There was a pause.

“That’s all we have.”

“So… a few investigations and one conviction? For the Porgia money laundering?”

“I only gave you the highlights. He’s been pulled in for questioning on one hundred twenty-eight occasions, charged twenty-six times, but, as you say, only convicted once.”

“Well, we knew he was a bit of a crook.”

“There is a flip side. He has undertaken numerous charitable assignments over the years and has spent a great deal of time raising money for a myriad of good causes, St. Cerebellum’s being a notable favorite.”

“I’m sure the people defrauded by the Splotvian mineral-rights scam would be overjoyed to hear that. How long had he been an outpatient there?”

“He’d been a patient there for over four decades,” replied Mary, looking at a note she had made. “His doctor at present is someone named… Quatt.”

Both Jack and Tibbit stopped what they were doing and stared at her. There was a sudden silence in the room. You could almost hear the skin forming on the custard in the canteen next door.

“You’re joking? Not Dr. Quatt of all people?”

“I’m missing something here,” she said slowly. “Who is he?”

“She used to be head of her own genetic research establishment until a scandal involving ethically dubious medical experiments.”

“What sort of experiments?”

“Keeping monkey brains alive in jars, reanimating dead tissue—usual stuff. We probably won’t get much sense out of her—she’s as mad as a barrel of skunks.”

A clerk came in and handed Jack a manila envelope. It contained five black-and-white glossy eight-by-tens and a note from Madeleine to say that he should call her if he was going to be late for dinner.

“Hah!” said Jack, going through the photographs. “There’s our man!”

Two of the pictures were of other celebrities with Humpty in the background. In one he was sitting at a table pouring himself a drink, in another walking past, out of focus. The third was of him at the lectern giving some sort of speech.

“He does look drunk, doesn’t he?” commented Mary.

The fourth photo was of him shaking hands with a distinguished-looking man in his sixties whom Jack recognized instantly.

“That’s Solomon Grundy, the CEO of Winsum and Loosum Pharmaceuticals and ninth-wealthiest man in the country. He’ll be pressing flesh and doing the buddy-buddy thing with the Jellyman on Saturday. Who else have we got?”

The fifth picture was of Humpty gazing a bit unsteadily at the camera while shaking hands with a somber-looking man in his early fifties.

Jack turned the picture over and read Madeleine’s caption. “‘Local celebrity Mr. Charles Pewter meets local celebrity H. Dumpty at the 2004 Spongg Charity Benefit.’ Charles Pewter. Anyone heard of him?”

Tibbit disappeared into the next room to find out.

Jack pinned Dumpty’s photo on the board and stared at it for a moment.

“Jack?” said Briggs, who had appeared at the door. “Can I have a quick word?”

“Of course.”

Briggs beckoned him out of the door and down the corridor a few yards. He looked left and right before speaking and lowered his voice.

“I’ve just had a call from DCI Chymes—”

Jack sighed audibly. “No way. No way on God’s own earth, sir. NCD is my jurisdiction. Humpty is my jurisdiction. This is what I do.” He felt his voice rising.

“I know that,” said Briggs, trying to be conciliatory and authoritarian at the same time, “I just wanted you to reconsider. Chymes is Guild and high-profile. If you let him take over the Humpty investigation, it might bode well for the division.”

“No, sir. I’ve been shafted once too often by Friedland. You’d have to suspend me before I’d let go.”

Briggs took a deep breath and stared at him for a moment.

“Jack, please! Don’t piss Chymes off. If the Guild of Detectives gets involved, it could all get really messy.”

“Then,” said Jack, “it’s going to get messy. Are we done, sir?”

Briggs glared at him, then nodded, and Jack departed. He loosened his collar and felt his heart thump inside his chest. Humpty. Something told him it was going to be a tricky one.

As he walked back in, Tibbit and Mary were waiting for him with a hefty volume of Reading Who’s What? Mary looked at him quizzically, but Jack didn’t say anything.

“Pewter,” said Tibbit, “Charles Walter. He’s a commodities broker. Has been partnered to Mr. Perkupp at Perkupp and Partners since 1986. Active on the charity scene, married, with one son. Special interests: Victoriana, walking. Lives and works from Brickfield Terrace.”

Jack picked up the phone and dialed Pewter’s number.

After only two rings, a woman with a cultured voice answered the phone. “Perkupp and Partners. May I help you?”

“Yes,” he replied, “this is Detective Inspector Spratt, Nursery Crime Division. I wonder if I might speak to Mr. Pewter?”

“Certainly, sir. Please wait a moment.”

She put him on hold, and a rather poor recording of Vivaldi came down the line. A moment later she was back.

“I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Pewter is in a meeting. Can he call you back?”

Jack knew when he was being fobbed off.

“Tell him I’m investigating Humpty Dumpty’s death.”

There was a short pause, and then a man’s voice came on the line.

“DI Spratt? My name is Charles Pewter. Perhaps you’d better come around.”

Brickfield Terrace was a tree-lined avenue of houses built in the late 1890s and was situated only a few miles from the town center. Mr. Pewter’s house, Jack discovered, was the last one in the street and also seemed to be the only house not dissected into undistinguished flats. As he tugged on the bellpull, he noted an ugly hole where the boot scraper should have been. After a moment, the door opened, and a tall man with Victorian clothes, a large beard and a face like a bloodhound stood on the threshold.

“If you’re from The Owl,” began Mr. Pewter without waiting to see who either Jack or Mary was, “you spelt my name wrong on the guest list for the Spongg Footcare Charity Benefit. It’s not Pooter but Pewter, as in tankard.”

His deep voice showed little emotion and was about as salubrious as his features.

Jack held up his ID card. “Detective Inspector Jack Spratt, Nursery Crime Division. This is Detective Sergeant Mary Mary.”

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Dumpty. You’d better come in.”

Jack thanked him, and they stepped inside. It was like walking into a museum, for the whole house was decorated and furnished in a middle-class Victorian fashion. There was no expensive furniture; all the pieces were of low-quality boxwood and poor veneer. A pair of plaster of paris antlers painted brown were waiting to be put up on the wall, and fans and other Victorian knickery-knackery filled every vacant space. Mr. Pewter contemplated Jack’s curious gaze with pride.

“It’s all original, Mr. Spratt. Every single piece, from the screens to the bedstead to the fans on the sideboard. As very little of poor-quality Victorian furniture survives, for obvious reasons, it’s of almost incalculable value. I bought these plaster of paris antlers at Christie’s last week for seven thousand pounds. I had to beat off stiff competition from Japan; they love this stuff almost as much as I do. Shall we repair to my study?”