by Matthew Ward
“Ahem,” grumbled Inspector Smudge. “Allow me to introduce Detective Sergeant Callum Greenley, my impeccable assistant. D.S. Greenley—Mr. and Mrs. Whipple.”
D.S. Greenley looked up from his foraging and held out a slightly grubby hand to Mr. Whipple. “Pleasure to meet you, sir,” the sergeant smiled, vigorously shaking the Whipple patriarch’s hand. “Big fan, big fan.”
After holding onto Mr. Whipple’s hand a moment or two too long, D.S. Greenley tipped his hat toward Mrs. Whipple and her sons, smiled, and said, “Ma’am. Lads,” then returned to his search.
“You’ll have to forgive D.S. Greenley,” explained Inspector Smudge. “Since my retirement, Scotland Yard has asked me to personally train a select few of their most promising young detectives, allowing them to accompany me around the globe, observing my record-breaking investigation tactics and lending assistance when possible. It’s hard to believe this is really the best the Yard has to offer these days. It’s a wonder any crime in London gets solved at all—isn’t it, Greenley?”
“Uh, yes sir. I suppose so, sir,” the sergeant replied distractedly, still rooting about through the grass on his hands and knees. A moment later, he exclaimed, “Ah, here it is!” and, with one hand cupped over the other, slowly rose to his feet.
Drawn in by the suspense surrounding this mysterious object, Arthur joined his parents and brothers as they gathered around D.S. Greenley’s outstretched hands.
“What do you make of this, Inspector?” inquired the sergeant as he removed his uppermost hand, revealing a thin clump of gray ash resting in the center of his palm. “It appears to be a used section of dynamite fuse, sir.”
“I know what it is, Greenley,” snapped Inspector Smudge. “Now tell me, where did you discover this?”
“There are bits of it on some of the candle stumps at the top of the cake—as well as on the sides of some of the severed candles on the ground. Here, sir—have a look.”
The group followed D.S. Greenley as he scurried over to one of the fallen candles and began pointing out various sections of the wax pillar with giddy enthusiasm.
“See, there’s a bit of burnt fuse stapled near the candlewick here, and then similar bits stapled every couple of feet or so down the side of the candle. It looks like—”
“Aha!” cried Inspector Smudge. After a quick glance at the burnt bits of fuse toward the top of the candle, he had darted down to the candle’s other end. He now stood stooping forward with a magnifying glass, examining the circular cross section at the foot of the candle where the waxy pillar had been cleaved from its base. “Judging by this blackened stain here, it seems our saboteur started by boring a hole in the base of each candle, into which he then inserted some sort of explosive charge before running a length of slow-burning fuse from the charge all the way up to the tip of the wick—so that when the candle was lit, the fuse was lit as well.”
Arthur suddenly remembered the tiny sparkling flames he had seen inching down the backs of the candles during the candle-lighting ceremony. If only he had been an aspiring junior detective back then, he might have realized what they really were.
Meanwhile, Inspector Smudge continued his examination of the evidence, relaying his findings to the rest of the crowd.
“And while the surface of the wax here at the candle’s foot is rough on one side of the black mark—consistent with a sudden break—the wax is relatively smooth on the other side, showing signs of what appear to be saw marks. Our culprit no doubt sawed halfway through each candle, so that when the charges were detonated, the candles’ weakened bases would snap, thus propelling their upper stalks over the edge of the cake. My, my. If it weren’t so despicable, it might actually be quite clever. I trust you’ve arrived at a similar conclusion, Greenley?”
“Yes, sir. Something like that.”
“Of course you have, Greenley,” the inspector smirked. “So. We are looking for an individual or individuals in possession of some or all of the following items: one, dynamite fuse matching the residue stapled to the candles; two, a staple gun; three, some sort of saw, probably with candle wax in its teeth; four, a drill with a two-inch bit; and five, explosive charges. Furthermore,” he added, winking slyly at Arthur, “certain information has come to light leading me to believe these items may be located in a large black leather case with the insignia of a dragon etched into the side.”
“What an odd coincidence,” Mrs. Whipple remarked with a smile. “Charles and I gave a set of knives to our chef, Sammy, in a case just like that for Christmas last year. Every now and then, I catch a glimpse of it when I venture into the kitchen.”
