The Big Over Easy

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 twenty 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?”