The big over easy

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.