Inspector Smudge cocked his head and arched his brow. “Really? Well that is an odd coincidence, isn’t it now?”
Mrs. Whipple’s eyes widened. “I mean,” she added hastily, “I think it’s a dragon—but you know, on second thought, it might actually be a winged dog—or perhaps a carnivorous goose. Yes that’s it…”
Paying no attention to Mrs. Whipple’s suddenly foggy memory, Inspector Smudge interrupted. “It’s funny you should mention your chef in regard to this investigation, madam—because Mr. Smith has indeed been at the top of my list of suspects since the first candle fell.”
Mr. and Mrs. Whipple gulped, while Henry and Simon traded dubious glances.
Arthur felt his heart drop.
“But surely, Inspector,” cried Mrs. Whipple, “you can’t sincerely believe our Sammy was involved in this?”
“I’m afraid I have very good reason to believe he was involved. You see, this is not the first time Sammy ‘the Spatula’ Smith and Inspector Hadrian Smudge have crossed paths. I, in fact, was chief inspector on the Caviar Case—the one that finally sent Mr. Smith to prison after years of unchallenged criminal activity. If you knew him like I do, you would not be shocked in the least by his involvement in this latest act of villainy.”
“Inspector Smudge, I assure you,” Mr. Whipple insisted, “Sammy has absolutely nothing to do with this. We trust him completely. He’s been our personal chef for over seven years!”
“Ah yes, but what about his previous occupation?”
“Now, sir,” replied Mr. Whipple, “we are well aware of the troubles he had with the law before he came to work for us—but that was a long time ago. He’s truly a changed man.”
“Really? Well that would be something. In the forty years I’ve been hunting criminals, I’ve yet to meet a single one who has suddenly woken up and decided toiling away for the rest of his life was a better way to attain the things he desired than simply taking them. Don’t ever let anyone tell you crime doesn’t pay. Crime pays loads. So much, in fact, these types are completely powerless to resist it—no matter how well they may convince you otherwise.”
“But what would he possibly have to gain by sabotaging us?” asked Arthur’s mother.
“Your naïveté is charming, Mrs. Whipple—but hardly methodical. Surely, given your family’s current standing, there are many who would gladly pay to see the Whipple name tarnished, perhaps offering substantial compensation to an individual on the inside—an individual with access to information and facilities not available to outside parties. Such compensation might go a long way towards, say, paying off a certain record-breaking gambling debt?”
For the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Whipple offered no rebuttal. Seeing that he had dredged up doubt in his clients’ minds, the inspector softened his tone.
“I’m afraid justice is not a pretty business, my dear Whipples. Many a trusting soul has found a loved one capable of unexpected evil…. Of course, then again, it is quite possible your friend had nothing at all to do with this dreadful business. But I’m afraid there is only one way to find out. So, if you wouldn’t mind, please direct me to the kitchen.”
Mr. and Mrs. Whipple reluctantly led the detectives through the house, where just outside the kitchen, the group was met by Mrs. Waite.
“Oh hello, Mr. and Mrs. Whipple. Inspector,” said the housekeeper. “Just finished
folding the spider-silk tablecloths from the extravaganza. Hard to get any work done at a time like this—but after last night, a bit of order might do us all some good. Any progress on the case?”
“Actually, Mrs. Waite,” replied Mr. Whipple, “you may be able to assist us. Do you know where Sammy keeps his chief set of knives?”
“I believe he keeps them locked up in his secret-ingredient cupboard, sir. I can show you to it if you like.”
“Please, Mrs. Waite.”
The housekeeper led the group into the kitchen and directed them to a large pair of doors in the far corner, which were fastened together by a steel padlock.
“Ah, yes,” the inspector noted. “You wouldn’t happen to have a key to this cupboard, would you, Mrs. Waite?”
“Why, yes, sir. Sammy’s been good enough to entrust me with a spare. If I hadn’t sworn never to use it without asking him first, I’d gladly go and fetch it for you.”
The inspector’s polite smile faded. “Need I remind you, Mrs. Waite, that this is an official investigation?”
