“Beef for Christmas” — a Sgt. Beef story

Beef for Christmas


Leo Bruce
“Doing anything for Christmas?”
The question which was put to me by my old friend Sergeant Beef was altogether too casual.  He had, I guessed, what he would call “something up his sleeve.” 
“Yes, I’m booked up,” I lied.  I was determined to draw him out.
“Pity,” said Beef and took a pull from the pint glass beside him.  “I shall have to get someone else to come down with me.  There might be a story to write.”
“Come down?” I repeated rather irritably.  “Come down where?”
“Natchett,” said Beef shortly.  “Near Braxham.  Near where I was stationed before I retired from the force.”
It was not many years, I reflected, since Beef had been a country policeman and I considered that he owed his present eminence as a private detective to his Boswell, myself.  I was not pleased at his speaking of someone else writing him up.
“What’s the case?” I asked as casually as I could.
“You’re booked up,” sulked Beef.  “It can’t interest you.”  Then he gave his good-natured grin and added—“Still, I don’t mind telling you what it is.”
I looked at his raw red face and straggling ginger moustache and wondered for the hundredth time how anyone as ingenuous as Beef could match his wits against the subtle brains of clever criminals and defeat them.  Sometimes he was almost boyish.
“Ever heard of a man called Merton Watlow?  You haven’t?  Well, you might not have.  He’s one of the richest men in the country.  Or rather he was.”
“Taxation?” I asked, ready to sympathize.
“Not so much that as just hard spending of his capital.  Surprising what you can do in that line today.  Time was when a millionaire couldn’t make himself much poorer.  This Merton Watlow says he can’t take it with you and he’s making it fly like fury.  He spends a couple of Prime Ministers’ salaries on keeping up his home at Natchett, and he’s got other places.  If you have an indoor staff of eight and half a dozen gardeners nowadays, you can only do it on capital.”
“Well?” I asked impatiently.
“His family don’t like it,” said Beef.  “Natural enough, I suppose.  They want a bit left for them.  They mean to live a lot longer than one another.  Who doesn’t?  They think the old man ought to live on his interest for their benefit, and they’ve told him so.  That only makes him worse.  It’s become a sort of race.  You should see the pictures he buys.”
“How do you know this?”
“He has consulted me,” said Beef rather grandly.  “He’s been getting anonymous letters lately threatening to do for him if he doesn’t stop spending like this.  They only make him worse.  But he wants me to find out about them.”
“I see.  But why Christmas?”

“Because he always invites his relatives at Christmas.  Gets a kick out of bringing them down to Natchett Grange and letting them see him spend a hundred or two on a Christmas party.  The very presents he gives them turn sour when they think what they must have cost him.  Silly things, he chooses, hell of a price and no use for them.  I shouldn’t be surprised if one of them really did for him one day.  They certainly hate him enough.”
“Isn’t he afraid of that?”
“Not likely.  He’s a big man, powerful, active and tough.  He’s sixty but as fit as a flea and been around the world a dozen times.  He doesn’t seem afraid of anything.”
“Then what does he want us for?”
“Me, he wants.  He hasn’t said anything about you.  He wants me to find out who’s threatening him.  Just to satisfy his curiosity, he says.  He tells me it’s no more than a joke to him, but his secretary, a man called Philip Meece, has nearly been driven out of his mind by it.  So I’m going to spend Christmas at Natchett.”
“I’ll come with you,” I said.
Beef nodded without answering, but his grin told me that he regarded this as surrender.  As I recall now that Christmas at Natchett with its one horrible moment and its whole bizarre meaning, I am not sure that he was not right.

