“How do you know?”
“It’s a Nursery Crime thing. Punch and Judy are… PDRs.”
“I thought they might be,” replied Madeleine thoughtfully.
“You did?” asked Jack, suddenly worried. “How? How did you know? What, was it something they said? The way they walked? What?”
“It was probably,” said Madeleine, giving him a “how dopey do you think I am?” look, “something to do with their heads being made of painted papier-mâché.”
“Keen sense of observation you have there, pumpkin.”
“But why the ceaseless violence?”
“PDRs just can’t help themselves. Ever have a song going around in your head all day and you can’t shake it? Then find yourself humming it?”
“Yes.”
“It’s the same with Punch and Judy and any other nursery character, but instead of a song it’s actions. Look at it as a form of obsessive-compulsive disorder or a self-fulfilling prophecy. The Punches have toned down their act a lot since the seventeenth century—infanticide, wife beating and multiple murder aren’t generally considered entertainment these days.”
“Are all forms of compulsive behavior a sign of PDRness?” she asked slowly.
“No, no, of course not,” replied Jack hurriedly, thinking about his own obsessional hatred for fat. “There have to be several other factors as well.”
Stevie gurgled at him from his high chair, and Jack, glad of the distraction, leaned over and affectionately tweaked his ear.
“Hi, Dad,” said Pandora as she walked into the kitchen with her fiancé, the Titan Prometheus. Having a daughter engaged to a four-thousand-year-old myth could be stressful at times, but Jack was determined not to be a flustery old hen of a father—and the union was improving her Greek no end. They were getting married in a month’s time, and there were still a lot of details to be ironed out.
“Do you think the record of the wedding should be as a video, a tapestry, depictions on a Grecian urn or as a twenty-eight-foot-long marble bas-relief?”
“I have a friend who can do urns at a discount,” added Prometheus helpfully, as the budget of the wedding had long since spiraled out of control since Bacchus had taken over the reception arrangements.
“An urn, I guess,” conceded Jack.
“Oh, goody!” cried Pandora happily. “I always saw my wedding recorded in profile. Now, Dad, remember what you promised about not doing a plot device number fifty-two on the day of my wedding?”
“There’s only the annual Tortoise v. Hare race on that weekend, and there’s never any trouble at that, sweetpea,” he said, “so there’ll be no conclusion of a case near your wedding that results in an overdramatic dash to the church.”
“Great!” said Pandora, and she and Prometheus walked out, talking about how they could stop Artemis and Aphrodite from squabbling, as they invariably did.
“Perhaps we should just let them fight in some mud and pretend it’s part of the entertainments?” suggested Prometheus.
The large family and the expense of a wedding was a severe drain on Jack’s salary, despite Bacchus’ concession that they could drop Orpheus and go with a Santana tribute band instead. Madeleine had a limited income from her photography but insisted on concentrating on high-end, limited-print-run photographic books. Good food for the soul, but famine for the wallet.
“How are things at work?” she asked, handing Stevie another spoon.
“Not… terrific,” replied Jack with a twinge of understatement, stirring some sugar into his tea.
“I’m surprised you’re back so early, what with Johnny Cake on the loose.”
“I’m… not on that case—and he’s a cookie.”
Madeleine stared at him quizzically and said, “Listen, I don’t know poo about police procedures, but even I know that the Gingerbreadman is NCD.”
Jack helped himself to a gingernut, smelled it, made a face and put it back in the cookie jar.
“Briggs gave it to… Copperfield.”
“David?” she echoed in surprise. “He’s a sweet guy, but he couldn’t find an egg in a henhouse.”
Jack shrugged. “Like it or not, there it is. Briggs thinks I’m overdoing it and that the Riding-Hood incident was beyond what any officer should have to face…. He’s made Mary acting head while I’m on sick leave.”
“Oh, sweetheart!” she said, giving him an extra-tight hug. “I’m sorry to hear that. But don’t worry—Briggs usually suspends you at least once during any investigation.”
