“Just keep me informed of what’s going on. But don’t bring it to me. Speak to Flotsam. When the NCD is disbanded, I think we can find you a good posting with us.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Good. Well, I’m glad we’ve managed to have this little talk. It may prove to be highly beneficial to us both.”

  “I’m sure it will. Thank you, sir.”

  She was repeating herself, but she didn’t really care anymore. She left the inner sanctum and rejoined the group outside, who were telling stories of past investigations — many of which Mary had read about. It was an intoxicating experience, as though Zeus had suddenly invited her up for a quick tour of Mount Olympus and then casually informed her that Neptune was jacking it in — and would she care for the job?

  15. Granny Spratt's Displeasure

  SPARROW SOUGHT IN ROBIN SLAYING

  NCD officers are eager to interview an unidentified sparrow in connection with the murder of Cock Robin in Redhatch Copse last night. A witness who described himself as a Fly, told us, “I saw him die — with my little eye.” The alleged murder weapon, a bow, has not yet been recovered. “It’s early days,” said DS Spratt of the NCD when asked to comment on the case, “but we have a good description and will be wanting to interview all of Reading’s 356,000 sparrows.” Cock Robin will be buried on Thursday by Parson Rook; floral tributes to Chief Mourner Dove.

  Article in The Gadfly, February 22, 1980

  “Beans?” said Jack’s mother. “BEANS?” she said again, her voice growing louder with rage. “For a Stubbs cow? Have you taken a wild leap away from your good senses? What do I want with these?”

  She held the shiny beans in a trembling outstretched hand. They gently changed color in the warmth of her palm, but not even their singular elegance could dull her disappointment and anger.

  Jack sighed. He had explained the whole story to her from beginning to end, but she had obviously failed to grasp the essential facts. He started again.

  “It was a fake. I — ”

  She interrupted him. “It was not. I had it authenticated in the sixties. It was worth over a grand then!”

  “You did?” asked Jack, suddenly feeling a bit stupid.

  “Yes. Mr. Foozle must have gone soft in the head. You can go straight back into town tomorrow and sort him out. As for your beans, this is what I think of them!”

  And she threw them out the window with a triumphant gesture. There was a pause as they stood and stared at each other, the only sound the steady tock of the grandfather clock in the hall and the gentle hum of the indefinable number of cats running incessantly around the furniture.

  “Great,” said Jack as he turned to walk through the French windows.

  “Wait! Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to pick them up,” said Jack from the garden, “or Mr. Foozle will charge me a hundred quid for them.”

  “Oh!” said his mother, and joined in the search.

  “I think I threw them down near the potting shed,” she said, looking around in the light of the garden floodlamp. “Why do we have three bags of wool in there anyway?”

  “It’s evidence, Mother, but there’s no room in the station — Did you see that?” Jack jumped up and pointed at the ground.

  “What?”

  “The beans. They were glowing and sort of burying themselves!”

  “Not possible,” she said as she patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll look for them tomorrow. Come inside, it’s raining.”

  But Jack wasn’t so easily put off, and he searched for another twenty minutes before giving up. He promised to do what he could to get the Stubbs back, kissed her and departed.

  “Don’t worry,” said Madeleine as soon as he had returned home and told her about the Stubbs. “It might have been worse.”

  “How?”

  “It could have been raining.”

  “It was raining. You know, when she threw the beans out the window, I got this really weird feeling. Like it felt kind of familiar.”

  “Déjà vu?”

  “Sort of — but more. A feeling of inevitability. Does that sound weird to you?”

  “You’re probably a bit stressed over the Guild thing. Or the pig thing. Or the egg thing. Or the NCD-disbandment thing. Or the Chymes thing. Or an ongoing unspecified thing. Or an — ”

  “Okay, okay,” he said with a smile, “I get the picture.”

  “Here,” she said as she handed him Stevie’s bowl, “you try and get him to eat it. Can you do supper?”

  “Sure.”

  She took off her apron and sat at the kitchen table for a rest. She was behind with several deadlines but was enjoying Stevie too much to want to start thinking about child care.

