The Big Over Easy

“It’s all in hand, sir,” replied Jack unconvincingly.

“I hope so. By the way, how many giants have you killed? I ask only by way of curiosity and self-preservation, you understand.”

“Technically speaking, only one,” replied Jack with a sigh. “The other three were just tall.”

“To kill one giant might be regarded as a misfortune,” said Brown-Horrocks slowly. “To kill four looks very much like carelessness.”

“I was cleared on all counts.”

“Of course,” said the Guild man, making another note on his clipboard.

“Sir?” said Mary, who had been going around collecting debris that might have been in Humpty’s car. It was surprising how much had survived—explosions are quixotic beasts. Most of it was worthless. A portion of poultry-feed packaging, a charred couple of pages from last week’s Mole, the remains of the Zephyr’s service manual. But one particular item caught Jack’s attention. It was part of some promotional material advertising the Goring Foot Museum. Jack and Mary exchanged looks, and Mary called the office to ask Baker whether he knew anything about the museum. She listened intently for a while, then hung up.

“Well?” asked Jack.

“Know the way to Goring, sir?”

“Sure. You going to tell me why?”

“Thomas Thomm was a research assistant there. That was the job that Humpty had got for him.”

“That’s the lead we’re looking for,” said Jack in the manner that Chymes used.

Brown-Horrocks raised an eyebrow but was otherwise unmoved.

“I’ll go in the back,” he said. “I’m meant to be just an observer anyway.”

And with a sinuous movement of folding arms and limbs, he compacted his large frame sufficiently to fit in the rear seat.

40. The Goring Foot Museum

The foot is, of course, a wonderful piece of engineering. It allowed mankind freedom from quadripedal movement and thus to develop the use of his hands. Without the foot we would have no hands.

—Professor Tarsus, The Foot Lectures

Jack had been to the Foot Museum only once before, when he was at school. It had been considered the low point of the school year, only marginally less interesting than Swindon’s Museum of the Rivet or Bracknell’s collection of doorstops. The museum was another Spongg bequest and was an impressive structure built in the Greek style, and despite being sandwiched between a supermarket and a fast-food restaurant, had lost little of its imposing grandeur.

They were met by a white-haired gentleman of perhaps sixty. He had a bad stoop and walked with uncertain steps. He had to look at them sideways, as his chin was almost resting on his chest.

“Professor Tarsus? I am Detective Inspector Spratt of the Nursery Crime Division, Reading Police. This is Detective Sergeant Mary Mary.”

“I’ll never remember all that. I’ll just call you Ronald and Nancy. Who’s he?”

“This is Mr. Brown-Horrocks from the Most Worshipful Guild of Detectives.”

“Ah. You can be Ronald as well. Took your time, didn’t you?”

He had a heavy, gravelly voice that sounded like thimbles on a washboard.

“Pardon me?” asked Jack, unsure of his meaning.

“You chaps don’t seem to be interested at all. I had a couple of you johnnies around about three months ago, just after the theft. Ronald and, er…Ronald, I think their names were. They promised to make inquiries, and that was that. Bad show, I call it.”

“We’re not here about the theft, sir.”

The Professor appeared not to hear and beckoned them to follow him past the rows of ancient foot-orientated exhibits. The interior was as old and dusty as Jack remembered, the leaded windows caked with grime and the hard flags smoothed from three-quarters of a century of bored, shuffling feet. The Professor led them through a door marked “Private” and into a modern laboratory. Racks of jars lined the walls, most of them containing some sort of chiropodic specimen pickled in formaldehyde.

“What’s this?” asked Jack, pointing to an acrylic and polypropylene test foot in a worn jogging boot being sprayed with a foul-smelling liquid inside a glass case. The foot and its stainless-steel leg trod a rolling road in a convincing manner.

“Our test foot. I call him Michael. We can program it for any type of walking gait. We can even,” he continued excitedly, “simulate a dropped arch to investigate what type of shoe offers the best support. We have it sweating a salt-nutrient mixture and then analyze the bacteria that grows in the gaps between the toes. Would you care to take a look?”

“No thanks,” said Jack quickly.