“Good. And I want a full report on my desk ASAP and not a Jack Spratt keep-the-NCD-going-at-all-costs special.”

  He clapped his hands together and rubbed them happily.

  “Right. Well, I must speak to Friedland before he goes on. Solved another one this morning, y’know — remarkable fellow!”

  Briggs gathered up his papers and strode off.

  “Well,” said Mary, who had returned to Jack’s side, “are we still on the case?”

  “It seems so,” said Jack with furrowed brow, “but Briggs wasn’t his usual shouting, screaming, threatening-to-suspend-me self. I hope he’s not unwell or anything — or perhaps he’s just happy with the way things are going. What do you think?”

  Mary felt herself swallow, and her mouth went dry. It could easily be explained. She knew that Friedland was poised to take over the inquiry, and it would be with her help, too.

  “I… I have no idea, sir.”

  “Me neither,” muttered Jack, “but I’m not complaining. Any news on Mrs. Dumpty?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “We can’t search through Grundy’s boardroom minutes, so do some background delving, would you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. What is it, Gretel?”

  “Skinner sent down a report.”

  He read it carefully.

  “The cartridges didn’t match,” announced Jack, handing the report to Mary. “The Marchetti did belong to the woodcutters, but it wasn’t the one used to kill them. That’s a relief. I wasn’t keen on having to wade through one of Friedland’s old cases. And I was a fool to think he might be wrong.”

  He walked from the room.

  Mary wandered over to Gretel. Although she was subordinate to Mary, she had the edge in terms of years and experience. It gave Gretel the upper hand beyond the boundaries of official rank, and they both knew it. Mary would not ever want to pull rank on Gretel, and Gretel would make quite sure that Mary never had to.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Not too bad. Forensic accounting is an underused science. Look here: Last July, Humpty bought a thousand tons of fine-grade copper in Splotvia with money from an account drawn on the Bank of Malvonia. He swapped the copper for a hundred thousand gallons of béarnaise sauce. The sauce was never delivered, and Humpty received a refund. The refund was paid to a subsidiary company in Woppistania, which then used the cash to finance a hotel-development deal in Wozbekistan, which in turn generated a loss that Humpty was able to offer to large multinationals in order for them to offset against tax. In return for this, Humpty was given an eight percent fee. From a dirty forty thousand pounds to a laundered eighty thousand pounds in a few short moves. It would take a phalanx of lawyers a month to figure out whether a law had been broken, and another month to figure out which one.”

  It wasn’t the reason Mary had walked over. She knew next to no one in Reading apart from an aging aunt and a few ex-boyfriends. Gretel, she thought, would be a good person for nothing more unproductive — and necessary — than a chat.

  “Are you really a baroness?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes,” replied Gretel in the sort of way that you might admit to having two cars, “but it means nothing. My family is from East Germany. They had a large house and grounds near Leipzig. When the Russians took over, my family escaped to West Berlin with only the title and a single crested teaspoon. You’re from Basingstoke, yes?”

  “Born and bred — and it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Yes,” agreed Gretel, “so I heard.”

  “You’re very tall,” observed Mary. “Don’t you worry about Jack and his… reputation?”

  “The giant killing? No. His shortest victim was at least six inches taller than me, so I figure I’m well beneath his height criteria. When did you make sergeant?”

  “Four years ago,” replied Mary. “I took my Official Sidekick exams — for all the good it did me. Tell me, you’ve worked with Chymes. What’s the possibility of him dumping that idiot Flotsam? He’s sloppy and irritating, and his prose stinks.”

  “True Detective would welcome such a thing, but I’m not sure Chymes would dump him. Flotsam knows a lot about Friedland that Friedland wouldn’t want to get out.”

  “Such as?”

  “Nobody really knows — and Chymes wants to keep it that way. Flotsam’s here to stay, sadly — unless he wants out. Why, have you got your eye on the top DS job in Reading?”

  “Very long-term plan,” said Mary hurriedly.

