He turned, took Mary’s phone and hurriedly dialed the NCD offices. If he was right, then he knew who had killed Humpty—and Carbuncle.
The little Austin Allegro sped along the narrow country track with Jack in the passenger seat, Mary driving and Brown-Horrocks folded up in the rear. Despite the misdiagnosis, Brown-Horrocks seemed determined to see the whole thing through, if not for anything but a strange sort of curiosity to watch what Jack would do next. They left Carbuncle’s smallholding as soon as an officer arrived to keep the area secure; Briggs had called Jack to confirm that the Sacred Gonga Visitors’ Center had been cordoned off. Chymes, thought Jack, must be kicking himself—he’d never had anything as dramatically complex as a biohazard incident.
The traffic was appalling. No, it was worse than appalling. The news of the Jellyman’s visit had had a magical effect, and almost everyone in the Home Counties was trying to converge on Reading for a brief glimpse.
“I expect this sort of thing happens all the time when you’re examining potential Guild members?” asked Jack, who felt he had to say something.
“No,” said Brown-Horrocks, “I have to say this is all quite a new experience.”
“Good or bad?”
“You’ll find out in due course,” replied Brown-Horrocks enigmatically.
Jack turned on the radio and was gratified to hear the news that the Sacred Gonga Visitors’ Center would be closed until further notice.
Mary’s phone rang, and Jack answered it. “DI Spratt.” He listened for a moment. “Do I?” He pressed his finger on the “mute” button. “It’s Arnold. He says I sound uncannily like your father.”
“Tell him I never want to see him again, ever.”
“Hello, Arnold? She’ll call you back.”
He flipped it shut and looked at Brown-Horrocks, who raised an eyebrow. Jack pointed out a side street that he knew was a good shortcut as the phone rang again.
It was Ashley.
“Your suspect is at home,” he reported. “I had a call from Baker. When he and Gretel knocked at the front door, several shots rang out from an upstairs window.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“No. I’ve requested armed response, but the Jellyman has used up all available manpower. Briggs said that since we were now excused from Sacred Gonga protection duty, we could do it ourselves.”
“With what? Using our fingers and making ‘bang’ noises? Get back onto him and tell him I’ve specifically requested it.”
“Righto, sir. Did Mrs. Singh get hold of you?”
They ground to a halt in some heavy traffic.
“Show some blue, Mary. We might not have too much time.”
Mary switched on the siren and placed a magnetic blue light on the roof of the Allegro. Jack held on tightly as she swerved across the verge and rapidly overtook the stationary traffic.
“Mrs. Singh?” asked Jack. “What—MIND THE CURB!!”
Mary swerved to avoid a curbstone and took a left the wrong way down a one-way street. Several cars scattered as she drove up the middle.
“Are you still there, sir?” asked Ashley.
“For now. Who knows, I may just live to see the summer.”
Jack wedged his feet into the footwell and stamped on an imaginary brake as Mary took a red light at full speed, cut across some grass and entered Prospect Park through a gap in the fence.
“So what did Mrs. Singh want?” Jack asked Ashley.
“She didn’t say. But she said it was important. Something about Humpty.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. Did Arnold get hold of Mary?”
Jack held on to the door handle as Mary bounced through the park and drove out the other side, made a sharp left and then a right and took off over a humpback bridge, on landing transforming an eighth of an inch of the Allegro’s sump into a shower of hot sparks. Brown-Horrocks’s head hit the roof with a hollow thud.
“Tell Mrs. Singh I’ll ring her when I can. Call Baker and inform him and Gretel we’ll be with them”—he looked across at Mary—
“soon. Call me back once Briggs has managed to secure an armed-response unit for our use.”
Ashley answered in the affirmative and rang off.
They were now driving out the other side of the town, against the heavy traffic—all full of people hoping to catch a glimpse of the Jellyman. They picked up speed, and the needle on the speedometer touched eighty; Jack looked nervously at the temperature gauge, which was already into the red, and then at Mary, who was concentrating on the road. He turned to give a confident smile to Brown-Horrocks, who had wedged himself in the back and was staring grimly at the road ahead. After another ten minutes, they approached their destination: Castle Spongg.
42. Return to Castle Spongg
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.
—Extract from The Gadfly, August 7, 1998
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 tw
enty 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.”
“In good time, sir. Can I offer you a small glass of Madeira? The house, it is generally agreed, looks easier after a small tot of firewater.”
“No thanks. Did you see another officer come in here?”
“Certainly, sir. Constable Baker has, I understand, been shot in the leg. He is in some considerable pain but not yet in danger of expiration. Will that be all, sir?”
“Where are they?”
