“Banquo?” echoed Jack in surprise. “Doesn’t he get killed off earlier in the play?”

“Usually,” replied Mary, “but this time he returned to the stage and made a brief speech explaining why he faked his own death, then slew Macbeth.”

“I bet the bookies weren’t pleased,” observed Jack.

“You could say that. They hadn’t suffered such a devastating loss since David beat Goliath. A rash of late bets had dropped Banquo’s odds from five hundred to one down to a hundred to one, but it wasn’t enough.”

“How much did the gang make?”

“Ten million.”

Jack whistled softly, and Mary continued: “This time there could be no mistake; someone was rigging the fights. Flowwe was put in command, and I went undercover as Lady Anne in their upcoming production of Richard III. It didn’t take long before we caught them in the final act. After a matinee performance, I saw the theater director giving out script revisions. I alerted Flowwe, and that evening we had eight undercover officers hidden in the audience, disguised variously as popcorn salesmen, tourists from the Midlands and critics from the Basingstoke Bugle. I had sneaked a look at the ‘revisions’ and knew what they were up to. At a suitable moment, we pounced, halted the Battle of Bosworth Field and arrested not only Richard III, but Lords Richmond and Stanley as well. Plots had been laid to call the battle a draw and then form a governmental coalition, a surprise result that would have netted the perpetrators over three million quid. It led directly to Flowwe gaining an extra twelve places on his Amazing Crime ranking to a creditable twenty-fifth. No Basingstoke officer had ever been higher.”

“And a commendation for you?”

She blushed and tossed her head modestly. “That, too.”

Jack remembered now where he had seen her name before. She had been commended not only for her sterling police work but also for her memorable performance as Lady Anne.

“Impressive. Is there anything you want to know about me apart from the fact that I’m not Guild?”

“Yes,” replied Mary. “What happened to your last DS?”

“His name was Alan Butcher. A good man. He died in a car accident.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as I was; I was the one that ran over him in my wife’s Volvo. But it wasn’t my fault—he stepped out in front of me.”

“Was he… tall?” asked Mary a bit recklessly.

Jack shook his head sadly. “You’ve heard about the giant killing already? Sometimes I think the station talks of almost nothing else. Well, hear it from the horse’s mouth: Aside from Butcher, they were all self-defense. When someone that big comes at you with a knife, you don’t stop to worry about using lethal force. It was him or me. Same as the other two. Mind you, only one of them was technically a giant—the rest were just tall. But you know what really annoys me?”

“No, what really annoys you?”

“Well, did you hear about the time I saved Hansel and Gretel from being eaten alive by a witch?”

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t.”

“Or the time I rescued a hundred children from the Pied Piper of Hamelin?”

“Don’t… think so.”

“What about dealing with serial wife killer Bluebeard?”

“Only when Briggs mentioned it yesterday.”

“How about the time I closed down the illegal straw-into-gold den?”

“Not really.”

“Convicted Jill of aggravated assault against Jack?”

“Nope.”

“Stopped Mr. Punch throwing the baby downstairs?”

“Must have missed that one.”

“This is my point. I’ve worked hard at the NCD for twenty-six years, trying to bring justice to everyone within my jurisdiction. I deal with most things within the NCD, and I like to think I make a difference. Is any of that remembered? Not a bit of it. I kill a few tall guys and all of a sudden I’m nothing but a giant killer.”

They reached Mrs. Dumpty’s house a few minutes later. It was named, ironically, the Cheery Egg.

“He had it coming. Who was it, a jealous husband?”

“We never said he was murdered, Mrs. Dumpty.”

The ex-Dumpty residence was a large mock Tudor dwelling. It was cheaply elegant, the furniture and pictures all reproductions, and they trod on marble-effect linoleum in the entrance hall. Mrs. Dumpty spoke to them sitting at a faux-wood Formica table in the large kitchen, wearing a mock-leopardskin jacket and smoking a Sobranie through a silver gilt cigarette holder with affected grace. Her hair was dyed jet black, and her last face lift had pulled her features into a grimace. She spoke in elocuted upper-class tones and looked as though her tan had been applied with a roller. Everything in the house was false, and that included Mrs. Dumpty. She fixed Jack with a stern eye.

“What difference does it make? He’s dead isn’t he?”

“So you weren’t close, then?”

She laughed again. “Once upon a time, Inspector. ‘Fidelity’ was not a word in Humpty’s word stock as much as—” She paused, trying to think up a suitable word.

“Vocabulary?” suggested Mary.

“Right. Fidelity was not a word in Humpty’s word stock as much as ‘vocabulary’ isn’t in mine. I knew he was sleeping around. He had great charm, and any moppet that came his way he used to regard as fair game.”

She paused for a moment, thinking. Neither Jack nor Mary said anything, so she continued:

“He married me for my money. My family name is Garibaldi. I suppose that means something to you?”

“Indeed it does,” said Jack. He knew as well as anyone that the Garibaldi family was big in biscuits. Yummy-Time Cakes and Snacks (Reading) was valued at over £130 million, and its Reading manufacturing facility churned out five thousand packets of chocolate digestives a day—and that was just the milk chocolate variety.

“When my father died, he left the biscuit concern entirely to me. It was my money that attracted Hump.”

“For high living?” asked Jack, wondering why Humpty had been working from a dive in Grimm’s Road.

“Speculation,” replied Mrs. Dumpty, taking the spent cigarette from the holder and stubbing it out in a mock-tortoiseshell ashtray.

“What did he speculate in?”

“Mostly bankrupt stock, that sort of thing. He bought shares when they went low before a possible merger and then sold when the shares rose—if they did. It was a very high-risk venture. He spent over eight million pounds of my money on his harebrained schemes. South American zinc, North American zinc, Canadian zinc…. In fact”—she paused for a moment—“I don’t think there was much zinc he didn’t speculate in. Some he made a killing on; most of them failed. We lived together for eighteen years, and in that time he made and lost five fortunes. His philandering always got worse when he was worth a lot of money. I thought it would blow over, small indiscretions that only served to prove he could still charm the ladies. It carried on, Mr. Spratt, grew more and more blatant, until I told him it had to stop. He refused, so I told him he couldn’t have any more of my money.”