“He’s sending a car for us,” Beef said on December 23, the day were due at Natchett, and I soon found that it was an understatement.  A Rolls Royce drew up at the door of Beef’s modest house in Lilac Crescent, and I was startled to see not only a chauffeur in uniform, but beside him that anachronistic figure a footman dressed in similar clothes.  He came to the door, took our bags and opened the door for us.  We started on our slow way out of town.
But it was when we came to Natchett Grange that I began to have a sense of unreality.  Could there be such houses in England in these mid-century years?  It was a clear day and we saw at once the great grounds and gardens planned by some modern Capability Brown, the conservatories looming up like those in Kew Gardens and the stables and dairy all manned and busy.  The estate would have been ducal in the last century, today it was almost incredible.
Rumbold the butler, opened the front door, a tall man as aloof and unsmiling as a statue.  He shewed us to the library and I had time to see that Merton Watlow was a bibliophile and to guess that his collection was beyond price.
“Wonder if he’s read all these,” said Beef, chuckling crudely.
Before I answered a small pale man in his forties came in.
“My name’s Meece,” he said when he had greeted us.  “I’m Merton Watlow’s secretary.  He’ll be down in a minute.”
I was about to start some general conversation in a normal polite way when Beef with his usual lack of savoir faire came out with a clumsy question.
“Now what’s all this about anonymous letters?” he asked.
“Oh that,” said Philip Meece indifferently.  “You must ask Mr. Watlow about that.  Not my pigeon.”
“Seen any of them?” persisted Beef.
“Mr Watlow likes to open his own correspondence.  He only shews me what he wants me to deal with.”

The door opened.  It was not the spendthrift millionaire who entered but a large handsome woman rather lavishly dressed and wearing several pieces of jewellery.  I did not know enough of such things to be able to say whether they were genuine.
“My wife,” said Philip Meece unexpectedly.  Sergeant Beef and Mr. Towser.”
“Townsend,” I corrected rather crossly as I bowed to Mrs. Meece.  After all, my name should have been as well known as Beef’s.
I could hear Beef breathing heavily as was his wont in the presence of women of this kind—fine dignified women who awed him.
This time I was determined to to lead the conversation into pleasant and conventional channels.
“We’ve had a delightful drive down,” I began.  “The countryside. . . .”
But I could say no more for we all turned to face Merton Watlow.  He was, as Beef said, a large man and the years had done little to reduce the solid weight of his shoulders.  He gave an impression of forcefulness of both character and physique.  I suppose he would be called a handsome man though I found his taurine strength and imperious manner a little overwhelming.
He gave me the merest suggestion of a nod and at once began to talk to Beef whom he treated in a man-to-man way.
“You’ll meet them all at dinner tonight,” he said.  “There are six whom I’ve thought it worth while to invite.  I want this ridiculous business cleared up by Boxing Day.”
“We’ll see what we can do,” said Beef in his most phlegmatic manner.  I wished he would shew more alertness and more appreciation of the privilege of being chosen by Merton Watlow for this task.

It was at this point that I felt bound to remonstrate secretly with Beef for he was staring at Freda Meece and particularly, I seemed to notice, at her jewellery in a way that must have been embarrassing for her.  I drew him aside as though to ask for a light.
“Beef,” I  whispered.  “Don’t stare.”
He ignored me and turned again to Watlow.
“First of all I want to see some of these anonymous letters.  Nasty things, I always say.  I remember in one village. . . .”
“I’m afraid you won’t be able to see them.  I’ve never bothered to keep one.
“Silly of you, that was.  We could have got handwriting experts on to it.”
“They were typewritten.”
“Better still.  You’d be surprised how easy it is to say what comes from what typewriter.  However, if they’re gone they’re gone and that’s all there is to it.  Now who have we got?”
“My guests, you mean?  I am a bachelor, as you know, so my kindred consists of the families of my brother and sister, both of whom are dead.  First there is the nephew, Major Alec Watlow.”
To my embarrassment Beef here produced his bulky black notebook and began slowly to write with a stump of pencil.
“There is Alec’s wife Prudence, a rather anæmic woman I find, and in contrast a noisy athletic daughter called Mollie.”
“Ah,” said Beef.
“There is my sister’s daughter with her husband, a Doctor Siddley, and their son Egbert, whom I regard as being practically feeble-minded though his parents do not share the opinion.  That is all.”
I was relieved to see that Beef’s arduous note-taking was finished, but his next question turned me cold.
“They all hope to come into a bit if they live longer than you, I take it?  That’s if there’s anything left, of course.”
“Merton Watlow did not seem to take this amiss, indeed he smiled faintly as he said, “That is so.”
“One other point,” said Beef.  “What about the staff?”  His voice dropped to a hoarse but perfectly audible whisper as he indicated Philip and Freda Meece across the room.  “These, for instance?”
Watlow hesitated.
“I suppose you must consider everyone as possible, though I must say in this case I find it rather absurd.  Philip has been with me for ten years.  Rumbold a little more and most of the servants for some considerable time.  It is up to you to include them or not.”
Beef put his notebook away.
“Leave it to me,” he said.
In a way he was justified in this.  He did find a solution to the whole thing which, I am now convinced, was the right one. But it did not save a human life.

