Jack walked down the corridor to the elevator and pressed the “call” button. He turned to Mary.

“You know, Sergeant, principles cost money. And if I’ve learned anything over the past few days, it’s—”

“Sir,” interrupted Mary before he could embark on what would doubtless have been a very boring speech about moral relativism, “do you really believe that Grundy had Humpty killed?”

“I’m afraid so. But Briggs is right. Proving it will be tough. We’ll have to get a confession from the hit man himself, implicating Grundy.”

“We can start to delve on Monday, sir.”

Brown-Horrocks dashed up to them as the lift doors opened.

“I’m not going to change my mind,” said Jack.

“No, no,” said Brown-Horrocks quickly, “the day is not yet over, and my observational duties include your personal life—although from what you’ve told me about your regrettably abstemious and monogamous existence, there doesn’t seem to be much of interest. Still, orders are orders.”

Ashley, Tibbit, Baker and Gretel applauded Jack and Mary as they walked into the NCD offices and gave them some real champagne, but in plastic cups. It was too small in there even with Ashley stuck to the ceiling, so Brown-Horrocks and Gretel stepped outside to the corridor, where there was more headroom for them both. They looked at each other again. Brown-Horrocks was the first person Gretel had ever had to look up to, and she was the tallest woman Brown-Horrocks had ever seen—and, to him, the most beautiful.

“You’re the most… tall woman I have ever laid eyes upon,” said Brown-Horrocks after a long pause.

Gretel said nothing, went all shy and didn’t know what to do with her hands.

“Thank you,” she replied. “I like your overalls.”

“Well,” said Jack, clapping his hands together to get everyone’s attention, “any news about Spongg?”

“Latest report,” said Baker, who had a large bandage on his leg but didn’t seem to be in any pain at all, “is that the French Coast Guard found the wreckage of a light aircraft floating off the Normandy coast. They’ll know more when the search continues tomorrow at first light.”

“Well, then,” said Jack, holding his cup aloft, “this is to all of us—and teamwork. Each and every one of you was exemplary. Long after we are ashes and the great adventures of this small department are chronicled for all to see, people will—”

“DI Spratt?” came a low voice from the door, interrupting what also might have turned out to be a long and tiresome speech. They turned to see three men dressed in dark suits and gray macs. They had sunglasses on and were unmistakably Secret Service.

“That’s me.”

They looked him up and down. Dressed in the blue overalls he seemed more like a decorator. “You have something we want, Inspector.”

“Something of extreme value,” said the second.

“A goose,” said the third, who was holding a pet carrier.

“What are you going to do with it?” asked Jack, who didn’t like the idea of giving anything to the Secret Service, especially something that lived and breathed.

“I don’t really think that’s any of your concern,” said the one who had spoken first.

“It will be studied by top scientists,” said the second.

“Top scientists,” repeated the one with the pet carrier. “Where is it?”

Jack sighed. “Okay, who’s got the goose?”

Tibbit led them into the filing room, where there was a sheet of plastic on the floor and a large cardboard box lined with straw. The goose hissed as the third man grabbed it roughly by the neck and bundled it unceremoniously into the pet carrier. It managed to bite him, much to Jack’s and Tibbit’s delight, and the other agent took the four golden eggs and placed them in a bag.

“She will be well looked after, won’t she?” asked Tibbit, who had grown quite fond of the bird.

“They’ll want to know how she does it,” said the second.

“Don’t worry, kid,” said the third, “they’re all experts. This is for you.”

And he handed Jack a receipt for one goose and four golden eggs.

He gave a cruel laugh, and they were all gone without another word.

“Sir,” said Tibbit in a hoarse whisper, “I must tell you something.”

“Yes?”

“They’re going to take the goose apart to see how it works and find that it’s just a goose, aren’t they?”

“In NCD work you can never be a hundred percent sure the way events might be interpreted, but yes, it seems likely.”

He faltered for a moment, unsure of how to put it. Finally he said, “One goose looks a lot like another, don’t you think?”

Jack smiled. “Yes,” he replied, “I daresay it does. But I know nothing and don’t wish to know anything. If anyone swapped the goose, good luck to them as long as they use that wealth wisely. If they don’t, then I just might wish to get involved.”

Tibbit smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

Jack walked back into the office to continue his speech.

“Where was I? Ah, yes: Long after we are ashes and—”

Luckily for the NCD staff, he was once again interrupted, this time by Mrs. Singh, who swept in like a galleon in full sail.

