Mary bit her lip. She could still back out. Chymes or Jack? Two days ago — no, wait, two hours ago it would have been a no-brainer. Now it was different. The NCD? Well, somehow it felt sort of right. That she belonged.
“I don’t think so, sir.”
Briggs raised an eyebrow, and Jack stopped in midstride.
“I found the slug that killed Humpty. It had fallen to earth in a length of guttering two doors down. SOCO are on their way now. The slug is only mildly deformed, but we can tell the caliber. It’s a.44. If Mrs. Dumpty did kill him, then she used another gun from the one we found in her desk.”
She waited a moment for the information to sink in.
“I spoke to Mr. Spatchcock, who is her personal trainer, this morning. He was with her when Humpty was killed. All night. They were lovers.”
Briggs stared up at her coldly. “And this?” he asked, indicating the suicide note. “What are you saying? Someone forced her to write that note?”
“I’ll confess it’s a puzzler,” said Jack, who had returned to Briggs’s desk, “but we’re going to find out.”
“This Thomas Spatchcock fellow is wholly unreliable,” muttered Briggs, clutching at straws. “I don’t think we can believe a word he says.”
“I never said his name was Thomas,” said Mary in a quiet voice.
There was silence. Briggs had dropped himself in it, and he knew it. He rubbed a hand wearily over his face, pushing his glasses onto his forehead.
“Okay,” he said as he took off his spectacles and leaned back in his chair, “you’ve got me. This isn’t my doing. Chymes wields considerable weight with the Chief Constable, and as you know, he wants the Humpty gig. Look, well… I’m hanging out on a limb here, but you’ve got until the end of play Saturday to make some headway. If it’s not sorted by the time the Jellyman has come and gone, I’m putting someone else on the case. And if you aren’t out of my office in ten seconds, I’ll change my mind — and screw the consequences.”
As soon as they were in the corridor, Jack turned to Mary.
“In the nick of time. I thought you hated it here?”
“I thought so, too, sir. But you know when you said the NCD grows on you?”
“Yes?”
“Well, it’s grown on me. And listen, sir, I have to apologize for something.”
“Don’t bother. You’ve more than made up for it, whatever it was.”
“No, I really want to tell you.”
“And I really don’t want to hear it. If you were at the Guild bar the night before last or speaking to Flotsam at Platters Coffeehouse, I really don’t want to know about it — you probably have your reasons. Did they do the old ‘Barnes is retiring, we need a replacement’ routine on you?”
“You knew? Why didn’t you say something?”
Jack shrugged. “I don’t know. It was your decision. I kind of felt you’d do the right thing, though.”
Mary couldn’t think of anything to say. He had trusted her to do the right thing, and she had almost stabbed him in the back.
“I’ve… I’ve underestimated you, sir — badly.”
“Well, I shouldn’t worry about it. I’ve been underestimated before.”
She felt anger rise inside her. Anger at herself for being such a fool, and anger at Chymes for taking advantage of her.
“Sir,” she said, “Chymes wants the Humpty investigation for the Amazing Crime Summer Special — he knew the night before we did about Humpty’s murder and has known about Spatchcock from about the same time. We can lodge a complaint about serious professional misconduct!”
“Mary,” said Jack quietly, “calm down. Think you’re the first person this has happened to? I told you before: He’s a complete shit. Don’t waste your breath. Gretel’s career is almost finished, and all she did was call him an arsehole. Have you any idea what a formal complaint would do to you? We concentrate on Humpty. Nothing else matters. Okay?”
She took a deep breath.
“Yes, sir. But I think I’ve made a lifelong enemy of Chymes.”
“You and me both. Did I ever tell you why?”
“No.”
“His fiancée left him when he pinched the credit for the Gingerbreadman capture.”
“So?”
“She left him for me. She was my first wife.”
“The one who passed away?”
“Right. Ben and Pandora’s mother.”
“Chymes got the Guild, and you got the girl.”
Jack smiled. “In one. I got the better part of the bargain, and he knew it.”
Mary looked up at Jack, but this time in a different light.
“Why have you stayed at the NCD so long, sir?”
He shrugged. “It needs me. And I need it. Can’t explain. Just the way it is. Make any sense?”
“Kind of. Oh, I almost forgot.” She pulled the buff envelope from out of her jacket. “I was asked to give you these by someone who doesn’t want to be identified.”
“Skinner?’
“Yes.”
“Usually him. Let’s have a look.”
He opened the envelope and flicked through the pictures, rubbed his forehead and put them back.
“Don’t show these to anyone, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. What is it?”
“Something bigger than any of us. Just forget about them.”
“Sir!” said Baker as they approached the NCD offices. “Just got a message from Ops. It’s Willie Winkie.”
“Asleep again?”
“Permanently. Over in Palmer Park. Mrs. Singh is already in attendance. Is the Humpty investigation finished?”
“Far from it!” yelled Jack over his shoulder as they hurriedly retraced their steps down the corridor. “It’s back on with a vengeance. As you were. I want some answers by the time I get back. TIBBIT!”
25. Good Night, Wee Willie Winkie
PRINCE SOUGHT AFTER SLAYING
Police were called to Elsinore Castle yesterday to investigate the unnatural death of one of the King’s closest advisers. Married, a father of two, Mr. Polonius was discovered stabbed and his body hidden under the stairs to the lobby, although fibers recovered from his wound match a wall hanging in the Queen’s bedroom. DI Dogberry, fresh from his successful solving of the Desdemona murder, told us, “We are eager to integrate a Prince who was absurd in the area shortly after.” Sources close to the King tell us that Prince Hamlet has been acting erratically ever since the unexpected yet entirely natural and unsuspicious death of his father eight weeks before.
It was raining hard when Jack, Mary and Tibbit pulled up at the perimeter of Palmer Park, a sports field and public amenity site to the east of town. A uniformed officer in a raincoat pointed them towards a white scene-of-crime tent set up behind the grandstand. The rain had discouraged all onlookers, and the only member of the public visible was a lone runner who plodded around the track, seemingly oblivious to the downpour.
“Tibbit, start on some house-to-house, will you? I want to know if anybody saw anything.”
Tibbit took out his notepad and walked over to the row of houses that faced the field.
“How far are we from Grimm’s Road?” asked Mary as they trudged across the wet grass.
“A couple of hundred yards. The other side of that road.”
The immediate area around the crime scene had been taped off. Shenstone was the Scene of Crime Officer, and he had conveniently rigged a narrow “exit and entrance” walkway delineated by white tape so they could all come and go without destroying any potential footprints. Mary started to talk to the officer first on the scene, who was relieved that it was an NCD case; it meant a lot less paperwork.