The church clock chimed one thirty as Mr. Rumbold looked out the window of the former Grace Brothers Hotel. It was a cool spring night about nine days from the one-month passing of Captain Peacock. Rumbold felt the heaviness of the situation fall on him. Here he was the last of his kind.
From his perch Rumbold heard the sound of a night goods train making its' way through the town. The thought reminded Rumbold that when he and his deceased wife had been living in Metro Land back in the '70s, there had been a factory near the house that rostered a very old tank locomotive dating from the late Victorian era. At one time, the factory had had six other locomotives from the same time period, but all were withdrawn one after the other leaving the poor thing to soldier. Rumbold had felt sympathy for that poor engine being the only survivor of its' era and now he realized that he was almost in the same boat.
The deaths themselves had been quite unfair. Miss Brahams shouldn't have died that young and neither should have Mr. Humphries or Mr. Lucas. Mrs. Slocombe's death seemed a bit more legitimate (though Mr. Rumbold cursed himself for thinking that one). Mr. Grainger never did get to enjoy his retirement and Captain Peacock should have reached the great milestone of one hundred.
Deciding to forgo sleep Mr. Rumbold went down the stairs and headed out for a long drive. There was one person who'd probably be up at this hour of the night and he'd be just the person to talk to.
Twenty minutes later Mr. Rumbold pulled into the driveway of an estate owned by Shane Randel. Mr. Randel was from Australia and had worked during the eighties at the Bone Brothers department store. He and Mr. Lucas had a lot in common and indeed both had been good friends. Mr. Randel had left Bone Brothers in 1983 to break into the world of computers and had gotten a job with Apple Computers. He'd come to England in the nineties and by the time of the new millennium he was worth sixty million pounds.
As Mr. Rumbold got out of the car, several of the guests who looked to be in their late forties looked at him. "You all right their grandpa," said one of the men with a South London accent. "I think you're lost." "What's going on?" said a voice that Mr. Rumbold recognized as Mr. Randel who came walking in. "You know this old man?" said the Man. "Charlie, this man is probably one of the most decent people I know," snapped Mr. Randel. "I'd sooner turn away the Queen and Prime Minister then turn away Mr. Rumbold." Charlie's face turned red with fury. "Can we talk?" asked Mr. Rumbold. "Certainly, sir," said Mr. Randel. "I've just got to bid the guests goodbye."
"I'm sorry I didn't reply to your invitation," said Mr. Rumbold as he and Mr. Randel sat by the fire. "I've just been in a state of shock." "I know how you feel," said Mr. Rumbold. "I was at the funeral for a friend of mine's father the other week." "Who was it?" asked Mr. Rumbold. "Vernon Dursley," said Mr. Randel. "His son Dudley works at the YMCA as a fitness trainer. Dudley told me he only went to the funeral just so his mother and aunt wouldn't be alone and he wanted me to come because he wanted someone he could ride with beside his aunt and mother." "That'll be why I go to the funeral of Burt Spooner," said Mr. Rumbold. "If he dies before me." "I can't argue with you there," said Mr. Randel. "Anyway, I've got something you might be interested in. Wait here." Mr. Randel went out and came back in with a box. "What's all this?" asked Mr. Rumbold. "The cleaning people found this in the basement of the building where Grace Brother's used to be," said Mr. Randel. "This'll probably bring the old tears back."
Inside the box was a stack of papers. They were all typed on one of the old Gracebrother office typewriters, as the Js were all crooked. "This is a collection of documents for The Lamplighter Club," read Mr. Rumbold. "What's that?" asked Mr. Randel. "I don't know," said Mr. Rumbold. He read the list of names. "The Lamplighter Club consists of the following members: Captain Stephen Peacock, head of operations, Betty Slocombe money handling, Shirley Brahams sex appeal and con artist, Mr. Dick J. Lucas, Conman and sex appeal, Mr. Humphries, sewing and pastries, Mr. Grainger, Impersonations of famous officials and Mr. Hartman, driver and mechanic." Mr. Rumbold looked up. "What does this mean?" "I don't know," said Mr. Randel. "But it sounds exciting." "Yes," said Mr. Rumbold. "That it does." "Well," said Mr. Randel. "Don't stop. Keep Reading."