“His lordship is in the west library. Mr. Baker is with him. He is held, sir, in what I believe is referred to as a ‘hostage situation,’ sir.”
Jack looked at the several corridors that led out of the entrance hall. “Which way is the library?”
“I am sorry sir,” replied Ffinkworth loftily, “but I have been instructed not to offer you any help. If you require anything else, please do not hesitate to ring.”
He bowed stiffly from the waist and disappeared down through a trapdoor like someone in a conjuring trick.
Jack looked around and then walked slowly up the ornately carved wooden staircase. All the steps were of different heights and depths, and it was difficult not to stumble on the polished wood. As he was watching his feet, his head struck the roof of the entrance hall. The staircase went nowhere, the upstairs hall merely a trompe l’oeil that had been painted on the ceiling. Jack retraced his steps back to the front door. He walked off to the right, leaving the entrance hall, and opened a door at random into what seemed to be a drawing room. It was well furnished and lit by electric light, as the shutters were closed. At the far end of the room was another door, so Jack closed the one behind him and made his way cautiously across. The first sign of anything wrong came when he suddenly felt disoriented and fell over. Mary’s mobile dropped out of his pocket, and he was about to pick it up when it started to move, quite on its own, back in the direction he had just come. It gathered speed, shot under the table and hit the door he had entered with a sharp thud. Before he could think what had happened, he felt himself being pulled by some powerful force in the same direction. He tried to get up but fell over again and then followed the Nokia back to the door, hitting his chin on a chair leg on the way down. He was now back where he had started, but instead of lying on the floor, he found himself actually in a heap on the door, seemingly pulled by some invisible force. He retrieved the mobile and got shakily to his feet. He found, to his astonishment, that he could now stand upright on the wall. The floor had become the wall, the wall the floor. His heart beat faster as his mind tried to make some kind of order of the situation. There was another lurch, and he fell over again, sliding up the wall to the molded ceiling, past two plaster cherubs that grinned at him. He felt panic rise within him, but then a piece of wax fruit from the fruit bowl on the table dislodged itself and fell up to the ceiling, slowly rolling down to where he was sprawled on the cornice. In a flash Jack realized what was happening. The room was slowly revolving, with him in it. Once he had figured what was going on, he managed to stand up straight and within a few minutes had walked across the ceiling moldings, past the chandelier and down the opposite wall. Five minutes later the room had turned full circle, and he opened the far door and stepped out into the house again. He sighed a sigh of relief and leaned against the wall.
Jack noticed that the music had become louder, so he slowly followed its source and, rounding a corner, found Ffinkworth playing the violin.
“Hello, sir,” the butler said genially, “have you found his lordship yet?”
&n
bsp; “N-no!” stammered Jack, running a shaking hand through his hair, noticing the silver salver with his undrunk Madeira upon a small table close by. “How did you manage that?”
“Sir?”
“The violin. I heard it when I spoke to you in the hall!”
“Ah,” said Ffinkworth, standing up and untensioning his bow. “As sir has probably found out, Castle Spongg is rarely what it seems. The usual physical laws of time and motion appear to have forsaken its twisting corridors. Caligari was indeed a genius, you know, sir.”
He picked up the salver with the Madeira on it and offered it to Jack. “If sir has changed his mind?”
“No thanks, I—”
“If you will excuse me, sir, I have work to do. If you want to know where his lordship is, I should try the dining room. It is down the corridor on your left.”
Jack looked down the corridor. It seemed to go on forever. When he looked back, Ffinkworth was gone, whisked away through some secret passage that the infernal place seemed to be honeycombed with. A sound made him turn, and farther down the corridor, just opposite a billiard table screwed to the wall with a game apparently in the middle of play, were two large double doors. One of them creaked, and Jack stiffened. He walked slowly up and put his head round the door. There was no one inside, so he entered.
It seemed to be a dining room of some sort. The ceiling was elaborately decorated with plaster figures of cherubs at a feast, and the walls were covered with a deep red patterned silk. The room was dominated by a large oak table around which sat twelve matching chairs. On one wall, the wall above the door behind him, there was a painting depicting the Relief of Mafeking. On the other side was a large mirror that perfectly reflected the room, painting, table and everything else. Jack was moving slowly across the room when he noticed something that made his heart turn cold. The mirror reflected the room perfectly—but for one thing. Jack had no reflection. As he stood staring into the mirror and trying to make some kind of logical sense of it, he saw the door open behind him in the reflection. He turned to see Ffinkworth walking in with some silver candelabras that had just been polished. Jack turned back to the mirror. Ffinkworth was clearly reflected holding the candelabras, yet Jack was not. He felt a cold hand grasp his heart, and his throat went dry.