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and pungent odour eh?” by way of punctuation.
    Norman paused to take another gulp of whisky. Neville was taking careful stock of how many were being drunk and would shortly call the shopkeeper to account. “And the next thing, you looked up and he was gone,” prompted the part-time barman.
    Norman nodded. “Gone without a by your leave or kiss my ankle. I wonder who on earth he might be?”
    “Who who might be?” The voice belonged to James Pooley, whose carefully calculated betting system had until five minutes previous been putting the wind up the local bookie.
    “How did the afternoon go for you, Jim?” asked Neville. Pooley shook his head dismally. “I was doing another six-horse special and was up to £150,000 by the fifth and what do you know?”
    Neville said, “Your sixth horse chose to go the pretty way round?”
    “’Tis true,” said the blighted Knight of the Turf.
    Neville pulled a pint of Large and Jim pushed the exact amount in odd pennies and halfpennies across the bar top. Neville scooped this up and tossed it without counting into the till. This was an error on his part, for the exact amount this time included three metal tokens from the New Inn’s fruit machine and an old washer Jim had been trying to pass for the last six months.
    Jim watched his money vanish into the till with some degree of surprise – things must be pretty bad with Neville, he thought. Suddenly he caught sight of the NO TRAMPS sign lying upon the bar top. “Don’t tell me,” he said, “Your tramp has returned.”
    Neville threw an alarmed and involuntary glance from the sign to the open door. “He has not,” said the barman, “but Norman has also had an encounter with the wretch.”
    “And Archroy,” said Jim.
    “What?” said Neville and Norman together.
    “On his allotment last night, quizzed him over some lucky beans his evil wife took in exchange for his Morris Minor.”
    “Ah,” said Norman, “I saw that same Morris Minor on Leo’s forecourt this very afternoon.”
    “All roads lead to Rome,” said Jim, which Norman found most infuriating.
    “About the tramp,” said Neville, “what did Archroy say about him?”
    “Seemed he was interested in Omally’s allotment patch.”
    “There is certainly something more than odd about this tramp,” said Norman. “I wonder if anybody else has seen him?”
    Pooley stroked his chin. If there was one thing he liked, it was a really good mystery. Not of the Agatha Christie variety you understand, Jim’s love was for the cosmic mystery. Many of the more famous ones he had solved with very little difficulty. Regarding the tramp, he had already come to a conclusion. “He is a wandering Jew,” he said.
    “Are you serious?” said Norman.
    “Certainly,” said Pooley. “And Omally who is by his birth a Catholic will back me up on this – the Wandering Jew was said to have spat upon Our Lord at the time of the Passion and been cursed to wander the planet for ever awaiting Christ’s return, at which time he would be given a chance to apologize.”
    “And you think that this Jew is currently doing his wandering through Brentford?”
    “Why not? In two thousand years he must have covered most of the globe; he’s bound to turn up here sooner or later.”
    “Why doesn’t he come forward to authenticate the Turin shroud then?” said Neville.
    The other two turned cynical eyes on him. “Would you?”
    “Do you realize then,” said Neville, who was suddenly warming to the idea, “that if he is the Wandering Jew, well we have met a man who once stared upon Jesus.”
    There was a reverent silence, each man momentarily alone with his thoughts. Norman and Neville both recalled how they had felt the need to cross themselves; this seemed to reinforce their conviction that Jim Pooley might have struck the nail firmly upon the proverbial head. It was a staggering proposition. Norman was the first to find his voice. “No,” he said shortly, “those eyes never