Pitch the LAMB – Mystery

SCENE FROM MY SCREENPLAY-IN-PROGRESS, “THE DEATH OF AMY LAMB”

[A foggy night in London. Carriages clatter past. A large Edwardian house in affluent Hedgerow. A brass plate beside the door reads “Sir R. A. Wolfe.” A cloaked figure hammers the door-knocker, which is shaped like a ram’s head with huge curling horns.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

[The door swings open. Sir Wolfe stands against the light in his evening coat and slippers, a glass of sangria in his hand. Confronting him is Dr. Shepherd, DD, Th.D., J.C.L. ]

Sir Wolfe: “Odd time of night to be making house calls, Doctor.”

Shepherd: “Let me in, you fool!”

[Wolfe stands aside. The Abbot pushes in, bustling like a border collie that has lost a member of his flock. His curly hair is wet and smells of lanolin. He rounds on Wolfe, who strokes his muttonchops.]

Shepherd [barking, as he rips off his Fleece]: “Where is she?”

Wolfe: “To whom do you refer?”

Shepherd: “Don’t get foxy with me! You’re holding back, Ricardo! By God, I’ll give you a lick you won’t forget!… I ask you again. Where is she?”

Wolfe [sheepishly, but with a wolfish grin]: “Calm eweself, my dear Clifford, haw haw. Why so worried about such a small loss… What was the value of the item? ”

Shepherd [growling, big face red]: “Item? Item! That’s how you think of her?… I warn you, Ricardo, I’ve just climbed your back wall and looked over it. You’ve got a hole dug back there. A hole that looks very like a shallow grave. Something smells fishy and it’s not the tuna casserole… Hold on! Wait a minute! By all that’s holy, Ricardo! That’s lamb stew I smell! With mint, bay leaf, and rosemary. It can’t be anything else! Why dig a grave for the wooly remnants that must be bagged up even now in your waste receptacle?… No wonder there are never any suspects. No wonder the clues do not add up… You’ve eaten the suspects. And the clues… By the pipes of Saint Cuthbert, I can still find fingerprints, you know. On your cleavers, your boning knives, your crockpot!”

Wolfe:   “Fingerprints? There are no fingerprints, you fool! How many of your precious flock have fingers? By the traps of Saint Eustachius, I believe they sheared your brain along with your body last time round.”

Shepherd: “Bah! Baaaa! Baaaaaaaa! Lies! All lies! How come there is no body? I’m no lamb in the woods!”

Wolfe [as he approaches Shepherd with a Little Bo Peep staff gripped in his lupine paws, while the doctor chases his tail in agitation]: “You are correct, Clifford, you big red fool. Ms Lamb wasn’t just an item on my menu. She was the pièce de résistance. The grave, Doctor, is not for Amy Lamb, but for he who did not nip at her heels with wit sufficient to keep her safe in his flock…”

[A yelp and a howl, followed by the well-known sounds of a gentleman’s dessert being served in the library.]