“I read your account of the Shakespeare fight-rigging caper,” said the one named Hoorn. “I thought it impressive. The pace was good, you built the tension early, and you managed to keep it sustained throughout the story.” He shook her hand and added, by way of an afterthought, “And the police investigation itself was quite good, too—although if I’d been Flowwe, I would have let one member of the gang escape to add a small amount of tension to a recapture. You could have stretched the headlines over another two days.”
“It was our biggest case to date,” replied Mary defensively.
“I don’t think he wanted to blow it for the sake of a few good headlines.”
“That’s what sorts out the good from the greats,” said Hamilton, sipping a martini. “If you want to hit the big time and run investigations that fit well into a TV or movie format, you’re going to have to take a few risks.”
“Does Friedland?”
No one answered, which Mary took to mean that he did. You don’t get to number two in the Amazing Crime rankings by playing it safe. It wasn’t permitted to “alter, embellish or omit pertinent facts” in one’s investigation to make better copy, but all of them did it in one form or another. If it got a result, no one minded. The whole thing suddenly seemed that much more exciting and daring. Friedland’s team under Flotsam was a close unit and had been through a lot together—and had reaped the benefits, both professionally and financially. Piarno Keyes had played Flotsam in Friedland Chymes and the Carnival of Death, and character rights paid handsomely.
“What does DCI Chymes want with me?”
“Barnes retires next month,” Flotsam said, pointing to a member of the small clique who was rolling a cigarette. “Network Mole wants to retain him as police adviser on their TV shows.”
She couldn’t quite believe her ears. “I’m up for inclusion in the team?”
“Nothing’s fixed,” said Flotsam with a shrug, “but you’re qualified and a looker.”
“Is that important?”
“For the telly. The Guv’nor wants us to look a bit less male elitist, so we need another girlie. But he doesn’t carry dead wood, and there’s no one else suitable in the frame.”
“I’m working down at the NCD at present.”
There was a murmur of impolite laughter from the small group.
“Nothing to be ashamed of. Barnes and Seagrove have both done a stretch down there. How’s Jack, by the by?”
“He’s…Jack,” she answered, finding it too much of an easy shot to gain Brownie points by trashing him, something that would doubtless have gone down well. Jack was unremarkable and in a loser department, but he’d treated her well. Chymes’s gang took her meaning to be derogatory and laughed. Flotsam’s phone beeped, and he glanced at the text message before putting down his cigar and straightening his tie.
“That was the Guv’nor. He’ll see you now.”
Mary was taken through another door, which led into the inner sanctum, a personal retreat for the great detectives themselves. It was here surrounded by the dark oak paneling that they met nightly to discuss cases, brainstorm ideas or simply just unwind among their intellectual equals. Mary tried not to gawk at the six or seven famous names that she recognized from her initial glance around the room, but it was tricky not to. There had never been this sort of thing at Basingstoke, but then twenty-fifth was the highest ranking a Basingstoke detective had ever got.
“Guv’nor,” said Flotsam in greeting to Chymes, who was seated next to a fastidiously dressed detective of foreign extraction who rose to his feet and bowed politely as Mary was presented. She felt herself go hot at the exalted company and managed to mumble something respectful as the small man greeted her, thanked Chymes, retrieved his small sherry and departed to the other side of the room.
“Charming man, Hercule,” said Chymes with a winning grin, adding as soon as the small foreigner was out of earshot, “but a tad overrated. All that ‘little gray cells’ stuff he goes on about. A lot of the time, he’s simply surfing on a rich seam of luck. Take a seat, DS—has Flotsam been looking after you?”
“Extremely well, sir.”
“Good. Thank you, Eddie.”
Flotsam bowed obsequiously and departed. Chymes stared at Mary for a moment without speaking. He was a large man and had a deep, commanding voice that inspired confidence. He was handsome, too, and his eyes seemed to sparkle at her. The room suddenly began to grow hot.
“You used to work with DI Flowwe at Basingstoke?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Flowwe or Basingstoke, sir?”
Chymes laughed and took a sip from his ice and whiskey. “So how’s my friend Jack?”
“I haven’t known him that long, sir,” replied Mary, trying to sidestep the question. Chymes picked up on it straightaway.
“Loyalty is something I appreciate, Mary, so I’ll tell you: Jack is not well at all. He’s up shit creek without a paddle. The pig thing was career suicide, even by the somewhat loose standards of the NCD. He has no idea how to approach a tricky case in order to get a conviction and no sense at all about dramatic timing or case construction so it will fit the format demanded by Amazing Crime. And now he wants to be in the Guild. Do you see Jack fitting in here, Mary?”
She looked around. Inspector Moose was leaning on the ornate marble fire surround, talking in subdued tones to Rhombus, down from Edinburgh to interview a suspect, apparently.
“Frankly, no,” replied Mary, quickly pushing aside feelings of disloyalty in order to make more important room for thoughts concerning promotion and career.
“I concur,” replied Chymes, leaning closer. “How’s the Humpty case going?”
“Almost certainly suicide.”
Chymes shook his head. “I’ll bet you it isn’t. I can smell a good investigation the way a perfumer can detect a drop of lavender in a locker room. There is something about a crime scene that is like the opening aria of a fine opera—a few lone notes that portend of great things to come. I’ve made my career upon it. Humpty is more than meets the eye, I promise you. I need something for the Summer Special issue of Amazing Crime, and we thought the Humpty case would do well.”
“It’s NCD jurisdiction, surely?”
“I have only solutions, never problems,” replied Chymes quietly. “I’ll have the Humpty investigation, but I won’t have it yet. I need to time myself well for the increased dramatic effect. And to do this, I need your help.”
“Mine?”
“Of course. I need to know how things are progressing. You can be my eyes and ears.”
He could sense her slight reticence.
“You will not find me ungrateful. I read your account of the Shakespeare fight-rigging caper, and I was impressed. Your prose is good, and in the not-too-distant future I might have need of someone with a fresh eye and a fresh pen. Barnes isn’t the only one up for retirement.”
He raised an imperious eyebrow and stared at her. Mary weighed the pros and cons of what he was suggesting. It didn’t take long.
“What do you need to know?”
“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.