’t it? Weight! He ran and walked and dragged them through the freezing, foggy night until he reached Gleam Street.
    The lights were still on in the Inquirer building. How late do you need to stay up when you can make up the news as you go along? thought William. But this is real. Heavy, even.
    He