The Fourth Bear

upon nonbears. Most common is the Ursine Badge of Merit (2,568 recipients), which is more a measure of thanks. The second is the Ursidae Order of Friendship, which is closer to a status than medal and confers upon the holder unswerving protection from any bear, to death, without question. There are only five living recipients, all of whom live in Reading, Berkshire.

The Bumper Book of Berkshire Records, 2004 edition

They rose through the Bob Southey in one of the many luxurious oak-paneled lifts. Jack found to his surprise that he was still holding Ashley’s thin but immensely strong outer membrane. It had dried out by now and resembled blue cellophane. So he rolled it up, folded it twice and placed it in his breast pocket for safekeeping.

“Thanks for rescuing me,” said Jack, finally breaking the thoughtful silence. “I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me shit, Inspector,” replied Vinnie in his usual short manner. “The Ursa Majors voted you Friend to Bears an hour ago, and it’s totally out of my hands. It’s not a good situation. I’ve got a bit of clout with the authorities, but it’s only a matter of time before they decide to use force to get you and Bartholomew out of here.”

“I’ll surrender before that happens, Vinnie. I won’t have senseless loss just to postpone the inevitable.”

Vinnie gave an imperceptible nod to show that he approved of Jack’s attitude.

The elevator doors opened, and they walked out into a plush corridor with thick carpeting on the floor and original Lichtenstein prints decorating the walls. Vinnie walked up to a door and entered. It wasn’t locked, but this wasn’t unusual—bears didn’t have any need for them. In the entire Bob Southey, the only locks were the ones that connected the bears’ world to that of the outside. The apartment was light, airy and modern, but it still retained the same understated utopian ethos as the three bears’ cottage in the forest: hard-wearing, functional wooden furniture and a minimalistic low-tech feel with simple floral designs on the drapes and small furnishings.

Standing at the window was Sherman Bartholomew. He looked tired and gaunt.

“Good evening, Inspector,” he said, rubbing his temples nervously. “I know I’m going to be sorry to ask this, but… what the blazes is going on?”

“I’m not one hundred percent sure yet, sir. A missing nuclear physicist, a discovery of unthinkable and devastating potential and Goldilocks caught up in the middle. NS-4 and QuangTech are implicated, and the Gingerbreadman is involved—I just don’t know where. And then there’s the fourth bear.”

Jack went on for some minutes, attempting to explain the complexities of the case.

When he’d finished, Bartholomew stared at him for a long time and then said, “I knew I’d be sorry.”

Vinnie, however, had understood it all a little better.

“So are you saying that all the nuclear strain of cucumbers have been destroyed?”

“No—Fuchsia told me that his ‘Alpha-Pickle’ was snipped off the main stalk last night. That’s the sole remaining cucumber. Whoever possesses that has almost unthinkable riches and power within his grasp.”

“And who do you suppose this fourth bear is?” asked Vinnie.

“I was hoping you’d be able to tell me. He’s a dominant male, likes porridge, has no compunction about killing other bears—and was having an affair with Ursula Bruin.”

Vinnie pricked up his ears when he heard this.

“You’ve an idea?” asked Jack.

“Not me—but Ursula might.”

They took the elevator to the large vaulted atrium on the ground floor and made their way across to the Bob Southey Medical Center.

“She regained consciousness an hour ago,” explained Vinnie, his claws clicking percussively on the smooth marble flooring. “She can’t speak, but she might be able to communicate in some other way.”

The medical center was one of the most modern Jack had ever seen, a reflection on the colossal wealth the bear fraternity had amassed over the years with wise long-term investments, well-planned trust funds and top- notch stock portfolios. Ed Bruin was in his own room, where a small army of medical staff was giving him minute- by-minute care. He seemed to have more tubes going into him than Charing Cross Station, and a vast array of high- tech equipment played an almost symphonic melody of bleeps, pings, chirps and whistles, while several monitors spewed out long strips of paper full of meaningful ink traces.

“He’s a long way from being out of danger,” said a small bear with a stethoscope draped around his neck, “but he’s getting the best care we can give him.”

Ursula was in a separate room and had only a plasma drip and a heart monitor. She was lying on her back on a sturdy wooden bed with a crocheted bedspread, and a large flower arrangement in a vase was sitting atop a table nearby. Sun streamed through the open window, and sitting opposite her with his chair against a bookshelf was the baby bear. It was the first time Jack had seen him, and he was baby in name only. Medium-size and wearing baggy trousers and a hoodie emblazoned with a flaming skull, he looked like any other teenager you might find in Reading—only with a lot more hair.

“She’s very weak,” said the bear with the stethoscope. “Try not to tire her too much.”

“Mrs. Bruin?” inquired Vinnie softly.

Her eyes flickered open, and she stared weakly in their direction.

“This is Inspector Spratt,” continued Vinnie. “He’s friendly to bears, and he needs to ask you a few questions.”

She blinked twice and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“I know about the fourth bear,” began Jack. “I know that he was there in the cottage the morning Goldilocks came around, and whatever you think about him, you must know that he killed Goldilocks and attempted to have you and your husband murdered to keep you quiet. You don’t owe him a thing, and I need to know who he is and where I can find him.”

Ursula closed her eyes for a moment, and two tears welled up in her small brown eyes. She looked at Jack, then raised a wobbly claw and pointed it… at Vinnie.

“Oh, I get it now,” said Jack, jumping to his feet. “All the time you pretend to be on our side, but actually, while using the League of Ursidae as cover, you—”

But then he stopped, because Vinnie was pointing at Ursula. Her wavering claw was no longer directed at Vinnie; she was pointing it across the room to… baby bear.

“Oh, I get it now,” said Jack, turning to face the youngest Bruin. “Adopted when a cub, you grew resentful of your father’s authority and—”

“Jack,” said Vinnie in a kindly tone, “calm down. I think you’re suffering a temporary excess of resolutions.”

Jack took a deep breath to compose himself. Vinnie was right. And Ursula was pointing not at baby bear but at the bookcase behind him.

“She means a book,” muttered Vinnie, running across to the bookshelf and gathering up an armful of volumes, which he then proceeded to show to Ursula one by one. By the time they’d got to the third shelf, they’d found what she meant. It was the authorized biography of the Quangle-Wangle, and most households in Reading had a copy.

Jack opened it to the first page and sat on the bed to show Ursula the list of chapters. She indicated the appendix, Jack rapidly flicked to the back of the book, and Ursula pointed to a popular ballad that described in broadly lyrical terms the formation of the characters who came together to form the Quang’s business empire.

'‘The Quangle-Wangle’s Hat’? asked Jack, and Ursula nodded. She then closed her eyes and relaxed, her energy spent. Jack cleared his throat and read:

“On top of the Crumpetty tree, the Quangle-Wangle sat,

But his face you could not see, on account of his beaver hat.

For his hat was a hundred and two feet wide,

With ribbons and bibbons on every side,

And bells and buttons and loops and lace,

So no one could ever see the face