“There you are!” she said. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Don’t you ever return calls?”

“I’ve been busy bringing down the second-biggest foot-care empire in the world and one of Reading’s most respected figures—and my mobile was blown up.”

“You could have used Mary’s.”

“It was taken by an identical-twin butler.”

“What about that Guild chap’s?”

“Melted in the autoclave.”

“Never mind. I got Humpty’s results back from the SunnyDale Poultry Labs.”

“And?”

“Large quantities of alcohol, traces of marijuana, and about sixty-eight different strains of salmonella, four of which would probably have proved fatal within the next six months, and traces of chorioallantoic membrane.”

Everyone in the room leaned closer.

“Traces of what ?”

“Chorioallantoic membrane. It’s a highly vascularized extra-embryonic membrane that functions as a site for nutrient transport and waste disposal during embryonic development.”

“Embryonic development?” echoed Jack. “You mean…”

“Right. He didn’t die from the gunshot wound or the fall. He hatched. ”

There was a deathly hush as they took this in.

“Hatched? You mean to tell me Humpty Dumpty was pregnant ?”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” replied Mrs. Singh, “although ‘pregnant’ is perhaps the wrong word. He was an egg, Jack, and eggs, when fertilized, hatch.”

“I know what eggs do, Mrs. Singh. And what was going to come out? A three-hundred-pound chicken?”

“Not at all,” replied Mrs. Singh. “Even my most conservative estimates place the chick alone at that sort of weight—the fully grown hen would probably tip the scales at two to three tons.”

“I need to sit down.”

“You are sitting down. Skinner and I couldn’t simulate the extreme breakup of his shell,” continued Mrs. Singh, “no matter what we did. The damage was too severe for anything a bullet might have caused. Something hatching, now, that’s a different matter.”

“So how did the bullet go straight through?”

“Fluke,” replied Mrs. Singh. “It must have passed between the body and the wing or the leg—or something.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Mary, trying to get all the information in context. “Firstly, he’s a guy, right? Even if he is, to all intents and purposes, a very large egg?”

“Indeed,” replied Mrs. Singh, “he had all the necessary equipment.”

“And a series of girlfriends, so he wasn’t shy on exercising it,” added Jack.

“Okay. He’s over sixty-five years of age, so I think we can safely say he was born—laid—whatever—unfertilized. Most eggs are, right?”

“Right.”

“So when was he fertilized?”

Mrs. Singh thought for a moment. “This is more the field of avian pathologists, but by comparing the volume of his egg and likening that to a scaled-up model of ostrich chick development, we can safely say… about six months ago.”

“How?”

“The hole I found drilled in his shell,” said Mrs. Singh. “A modified IVF procedure would do the trick.”

“But it’s still murder,” muttered Jack. “Whatever grew inside him would have been slowly consuming him from within. The question is: Why?”

“I should imagine the poultry industry might be very interested in a three-ton chicken, sir.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mary. You’d never find an oven big enough. Besides, what misbegotten evil genius would be so cruelly insane as to want to carry out such a bizarre and perverted experiment on a living, breathing creature?”

They looked at each other, snapped their fingers in unison and said, “Dr. Quatt!”

“Spot on. She had the opportunity, the skill, the knowledge. But, more important, the total absence of any ethical standards whatsoever. Gretel and Ashley, take a couple of officers and go to St. Cerebellum’s to arrest Dr. Quatt. Baker, call the Ops room and see if anyone has reported seeing a giant chicken loose in Reading—especially near the Grimm’s Road area. I want locations, times, size, everything—so we can plot them on a map.”

They all dashed off to do his bidding. Ashley scampered along the roof to the elevator while Gretel bade Brown-Horrocks a shy “well, see you around, then” sort of farewell.

“Thanks, Mrs. Singh, you’re a marvel. Stay for a drink?”

She politely declined, as she had to babysit two of her grandchildren, then stared in a medically curious way at Brown-Horrocks and departed.

“At last!” announced Jack. “Some closure. I don’t know about you, but I’m knackered. I’ve been blown up, decontaminated, rolled along the top of a room, my Allegro’s been written off, and I was almost vaporized by an insane chiropodist. And tomorrow I’ve got to hunt a giant chicken running loose in Reading. Well, cheers.”

“Cheers, sir.”

“Do you think Officer Kandlestyk-Maeker would enjoy the zoo?” asked Brown-Horrocks, who obviously had other things on his mind. “They’ve got a baby giraffe, you know.”