by Matthew Ward
Royston pondered these words a moment, then, giving a nod to Mr. Whipple, turned and ducked through the rear door of the van. Once he’d managed to fold himself inside it, the giant’s frame nearly filled the entire rear compartment.
Royston shared one last look with his sister, raising his cuffed hands in an attempted wave before the driver shut the door behind him.
Ruby watched in silence as the van drove away and vanished into the night.
Arthur put a hand on her shoulder. “Seems he wasn’t just another mute ogre after all,” he said.
“No,” said Ruby. “No, he wasn’t.”
After some moments had passed, D.S. Greenley stepped up alongside her. “Well, Miss Goldwin,” he said, “seeing as you’re the only one in your family who’s not been a victim of baby snatching or been placed under arrest, it seems you’ve no place to go. I’m afraid we’ll have to take you to the orphan shelter for now, until we can figure out a more permanent arrangement. But not to worry; it’s not half as bad as you may think. I try and volunteer once a month myself—putting on original one-acts for the orphan kids and offering free acting lessons for some of the more imaginative ones. In all my time there, I’ve only witnessed three stabbings and two medium-sized riots—all of them occurring right in the middle of my performances, oddly enough. Just their way of crying for help, of course—poor little buggers. But no, it’s a fine place. I reckon you’ll really—”
“I don’t think that will be necessary, Detective Sergeant,” interrupted Mr. Whipple. “We’ve got plenty of room for Miss Goldwin at our house—that is, if she would do us the honor of staying with us.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Whipple,” she smirked, “after all Greenley’s said about the orphan shelter, it’s a tough choice, really. Of course, I’d hate to take any honor away from the Whipples by declining such a generous invitation. . . .”
“Very well then,” smiled Mr. Whipple. “It’s settled. You’ll stay with us for as long as you like. It’s the least I can do for the girl who saved my life.”
Greenley laughed. “Well, how do you like that? Couldn’t have come up with a better scenario myself. All’s well that ends well, eh?”
“Indeed, Sergeant,” said Arthur’s father, his face growing suddenly stern. “There is, however, one final matter which has yet to be resolved—and requires our urgent attention. Now we’ve proved Rex and his sons are to blame for the sabotage, we really must—”
“Say no more, Mr. Whipple,” Greenley interjected. “I believe I’ve just the man to help settle such a matter.”
The detective donned a strange smirk, then turned to face the nearby crowd of onlookers.
“Mr. Smythe,” he called out, “perhaps you’d like to formally introduce yourself.”
Out of the crowd stepped the bowler-wearing gentleman who had aided the detective in protecting the Whipples during the stage explosion.
“Fank you, Sergeant,” said the stranger. “I’d be much obliged.”
And with that, the bearded man with the bowler removed his beard and bowler.
“’Aven’t forgot about your old chef, ’ave you?” smiled the man.
“Sammy!” shouted the Whipple children.
Arthur’s heart nearly burst with joy.
“My goodness!” cried Mr. Whipple, rushing forward and embracing the man. “Is it really you, old boy?”
“I can ’ardly believe it meself,” grinned the chef. “‘Acquitted of all wrongdoing,’ says Greenley ’ere. Free as a bloomin’ bird, I am!”
“He was a hard man to track down, your chef,” chuckled the sergeant, “but I am not without my connections in the underworld. Turns out the chap who played Lord Capulet when I was Mercutio now runs a sort of underground answering service and was able to get a series of messages to Mr. Smith for me. After I relayed to him the evidence condemning Mr. Goldwin, along with details of the case against Inspector Smudge, Mr. Smith kindly agreed to join me for my little production of ‘The Big Reveal’ this evening. Little did I know, he’d wind up risking his own life to help save you lot from an exploding stage!”
“Please, Sergeant,” said the chef, grinning bashfully. “It were all my pleasure, I assure you.”
Mr. Whipple’s smile grew strained, then faded. He let out a low sigh. “I’m so sorry I ever doubted you, Sammy. It’s absolutely inexcusable the way I’ve acted—and I can’t say I don’t deserve it if you never forgive me.”
