OWL AND PUSSYCAT TO WED
Following months of heated speculation, the Owl and the Pussycat have announced their plans to wed at the next full moon. The pairing promises to be the celebrity wedding of the year, and guest lists are for the moment being kept secret. Fans of the fearless duo, whose exploits during their record circumnavigation of the globe in the pea-green boat have entered into legend, were ecstatic at the news. “This is, like, so cool,” exclaimed one of the many fans who gathered outside the gates of the Owl’s mansion yesterday. The couple’s PR agent is giving little away, revealing only that the wedding feast will be mostly mince and slices of quince, served up with a runcible spoon. Although the location of the wedding has not been revealed, fans insist that it is most likely to be in the land where the Bong-tree grows, and the minister the Turkey who lives on the hill.
The Allegro’s tires complained bitterly as Mary turned hard into Castle Spongg’s drive and tore across the rumble strips, the “Jerusalem” on the car tires playing this time at
“Whoops,” said Jack.
The car dropped to the road and slewed sideways, rudely interrupting “Jerusalem” with a metallic scraping noise and cutting a neat groove through the road and into the grass. It came to a stop facing the opposite direction. Mary carefully turned off the engine.
“Wheel-bearing torque settings,” explained Jack uselessly in the silence that followed their abrupt halt, “they’re quite critical on these cars.”
Brown-Horrocks glared at Jack and clambered out. “You don’t actually own a vintage Rolls-Royce at all, do you?”
Jack felt stupid all of a sudden. “No, I don’t.”
“This is your car, isn’t it?”
Jack looked at the remains of the Allegro. It had served him well, but a large ripple up the rear body work and across the roof guaranteed that their partnership was at an end.
“Yes, it is.”
“You don’t have a drinking problem either, do you?”
“No.”
“Anything else you might have ‘embellished’ in your Guild application?”
“I have a wonderful wife and five terrific kids.”
“And you — you’re quite ordinary, aren’t you?”
He was asking Mary, who jumped as though stuck with a cattle prod.
“I have a lot of ex-boyfriends,” she said helpfully.
“My superintendent speaks Urdu,” added Jack, trying to recoup lost ground, “and he could, if pushed, change his name to Fongotskilernie. And he plays the trombone.”
“Badly,” added Brown-Horrocks. “He insisted on playing for me when I went to get your case notes.”
He sighed and tucked the clipboard under his arm. “Do you
“I’d like to be,” Jack replied, “but I guess it’s just that I’ve spent over twenty years sorting out problems with the nurseries and never getting anywhere. At least if I were Guild, the Prosecution Service might take notice of me — and get some justice for the victims. Give the NCD some balls, if you like.”
Brown-Horrocks nodded soberly but gave nothing away. They left the car looking forlorn on the grass and hurried towards the main entrance.
“Why Spongg and not Grundy?” asked Brown-Horrocks as they passed the foot-shaped lake. “Spongg has a philanthropic reputation that is hard to beat.”
“Because he
“Not bad,” said Brown-Horrocks approvingly. “Then who did Humpty marry?”
“Now, that,” puffed Jack as they came within site of Castle Spongg, “is something I’m still not sure about.”
They found Gretel waiting for them in front of the house behind a large pink marble toe. It was over fifteen feet across and rested on a black marble plinth. A gift from His Royal Highness Suleiman bin Daoud, it was a token of gratitude to the first Lord Spongg for curing his kingdom of a particularly virulent form of athlete’s foot in 1878.
Jack glanced around. “Where’s Baker?”
Gretel looked uneasy. “He went in. I tried to stop him, but he said armed response wouldn’t be here for weeks, and there might be staff in the house that needed to be evacuated. He said it didn’t matter because he has a brain tumor and won’t last the week anyway.”
“Is that true?” asked Brown-Horrocks.
“No,” said Jack, “he’s a hypochondriac. He’s had a self-proclaimed two months to live ever since he started working at the division six years ago. He — ”
A muffled shot interrupted Jack’s sentence. They peered around the statue at the front door, which was ajar. Nothing stirred from within.
“Call Ops and get the paramedics down here, but don’t let them in until I say so — and bring a vest back with you.”
Gretel scurried over to Baker’s car and relayed Jack’s request into the police radio. Jack was all for waiting, but then he heard it. It was the unmistakable sound of Baker. He was hurt, and he was moaning. Gretel returned with the vest. It was designed to stop a knife, but it could just about stop a bullet — as long as it was large-caliber, low-velocity or long-range — ideally, all three.
“You’re not going in alone, sir?” asked Mary.
“With all armed-response teams tied up with the Jellyman, it doesn’t look like I have a great deal of choice, does it?”
“It’s against regulations, sir.”
“True, but Baker’s hurt, and I don’t leave a man down. I’ll call when I can.” He took Mary’s mobile, switched it off and put it in his top pocket.
“Take care, sir.”
Jack looked at Mary’s anxious face. “Thanks.”
Jack approached the bizarre house warily. He knew that his decision went against every police procedural recommendation that had ever been made, but while an officer lay wounded inside, he felt he had to do
“Good morning, Inspector,” said the butler solemnly. “I trust you are quite well?”
“I think you’d better leave, Mr. Ffinkworth. Lord Spongg is armed and dangerous. I don’t want any civilians hurt.”
Ffinkworth seemed miffed to be referred to as a “civilian.” He stared at Jack with his sharp green eyes for a moment.
“Indeed, sir. I hardly think I am in any danger from his lordship. The Ffinkworths have served the Sponggs faithfully for over a hundred years, and I sincerely doubt that his lordship would find it in his heart to end such a favorable alliance. If I get caught in what is referred to as a ‘crossfire,’ I am quite confident that my Kevlar vest will