  “The Chymes detecting machine is a double-edged sword,” confided Gretel. “The benefits are enormous. You play to his rules, and you sometimes hate yourself for doing so — but six months later it’s standard operating procedure and you’re looking to see who you can trample over next.”

  Mary nodded thoughtfully. She often hated herself. Once more here and there wouldn’t make much difference.

  “And that,” continued Chymes triumphantly, “was how we knew that Major Stratton was guilty. By pointing suspicion at himself via the unfinished Scrabble game and the half-eaten macaroon, he hoped to be charged, then released when his alibi was proved, banking on the fact that the police would eliminate him from their inquiries completely. But by analyzing the dried saliva on the back of the stamp, I could prove that Wentworth had not sent the letter purporting to be from the mergers commission. So with Dibble’s allergy to leeks ruling him out, Wilks in custody at the time…”

  He paused in front of his audience, who were frozen to the spot, spellbound.

  “…it could only be Major Stratton.”

  There was a burst of applause and a battery of cameras going off as Friedland nodded his appreciation at their appreciation.

  “But what alerted you to Major Stratton in the first place?” asked Josh Hatchett.

  “Simplicity itself.” Chymes smiled. “The Major was an accomplished Scrabble player. He would never have played ‘quest’ without bonuses when the possibility existed to play ‘caziques’ on a triple-word score. He must have had something else on his mind — such as murder!”

  There was another burst of applause.

  “You are most kind,” he said modestly. “A complete write-up of the case will be published under the title ‘The Case of the Fragrant Plum.’ Ladies and gentlemen — the case… is closed!”

  Jack was observing from the side door when Mary joined him. They watched Chymes take questions and explain in minute detail how the case was solved.

  “What’s this about you applying for the Guild, sir?” asked Mary.

  “It was my wife’s idea. But with Chymes on the selection committee, I think my chances are on the lean side of zero.”

  Mary didn’t answer.

  “You might have said something in rebuttal,” he muttered sulkily. “Like ‘Surely not, sir’ — if only to make me feel better.”

  “Surely not, sir,” said Mary with a sigh. “Is that better?”

  “No. In fact, it’s worse.”

  “Do you know all these people?” she asked to change the subject, staring at the curious array of journalists. There were three news crews, a Japanese film crew, several independents and a small, rather lost-looking man with a camcorder who was obviously a newshound for a local cable channel.

  “The thin guy at the end is Josh Hatchett of The Mole. Next to him is Hector Sleaze, who writes for The Toad. They hate each other. The bloke with the glasses is Clifford Sensible of The Owl, who is about the only serious journalist here. The big fellow who looks a bit drunk in the front row is Archibald Fatquack, who edits The Gadfly. The two either side of him are Geddes and Pearson, who work for the local papers, the Reading Mercury and the Reading Daily Eyestrain. The others I don’t know, but presumably they’re syndicated journalists from the nationals.”

  There was more applause as Chymes finished answering questions, turned left and right for the photographers to get a few alternative snaps, then strode from the room with a flourish. Within five minutes the pressroom was empty apart from Archibald and Hector Sleaze, who was trying to decipher some of his own shorthand.

  “Good afternoon, everyone,” said Jack slowly as he approached the lectern. “Yesterday morning at approximately one A.M., Humpty Dumpty was shot dead as he sat on his favorite wall. He died instantly. Any questions?”

  Jack started to leave, but there was a question — and it wasn’t from Archibald either. It was from Hector, who had never stayed long enough to even see Jack walk on, let alone speak.

  “Who are you?” asked Hector Sleaze.

  “Detective Inspector Jack Spratt of the Nursery Crime Division.”

  “Are you new? I haven’t seen you here before.”

  “Only since 1978, Mr. Sleaze. You’re usually out the door before I even stand up.”

  “Whatever. Humpty Dumpty?” repeated Sleaze incredulously. “You mean the large egg?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “No.”

  “Any motive?”

  “No.”

  “Any weapon?”

  “No.”

  “That’s me all questioned out,” said Hector, getting up and leaving.