Sammy the Spatula smiled. “It’s all right, guv. I’ve missed you lot as well. And I know it weren’t you who done me in. No—that were Smudge and that Goldwin dog, weren’t it? And them two are all taken care of now, ain’t they?”
At this, Mrs. Whipple ran in and wrapped her arms around the man. “Oh, we’ve been utterly lost without you, Sammy,” she cried. “I’ve been doing the cooking!”
“Well, that is ravver drastic, ain’t it, Mrs. Whipple?” the chef said with a wink. “But you’ll not ’ave to ever worry about that again, now I’m back. I’ve used me time in ’iding to write a cookbook filled wiv all sorts of new recipes for colossal cuisine. I can ’ardly wait to get back in me kitchen and start giving ’em a go!”
The Whipple children’s faces all lit up.
“But before I run away wiv meself ’ere,” Sammy continued, “there’s somefing I got to say.”
He turned and walked directly to Arthur and Ruby, who stood admiring the reunion from a few steps away. “Don’t believe we’ve officially met, miss,” he said, offering his hand to Ruby. “Sammy the Spatula.”
“Ruby Goldwin,” she said, smiling.
“Pleasure,” said Sammy with a nod before turning to the boy beside her. “I knew I could count on you, Arfur. Greenley says you and your mate ’ere were the only ones ’oo still believed in ol’ Sammy, even after everyfing what happened, eh?”
Arthur blushed, and Sammy’s eyes grew watery.
“You are an extraordinary lad indeed,” sniffed the chef. “If you ever need anyfing—anyfing at all—just say the word, mate. I owe you me bleedin’ life, I do.”
He wiped his eyes and grinned. Then he held out his hand, and Arthur promptly shook it.
“It’s good to have you back, Sammy,” said Arthur. “We’d have fought for you forever.” A smile crept onto the boy’s face. “Though I can’t say my mother’s cooking had nothing to do with that.”
Everybody laughed.
“Fair enough, lad,” grinned the chef. “I’ve surely done far less admirable fings for the sake of me own stomach!”
When the laughter had died down, D.S. Greenley turned to Sammy and said, “Well, Mr. Smith, on behalf of Scotland Yard, allow me to formally apologize once again for your treatment over the past few months. You can rest assured Inspector Smudge will be held accountable for his actions. I sincerely hope you’ll develop a better opinion of the Yard in future.”
“Most definitely, Sergeant,” Sammy replied. “You ’ave truly given me new faiff in the law.”
Greenley’s eyes lit up. “Have I? Well, thank you for saying so. I do my best, of course, but it’s hard to know sometimes if I’m really making a difference out there.”
“Absolutely,” Sammy insisted. “Keep up the good work, mate.”
“Indeed I will,” the detective said, grinning proudly. He took a deep contented breath, then turned to Arthur’s father. “Now, Mr. Whipple, if you and your wife would just come with me for a moment so I can get a proper statement, we’ll be done with all this mess and you can enjoy the rest of your evening.”
“Of course, Sergeant.”
Arthur’s parents followed the detective toward one of the parked squad cars, while the octuplets bombarded Sammy with questions about the perils of life in the underground.
Arthur turned to talk to Ruby for the first time since the award ceremony had begun. “Phew,” he exhaled. “Quite a day, hmm?”
“Yeah,” said Ruby, “I think that might be the World’s Biggest Understatement.”
Arthur smiled. Over Ruby’s shoulder, he then noticed a man with laser-parted hair striding toward them. In one hand, the man carried a neat stack of papers, which he pored over as he walked. In the other, he carried a moderately sized golden trophy.
“Ah, there you are, Arthur Whipple,” said Archibald Prim as the pair turned to face him. “Here is the trophy for your recent record, young man—directly from the engravers.” Then he handed him the trophy.
Arthur marveled at the weight of it. So this was what a world record felt like.
“Thank you, Mr. Prim,” he said.
“Yes,” replied the certifier. “I left as soon as the final award had been presented in order to fetch it for you. My apologies for the delay. So many items to check and recheck and check again, you understand.” He looked to his watch. “Yes, well—I must be off. Next year’s paperwork will not complete itself, now will it? I shall see you and your family tomorrow.” Mr. Prim peered over the children’s heads for the first time. “Oh,” he said. “Is the theater on fire?”
