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42. Return to Castle Spongg
OWL AND PUSSYCAT TO WED
Following months of heated speculation, the Owl and the Pussycat have a
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 molto prestissimo. As they passed the rhododendron grove, the car gave an odd shudder and a lurch, and one of the rear wheels sheared off, wobbled for a moment and then, overtaking its erstwhile master, leaped across the lawn like a stone skipping on the surface of a lake, eventually disappearing into the greenhouse with a crash of glass and a tearing of foliage.
“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 Föngotskilérnie. 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 really want to be in the Guild, Inspector?”
“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 lied. He said he’d only seen Humpty once in the past year: at the Spongg Charity Benefit. Yet they were both at Dr. Carbuncle’s retirement party. Moreover, we saw crates of foot preparations at the Spongg factory. They weren’t unsold—they were stockpiles. What better way to save his failing empire than engineer a mass outbreak of verrucas?”
“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 something. He ducked behind one of the giant bronze anteaters and heard Baker cry out again. He ran forwards and stepped carefully inside the house. The lights were off, the interior dingy, and someone, somewhere, was playing the violin. While he paused to let his eyes get used to the gloom, a polite cough made him jump. He wheeled around and came face-to-face with… Ffinkworth.
“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 protect me, sir.”
He tapped his chest, and Jack could see that the butler was indeed wearing body armor. He hid a smile. Ffinkworth looked impassively ahead.
“Even so,” returned Jack, “I think you’d better leave.”