“I am sorry, sir,” the housekeeper insisted. “I wish I could help, I really do, but official investigation or no—an oath is an oath.”
“I see,” sighed the inspector. “Well, no matter. It won’t be the first time I’ve had to cut a lock in the name of Justice. Thank you for your help, ma’am.”
“Please, sir,” Mrs. Waite added, “I’m sure Sammy’d be more than happy to open it for you as soon as he returns to the house. I just know how much pride he takes in keeping the contents of that cupboard secret. One can only guess what rare, record-breaking items it contains. No other member of staff has ever been granted a peep, and I can only imagine how horrified he’d be to have a stranger—however official—rifling through it without him.”
“Oh, but Mrs. Waite, Mr. Smith and I are hardly strangers. We are old chums really, he and I. I’m sure he will understand.”
“I’m sorry sir, but it still doesn’t seem right to me.”
“Well, fortunately for your conscience, Mrs. Waite, it is not up to you. Your employers are determined to rule out Mr. Smith’s involvement as quickly as possible—with or without his presence—and I’m afraid opening that cupboard may be the surest way to accomplish this. That is still your goal, is it not, Mr. and Mrs. Whipple?”
Arthur’s parents paused a moment, and then, evading eye contact with Mrs. Waite, nodded silently.
“I’m afraid I must ask you to step aside, Mrs. Waite,” smiled Inspector Smudge. “Put your conscience at ease, ma’am—Sammy will surely hear of your efforts to keep his secrets safe.” Then, turning to his assistant he cried, “Greenley—cutters!”
After a brief startled look, D.S. Greenley removed a pair of bolt cutters from his coat and handed them to his superior.
Grasping the cutters with both hands, Inspector Smudge paused to savor the moment—and then, without a word, cut through the lock on the chef’s cupboard.
Mrs. Waite stalked out of the room in protest.
Brushing aside the broken padlock, the inspector threw back the doors to reveal a deep closet brimming with bizarre foodstuffs. A thousand delicious smells hit Arthur’s nostrils at once. The boy averted his eyes in an attempt to respect Sammy’s privacy, but try as he might, he could not resist a few quick peeks.
Slipping on a pair of black gloves, Inspector Smudge promptly stepped into the cupboard and disappeared amongst the massive jars of pickled who-knows-what, strings of peculiar spices, and rows of burlap bags labeled in countless foreign languages.
A short time later, the inspector emerged carrying a large, black leather case with a dragon insignia on its side. At this distance, Arthur could see two words engraved below the emblem: DRAKE® KNIVES.
As Inspector Smudge placed the case on the kitchen table, he looked directly at Arthur. “Is this the case you saw the saboteurs in possession of as they sneaked about the cake, my boy?”
Arthur’s family turned to him in shock.
“Um,” said the boy. “Well, it does look slightly similar….”
“What?!” gasped Arthur’s father.
“But…it was rather dark at the time—so, I mean, I can’t say for absolute certain….”
“How did you know about this, Arthur?” his mother cried.
“Earlier this morning,” explained the inspector, “your son came to me with information vital to this case. It seems he witnessed two suspicious individuals in the vicinity of the birthday cake just prior to the incident. According to the boy’s report, they were dressed as clowns—and carrying a case identical to this one.”
“Arthur, why didn’t you come to us first?” cried Mrs. Whipple.
Arthur opened his mouth to explain, but no words came out.
“Don’t worry, dear,” Mr. Whipple assured his wife. “This doesn’t prove anything yet.”
“No, Mr. Whipple,” replied the inspector. Having already undone the case’s silver clasp, he now peered inside the narrow opening he had created at the case’s top. “But I’m afraid this does.”
With that, he splayed the case wide open to reveal its contents.
There in the open case lay a spool of dynamite fuse, a staple gun, a coiled up wire saw covered in flecks of what appeared to be candle wax, a hand drill with an extra-large bit, and the three largest firecrackers Arthur had ever seen.
A collective gasp escaped from all who were gathered in the kitchen—with the exception, of course, of Inspector Smudge, who did not seem at all surprised by this.