“And that’s what worries me,” responded Jack, returning her hug and kissing her tenderly on the forehead. “I’m not on an investigation. And I won’t be until I’ve passed some sort of mental review board.”
“Yikes. Being sane might render you almost useless at the NCD.”
“I know that. But you didn’t have to say it.”
A spoon ricocheted off the back of Jack’s head and hit a plant pot on the windowsill.
“Was that you, monster?”
Stevie opened his eyes wide and shrieked with laughter.
Madeleine smiled, untangled herself from the embrace and stacked the tea things.
“So aside from losing a prime case that is clearly yours, being knocked from the top job at the division and the prospect of having to convince a complete stranger that you’re not a drooling lunatic, how else was your day?”
“Peachy. I bought an Allegro Sports Equipe. Do you want to see it?”
“Maybe later.” She handed him a stack of plates to put in the dishwasher. “Would you have a word with Jerome? I heard his pet sniggering to itself again this morning.”
Jerome was eight, and he wanted to be a vet. To get into practice, he had taken to bringing strays home with him. First it was fleas with kittens attached, then puppies with fleas attached, then fleas with fleas attached. All of this could be vaguely tolerated, until he brought something home that deftly escaped into the void within the interior walls, and no one had seen it since.
Jack walked into the living room and bent down to listen at the baseboard. There was a sound a bit like someone blowing a raspberry, and he frowned, got up and walked into the hall. He opened the door to the closet under the stairs and heard a faint rustling. He quietly turned on the light and peered into the musty gloom.
“He doesn’t mean any harm,” said a voice behind him. It was Jerome, his face a picture of angelic innocence.
“You know your mother wants it out, my lad.”
“I asked him to go into the garden shed, but he said his rheumatism was troubling him again.”
“It can speak English?”
“And Italian, but his German is a bit rusty.”
Jack looked around the small closet and chanced upon a little pile of glittery objects.
“What are my spare keys doing in here?” he asked, sorting through the heap of shiny items. He also found a pair of cuff links that had been missing for a couple of days, a brooch, a couple of coins and the Waterman pen that he’d thought he’d lost at work.
Jerome winced. “He likes to collect shiny things. I try to get them back before you notice. He must have been around the house last night.”
Jack started to rummage some more. There was a rustle, and something small and misshapen popped its head out of a cardboard box, stared at Jack for a moment and then vanished through a hole that had been gnawed in the plasterboard. Jack backed out of the cupboard as fast as he could.
“Did you see it?” asked Jerome after Jack had not spoken for some moments.
“Ye-e-es,” said Jack slowly, unsure of what he had seen but not liking it one bit. The creature was an ugly little monkeylike brute with hair that looked like that of a black pig with psoriasis. What was worse was that it had a chillingly humanoid face, and it had given Jack an impish grin and a wink before vanishing.
“Jerome?”
“Yes, Jack?”
“What was that?”
“His name’s Caliban, and he’s my friend.�
�
“Well, you can tell him from me he’s got to live somewhere else.”
“But—”
“No buts. He’s got to go.”
Jack left Jerome in the closet and rejoined Madeleine.
“The brooch you thought you’d lost,” he said, placing the jewelry on the table.
“Where was it?”
“Jerome’s pet is something of a magpie. Have you seen it?”
“No.”
“It’s a bit… odd. If anything else goes missing, you’ll probably find it in the closet under the stairs.” He thought for a moment. “Do we have to go out tonight? I’m a bit pooped.”
“I’d like you to accompany me,” she replied with a smile, “but I can go on my own and flirt outrageously and in a totally undignified manner with young single men of a morally casual demeanor.”
“You know, I don’t feel quite so pooped anymore.”
“Good. We should be out the door by seven-thirty.”
