What Happened to Fan Fic Phoebe: A Doc Martin Mystery

Khyber Love, its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Poppyfield Productions. We are grateful to Ramint Slunec and his lovely wife, Tabitha Wire Alipphi for allowing us to play about with their brilliant story.

Previously in Fan Fic Phoebe: With Louisa's consent, Morwenna and Babs invited the actor Nigel Lockhart and his partner to breakfast the morning after the party on the Platt. The meal was interrupted by a frantic Ranger Stewart James who reported that a band of grey squirrels had captured his friend, Anthony. In the conversation that followed, several important clues were discovered about the disappearance of Phoebe Nielsen. Louisa urged Martin to help Babs and Stewart find Fan Fic Phoebe. We now join the trio, or I should say quartet, in their quest.

Chapter 9 - Stress

For the second time in as many days I was riding to Saint Endelienta's Parish with a maniac at the wheel. After a brief stop at the Platt where Stewart rescued the red squirrel Anthony from the greys, we were en route to the scene of yesterday's mud bombing. There we would join my Aunt Ruth, who had enlisted Scotland Yard in the search for Phoebe Nielsen.

Stewart's driving was only slightly less jarring than the chattering of the ever-annoying Babs. She had warmly welcomed the imaginary squirrel into the Jeep and was immersed in a fantasy conversation with him. Much to my dismay, Stewart joined in.

"Now Babs, you've told Anthony that your tablet can pick up signals anywhere in the world, even the moor. We all know that's a fib. No Apple product gets a signal on the moor."

"Perhaps not my iPad, but one of the Russians gave me this tablet and it works perfectly." Babs flourished what appeared to be a thin, red envelope.

"Russians! Is that an Apl9662," Stewart nearly veered from the narrow roadway. "That bloody tablet has the most powerful operating system in the world. The Ukrainian hackers used it for the data breaches in the States. Fleet Street has more firewalls against it than the Doc has placebos. Ant wants to know exactly who gave it to you."

"One of my clients. I've already told Anthony all about him. Strelkov is quite wealthy and young. He's made a bundle in computers and is buying a flat in Belgravia. He travels constantly and wants me to stay in touch."

"Babs" I finally had to intercede, "you do realize that Anthony is an imaginary squirrel whom Stewart uses as an antidote to his PTSD?"

"Whoa now, Doc. Ant doesn't like that talk. Not at all."

"That's right, Martin. Everyone needs a stress reliever. Stewart has Anthony, and I have a rabbit. What about you, then?"

"Nothing. I manage my stress very well. I don't need an imaginary squirrel or rabbit. I get on with it. You two should do the same. Mind the road, Stewart. If we're to find Phoebe, we should arrive safely."

A few minutes later we did just that. Of course in the brief interim, I was the center of a discussion amongst Stewart, Babs and Anthony in which they clucked about my grumpiness and various ways to relieve it.

We were halted near the church by two young constables, one male and one female, who directed the Jeep to what they described as a mobile command center. Babs alighted immediately and, in her self-important manner, demanded to see the officer in charge. The female constable escorted her to a rusty caravan and allowed me, Stewart - and I suppose Anthony – to follow.

Inside, Ruth and the writers Dari David and Urdu Ursula were huddled with a man who stood as we entered. Stewart snapped a salute and introduced himself as Corporal Stewart James, late of the Royal Welch Fusiliers and now a Wildlife Ranger with Her Majesty's Forestry Commission. As an expert in local terrain and tracking, he stood ready to assist Scotland Yard as he could.

"Well now, the bombing is being managed by the big boys, but we're from the Devon and Cornwall Police investigating the missing person case. I'm Chief Inspector James Fox and my associate is Inspector Robert Whatley," he gestured toward a tall, glum ginger slouching against the caravan's curved wall.

"We've interviewed Doctor Ellingham, Ms. Cloverley and most of the fan fiction writers. What can you tell us? Let's begin with you, Miss. . . ."

"Barbara Bosley Bournham, but please call me Babs. Everyone does. My theory is that dear Phoebe has simply cracked under the strain. Those wretched writers have been horrid to her. If I were she, I would have forwarded my calls to Allister – that's my business partner, Allister – and gone off to a spa for a week or so. I may have mentioned a place near Lisboa for the juice fast or Doha for Kundali Energization. Phoebe would do well to have her chakras manipulated and her qi redirected."

"Oh come now, Babs," Aunt Ruth finally inserted some sense into the proceedings. "Phoebe is not the spa type. She has managed excessive stress her entire life. I think she is the victim of foul play, and these gentlemen agree. Now Ranger James, what do you know of Doctor Nielsen?"

"Uh, Doctor Ellingham, I only met her that one time at Bodmin Parkway. You were fetching her from the train, and I was dispatching poacher traps to Coleford. I can't imagine anyone harming her. She was very kind to Anthony, although he found her terribly troubled. You know Ant is quite sensitive to people's feelings."

"Who's this Anthony? Can we talk with him as well," Fox looked toward me for some reason.

"Uhm, no. Anthony is Stewart's imaginary friend. He's a red squirrel. Something of an emotional support system for him, if you will."

Fox and Whatley exchanged glances, but I wasn't certain if they were amused or terrified at the mess they had landed in. The two recovered quickly.

"And who are you?"

"Doctor Martin Ellingham. I'm head of the Portwenn Medical Practise," hoping this would add some credence to the madness that surrounded me. I had gotten caught up in the search for Phoebe and wanted to see it through. Ruth was counting on me as was Louisa.