Dinner that night was a preposterous affair.
“My cook has a collection of old menus,” explained Merton Watlow, “and he has discovered one of just sixty-three years ago, that is of the year in which I was born.  It is the dinner offered by Queen Victoria to her guests at Osborne on December 19, 1894.  He has insisted on reproducing it.  I think you will see that our Victorian forebears enjoyed their food in quantity.”
How right he was!  That interminable meal returns to me in nightmares.  There were six courses and for most dishes there was an alternative scarcely less satisfying.  We were handed cards on which the original menu was reproduced.  POTAGE, I read without apprehension at first, à la Tête de Veau Clair or à la Colbert.  Phew, I thought, and found as an ENTREE les Pain de Faisans à la Milanaise.  Then there was that course which has long vanished, the RELEVE.  It was in English, but none the less menacing for that—Roast Beef, Yorkshire Pudding.  The ROTI was Dinde à la Chipota or Chine of Pork.  ENTREMETS were four—Les Asperges à la Sauce, Mince Pies, Plum Pudding, La Gelée d’Oranges à l’Anglaise.
But Merton Watlow did not finish with his relatives there.  As though to give his gastronomic teasing of them an extra sting there was added the extraordinary heading SIDE TABLE.  Under it were offered Baron of Beef, Wild Boar’s Head, Game Pie, Brawn, Woodcock Pie and Terrine de Foie Gras.
Only two persons of those at the long table viewed this monstrous catalogue with anything but repressed horror, they were Beef and Mollie Watlow, the hoydenish daughter of the millionaire’s nephew, Major Alec.  His wife, described by Watlow as anæmic, now looked positively seasick.  Of the others at the table, the Major, a stiff muscular man with clipped hair and speech, masticated in silent disapproval while Dr. Siddley, a gaunt but garrulous man, sat talking studiously of any subject but food.  His son Egbert, a flaccid giant, seemed only half aware of what was taking place.  His mother, thickset and hairy, reminded me of the old saying, “If looks could kill” as she stared at Merton Watlow.  The Meeces also dined with us and I noticed that Freda Meece no longer wore diamonds.
“Shouldn’t have thought it was possible to lay hands on grub like this,” remarked Beef, earning curious glances from more refined guests.  “Not in England today.”
He was speaking across Prudence Watlow to his host.
“Oh yes,” said Merton Watlow.  “You can get anything if you’re prepared to spend the money.”
This remark, made in a normal voice, caused what is called a pregnant silence.

Before the end of Christmas Eve, I had come to know Merton Watlow’s relatives quite well.  Although I was not without sentiments of sympathy for them and realized how they were being tormented by Watlow’s fabulous and deliberate extravagance in everything he did, yet I must own that there was not one of them who did not seem to me capable of murder.
They were not amiable people and if we had all come down for a jolly Christmas party the occasion would have been a failure.  Beef at any rate had other things in mind and I as his chronicler watched and waited for something which would shew which way his suspicions were going.
The grinding voice of Dr. Siddley condemning the National Health Scheme, the noisy movements and halloos of Mollie Watlow, the stern silences and perpetual newspaper reading of her father, the pained whine of Prudence Watlow, the mooning presence of Egbert and the ferocious resentfulness of Mrs. Siddley were none of them charming qualities but in the curious circumstances I was interested in them all.
Beef, however, with a sense of fitness rare in him, seemed to leave the study of these people to me and concentrate on the servants.  He would disappear with Rumbold and return wiping his moustache and telling me that it had been interesting.
Early on the morning of Christmas Eve the only member of the party whom I found in the least sympathique left us, for Freda Meece was to spend Christmas Day with her parents.  I felt some disappointment at this, but was consoled by the confidence that the evening would almost certainly bring surprises and perhaps some incident would be revealing to a criminologist like myself.  I was not disappointed in this.  But how very much more lurid than I supposed the incident turned out to be.
It was on Christmas Eve that Merton Watlow was accustomed to giving his relatives what he called “a little surprise.”  There would be some entertainment or extravaganza which, ostensibly designed for their amusement, in fact demonstrated Watlow’s gift for squandering money.  One year, Mrs. Siddley hissed in my ear, he had taken them to the largest conservatory where he had collected all the items of the old Christmas ballad including six turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.  Another time he had engaged the entire caste of a musical comedy only a few days before it opened in London.