  “Anyone else?” Jack asked, addressing the room, which now had only Fatquack in it.

  “Inspector Spratt,” began The Gadfly’s editor, “can you confirm that in 1978 the British government negotiated for Mr. Dumpty’s safe exit from Ogapôga in exchange for information about oil reserves in the Ogapôgian Basin?”

  Jack sighed. “I haven’t heard of any deals with the Ogapôgians or anyone else, Mr. Fatquack. What’s your interest in Humpty Dumpty?”

  “I’m writing a biography, but I find more questions than answers when I begin to delve.”

  “Really?” replied Jack warily. He wasn’t going to tell Fatquack that he had found exactly the same.

  “Yes,” continued Archie, leaning closer, “but he wasn’t arrested for gem smuggling. I have spoken to a journalist who told me that he was actually trading guns to arm rebels to fight the government-backed land grabbers. Is this true?”

  “You tell me, Mr. Fatquack.”

  “Is this part of your investigation?”

  “Mr. Dumpty has a long and colorful history,” replied Jack,

  “from fraud to land speculation in Splotvia. All of these facets are part of our investigation, but we’ll be looking closer to home first.”

  “Like Oxford?” asked Fatquack. “You knew he went to Christ Church?”

  “Yes,” replied Jack, “1946. Just missed being chosen for the English rugby team.”

  “1946?” echoed Fatquack with surprise. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  Fatquack drew in a dramatic breath. “You know that the Jellyman was at Christ Church between 1945 and 1947?”

  “They might never have spoken.”

  “I doubt it. The Jellyman was captain of the rugby team.”

  “His Eminence has met many people in the past,” said Jack quickly.

  “Of course,” replied Fatquack awkwardly, eager for Jack to know that he would never accuse the Jellyman of any wrongdoing.

  “I’m not suggesting for one moment that he had any dealings with Mr. Dumpty, but it is interesting nonetheless. Is it true that you’ve applied to join the Guild?”

  “Word gets around, doesn’t it?”

  “I know it’s not likely you’ll get in, but if by the remotest chance it happens, you will remember your friends at The Gadfly when Amazing Crime rejects the manuscript?”

  “You have the nicest way of putting things, Archie.”

  “So it wasn’t stealing gems in Ogapôga,” murmured Mary as they walked back to the NCD offices. “It was gunrunning to rebels.”

  “His crimes never seem to benefit himself, do they?” Jack nodded his head thoughtfully.

  “Diddling the City financial establishments out of forty million pounds in the name of freedom and democracy has the nub of a fine joke about it,” continued Mary.

  “I agree. It looks as though the egg had a social conscience — and he didn’t mind risking everything if he thought it would do some good.”

  “Like a Spongg share scam that liberated fifty million pounds for the rebuilding of the woefully inadequate and outdated St. Cerebellum’s mental hospital?”

  “Could be. He might be a crook — but with a noble purpose.”

  Gretel was hunched over papers and a calculator when Jack and Mary walked in. She gave a cheery wave without turning around.

  “Have they found the bullet at Grimm’s Road?” asked Jack.

  “Not yet.”

  “I couldn’t remember whether you liked tea or coffee,” said Ashley, bringing in a steaming mug for Jack, “so I brought both.”

  “Thank you.”

  “In the same cup.”

  Jack sighed. Ashley was still having trouble getting used to the way things were done.

  “Thank you, Ashley. Next time it’s coffee, white, one sugar — yes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mary was talking to a uniformed officer at the door. After taking a few notes, she thanked him and walked back into the office.

  “Bessie Brooks has done a runner,” announced Mary, trying to find somewhere to sit in the cramped offices and eventually perching on the table edge. “They had a look around her flat, but she’s not been there for a couple of days. Suitcase missing and clothes scattered everywhere from a hurried pack. Can I issue an arrest warrant? It would make things easier if we’re to try and track her down though credit cards.”

  The phone rang and Mary picked it up. She listened for a moment and winced. “Thanks for calling. We’ll be straight there.”

