The Professor Peregrine Papers

I had heard many rumours concerning the Professor's great uncle, the widely-respected ecclesiastical scholar, the Reverend Prebendary-without-Portfolio, Glanton Pyke. While briefly trapped in a defective lift between floors at The National Pith Helmet Museum, the Professor eventually confided the vexatious story to me.  “Following his recovery from a sudden crisis of faith, Glanton began to invest an increasing amount of his time in researching the role of the lithophone in the development of modern liturgical music. He was determined to see this project through to its conclusion, in spite of warnings from colleagues and a passing onion seller that he was neglecting his long-held ambition to be appointed to the office of Suffragan. After some years, he triumphantly presented his conclusions in the legendary lecture hall at The Monkton Up Wimborne Seminary and Butterfly Observatory. It's said that on that day many tears of joy were shed, many lives were changed and Nottinghamshi...

This year I accompanied the Professor on his annual visit to Grammersow Hall, the crepuscular stately home in Moreton on Lugg. Following a bracing constitutional around the grounds, I came across the Professor deep in thought at the entrance to the Ice House. After some minutes had passed, he spoke:  "I come to this place on every Saint Jude The Uncertain day. It was here that I last set eyes upon my great friend Admiral Quilkin  * . He marched into the Ice House, giving me a cheery wave as he disappeared. But he did not return. Some say he's playing glockenspiel in a reggae band on the outskirts of Tromsø. But I recently received an anonymous letter claiming that he'd been spotted buying blotting paper and safety pins in a shop just outside Wrangle Lowgate. That does sound the more likely option." "But Professor," I felt compelled to ask. "If he failed to return, then could he still be in there somewhere?" The Professor's expression became ind...

Some years ago the Professor's work “Sylvan Ascendance” caused a considerable amount of perturbation almost amounting to a prototypical brouhaha. The question of how apparent levitation could be achieved was discussed at length by art critics, aeronautical engineers, savants and other rampallions.  In preparation for this work, the Professor was known to have instigated a process of non dualist meditation and trampolining but was also rumoured to have been seen installing a system of wires and hoists. He now refuses to discuss this brief period of his life in any way. Although one night shortly before the last winter solstice, following a tasting of aged Calvados, he did disclose to me in confidence that, “I'm damned if I could remember how to get the unfortunate participants down again.” Shortly after this mystifying spectacle, the Professor moved on to take up the post of Principal Curator of Unexplained Trinkets at the Pudleston Bauble Museum.

In recent years, the Professor has become fascinated by the legend of The Almost Invisible Cat of Aston by Budworth. He has told me on numerous and, frankly, wholly inopportune occasions that he regards this legend as a fine metaphor for both our age and also the state of Implausible Scholarship.  He was, however, enraged by a recent paper published in “The Journal of Insupportable News and Questionable Theories” which suggested that the creature actually exists in this world (or reality, as it's sometimes called). It went so far as to allege that the cat was known by the name “Rakehelly Sausagement”.  The author of this paper, Mr Stonton Wyville, is both an eminent cryptozoologist and a specious opportunist who is probably best known for his essay “Mermaid of Mawgan Porth” and his televised documentary “The Unexpected Dog Wearing A Hat of Mortimer's Cross”. The Professor has attempted to enter into a debate on this issue but Wyville insists on presenting his arguments solely ...

Eight o'clock, Place du Châtelet: As he sat outside his favourite café, Daglet Scribacious was surprised by a visit from the ghost of Paul Éluard.

Recently the Professor gave the Lumpy Stevens Memorial Lecture during which he strove to call into question a number of well-known paranormal phenomena. These included the legend of The Singing Rabbit of Haytor Rocks, which the Professor insisted was due to a trick of the light combined with a foolhardy overuse of metaphors. Shortly after, however, the Professor received a letter from The Moderately Reverend Moreton Valence containing indisputably spurious photographic evidence to the contrary. To underline the strength of his conviction on this matter, Valence went on to argue for the introduction of compulsory juggling at all church services and declare himself to be the reincarnation of King Beornred of Mercia.  This missive greatly moved the Professor and, staring into his rapidly cooling cup of fourth flush Darjeeling, he admitted to the first glimmerings of doubt. Leaning towards me conspiratorially, he whispered: “I must consider this in greater depth by visiting the Temple ...

In the course of an evening stroll to the newsagents to purchase the latest edition of “The Square Leg Fielder's Quarterly”, the Professor began reminiscing about some of his former colleagues. “Professors Brabagious, Ricksteddle and Catterning spent many years travelling the less populated parts of Devon and Dorset in an attempt to complete their work on the tea and water biscuit ceremony reputed to take place annually in those parts on St. Benedict's Day. Everywhere they went, they were greeted by cheering crowds but, sadly, failed to find any trace of the fabled ceremony.”  The Three Professors and Mrs Ethel Slump The Professor paused and stared wistfully at a skein of geese crossing the sky, before continuing in a sad and leaden tone. “Rumour has it that they were often accompanied by a ghost called Mrs Ethel Slump, but I've no time for such tomfoolery. They were last seen setting out to sea on a makeshift raft somewhere near Budleigh Salterton. ”

One afternoon our conversation turned to augury and soothsaying for no good reason that I can recall. As usual, the Professor had an anecdote to tell from his long and convoluted life. “Many years ago I had occasion to visit the residence of that notable expert on Italian Pipe Cleaners and aficionado of the ciaramedda, Professor Stefano Cavatappi. Although a man noted for his pauciloquy and ineffectual juggling, he insisted on attempting to divine my future by staring into a wine bottle." "He informed me that I would become a successful but languorous plumber and that I would adopt the name of Jimmy Spangles. So far, this hasn't happened. But, in his defence, he did accurately predict the number of no-balls in the next Test Match against Australia.” 

The Professor is very much the archetype of a rational man (he denies this) but, the other day, I did venture to ask him if he had any experience of the paranormal. His answer sent a chill down my spine. “Some years ago, while taking an afternoon constitutional in the walled garden of Lord Parvanimity of Foddington's estate, I came across the ghostly figure of a cowled monk. He pointed directly at me and declared in a portentous voice that I should repent before it was too late.... or something like that. Anyway, we got chatting and it turned out that his name was Brian and that he was doomed to walk poorly-attended gardens and deliver vague messages of impending doom.  We went off to the local pub (The Trombone and Gooseberry, I believe it was called) and, after a few pints of fine local ale, parted on good terms. As he drifted off into a cloud of diaphanous mist he gave me a tip on a horse called Elozable Mineshaft in the 3:30 at Chepstow the following day. I'm not normally a...

I have often urged the Professor to cast a little light upon some of the less documented periods of his life. Eventually one Tuesday afternoon last spring, as he sipped a cup of particularly doubtful Lapsang Souchong, he recalled a quite unexpected episode of many years ago:  “I must confess that there was a disturbing period of approximately 3 weeks in which I was pursued by a robot. At the time I was attempting to publish my now-famous and, dare I say, groundbreaking paper entitled ‘Formidophobia in the Sermons of the Reverend Mawkin Barcarole’. I was so unnerved by this paranormal episode that publication was delayed by some months. I surreptitiously took this photograph at the time.” I studied this image for several minutes before venturing to suggest: “Forgive me Professor, but I can't help noticing a striking resemblance between the robot in this photograph and Professor Atrabilious of Kirmond le Mire University, dressed in a ludicrous costume. Professor Atrabilious is, I bel...