9. The Déjà Vu
Most unreadable modern author: Of all the pseudointellectual rubbish that hits the literary world every year, few authors can hope to compete in terms of quasi-highbrow unreadability than the accepted master in the field, Otis ChufftY. With unread copies of his books gracing every bookshelf in the fashionable areas of London, ChufftY’s prodigious output in terms of pointless, long-winded claptrap has few equals and brings forth gasps of admiration from his competitors. Even after several million in book sales and frequent appearances on late-night artsy-fartsy chat shows, ChufftY’s work remains as fashionably unreadable as ever. “It’s the bipolarity of human sufferance,” Mr. ChufftY explained when asked the secret of his success, “and the forbearance of wisdom in the light of the ultimate ignorance of nothing.”
The Bumper Book of Berkshire Records, 2004 edition
“Remind me what we’re doing here,” asked Jack. “You’re a photographer, not an author.”
“The Armitage Shanks Literary Awards are sponsored by both the Quangle-Wangle and my publishers, the Crumpetty Tree Press,” she replied as they lined up outside the Déjà Vu Hotel with an assortment of other guests, “and I’m married to DCI Jack Spratt, who quite apart from being tall and ruggedly handsome also happens to be the officer who cracked the Humpty case.”
They shuffled forward a few steps. “I get it,” said Jack, sliding his hand around her waist, “I’m your trophy husband and you’re showing me off.”
“In one,” replied Madeleine, pushing his hand lower so it met the smooth curve of her bottom, “and Crumpetty Tree looks on me favorably when I drag you along, as it makes the event seem vaguely important and not a collection of pseudointellectual farts patting one another on the back.”
“I always suspected that. Are you going to raffle me at the end of the evening?”
She laughed. “Only if I can buy all the tickets. Now, listen: Try not to be rude to the writers this year.”
“As if I would!”
The previous year’s event had not been without incident. Jack didn’t much care for what he called “the Modern Novel” and had told the previous year’s winner precisely that. It hadn’t gone down very well.
The Déjà Vu Hotel was a popular venue in Reading for awards ceremonies. It was big enough to service a good-size crowd, had excellent catering facilities and coupled a congenial atmosphere with a fine opportunity for a few daft jokes.
“Have you ever been to the Déjà Vu before?” asked Madeleine as they entered the main doors.
Jack looked around the entrance lobby. “I don’t think so,” he answered, “but it does look sort of familiar.”
They joined the line at the entrance to the ballroom. A liveried footman was reading the invitations and announcing the guests in a loud voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Lord Spooncurdle!” he boomed, giving an overobsequious bow to Reading’s most visible nobleman, who walked solemnly down the stairs, took a glass of champagne from a waiter and shook hands with someone he thought he knew but didn’t.
The line shuffled forward.
“James Wheat-Reed Esq. and his niece Roberta—he says.”
James and his “niece” smiled and descended the stairs. The footman continued, introducing the guests in a respectful tone of voice.
“Mr. and Mrs. Croft and their fat daughter, Erica.”
“The Dong—with his celebrated luminous nose.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Boore—by name, by nature.”
Finally it was Jack and Madeleine’s turn. The footman read their invitation, looked them up and down in a critical manner, sighed and said:
“Inspector and Mrs. Jack Spratt.”
They walked down the staircase to the ballroom as the band struck up a tune that they thought they should recognize but couldn’t quite place. A vaguely familiar waiter gave them a glass of champagne each, and Madeleine looked around for anyone she knew. Jack followed her closely. He didn’t really enjoy this sort of function, but anything that made people remember Madeleine, he thought, had to be good for her exhibitions. Besides, there weren’t many people he didn’t know in Reading society. He had interviewed most of them at one time or another and arrested at least a half dozen.
“Hello, Marcus!”
“Madeleine, dahling!”
“Jack, this is Marcus Sphincter. He’s one of the writers short-listed for the prize this year.”
“Congratulations,” said Jack, extending a hand.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you—most kind.”
“So what’s the title of this book you’ve written?”
“The terms ‘title,’ ‘book’ and ‘written’ are so passé and 2004,” announced Marcus airily, using his fingers in that annoying way that people do to signify quotation marks.
“It is 2004,” pointed out Jack.
“So early 2004,” said Marcus, hastily correcting himself.