"Please go on sir," the young inspector flipped open a notebook similar to those used in the police dramas Louisa watched. In response to his question of what I knew of Phoebe Nielsen, I realized I had learned a good bit about Ruth's friend in a short time.

Like most people, those in the command center cringed as I recounted Phoebe's experience with Kuru during her childhood in New Guinea. Whatley seemed morbidly curious both about the precursor to Mad Cow Disease and the zoonosis she may have contracted from the rat-eating Vauxhall Vampire.

"Now that's a blast from the past Doc. I haven't heard about the Vauxhall Vampire in years," Stewart volunteered. "Every kid in Southwark was frightened of him."

"It was quite the case," Fox made a sound of disgust. "I was with the Met when they caught him. The lads who entered his flat first still have nightmares about the rats. Now that's a case of PTSD if you ask me."

Whatley impatiently tapped his chin with a pen and commented that this did not seem related to the disappearance of Phoebe Nielsen. "Is there anything of current interest, Doctor?"

"There was the nutmeg poisoning," I offered.

"A clear violation of the Safranschou Code, Inspector. I was appalled." David Rhys, the spice trader, stood in outrage.

"The Safrancschou Code. Now that's a blast from the past. Haven't heard that since my Middle Eastern seminar at Oxford," Whatley mused. "Please go on, doctor."

"A few days ago, it would seem that someone gave Doctor Nielsen Cornish saffron buns laced with excessive amounts of nutmeg. I understand from my Aunt Ruth that this was the Vauxhall Vampire's drug of choice whilst at Broadmoor. Phoebe suffered the classic symptoms of hallucinations, dehydration and lethargy."

"She did recover nicely, Martin," Ruth seemed a bit annoyed that I had mentioned it. "I really doubt that there is anything medically wrong with Phoebe. I put it down to that Ramint Slunec. India's convinced he's behind this and makes a good case. Tell the inspector about the conversation you over heard yesterday."

Before I could begin, Babs interrupted.

"You see, Robert, may I call you Robert," Babs slithered provocatively toward Whatley "Phoebe had angered the creator of Khyber Love by putting about the rumour that the hero would marry neither Jennifer nor Fenella. This would bollix up everything for Slunec, and he was not pleased with her."

"Yes, we understand that from any number of people we've interviewed," Whatley sighed. "But we appreciate your help." Not use to being discounted, Babs flounced back to her chair and reached for the high-powered tablet.

"But wait, Inspector, Ms. Bosley Bournham did receive an email from Phoebe Nielsen this morning."

At the sound of her name, Babs emerged from her cocoon of pique. "Thank you for remembering, Martin," she sniffed. "Phoebe referred to her two sons, but she has two daughters. Isn't that right, Ruth?"

"Yes, one in the States and one in Singapore. Brilliant girls, the both of them. I've held off phoning them until we sort this out. What else did she say?"

"She spelled her last name incorrectly: N-E-L-S-O-N," I pointed out. "She may have meant to send a message that the email was composed under duress."

"Very clever of Phoebe. I taught her well," the old bat Ursula cackled. "Now tell us about the conversation you overheard, dear boy. This is becoming quite intriguing."

"As I was about to say, after yesterday's explosion, I heard one side of a telephone conversation between Ramint Slunec and" – what was that term they used on the telly - ''an unidentified person. Mr. Slunec seemed angry that a job had not been done correctly. When he realised I was within earshot, he made an off-handed comment that someone hadn't finished what they were paid to do."

"That sounds like him," Fox conceded. "A bit of an arse when we tried to interview him. His wife, Ms. Alipphi, has been very cooperative with us and the Yard, but he basically told us to kiss off. He only cares about completing the filming or so he says. He claims to know nothing about the explosion. The crew was caught by surprise, and Ms. Alipphi said a bombing was not part of the production. She is genuinely puzzled, but I think Slunec knows more than he'll admit."

"What about his cousin, Danko Slunec, the IRA bomb maker," Stewart innocently asked.

"Bloody hell," both inspectors shouted in unison. A second later Babs echoed their epithet. Of course, she continued talking before they could say more.

"I can't believe this," she looked in wonder at the red tablet. Phoebe has updated her story on the Khyber Love fan fiction site. She must be safe. Slunec would never allow her to do it otherwise. Here Ruth, you know the story arc better than I do."

Ruth took the tablet from Babs, her mouth opened and eyes narrowed as she scrolled through the screen. "This is impossible. It's not the way Phoebe intended to write the story. And something seems off. Ursula, you're a linguist. What do you think?"

I cringed as the old bat's gnarled hand reached for the tablet, likely relishing the return to her glory days at MI-5. Skimming over the story twice, Ursula finally pronounced: "Phoebe did not write this. It is not her prose style, and the grammar is a travesty. She is a stickler for grammar; punctuation as well.

"If the fans believe this is her work, the site might crash with all the hits it will receive. The reviews are pouring in. Let me just read this one. It's from the ever popular Guest. 'I have followed this story from the outset and am still bored and confused. Not funny.'

"That proves it's not Phoebe's writing," Ursula pointed emphatically at the screen.

"Never mind," Babs dismissed the review. "Sounds like Guest needs a rabbit."

"Babs!" Aunt Ruth scolded, whilst Whatley and Fox laughed as if Babs had made a hilarious joke.

"I don't understand," I was more confused than ever. "Phoebe was able to publish her story. Which is good. She must be safe. Which is good. We only have to find her. And what's so funny about a toy rabbit?"

"Ask Louisa," Ruth's wry smile could not be contained. "You're married now, and she can tell you all about it. Or, better yet, Google it."

Fox wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes and turned toward me: "Now let's hear about this Danko Slunec."

Continued . . . .