“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. ”