  “How’s work?” she asked.

  “Chymes tried to muscle in on the Humpty case, but it all seems to have blown over.”

  “Be careful of Chymes, Jack,” warned Madeleine.

  “I can handle him.”

  He was doubtful about that last statement, but it made him feel better.

  There was a knock at the front door, and Madeleine opened it to reveal Prometheus, who was dressed incongruously — given the poor weather — in a rumpled white linen suit and panama hat.

  “Mrs. Spratt?” he said as he raised his hat. “My name is Prometheus.”

  “Jack!” she yelled. “I think it’s for you.”

  He came out of the kitchen in a flash.

  “Ah! Prometheus. Welcome. This is my wife, Madeleine. Darling, this is the lodger I was telling you about. He said he’d lend a hand with babysitting if need be.”

  “One moment,” said Madeleine to Prometheus before beckoning Jack off to where they couldn’t be heard at the foot of the stairs.

  “This won’t be like having that tart Kitty Fisher living here, will it?”

  “No, no.”

  “I’m not having the spare room used as a bordello.”

  “Keep your voice down. No, Prometheus is quite different — besides, Jerome is doing a project on ancient Greece and needs a bit of help. What do you and I know about history?”

  Madeleine shrugged, and they returned to the front door, where Prometheus was still being rained upon.

  “Why don’t you come in?” said Madeleine. “We can discuss it.”

  “Thank you.”

  They walked through to the kitchen. Stevie was given a biscuit, which he promptly dropped on the floor. The cat opened one eye and then closed it again. Stevie then stared at Prometheus with all the seriousness that one-year-olds can muster, which is quite a lot.

  “Da-woo,” he said at length.

  “A-boo,” replied Prometheus.

  “Woo…?” asked Stevie doubtfully.

  “Wa-boo. Oodle-boo,” responded Prometheus with a large smile.

  “Da-woo!” said Stevie with a shriek of laughter.

  “You speak baby gibberish?” asked Jack.

  “Fluently. The adult-education center ran a course, and I have a lot of time on my hands.”

  “So what did he say?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I thought you said you spoke gibberish?”

  “I do. But your baby doesn’t. I think he’s speaking either pretoddler nonsense, a form of infant burble or an obscure dialect of gobbledygook. In any event, I can’t understand a word he’s saying.”

  “Oh.”

  “Wow!” said Megan, who had just wandered in. She walked up to Madeleine and clasped her hand tightly.

  “That’s Prometheus, isn’t it? Tell me it is. I know it is. He can be my show-and-tell tomorrow at school. Miss Dibble is a big fan of his. Can he come to school and tell us all about how he had his liver pecked out in the Caucasus? Can he, Mum? Please?”

  “Darling, I — ”

  Ben walked in. Being sixteen, he was fashionably unimpressed by anybody and everything. Prometheus, however, proved to be an exception.

  “The Fire-Giver!” he exclaimed. “Awesome! Like your style, man.”

  “You are man,” corrected the Titan coolly. “I am Prometheus.”

  Ben gaped. Street-cred overload. Prometheus smiled modestly. He enjoyed a devoted following among the young. He was, after all, the ultimate rebel — it takes a lot of cojones to stand up to Zeus.

  “Ben’s the name,” he said at last. “You here for long?”

  “He might be the new lodger,” said Jack.

  Ben rolled his eyes. “That is so unbelievably cool! What do you know about the sort of girls who like to play the harp?”

  “Boo!” said Megan petulantly, crossing her arms and pouting.

  “He’s my show-and-tell, Ben. Your dopey girlfriends can wait their turn!”

  “Can it, shrimp.”

  Pandora walked in. She was wrapped in a dressing gown and was still damp after a shower. She hadn’t realized there was a visitor.

  “Oh,” she said, blushed, then rushed back upstairs to get dressed, stopping halfway to sneak a second look at Prometheus through the balusters. Prometheus watched her go and had to be nudged by Jack to stop him staring.

