speaking and lowered his voice.
“I’ve just had a call from DCI Chymes — ”
Jack sighed audibly. “No way. No way on God’s own earth, sir. NCD is
“I know that,” said Briggs, trying to be conciliatory and authoritarian at the same time, “I just wanted you to
“No, sir. I’ve been shafted once too often by Friedland. You’d have to suspend me before I’d let go.”
Briggs took a deep breath and stared at him for a moment.
“Jack, please! Don’t piss Chymes off. If the Guild of Detectives gets involved, it could all get really messy.”
“Then,” said Jack, “it’s going to get messy. Are we done, sir?”
Briggs glared at him, then nodded, and Jack departed. He loosened his collar and felt his heart thump inside his chest. Humpty. Something told him it was going to be a tricky one.
As he walked back in, Tibbit and Mary were waiting for him with a hefty volume of
“Pewter,” said Tibbit, “Charles Walter. He’s a commodities broker. Has been partnered to Mr. Perkupp at Perkupp and Partners since 1986. Active on the charity scene, married, with one son. Special interests: Victoriana, walking. Lives and works from Brickfield Terrace.”
Jack picked up the phone and dialed Pewter’s number.
After only two rings, a woman with a cultured voice answered the phone. “Perkupp and Partners. May I help you?”
“Yes,” he replied, “this is Detective Inspector Spratt, Nursery Crime Division. I wonder if I might speak to Mr. Pewter?”
“Certainly, sir. Please wait a moment.”
She put him on hold, and a rather poor recording of Vivaldi came down the line. A moment later she was back.
“I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Pewter is in a meeting. Can he call you back?”
Jack knew when he was being fobbed off.
“Tell him I’m investigating Humpty Dumpty’s death.”
There was a short pause, and then a man’s voice came on the line.
“DI Spratt? My name is Charles Pewter. Perhaps you’d better come around.”
10. Charles peWter
DANGEROUS PSYCHOPATH CAPTURED
The incredibly dangerous homicidal maniac known as “the Gingerbreadman” was captured almost single- handedly by Friedland Chymes last night. The cakey lunatic, whose reign of terror has kept Reading in a state of constant fear for the past six months, was brought to book by DI Chymes and some other unnamed officers in a textbook case of inspired investigation. “It really wasn’t that hard,” declared Chymes modestly. “Myself and some colleagues just did what was expected of any member of the police force.” The flour, butter, ginger and sugar psychopath, whose penchant for literally pulling his victims apart, is currently in a secure wing of St. Cerebellum’s, where he will doubtless remain for the rest of his life.
Brickfield Terrace was a tree-lined avenue of houses built in the late 1890s and was situated only a few miles from the town center. Mr. Pewter’s house, Jack discovered, was the last one in the street and also seemed to be the only house not dissected into undistinguished flats. As he tugged on the bellpull, he noted an ugly hole where the boot scraper should have been. After a moment, the door opened, and a tall man with Victorian clothes, a large beard and a face like a bloodhound stood on the threshold.
“If you’re from
His deep voice showed little emotion and was about as salubrious as his features.
Jack held up his ID card. “Detective Inspector Jack Spratt, Nursery Crime Division. This is Detective Sergeant Mary Mary.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Dumpty. You’d better come in.”
Jack thanked him, and they stepped inside. It was like walking into a museum, for the whole house was decorated and furnished in a middle-class Victorian fashion. There was no expensive furniture; all the pieces were of low-quality boxwood and poor veneer. A pair of plaster of paris antlers painted brown were waiting to be put up on the wall, and fans and other Victorian knickery-knackery filled every vacant space. Mr. Pewter contemplated Jack’s curious gaze with pride.
“It’s all original, Mr. Spratt. Every single piece, from the screens to the bedstead to the fans on the sideboard. As very little of poor-quality Victorian furniture survives, for obvious reasons, it’s of almost incalculable value. I bought these plaster of paris antlers at Christie’s last week for seven thousand pounds. I had to beat off stiff competition from Japan; they love this stuff almost as much as I do. Shall we repair to my study?”
“Please.”
Mr. Pewter led them through to a library, filled with thousands of antiquarian books.
“Impressive, eh?”
“Very,” said Jack. “How did you amass all these?”
“Well,” said Pewter, “you know the person who always borrows books and never gives them back?”
“Yes…?”
“I’m that person.”
He smiled curiously and offered them both a seat before sitting himself.
“So how may I help?” he asked.
“You were at the Spongg Footcare Charity Benefit last night at the Deja Vu Ballrooms?”
“I was.”
“And you spoke with Mr. Dumpty?”
“Indeed I did, Inspector. Although, to be honest, I didn’t really get much sense out of him.”
“Was Mr. Dumpty drunk when he arrived?”
“Mr. Dumpty was a bit drunk all the time. He had a brilliant mind, but he wasted himself. I sat next to him, as I thought I could get him to join one of my self-help groups. You may not know, Mr. Spratt, but I run the Reading Temperance Society. We do what we can for people like Mr. Dumpty, using a combination of group reliance, prayer and electroshock aversion therapy. I spoke to him sternly about his habit when he joined the table.”
“What did he say?”
Mr. Pewter coughed politely. “He said, ‘Pass the Bolly, old trout, I’ve got a tongue like the Gobi Desert.’ I refused, and he got Marjorie to pass it over instead. I tried to make him see reason, but he just told me not to be an old, er…”
“Fart?” inquired Mary helpfully.
“Exactly so, young lady. I tried again to make him see sense but he became sarcastic. I warned him about that, too, as I also run Reading’s branch of Sarcastics Anonymous — ”
“And
“He drank more and more until he was picking arguments with just about anybody on any subject. The whole sordid business came to a head when Lord Spongg approached the lectern and announced he was starting a fifty- million-pound fund for the rebuilding of St. Cerebellum’s, the woefully inadequate mental hospital. Mr. Dumpty got up before any of us could stop him and pledged the full fifty million plus any ‘brown envelopes’ that might be
