“They have cucumber world championships?”

“Indeed they do,” replied the Vicar. “He took his vegetables extremely seriously. After almost twenty years of work, it was a very great tragedy that Stanley didn’t live long enough to enjoy the fruits—or should I say vegetables?—of his labors.”

He laughed at his own joke for a moment, noticed that Jack and Mary hadn’t joined him and turned the laugh into a cough.

“Who knew him best? You?”

“I wish I could boast that, but no. As I understand it, he was closest to Mr. Hardy Fuchsia, his old colleague and only serious competitor in the cucumber extreme class. Despite Mr. Fuchsia’s preeminence in the field, I understood they spoke frequently. If you want to know more about Stanley, best call on Hardy.”

“They never found Mr. Cripps, did they?” asked Jack, who had read several accounts of the incident that morning, everything from the official government report to misinformation and half-truths in the self-appointed journal of the conspiracy world, Conspiracy Theorist.

“They found his dentures embedded in a tree a quarter mile away,” replied the Vicar. “It took a crowbar to get them out. But they don’t think he was wearing them at the time; his bedside lamp was also found close by.”

They walked past another house that had completely lost its roof and was abandoned, ready for demolition. The damage here was considerably worse, even though they had walked less than a hundred yards.

“The devastation increases exponentially the closer we get to the epicenter,” explained the Vicar, who had spent the days after the event talking to curious onlookers and had learned a few destruction-related buzzwords. “It was an unexploded Grand Slam wartime bomb, apparently. Look at the trees.”

They passed another house, this one almost flattened. The trees were indeed a good indication of the center of the blast—they had all been felled in straight lines radiating outward.

“Mr. Cripps’s last words were ‘Good heavens! It’s full of holes!’" said Mary. “Do you have any idea to what he was referring?

“Most puzzling,” confessed the Vicar. “He might have been referring to anything—the greenhouse, his cucumber, the plot—anything.”

“The plot?” echoed Mary.

“I mean the vegetable plot,” he said hurriedly. “A slip of the tongue. Vandals might have dug it up—holes, you know. Hmm.”

There were quite a few tourists wandering around, although there was precious little to look at, but this didn’t seem to bother them. Quasi-scientific-looking people dressed in lab coats were conducting experiments of an entirely spurious nature on anything they could find, and a local farmer was doing a brisk trade renting out a field for parking. On the verges and the village green, an eccentric and brightly colored collection of tents and yurts had been set up, offering refreshments and advice on spiritual matters. There seemed to be quite a few Druids kicking around, too.

They had reached the village’s one and only streetlamp next to its one and only telephone booth, or what was left of them. The cast-iron lamp standard had melted like a soft candle, and the phone booth had collapsed gently in on itself in the same manner.

“The glass from the phone-booth windows had melted and then cooled in midflow, like icicles,” explained the Vicar. “It was quite lovely—but most of it was taken by souvenir hunters. Neither of these will be replaced. We want to keep them as a memorial to Stanley.”

They walked on for a few moments into an increased density of aimless milling crowds.

“We’ve had thousands of people through here, but it all seems to be slackening off, praise the Lord.”

“This is ‘slackening off’?” asked Jack, looking at the crowds.

“You should have seen it last week,” said the Vicar with a smile. “There was a mile-wide no-go zone while the area was made safe. As soon as the cordon was lifted, it was like a plague of locusts. For a moment we thought we might have to change the village’s name to ‘Popularity.’"

The Vicar chuckled at his own joke.

“Well, this was Stanley’s property,” he said, waving his hand at a flat piece of hard-packed soil that had been roped off and contained nothing except a white-coated individual who was passing some sort of humming sensor over the ground. “That’s Dr. Parks. He’ll answer questions if you find him in a good mood. Do drop in for tea before you go, won’t you? My wife does a mean scone.”

He smiled, shook their hands, and was gone.

Jack and Mary stared at the expanse of well-trodden ground among a group of forty or so others doing exactly the same.

“It’s not the original soil,” said a man dressed in tinfoil overalls and holding a crystal.

“No?”

“No. The crater was fully excavated by government inspectors, who then filled in the hole with eighty tons of new topsoil.”

“That was charitable of them,” remarked Jack.

“Charitable be damned,” said their new friend. “All it did was hamper the investigations of the independent scientists who arrived as soon as they could.”

They learned from several other passersby who seemed to be in the know that the government’s interventions had given the conspiracy theorists a field day, and six books with equally bizarre and implausible explanations were being hurried to the bookshops, the most popular concept being some sort of modern battlefield-size nuclear device delivered accidentally by a fighter-bomber, although the lesser theories were still considered quite seriously: a meteor strike, an unprecedented ball-lightning explosion, the planned arrival of an asteroid made entirely of sapphire, an attack by French cucumber terrorists intent on sabotaging the opposition, the arrival of Lucifer to cleanse man’s wickedness or even—if you really stretched your imagination—an overlooked wartime Grand Slam bomb that had spontaneously detonated.

They walked over to Dr. Parks, who was absorbed in his work and didn’t hear them approach. When Jack spoke, he jumped and then glared at them testily. He was aged about thirty and looked tanned and fit, for an academic. It was soon apparent that he didn’t place government agencies, police included, in very high esteem.

“Dr. Parks?” asked Jack. “May we have a word?”

He looked them both up and down. “Police?”

“Well, yes,” replied Jack, a bit miffed that it should be so obvious. “I’m DCI Spratt. This is Sergeant Mary.”

The scientist chuckled to himself. “You’re a bit late. I got here as soon as the government would let me, and even then I was too late. Which theory do you guys adhere to?”

“We’re not so much interested in the phenomenon as in a journalist who was investigating it.”

“Which journalist? There must have been dozens.”

Jack showed him a photo of Goldilocks. He stared at it for a moment, then at Jack and Mary.

“Yes, I remember her. She was one of the first in once the government lifted the cordon on Wednesday morning. She sticks in my mind because she didn’t treat any of us out here on the outer fringes of science as loonies and geeks. Everyone else does.”

“Did you know she was talking to Cripps the day before the explosion?”

“If she was,” replied Parks, “there’s a lot of people who’d like to speak to her.”

“They’ll be disappointed. She died on Saturday morning.”

“Murdered by the government?” he asked excitedly, his conspiratorial leanings springing to the fore. “Now, that would be good.”

“From my experience of government departments,” said Jack,

“they couldn’t order the right size of staples, let alone succeed in anything as bizarrely complex as a murder and then subsequent cover-up.”

“Yes,” agreed Parks sulkily, “it’s where that particular mainstay of conspiracy theory falls down. I hate to admit it, but governmental deviousness is usually better explained by incompetence, vanity and the need to protect one’s job at all costs. Still, I liked her.”