  Madeleine softened. She had been concerned for the children, but Prometheus seemed to fit in perfectly.

  “Welcome, Mr. Prometheus.”

  “Thank you.” The Titan smiled. “And it’s just ‘Prometheus.’”

  Madeleine put the kettle on and continued, “It’s not often I have a political refugee in my house. I’ve followed your struggle with interest. Perhaps we can talk about ancient Greece a little later?”

  Prometheus gave another short bow and smiled politely.

  “Well,” he began, “‘ancient Greece’ is a little bit of a misnomer, really; when I was there, it was simply a collection of city-states — Athens, Sparta, Thebes, Delphi and so forth. Sparta was a tough place to grow up in, but Athens was a blast. Full of people wrapped in sheets having good ideas. We used to have this thing called ‘ostracism’ where you could vote anyone you didn’t like out of the city — I think I’m an Idiot, Get Me on Telly! uses the same format. Your idea of modern Greece really only began with Diocletian’s division in 286. I can tell you a bit about harpies, Ben, and Megan — I’d very much like to be your show-and-tell. Jack, I’m also pretty good with torque settings on Allegro wheel bearings.”

  “Can you cook?” asked Madeleine.

  “I love to cook. Do you all like Mediterranean?”

  They stared at him, awestruck. He was over four thousand years old, and so he knew almost everything there was to know about everything. Truly, he was the tenant of the gods.

  “Which way is the karzy?” he asked, puncturing his sagelike image somewhat. “I’m dying for a dump.”

  16. Mrs. Sings Turns the Story

  “LOCKED ROOM” MYSTERY HONORED

  The entire crime-writing fraternity yesterday bade a tearful farewell to the last “locked room” mystery at a large banquet held in its honor. The much-loved conceptual chestnut of mystery fiction for over a century had been unwell for many years and was finally discovered dead at 3:15 A.M. last Tuesday. In a glowing tribute, the editor of Amazing Crime declared, “From humble beginnings to towering preeminence in the world of mystery, the ‘locked room’ plot contrivance will always remain in our hearts.” DCI Chymes then gave a glowing eulogy before being interrupted by the shocking news that the ‘locked room’ concept had been murdered — and in a locked room. The banquet was canceled, and police are investigating.

  Editorial in Amazing Crime, February 23, 2001

  Jack got to the station canteen for breakfast. He sat at an empty table and stared absently out the window at the traffic on the Inner Distribution Road. The IDR, as it was known, had been built to alleviate traffic but had exacted a price that the town could ill afford. Several fine streets had been demolished to build it, the heart ripped out of the old town. The whole scheme had rendered itself almost redundant when the M4 took most of the through traffic from the A4, a route that was, despite the huge road-building program, still bottlenecked.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Good morning, Baker. How are you?”

  It was definitely the wrong sort of question to ask a hypochondriac, but it was too late.

  “Not so bad, sir,” he replied, taking a plastic carton out of his knapsack and depositing a bewildering array of pills of all shapes, colors and sizes in a saucer. Jack could have sworn most of them were either Smarties, Skittles or Tic-Tacs, but he didn’t say so.

  “The thing is,” continued Baker after swallowing several blue pills and knocking them back with a purple, “I woke up this morning with a runny nose and was, to tell the truth, rather worried.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Yes. I thought for a moment it might be TB, leprosy or tertiary syphilis.”

  Jack humored him, for this was a common source of conversation with Baker. “I thought they checked you for leprosy last year?”

  “They did, so it couldn’t be that. TB was out of the question, because I didn’t have a cough, and syphilis wasn’t likely, because I’m rather too young to have it end-stage without the bit in the middle.”

  “So it was just a cold, then?”

  “It certainly looked like it, but then I thought that maybe it wasn’t mucus coming out of my nose at all.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “No?”

  “No, it could be cerebrospinal fluid. I played football on Sunday and had a hefty tackle. It’s possible that I might have a fractured skull.”

  “Is that really likely?”

  Baker looked down and took a few more pills. “No, not really.”