“This year,” she added, “I believe he has got Raymond Gidley.”
“Impossible!” I cried, for she had named television’s most popular figure, the fabulous artist who not only played Mendelsohn in a highly individualistic manner but sang his own ballads in a falsetto voice and gave advice on family problems after dramatic re-enactments of them.
“Not to Merton.  You heard what he said to your friend last night?  There is nothing you can’t buy with enough money.  Merton has enough—still.  How much longer he will have is another matter.”
Dinner that night was scarcely less exhausting than that of the night before.  Beef became embarrassingly jovial and I watched him with growing anxiety swallow glass after glass.
Philip Meece, I noticed, was absent.
“Philip’s a bit under the weather,” said Watlow equably.  “I think he has turned in.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Dr Siddley.  Would you like me to have a look at him?”
“Very good of you, Stanley.  He’s probably asleep now.  But if you’d like to look in before you go to bed I’m sure he’d be grateful.  It’s the first bedroom at the top of the stairs—over the drawing-room.  I daresay it’s over-eating.”
“I’m not surprised,” moaned Mrs. Watlow.  “I wonder the servants are able to do their work.  Or perhaps they have a more sensible diet?” she added hopefully.
“No, I like them to have the same as I do.  Now, shall we meet in the drawing room in a few mintes’ time?  I have a little surprise for you.”

The drawing-room at Natchett Grange was sixty feet long and down one side of it ran a row of great Georgian windows with magnificent old damask curtains.  Tonight we saw that from the farthest window to the wall opposite to it had been hung a curtain like that of a stage.  Before this our chairs had been arranged so that we should sit as it were in a theatre waiting for the curtain to rise.
It took some time for us to gather, and in view of the events that followed it was a good thing that I noted with scrupulous care in what order the guests arrived.  Beef and I were the first with Mrs. Watlow, while Mrs. Siddley followed shortly.  Then Mollie clumped in speaking loudly across the room to her mother—something about a breath of fresh air.  There was a long wait after that before Egbert came to the door and looked round as though in bewilderment.  The Major came in alone and then the doctor.
Suddenly a loudspeaker near the curtain began to play popular music—much too loudly I thought.  This was surprising to me for among other things which Mrs. Siddley had told me about her uncle was the fact that he detested music and that one of the ways of spending he did not indulge was the collection of gramophone records.  Still, I thought, it might be necessary to introduce the entertainment, whatever it was, which was about to follow.
Merton Watlow himself had not appeared and when I saw Beef looking anxiously towards the door I thought this was at least ominous.  I made a sign of inquiry to Beef but he ignored this.  He looked rather flushed from the food and drink he had consumed.
We must have sat waiting for at least ten minutes before anything was done to relieve the tension.  Then Beef spoke.
“I think I’d better go and have a look.”

A voice replied from the doorway, the strong harsh voice of Merton Watlow himself.
“That won’t be necessary,” he said.  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.  As you know the staff have their Christmas dinner this evening and I have just been to drink a health with them.”
I had noticed that since we left the dining-room none of the servants had been in evidence.
“Now, if you take your places I have, as I say, a little surprise for you.
The suspense was not the pleasurable one felt by the audience in a theatre before the curtain rises, indeed I should describe it as apprehension rather than suspense.  I myself felt like that for I was certain that whatever we should see would not be designed genuinely for our pleasure.
We watched as Merton Watlow crossed to the corner in front of us where the stage curtain reached the window.  He began very slowly to draw down a cord and as he did so the lights in the drawing-room were lowered and the curtains began slowly to part.  Only when they were several feet apart did the music cease.
Behind the curtains the end of the room had been turned into a miniature stage, with illumination sufficient but not too much for whatever person was to occupy it.  Then we saw enter with his accustomed smile and friendly manner the ineffable Mr. Raymond Gidley.