“As much as I am blessed to be consistently correct in my predictions,” he sighed, “I must admit what a terrible burden it is to always be right. I’m afraid it’s my lot in life. My deepest sympathies, Mr. and Mrs. Whipple—but I’m sure you will find it much better to have discovered Mr. Smith’s treachery sooner rather than later.”
Arthur’s mouth hung open in shock. He had never imagined his account of the prior night’s events would lead to this.
“But sir,” pleaded the boy, “what about the clowns?”
“Just some of Mr. Smith’s criminal associates, no doubt,” Smudge explained. “Not hard to see why they might want revenge after your family’s public refusal to participate in the IBCPC fundraiser last month.”
“I’ve said it time and time again,” Arthur’s father growled, “we take no issue with clowns in general—but we will not support special treatment for them either. Clowns must be subjected to the same laws as the rest of us!”
“Please, Mr. Whipple,” grinned the inspector. “You needn’t tell this to me. But surely you can imagine how they might see things differently. And with the clowning profession in its current state of decline, everybody knows how desperate for money they all are. Mr. Smith no doubt offered them a cut of the payoff in exchange for—”
At that moment, Sammy the Spatula, carrying a small but ornately decorated cake, stepped through the kitchen door.
Arthur’s mother went white.
“Wh—what are you doing here, Sammy?” asked Mr. Whipple.
“Just popping in to drop off Arfur’s birfday cake, sir,” the chef replied, oblivious to the recently discovered evidence against him. Holding up the cake, he turned to Arthur and smiled. “Told you I’d bake you anuvver one to make up for the prison cake—and well, here it is, mate—World’s Tastiest, guaranteed by yours truly. Didn’t want you to fink I’d forgot….”
Arthur then noticed the cake’s decoration. Tiny swirling bullwhips and miniature milk bottles dotted its surface in intricate patterns. The boy’s heart sank. “Sammy—I…” he spluttered.
With that, Inspector Smudge turned about to face the chef.
“Wait…” Sammy gasped, the smile crumbling from his lips. “What’s ’e doing ’ere?!”
“Still baking cakes, are we?” smirked the inspector. “I should have thought you’d outdone yourself with the last one. But perhaps you’ve another reason for coming here. Hmm?” he added, holding up the case full of explosives.“Yo
u weren’t hoping to collect this, were you?”
It was then that Sammy noticed the open cupboard doors and the busted lock. He glanced at Arthur with a brokenhearted look that made the boy’s chest feel hollow and then back to the inspector.
“What are you doing in me secret-ingredient cupboard,” he cried, “and what ’ave you done wiv me knives?!”
“Greenley—arrest this man!” shrieked Inspector Smudge.
Arthur saw a glint of horrified confusion sweep across the chef’s face, as D.S. Greenley glanced back to his superior for confirmation. Inspector Smudge’s face had blossomed into a fierce shade of red that left little uncertainty as to his intentions.
D.S. Greenley turned and took a step toward the chef, retrieving a pair of handcuffs from his belt with one hand while holding up his other in an attempt at a calming gesture. “Now, Mr. Smith. Let’s not make this any harder than—”
But before D.S. Greenley could restrain him, Sammy’s left arm grabbed the sergeant by the shoulder and reeled him into a rigid choke hold while his right arm snatched a butcher knife from a nearby knife block and whisked it up to the sergeant’s throat.
Arthur’s birthday cake splattered to the floor.
“Don’t move, Smudge!” the chef shouted desperately. “I ain’t going back to prison, mate!”
“Sammy!” cried Arthur’s mother.
“Sorry, Mrs. Whipple,” slurred the chef. It was clear he had not completely sobered up since his appearance at the hospital. “I wish you lot didn’t ’ave to see this…but I just can’t ’ave these coppers locking me up again!”
“Perhaps,” Inspector Smudge countered calmly, “you should have thought of that before you decided to blow up your employers’ birthday cake, Mr. Smith. Because even if, by some chance, you are able to escape me now, your evil deeds will soon catch up to you—and the Law will follow shortly behind them. The Law does not like to be ridiculed, my criminal friend; it never forgets a name or a face. So no matter where you attempt to hide, the Law will lead me straight to you, and this I assure you, Mr. Smith—you shall not escape its shackles a second time.”