  He looked up again. “Sir, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but Gretel, Ashley and myself would be more than happy to put in a bit of overtime if it meant having another crack at the three pigs.

  I know they got off the murder rap and double jeopardy and all that, but if there is a chance of getting them with ‘intentional wounding’ or ‘boiling a large pot without due care and attention,’ then we’re up for it.”

  “You know what Briggs says about NCD overtime.”

  “We weren’t thinking of getting paid, sir.”

  Jack looked at Baker, who was staring at him earnestly. He had even forgotten to sniffle, and the collection of pills and vitamin supplements he was making his way through was, for the moment, untouched.

  “I appreciate that, Baker, but I think we’re going to have to just walk away from the porkers. We lost.”

  A voice made them both turn.

  “I suppose you think this is clever?”

  It was Briggs, and he didn’t look very happy.

  “Sir?”

  Briggs slapped a copy of The Owl on the table in front of him.

  “Page eight, Jack,” said Briggs testily. “Page eight, column four.”

  Jack turned to the page Briggs had indicated. “‘Splotvian Minister of Antiquities Demands Return of Sacred Gonga’?”

  “Below that.”

  “‘Nursery Favorite Dies in Wall-Death Drama. Police Ask: Was He Pushed?’”

  “It’s a good job it’s only on page eight,” said Briggs angrily. “If you’re trying to whip up some public interest to keep your precious division, I won’t be pleased. And I don’t think the budgetary committee will take to it very well either.”

  “I didn’t breathe a word, sir.”

  “Then who is asking if he was pushed?”

  “No one. Media speculation. He killed himself. Very depressed around Easter — we spoke to his doctor and ex-wife, who confirmed it.”

  “When do I see some paperwork?”

  “As soon as I get a pathologist’s report from Mrs. Singh. There’s no story, so I think this article will be the first and last.”

  Briggs seemed to accept this and nodded sagely. “Very well. Good work, Spratt — and not a dead giant in sight.”

  “That’s not funny, sir.”

  “Isn’t it? One other thing: Someone’s been spreading a practical joke around the station that you’ve applied to join the Guild of Detectives. Any idea who’s behind it?”

  “It’s not a practical joke, sir.”

  Briggs looked nonplussed for a moment, then said, “Does Friedland know?”

  “What’s it got to do with him?”

  “Everything. He’s on the Guild of Detectives’ selection committee for Southern England and probably won’t take very well to someone else at Reading attempting to steal his headlines. Still, he’s a fine and upstanding man. I expect he’ll view your application with all due impartiality.”

  “I’m sure he will, sir.”

  Briggs missed the sarcasm, stared at Baker and his pills, shook his head and then left, dictating a note to himself about using the offices vacated by the NCD as a possible trophy room for Chymes.

  “What was that all about?” asked Mary as she walked up.

  Jack shrugged and pointed at the newspaper.

  “‘Mad Scientists Distill Pure Wag from Dog’?” she read.

  “Above that.”

  “Ah! ‘Nursery Favorite Dies in Wall-Death Drama.’”

  “Read on.”

  She cleared her throat and began: “‘Humpty Dumpty, well-known nursery character and large egg, was found shattered to death beneath his favorite wall in the east of town. His generous donations to charity had made him a much-loved figure in Reading, and his death will be greatly mourned. Four-time giant killer Detective Inspector Jack Spratt, former assistant to the great Friedland Chymes until demoted for incompetence and more recently noted for his misguided attempt to convict the three pigs of murder, is in charge — ”

  “I get the picture,” interrupted Jack. “Sounds like Chymes is trying to make life difficult for me already.”

  Mary was silent. Jack was doubtless correct. Chymes would have every reason to keep the story current and trash him if he was planning on wrestling the case from him. She swallowed hard and wondered if Jack was at all suspicious that she was, for all intents and purposes, working for Friedland. She looked across at him, but he was occupying himself by trimming all the fat from his bacon.

  “Don’t like fat?”

  “Hate it. My first wife loved it. It made us the perfect couple. All that was left of the joint was a bone.”