I need not describe his entertainment—there can be few who are unfamiliar with his famous charm and air of sincerity.  It lasted half an hour at least and the curious little audience applauded it fitfully.
While we were recovering from it, Merton Watlow approached Dr. Siddley.
I think now if you’d care to look at Philip,” he suggested.  “I’m sure it’s nothing but since you’ve been so good as to suggest it we may as well take advantage of your offer.”
“Certainly,” said Siddley and left the room.
Looking back now I know that the few moments that followed were the last we had of what one might call everyday life at Natchett.  We talked normally, or as normally as those somewhat strained people were able to talk, and although I at least felt no particular anxiety about Philip Meece it seemed to me that we were waiting for something.  At all events as Dr. Siddley entered all turned to him.
“Merton,” he said, and even in those two syllables one heard an undertone of shock and distress.
Watlow crossed to him and Siddley whispered something to him.  I thought that Philip Meece must have died or be suddenly gravely ill.  When the two men turned to leave the room we all prepared to follow.
I will tell you at once what we saw as we peered into Philip Meece’s room.  He was hanging, head lolling, from a rope slung from the high eaves of the room and beside him two chairs lay, one on its side, the other on its back, evidently kicked over by him.  The window of the room was open.
I heard Beef’s heavy breathing beside me and saw him staring at the figure, his eyes going up with the rope and down to the chairs.
Siddley stepped forward.  A knife was produced and the rope was cut, Siddley catching the limp figure and carrying it to the bed.  The rope was so tight round Meece’s throat and so securely knotted that it had to be cut.
“Quite dead,” Siddley said.
“How long?”  Beef’s voice sounded authoritative.
“Can’t say exactly.  I have no experience of this sort of thing.  About half an hour, I should judge.
Beef asked Siddley only one other question.
“Did you open the window when you came up first?”
“No,” replied the doctor decisively.  I touched nothing.”
I looked aside at Merton Watlow.  I had the feeling that the big man was deeply moved but controlling himself admirably.  He turned to his nephew, the Major.
“Alec, will you please telephone the police at once?”
“Stanley, you are quite sure that nothing whatever can be done?  Artificial respiration or anything?”
“Oh no.  His neck’s broken.”
“Then we will go downstairs.”

The company moved away but as I saw Beef hanging about in the passage outside I did not follow the rest but pretended to go to my room.
“I suppose it was Meece who was writing the anonymous letters?” I said when we were alone.
“I don’t see what makes you think so.”
“His suicide, of course.”
“Or murder,” replied Beef and made for Meece’s room.
In a moment like this Beef was at his best.  He went about his business swiftly and confidently.
“Not much time before Wiggs arrives,” he said.
Wiggs was the C.I.D. inspector at Braxham under whom Beef had worked.  I knew that Beef disliked his one-time superior officer
I watched as Beef pulled out a tape measure and began to take a number of measurements—the length of rope left hanging, the length from where the rope was cut to where the know began, the exact height of Meece, the height of the chairs.
He then paused for a few moments, apparently thinking deeply.  I could almost hear his brain ticking over.  When he moved again it was fast.  He dived for the chairs and made a minute examination of their legs and cross-bars.  He then went to the window-sill and remained there for a few moments.
“All right,” he said.  “Let’s go downstairs.  I’ve seen all I want to see.”

Merton Watlow had taken his guests to the library, tactfully avoiding the room in which we had received our first shock.  But when Beef saw this he excused himself for a moment and made for the drawing-room.  He came back and remained with us.
After that all went smoothly.  The police made a formal inspection, another doctor was called, and we were told that we should be wanted at the inquest but until then there was nothing to detain us.  I felt all an Englishman’s satisfaction with his national institutions and a great admiration for the police and medical professions when I saw how admirably and calmly all this was done.  I could see nothing in Detective-Inspector Wiggs to arouse Beef’s hostility but I knew this was an old wound.
It did not seem very long in fact before we retired to bed.