“Anyone can ‘write’ a ‘book.’ To raise my chosen art form to a higher plane, I prefer to use the terms ‘designation,’ ‘codex’ and ‘composed.’"
“Okay,” said Jack, “what’s the appellative of the tome you’ve created?”
“The what?”
“Hadn’t you heard?” asked Jack, hiding a smile and using that annoying finger-quotes thing back at Marcus, “‘Codex,’ ‘composed’ and ‘designation’ are out already; they were just too, too early evening.”
“They were?” asked Marcus, genuinely concerned.
“Your book, Marcus,” interrupted Madeleine as she playfully pinched Jack on the bum. “What’s it called?”
“I call it… The Realms of the Leviathan.”
“Ah,” murmured Jack, “what’s it about, a herd of elephants?”
Marcus laughed loudly, Jack joined him, and so did Madeleine, who wasn’t going to be a bad sport.
“Elephants? Good Lord, no!” replied Marcus, adjusting his glasses. “The leviathan in my novel is the colossal and destructive force of human ambition and its ability to destroy those it loves in its futile quest for fulfillment. Seen through the eyes of a woman in London in the mid-eighties as her husband loses control of himself to own and want more, it asks the fundamental question ‘to be or to want’—something I consider to be the ‘materialistic’ Hamlet’s soliloquy. Ha-ha-ha.”
“Ha-ha-ha,” said Jack, but thinking, Clot. “Is it selling?”
“Good Lord, no!” replied Marcus in a shocked tone. “Selling more than even a few copies would render it… popular. And that would be a death knell for any serious auteur, n’est-ce pas? Ha-ha-ha.”
“Ha-ha-ha,” said Jack, but thinking, Even bigger clot.
“But it’s been short-listed for twenty-nine major awards,” continued Marcus. “I’ll send you a signed copy if you have a tenner on you.”
“If I gave you twenty, you could write me a sequel, too.”
Madeleine pulled Jack away and told him to behave himself, while at the same time trying to stop herself from having a fit of giggles.
&
nbsp; “God, I love you,” she whispered in his ear, “but please stop messing around and behave yourself!”
“Spratt!” boomed Lord Spooncurdle, bored with talking to writers and agents and not recognizing anyone else.
“Hello, sir,” said Jack brightly. “You remember my wife, Madeleine?”
“Of course, of course,” he replied genially, offering his hand to Madeleine. “Your husband did a splendid job on that Humpty lark. Never did trust Spongg, y’know—eyes too close together. Reminded me of a governess who ran off with the handsome young silver and half the family’s boot boy.”
Madeleine excused herself with a whispered entreaty for Jack not to talk about his NCD work, as it usually had a confusing effect on people, and went off to mingle.
“Been here before, Spratt?” asked Spooncurdle, waving a hand at the inside of the Déjà Vu. “I’m sure I’ve seen that headwaiter, but I’m damned if I know where. I say, old stick, do us a favor and ask him if he has a lion tattooed on his left buttock.”
“He hasn’t,” replied Jack, humoring him. “I asked earlier.”
“Did you, by George? Must have been someone else. I must say, I never knew you were a member of the Most Worshipful Company of Cheese Makers.”
“I’m not, sir. This is the Armitage Shanks Literary Awards.”
“A literary award for cheese making? That doesn’t sound very likely.”
“There’s no cheese making here, sir—I think you’re confusing the event.”
“Nonsense, old boy,” said Spooncurdle amiably, having never knowingly been mistaken once in all of his sixty-seven years. “I say,” he added, changing the subject completely and leaning closer, “sorry to hear about that Riding-Hood debacle. Don’t let it get you down, eh? We all drop a serious clanger sooner or later.”
“You’re too kind,” replied Jack, wondering if this was a good time to point out that Spooncurdle had himself “dropped a clanger” on numerous occasions—and that shooting a grouse beater was illegal, despite the good Lord’s insistence that it wasn’t, or shouldn’t be.
Behind them the footman boomed out, “Ladies and Gentlemen, Admiral Robert Shaftoe. Never lost a ship, a man or in retreat, a second.”
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