“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
“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
“You have the nicest way of putting things, Archie.”
“So it wasn’t stealing gems in Ogapoga,” murmured Mary as they walked back to the NCD offices. “It was gunrunning to rebels.”
“His crimes never seem to benefit
“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“Like a Spongg share scam that liberated fifty million pounds for the rebuilding of the woefully inadequate and outdated St. Cerebellum’s mental hospital?”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…
21. RIP, Mrs. Dumpty, and “the Case… Is Closed!”
CHYMES TO ATTEMPT WORLD SLEUTH RECORD
Global number-two-ranked
“She was on an inspection of the chocolate digestive production line,” explained a very shaken executive less than half an hour later down at the Yummy-Time factory, a clean and efficient facility full of clanking machinery, stainless-steel vats and the smell of baking and hot sugar.
“During our afternoon tour, she asked me to fetch her shawl from her office. When I returned, I found a group of workers clustered around the industrial food mixers. It was no use, of course; Mr. Aimsworth said he saw her jump into the main dough mixer — not just for the digestives but for the entire range of biscuits, all the way from custard creams to Abernethys.”
He broke down and gave out a muffled sob, then blew his nose on a bright yellow hankie.
“She’d been a leading light of Yummy-Time since she took over from her father ten years ago,” said the executive. “She knew shortbread fingers like the back of her hand and upside-down cakes back to front.”
Jack and Mary peered cautiously into one of the vast mixing vats, which, they had been informed earlier, held almost five tons of dough mixture. Of Mrs. Dumpty they could see only a foot and part of a blue dress. Already firemen had put a ladder into the vat and were wading through the sticky mixture to try to retrieve what was left of her.
“You better get a statement from the fellow who saw her jump, Mary. I’m going to look at her office.”
He was escorted off the factory floor by the executive, who bemoaned the loss of Mrs. Dumpty and her biscuit expertise. They stepped into the spotless interior of the administration side of the building, up two flights of steps and on to Mrs. Dumpty’s office, which would have afforded a fine view of Reading if low clouds hadn’t been scudding across the city.
“This is her office,” said the executive. “What a terrible thing to happen! I didn’t think she would want to…
Jack walked around her desk and noticed a picture of her and Humpty in a gilt frame. There was a computer, telephone, correspondence. He stopped. There, on the blotter, was a single piece of paper folded once, with his name written clearly on the front. He took out a fountain pen and pocketknife to avoid touching it, delicately opened the note and read it. He read it again, to make quite sure.
