The big over easy

at Prometheus through the balusters. Prometheus watched her go and had to be nudged by Jack to stop him staring.

Madeleine softened. She had been concerned for the children, but Prometheus seemed to fit in perfectly.

“Welcome, Mr. Prometheus.”

“Thank you.” The Titan smiled. “And it’s just ‘Prometheus.’”

Madeleine put the kettle on and continued, “It’s not often I have a political refugee in my house. I’ve followed your struggle with interest. Perhaps we can talk about ancient Greece a little later?”

Prometheus gave another short bow and smiled politely.

“Well,” he began, “‘ancient Greece’ is a little bit of a misnomer, really; when I was there, it was simply a collection of city-states — Athens, Sparta, Thebes, Delphi and so forth. Sparta was a tough place to grow up in, but Athens was a blast. Full of people wrapped in sheets having good ideas. We used to have this thing called ‘ostracism’ where you could vote anyone you didn’t like out of the city — I think I’m an Idiot, Get Me on Telly! uses the same format. Your idea of modern Greece really only began with Diocletian’s division in 286. I can tell you a bit about harpies, Ben, and Megan — I’d very much like to be your show-and-tell. Jack, I’m also pretty good with torque settings on Allegro wheel bearings.”

“Can you cook?” asked Madeleine.

“I love to cook. Do you all like Mediterranean?”

They stared at him, awestruck. He was over four thousand years old, and so he knew almost everything there was to know about everything. Truly, he was the tenant of the gods.

“Which way is the karzy?” he asked, puncturing his sagelike image somewhat. “I’m dying for a dump.”

16. Mrs. Sings Turns the Story

“LOCKED ROOM” MYSTERY HONORED

The entire crime-writing fraternity yesterday bade a tearful farewell to the last “locked room” mystery at a large banquet held in its honor. The much-loved conceptual chestnut of mystery fiction for over a century had been unwell for many years and was finally discovered dead at 3:15 A.M. last Tuesday. In a glowing tribute, the editor of Amazing Crime declared, “From humble beginnings to towering preeminence in the world of mystery, the ‘locked room’ plot contrivance will always remain in our hearts.” DCI Chymes then gave a glowing eulogy before being interrupted by the shocking news that the ‘locked room’ concept had been murdered — and in a locked room. The banquet was canceled, and police are investigating.

Editorial in Amazing Crime, February 23, 2001

Jack got to the station canteen for breakfast. He sat at an empty table and stared absently out the window at the traffic on the Inner Distribution Road. The IDR, as it was known, had been built to alleviate traffic but had exacted a price that the town could ill afford. Several fine streets had been demolished to build it, the heart ripped out of the old town. The whole scheme had rendered itself almost redundant when the M4 took most of the through traffic from the A4, a route that was, despite the huge road-building program, still bottlenecked.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Baker. How are you?”

It was definitely the wrong sort of question to ask a hypochondriac, but it was too late.

“Not so bad, sir,” he replied, taking a plastic carton out of his knapsack and depositing a bewildering array of pills of all shapes, colors and sizes in a saucer. Jack could have sworn most of them were either Smarties, Skittles or Tic-Tacs, but he didn’t say so.

“The thing is,” continued Baker after swallowing several blue pills and knocking them back with a purple, “I woke up this morning with a runny nose and was, to tell the truth, rather worried.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Yes. I thought for a moment it might be TB, leprosy or tertiary syphilis.”

Jack humored him, for this was a common source of conversation with Baker. “I thought they checked you for leprosy last year?”

“They did, so it couldn’t be that. TB was out of the question, because I didn’t have a cough, and syphilis wasn’t likely, because I’m rather too young to have it end-stage without the bit in the middle.”

“So it was just a cold, then?”

“It certainly looked like it, but then I thought that maybe it wasn’t mucus coming out of my nose at all.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“No, it could be cerebrospinal fluid. I played football on Sunday and had a hefty tackle. It’s possible that I might have a fractured skull.”

“Is that really likely?”

Baker looked down and took a few more pills. “No, not really.”

He looked up again. “Sir, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but Gretel, Ashley and myself would be more than happy to put in a bit of overtime if it meant having another crack at the three pigs.

I know they got off the murder rap and double jeopardy and all that, but if there is a chance of getting them with ‘intentional wounding’ or ‘boiling a large pot without due care and attention,’ then we’re up for it.”

“You know what Briggs says about NCD overtime.”

“We weren’t thinking of getting paid, sir.”

Jack looked at Baker, who was staring at him earnestly. He had even forgotten to sniffle, and the collection of pills and vitamin supplements he was making his way through was, for the moment, untouched.

“I appreciate that, Baker, but I think we’re going to have to just walk away from the porkers. We lost.”

A voice made them both turn.

“I suppose you think this is clever?”

It was Briggs, and he didn’t look very happy.

“Sir?”

Briggs slapped a copy of The Owl on the table in front of him.

“Page eight, Jack,” said Briggs testily. “Page eight, column four.”

Jack turned to the page Briggs had indicated. “‘Splotvian Minister of Antiquities Demands Return of Sacred Gonga’?”

“Below that.”

“‘Nursery Favorite Dies in Wall-Death Drama. Police Ask: Was He Pushed?’”

“It’s a good job it’s only on page eight,” said Briggs angrily. “If you’re trying to whip up some public interest to keep your precious division, I won’t be pleased. And I don’t think the budgetary committee will take to it very well either.”

“I didn’t breathe a word, sir.”

“Then who is asking if he was pushed?”

“No one. Media speculation. He killed himself. Very depressed around Easter — we spoke to his doctor and ex-wife, who confirmed it.”

“When do I see some paperwork?”

“As soon as I get a pathologist’s report from Mrs. Singh. There’s no story, so I think this article will be the first and last.”

Briggs seemed to accept this and nodded sagely. “Very well. Good work, Spratt — and not a dead giant in sight.”

“That’s not funny, sir.”

“Isn’t it? One other thing: Someone’s been spreading a practical joke around the station that you’ve applied to join the Guild of Detectives. Any idea who’s behind it?”