“I’m afraid it is, Mr. Prim,” said Arthur.
“Well, who ever let that happen? I shall have to have a serious talk with the safety director—he is clearly in violation of his contract here!”
And with that, Archibald Prim stormed off in search of the man soon to be known as the former safety director.
Arthur’s eyes followed the certifier as he departed.
“Kind of hard to believe, really,” said Arthur. “I’d have never imagined I’d receive my first world record because of him.”
“Life’s funny that way, I think,” said Ruby. “Never works out quite how you’d expect.”
Arthur nodded.
Their gaze then fell on the trophy. Its mirrored finish and curved handles gave it a look not unlike a smaller sibling of the Championship Cup itself. Inscribed on the base below Arthur’s name were the words: HIGHEST NUMBER OF UNSUCCESSFUL OFFICIAL WORLD RECORD ATTEMPTS (6,392).
“Shiny, isn’t it?” said Ruby.
“Yeah,” Arthur agreed. “Somehow it’s even better than any of the trophies I ever imagined . . . probably because it’s real.”
Ruby smiled. “You’ve earned it, Arthur. Let me be first to congratulate you on what is sure to be the first in a vast collection of trophies with your name on them.”
Arthur flashed a smile, then turned to Ruby with an earnest expression. “Hey,” he said. “Thanks for saving my dad’s life. And sorry about . . . you know, your family.”
“Oh . . . yeah,” said Ruby. “It’s all right. At least I know the truth now. I mean, I’ve always suspected something wasn’t quite right—in a way, it’s nice to find out I wasn’t just losing my mind, you know? I think that’s all I ever really wanted. . . . Well, maybe not all I ever wanted. It’s going to be hard to accept the fact that my real family isn’t out there waiting for me somewhere. But, you know—mostly all.”
“Well,” replied Arthur, “for what it’s worth—I mean, I know it’s not the same thing—but there’s a family waiting for you here now . . . if you want it.”
Ruby smiled. “Yes. I think I’d like that.”
Arthur smiled back. “Couldn’t hurt to have a second junior detective on hand, what with all these mysteries that keep sprouting up around my family.” He scratched the side of his head. “You know, we never found out exactly how Rex became the new treasurer, did we?”
The sly sparkle returned to Ruby’s eyes. “Consider it priority one for Detectives Whipple and Goldwin,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Now that we’re no longer under constant attack by clown assassins, we should have a lot more time for detective work. If you’re not too busy fending off all your new record breaker fans, of course.”
“Of course,” Arthur said with a smirk.
His parents returned a moment later to gather up their family and friends.
Wilhelm and Mr. Mahankali shared laughs with Sammy the Spatula, while Mrs. Waite stood looking on with tears in her eyes.
“Come on, Mrs. Waite,” Sammy said as he noticed her crying. “Dry your eyes, luv. No ’arm done. I’m back now—and you and me ’ave the privilege of working for the Greatest Family in the World!”
“I know,” sniffled the housekeeper. “I’m just so . . . happy!” And with that, she burst into tears all over again.
“Ah, Mrs. Waite,” Sammy chuckled as he hugged her and patted her back. “There, there, luv.”
Everyone smiled at the housekeeper’s unguarded outpouring, and some wiped away tears of their own.
Mr. Whipple took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “Surely, it’s been an emotional day for all of us; I’d say we deserve a bit of a treat, wouldn’t you? So,” he announced, “in honor of Arthur’s first world record and our subsequent championships victory, as well as to celebrate Sammy’s freedom—and to apologize for hiring an immoral inspector who falsely accused him of sabotage, threw him in jail, and nearly had him shot and drowned—I’ve booked us the Myriad Room at P.T. Evermor’s Infinite Spoon. They’ll be expecting us shortly.”
“Yay!” cried the octuplets. (Home to the Largest and Most Diverse All-One-Can-Eat Smorgasbord on Earth, P.T. Evermor’s had long been the Whipple children’s favorite restaurant.)
Arthur’s stomach grumbled with joy. After a day of foiling kidnappers, escaping lethal lizards, surviving explosions, and breaking world records, he had worked up quite an appetite.
• • •
The Whipples returned home well after midnight, having had more than their fill of food, drink, and all-around merriment.
