The Big Over Easy

They drove on in silence for some minutes, staring at the strange wonders that met them at every turn. As the road smoothed and the last strains of “Jerusalem” faded on the car tires, they rounded a corner and came within sight of the bizarre and incongruous Castle Spongg.

The word “surreal” might have been invented for the Spongg residence. Everything about it flew in the face of aesthetic convention. It was impossible to say how many stories Castle Spongg had, for the windows were of varying sizes and shapes and placed randomly in the walls. The five towers all leaned precariously—some in, some out, three of them spiraling as they reached skywards, two of them even entwining at the top. The roof was decorated in seven different shades of slate, and the zinc guttering channeled water through gargoyles modeled on all the British prime ministers since 1726. Part of the roof was supported by flying buttresses, some Gothic, others smooth and looking like living branches of a tree. One buttress stretched seventy feet down, only to stop less than a yard from the ground.

They slowly motored up to the front door and parked where a silver-haired servant in a frock coat and white gloves was waiting to greet them.

“Good afternoon,” said the butler, bowing stiffly from the waist,

“my name is Ffinkworth. I am the Spongg retainer. If you would follow me?”

They all walked towards the main door, which was the shape of a collapsed trapezoid. Strangely, there seemed to be a gap between the two circular brass strips that ran round the perimeter of the house. Stranger still, the house appeared to be rotating.

“Castle Spongg is built on a turntable,” explained Ffinkworth with a hint of pride. “Powerful electric motors in the basement rotate the house to any point of the compass so his lordship might look out of his study and view the rose garden, or the lake, or whatever he wishes. Given less inclement weather,” added Ffinkworth,

“we could even track the sun and ensure that the morning room was naturally illuminated all day long.”

They stepped onto the turntable, which had been so precisely engineered it was impossible to be sure you were moving at all. The butler stood back so they might enter first, and they walked past a pair of giant bronze anteaters that guarded the lopsided front door.

Inside, the hall’s high ceiling was supported by a varied muddle of columns. Some were Ionic, some Corinthian, some Doric and some Egyptian. Others were a mixture of all four. The floor was checkered with white and black marble, but each piece was differently shaped. They swirled around the floor with no discernible pattern, and if you looked at it too long, you could become disorientated.

“I wonder—” said Jack, turning to speak to Ffinkworth, but the butler had vanished.

“It’s a bit creepy, isn’t it?” said Mary, listening to the house utter gentle creaks and groans to itself as it flexed slightly on the turntable. Jack was just tilting his head to one side to try to view the paintings, which were hung upside down, when a familiar voice made them turn.

“Inspector!” said Randolph with a smile. “How nice to see you again! And Sergeant Mary. I trust the corn on the second toe of your left foot is not hurting you too much?”

“How did you know about that?”

He smiled modestly. “I am a fully trained and highly experienced chiropodist, Sergeant. I can tell by the way you walk. Is this your first time inside Castle Spongg?”

They both nodded.

“It’s officially one of the seven wonders of Reading,” said Spongg proudly. “Will you take tea?”

“Thank you.”

“The first Castle Spongg was built in 1892,” he explained as he led the way down a mirrored corridor. “It was a Gothic Revival edifice of humongous proportions. The main hall, corridor and doorways were so large that my grandfather took to driving everywhere in a Model T Ford.”

“Didn’t it damage the place?” asked Mary.

“The odd scuff here and there, but nothing serious. No, the real damage was done by the 1924 Spongg indoor car-racing championships. A three-car pileup in the main hall destroyed all the oak paneling between the library and the smoking room.”

He laughed at the thought of it.

“There was a high-banked corner built next to the staircase. The main hall became the home straight; they tell me the chicane in the orangerie was tricky but that you could really open it up down the picture gallery. My grandfather set a lap record of 86.42 miles per hour in a blown Delage-Talbot S-27. He destroyed the car and his left leg in the attempt.”

He stopped next to a glass case containing a piece of twisted metal.

“This was part of the Delage’s supercharger. We found it embedded in a tree half a mile from here two summers ago. Glory, glory days. This way.”

He took a left turn, opened a riveted steel hatch and led them down a corridor that looked like the interior of a submarine, complete with water dribbling out of the valves and the distant concussion of depth charges.