It was not until we had reached Beef’s house next day and were alone in what he called his “front room” that he expounded his view of the matter.
“Of course it was murder,” he said.  “You ought to have seen that at once.”
“You ask yourself a few whys.  Why was the window open?  Why didn’t Meece leave any sort of letter if he wanted to do for himself?  Why was the rope so tight around his neck?  Why was his wife away at Christmas for the first time in ten years?  You may well ask why.”
“Come on, then.  Let’s hear what you think.”
“Murder made to look like suicide.  Between dinner and that lark with the conjurer in the drawing room. . . .”
“Beef!  Raymond Gidley is not a conjurer.”
“Well, whatever he is.  Before we sat down to watch him someone had gone up to Meece’s room, overpowered or more likely drugged him for a few moments, knotted that rope so tight round his neck that he couldn’t yell, tied him up with the two chairs in position so that he could just keep alive by standing on tiptoe, but no more.  He couldn’t release the rope, he couldn’t haul himself up, he couldn’t escape.  He wasn’t a big or a strong man as you know and there was really nothing he could do.
“If that’s really what happened,” I said, “it won’t be hard to find the murderer.  We have a nice collection of suspects though we were treating them as suspects in something else.  You say it was done while we were waiting in the drawing-room.  I know exactly how long each of them took to get there.

Beef looked at me as though he were sorry for me.
“Won’t be necessary,” he said.  “I know who did it.  I told you he slung up Philip Meece so that when he dropped it would look like suicide.”
“Then, I suppose, the murderer pulled the chairs away and watched him die?”
“Oh no, he was too clever for that.  He wanted an alibi.  He had to be somewhere else when Meece died, and he was.  He’s got all of us to prove it.”
“Then how. . . .”
“You should know.  You were watching while he did it.  You saw Philip Meece murdered.”
“Don’t be absurd, Beef.”
“So was I for that matter.  The murderer passed a double rope round the leg of the lower chair, then dropped it out of the window.  You can see where the chair’s rubbed and the window-sill, too.  He only had to give this double rope a jerk then pull one line down and all trace of anything but suicide, he supposed, would disappear.”
“But when did he do it?”
“When he was pulling those curtains back for the contortionist.”
“Merton Watlow?”
“Of course.  I suspected something funny as soon as I was called in.  I know these people who like an expert witness round who they don’t think is too clever.  When we got down there and Meece wasn’t interested in the letters after Watlow had told me he was going out of his mind about them, I knew somebody was lying.  Then I heard a few things from Rumbold.  This was the first time the servants had ever had a party which would keep them all occupied on Christmas Eve.  Watlow, it appears, was most particular about them all being together there.  And, as I say, the first time Meece’s wife had been away for Christmas.
“Then there’s another thing.  Watlow hated noise and never allowed music of any sort in the house.  Yet before that trapeze artist came on he was playing it as loud as it would go—in case anyone should hear anything from the room above.  But what finally settled it for me was what I saw in the drawing-room when I looked in after you and I came downstairs.  It was in the corner by the window where Watlow had stood and the window was still a few inches open.  Rope.  A nice length of thin strong rope.  He hadn’t had a chance to clear it away.  Not that it would matter so much, he thought.  With all those theatricals and a curtain fixed up and that, it wouldn’t seem so odd.  But I knew the reason for it.  He pulled it down, you see, by the same motion he used for pulling back the stage curtain.”

“I still find it hard to believe.  What possible motive could Watlow have had?”
“The best there is.  What you call the eternal triangle.  You didn’t like me staring at Freda Meece that first afternoon, did you?  But I had my reason.  As soon as I saw those diamonds she had on I knew they had probably been given her by a very rich man.  If Watlow saw me looking at them, I thought, and he had given them to her, he’d soon tell her to put them away and not shew off any more tomfoolery while I was around.  That’s just what happened.
“There’s only one little point I’m doubtful about.  Was Philip Meece genuinely ill that night?  If so it was a bit of luck for Watlow.  If not he may have been made ill.  Or Watlow may have done something else to keep him upstairs.  It’s not very important, but I should like to know.  I expect we shall in time.”
“But if you’re so sure, Beef, why didn’t you tell what you knew to Detective-Inspector Wiggs.  You surely don’t want a cowardly murderer to escape?”
“To Wiggs?  After what he did when I had that trouble over the vicar’s bicycle?  Not likely.  I’ll send a memo round to the Yard tomorrow and let them sort it out.  You’re right in calling it a cowardly crime.  It was.  And the murderer wasn’t as clever as he thought.  He made the same mistake as you do, Townsend.”
“What’s that?”
“Underrating me,” said Sergeant Beef.  “It doesn’t do.  And now, let’s have a tumble down the sink.  What?  A drink, of course.”

[from The Tatler and Bystander, November 8, 1957, pp. 24-27, 60, 65 & 67.]

[Transcribed by Deadman, 22 June, 2014.]