Cordelia lent Ruby a set of her nightclothes and showed her to one of the guest rooms, where Arthur and his family bid each other a most joyous goodnight, then retired to their respective bedchambers.
Once in his room, Arthur placed his new trophy on the bedside table, changed into his pajamas, and got into bed. He took a long, disbelieving look at the golden statue beside him, then switched off the lamp.
For several minutes he simply lay in the dark, smiling.
And then, Arthur Whipple slept the best sleep of his life.
The Day After Yesterday
WHIPPLES WIN!
AT WRWC AWARDS CEREMONY, WHIPPLES DEFEAT ARTIFICIALLY CONSTRUCTED SUPER FAMILY, SURVIVE EXPLOSIVE REVENGE PLOT, DELIVER MATERNITY WARD MARAUDERS TO AUTHORITIES—ALL THANKS TO PREVIOUSLY RECORDLESS SON
The Whipple family celebrated their fourth consecutive win at the World Record World Championships Sunday night—but it was almost not to be.
The Championship Cup had been universally expected to go to the Goldwin family, until it was revealed the Whipples’ then-recordless son, Arthur, had managed to break the record for Highest Number of Unsuccessful Official World Record Attempts in the competition’s final event.
It was during the Whipples’ acceptance of the top prize that a series of explosions destroyed much of the stage and hurled the theater into chaos.
Luckily, the alleged saboteur—publicly concealed son of the Goldwins Rayford Goldwin—was identified and detained before any more explosives could be detonated, and no one was killed in the blast.
Soon afterward, the suspect’s father, Rex Goldwin, fired a pistol shot at the stage, just missing Charles Whipple—and was promptly apprehended himself.
Shockingly, Goldwin and his wife, Rita, were then charged with the kidnapping of nine newborn children over the past seventeen years—revealing the couple to be the fugitives commonly known as the Maternity Ward Marauders.
The stolen children, selected for their perfect scores on the Igor Test (which assigns a numerical value to the quality of each body part in a newborn), were then raised as the Goldwins’ own. The abductees would ultimately account for three-quarters of the Goldwin
brood, making the Whipples’ victory even more remarkable, considering the hand-picked nature of their rivals.
It was Scotland Yard’s Detective Sergeant Callum Greenley who uncovered the plot and made the arrests.
“It’s a relief to see the curtain finally close on this case,” said Greenley. “Of course, it was hardly a one-man show. There were many players involved in reaching this finale and I am proud to have played but a supporting role. I can only hope my supporting role as Raffers in the Little Orb’s production of East End Tale goes half as well.”
As to the involvement of the Ardmore Association in the Goldwins’ plot, Greenley added, “That investigation is ongoing. I can only say we suspect the Association had some part to play in all this—and that we’ve reason to believe Mr. Goldwin has in fact been on the Ardmore Board of Directors for many years, succeeding the deceased Bartholomew Niven as their new treasurer. Indeed, Goldwin is currently the prime suspect in Niven’s murder, given his clear motive for the crime. Due to the board’s highly secretive nature, this will not be an easy inquiry to make—but we shall continue to pursue it for as long as it takes to uncover the truth.”
Malcolm Boyle, chief legal representative for the Ardmore Association, was quick to deny any such collaboration on the part of his clients.
“The Ardmore Association is shocked and appalled to hear of the purported actions of Mr. Goldwin and his accomplices. Though it’s true the Association has served as the Goldwins’ sponsor, it has never had any knowledge of their alleged criminal pursuits—nor has Mr. Goldwin ever served on the Ardmore Board of Directors. These rumors are simply one more attempt by the Association’s power-hungry rivals to tarnish the respectable Ardmore name.”
Titus Grazelby, head of the Grazelby Publications empire, is one man, however, who finds it difficult to believe anything coming from the Ardmore publicity machine.
I trust Mr. Boyle about as far as I can throw him—which is from here to that plate glass window there, if he actually had the nerve to stand in the same room with me. No, I’d not be surprised at all if this Rex Goldwin villain was on their board of directors. The Ardmore Association has been—and always will be—a corrupt organization.But enough talk about Ardmore. They’re the losers here; tonight is all about the Whipples.
