“His death was tragic, I agree,” admitted Jack.
“Death comes to us all, Inspector. No, it’s a pity the patient-confidentiality clause is null and void — I could have done with fifty pounds. The price of lab equipment these days is simply scandalous.”
She looked around, lowered her voice and leaned forwards. “Did you know that I have successfully grafted a kitten’s head onto a haddock?”
“Should you be telling me this?” asked Jack, also in a quiet voice.
She leaned back and raised an eyebrow. “It’s not against the law — I just can’t get any funding to do proper research because of that damnable Jellyman and his outdated moral principles. In the world of cutting-edge genetic research, you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.”
“Which brings us back to Mr. Dumpty,” said Jack. “How long had you been his doctor?”
“For five years,” she said as she sat behind her large desk and indicated for them to be seated, “ever since I arrived in this dump. I was a psychiatrist before I moved into genetic research. What do you want to know?”
“His state of mind.”
“Ah!” she said, getting up to rifle through a rusty filing cabinet. “You are considering suicide, Inspector?”
“It is possible.”
“Indeed it is,” replied Dr. Quatt, looking at the files carefully.
“Physically, he was in a pretty ropy state. He was a lifelong salmonella sufferer, with frequent recurrences; when he had a bad bout, it was most debilitating. He drank more than was good for him, frequently overate and didn’t get much exercise — he never could walk far on those short legs.”
“And mentally?”
“Not good — but functional. He suffered from a sense of extreme low worth that manifested itself in frequent and self-destructive binges of drinking and womanizing. He also had depressive fits that sometimes lasted for days; all he could do was sit on his wall. Aside from that, he sometimes had problems differentiating reality from fantasy. He was particularly fearful that a giant mongoose was after him, was phobic about soufflé, meringue, and egg whisks, and had a recurring nightmare of being boiled alive for exactly three minutes.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Six days ago. Easter was a bad time for him, as you can imagine, with all those chocolate eggs being eaten and real ones dyed — he was a virtual prisoner in his own home. We had two sessions last week, and I think we really made some headway.”
“Did he talk about his work?”
She shook her head. “Never. It was all purely domestic.”
“But could he have been suicidal?”
Dr. Quatt thought for a moment. “I’m sorry to say that I can’t rule it out, despite my best attentions.”
Jack nodded slowly. It was what he had been expecting to hear.
“One more thing: How long had he been coming to St. Cerebellum’s?”
“For forty years, Inspector. It was almost his second home.”
Jack got up. “Thank you, Dr. Quatt; you’ve been most helpful. Tell me — and this is just personal curiosity — were you serious when you said you’d grafted a kitten’s head onto a haddock?”
Dr. Quatt’s eyes lit up, and she looked at them in turn, her youthful enthusiasm boiling to the surface. “Do you want to see?”
“That was pretty gross, wasn’t it?” announced Mary as they drove away from St. Cerebellum’s a few minutes later.
“Yes, but fascinating in a prurient, icky, dissecting-frogs, brains-in-jars kind of way. I thought keeping the collar and bell was an inspired touch, and it was kind of cute watching it try to play with that soggy ball of wool inside the tank.”
“Sir!”
“Just kidding. Yes, it was gross, and Dr. Quatt is definitely as mad as a barrel of skunks. And listen, I never insisted on being a pencil monitor at school. Where can I drop you?”
He left her outside the front of Reading Central Police Station. They bade each other good night, and she walked into the car park to retrieve her BMW, thinking that perhaps, given the direction of her new career, she should simply drive straight to Basingstoke and give Flowwe another whack with the onyx ashtray — just to be even-steven.
But when she got to her car, there was something unexpected waiting for her: an envelope carefully tucked under her windshield wiper. She thought it might be from Arnold, but it wasn’t. She read the note again, then a third time. She thought for a moment and then trotted into the station’s changing rooms to check herself in the mirror. If you are invited to the Reading branch of the Guild of Detectives by DCI Chymes himself, you should always look your best.
14. Meeting the Detective
First there was The Strand, the original magazine for which Dr. Watson so painstakingly penned all Holmes adventures. Following Sherlock’s retirement The Strand went through a sticky patch and was relaunched in 1931 under the title True Detection Monthly and featured Guild of Detectives stalwart Hercule Porridge and newcomer Miss Maple. The summer of 1936 saw both these characters abscond to the newly formed Real Detective Magazine. Lord Peter Flimsey and Father Broom, however, favored Extraordinary Detecting Feats, which folded after two issues, to be replaced by Sleuth Illustrated. The end of the “golden era” saw a shaking up of the true-crime franchise, and Real Detective, Astounding Police, Remarkable Crime and Popular Sleuthing merged into Amazing Crime Stories, which is now regarded as the world leader in true-crime adventure.
Mary walked nervously up the steps of the old Georgian town house on Friar Street and presented herself to the porter. He looked at her disdainfully until he saw the note and Chymes’s signature, then went through an extraordinary transformation, welcomed her to the club, relieved her of her coat, pointed out the facilities if she felt like a freshen-up and rang a small bell. He talked politely to her for a few minutes, pointed out the many framed newspaper front pages and Amazing Crime Stories cover artwork hanging up in the lobby until a footman arrived and gestured for her to follow him. They walked through some frosted-glass swinging doors and down a paneled corridor hung with more framed headlines and letters from celebrities offering their testimonials and grateful thanks. She was ushered into a bar that was elegantly bedecked in dark oak, rich burgundy carpets and brass light fixtures. There were groups of off-duty officers sitting around chatting and laughing, but these weren’t just ordinary rank-and-file officers such as you might find down at the Dog and Truncheon. These officers were different — the elite assistants who worked exclusively for the five Amazing Crime—ranked investigators in Reading, the most influential and successful being Chymes, of course. Each of the five detectives had his own coterie of dedicated support officers, each led by an Official Sidekick, four of whom were in that room tonight and three of which she could name.
The footman presented her to a group near the bar, bowed and withdrew.
“It’s DS Mary, isn’t it?” said a man smoking a large cigar as he sized her up and down in a professional sort of way.
“Yes, sir.”
“Chymes will be with you in a minute. He asked us to entertain you. Fancy a drink?”
“Thank you; a half of special would be good.”
The man nodded to the barman who had been hovering discreetly nearby.