  She put the receiver down and looked up at Jack.

  “I’ve got a feeling this is bad news,” he said slowly.

  “It’s Mrs. Dumpty.”

  “At last! When can we talk to her?”

  “Never — unless you know a good spiritualist. There’s been an accident down at the Yummy-Time Biscuits factory. She’s… dead.”

  21. RIP, Mrs. Dumpty, and “the Case… Is Closed!”

  CHYMES TO ATTEMPT WORLD SLEUTH RECORD

  Global number-two-ranked Amazing Crime sleuth DCI Chymes will attempt to challenge Inspector Moose’s two-hour, thirty-eight-minute world speed-solving record set last July for a case involving a triple murder, a missing will, blackmail and financial impropriety. “I think we can manage to shave a few minutes off Moose’s record,” said DCI Chymes confidently as he went into training for the attempt. Because murders cannot be undertaken to order — even for speed trials, Chymes will have to wait until a suitable slaying arrives on his doorstep. “I’ve never been more ready,” he declared.

  Editorial from Amazing Crime Stories, June 7, 2002

  “She was on an inspection of the chocolate digestive production line,” explained a very shaken executive less than half an hour later down at the Yummy-Time factory, a clean and efficient facility full of clanking machinery, stainless-steel vats and the smell of baking and hot sugar.

  “During our afternoon tour, she asked me to fetch her shawl from her office. When I returned, I found a group of workers clustered around the industrial food mixers. It was no use, of course; Mr. Aimsworth said he saw her jump into the main dough mixer — not just for the digestives but for the entire range of biscuits, all the way from custard creams to Abernethys.”

  He broke down and gave out a muffled sob, then blew his nose on a bright yellow hankie.

  “She’d been a leading light of Yummy-Time since she took over from her father ten years ago,” said the executive. “She knew shortbread fingers like the back of her hand and upside-down cakes back to front.”

  Jack and Mary peered cautiously into one of the vast mixing vats, which, they had been informed earlier, held almost five tons of dough mixture. Of Mrs. Dumpty they could see only a foot and part of a blue dress. Already firemen had put a ladder into the vat and were wading through the sticky mixture to try to retrieve what was left of her.

  “You better get a statement from the fellow who saw her jump, Mary. I’m going to look at her office.”

  He was escorted off the factory floor by the executive, who bemoaned the loss of Mrs. Dumpty and her biscuit expertise. They stepped into the spotless interior of the administration side of the building, up two flights of steps and on to Mrs. Dumpty’s office, which would have afforded a fine view of Reading if low clouds hadn’t been scudding across the city.

  “This is her office,” said the executive. “What a terrible thing to happen! I didn’t think she would want to… you know… herself. She seemed in such fine fettle.”

  Jack walked around her desk and noticed a picture of her and Humpty in a gilt frame. There was a computer, telephone, correspondence. He stopped. There, on the blotter, was a single piece of paper folded once, with his name written clearly on the front. He took out a fountain pen and pocketknife to avoid touching it, delicately opened the note and read it. He read it again, to make quite sure.

  DI Spratt,

  I know you will be the officer to read this, and I want you to know that what I did was out of love, not hate. We had been moving towards a reconciliation, and all was going well — until I saw him with a bimbo and my blood boiled. I went to his home and prayed for God to forgive me as I pulled the trigger. Your visit yesterday made me realize that there would be no escape from retribution. Perhaps I am just saving everyone a lot of time and bother.

  PS: Please tell Mr. Spatchcock that I won’t be able to make my 9:30 appointment this evening.

  It was signed Laura Garibaldi-Dumpty. Jack opened her desk diary and compared the handwriting. It was quite distinctive and there was no doubt in his mind that she had written it. He looked at last week’s entries in the diary, but there was nothing of interest, just dinner dates, tennis, that sort of thing. She hadn’t been planning anything out of the ordinary.

  Mary appeared at the doorway as Jack was going through the desk drawers.

  “Have a look,” he said, indicating the note.