Standing at the window was Sherman Bartholomew. He looked tired and gaunt.
“Good evening, Inspector,” he said, rubbing his temples nervously. “I know I’m going to be sorry to ask this, but… what the blazes is going on?”
“I’m not one hundred percent sure yet, sir. A missing nuclear physicist, a discovery of unthinkable and devastating potential and Goldilocks caught up in the middle. NS-4 and QuangTech are implicated, and the Gingerbreadman is involved—I just don’t know where. And then there’s the fourth bear.”
Jack went on for some minutes, attempting to explain the complexities of the case.
When he’d finished, Bartholomew stared at him for a long time and then said, “I knew I’d be sorry.”
Vinnie, however, had understood it all a little better.
“So are you saying that all the nuclear strain of cucumbers have been destroyed?”
“No—Fuchsia told me that his ‘Alpha-Pickle’ was snipped off the main stalk last night. That’s the sole remaining cucumber. Whoever possesses that has almost unthinkable riches and power within his grasp.”
“And who do you suppose this fourth bear is?” asked Vinnie.
“I was hoping you’d be able to tell me. He’s a dominant male, likes porridge, has no compunction about killing other bears—and was having an affair with Ursula Bruin.”
Vinnie pricked up his ears when he heard this.
“You’ve an idea?” asked Jack.
“Not me—but Ursula might.”
They took the elevator to the large vaulted atrium on the ground floor and made their way across to the Bob Southey Medical Center.
“She regained consciousness an hour ago,” explained Vinnie, his claws clicking percussively on the smooth marble flooring. “She can’t speak, but she might be able to communicate in some other way.”
The medical center was one of the most modern Jack had ever seen, a reflection on the colossal wealth the bear fraternity had amassed over the years with wise long-term investments, well-planned trust funds and top-notch stock portfolios. Ed Bruin was in his own room, where a small army of medical staff was giving him minute-by-minute care. He seemed to have more tubes going into him than Charing Cross Station, and a vast array of high-tech equipment played an almost symphonic melody of bleeps, pings, chirps and whistles, while several monitors spewed out long strips of paper full of meaningful ink traces.
“He’s a long way from being out of danger,” said a small bear with a stethoscope draped around his neck, “but he’s getting the best care we can give him.”
Ursula was in a separate room and had only a plasma drip and a heart monitor. She was lying on her back on a sturdy wooden bed with a crocheted bedspread, and a large flower arrangement in a vase was sitting atop a table nearby. Sun streamed through the open window, and sitting opposite her with his chair against a bookshelf was the baby bear. It was the first time Jack had seen him, and he was baby in name only. Medium-size and wearing baggy trousers and a hoodie emblazoned with a flaming skull, he looked like any other teenager you might find in Reading—only with a lot more hair.
“She’s very weak,” said the bear with the stethoscope. “Try not to tire her too much.”
“Mrs. Bruin?” inquired Vinnie softly.
Her eyes flickered open, and she stared weakly in their direction.
“This is Inspector Spratt,” continued Vinnie. “He’s friendly to bears, and he needs to ask you a few questions.”
She blinked twice and gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“I know about the fourth bear,” began Jack. “I know that he was there in the cottage the morning Goldilocks came around, and whatever you think about him, you must know that he killed Goldilocks and attempted to have you and your husband murdered to keep you quiet. You don’t owe him a thing, and I need to know who he is and where I can find him.”
Ursula closed her eyes for a moment, and two tears welled up in her small brown eyes. She looked at Jack, then raised a wobbly claw and pointed it… at Vinnie.
“Oh, I get it now,” said Jack, jumping to his feet. “All the time you pretend to be on our side, but actually, while using the League of Ursidae as cover, you—”
But then he stopped, because Vinnie was pointing at Ursula. Her wavering claw was no longer directed at Vinnie; she was pointing it across the room to… baby bear.
“Oh, I get it now,” said Jack, turning to face the youngest Bruin. “Adopted when a cub, you grew resentful of your father’s authority and—”
“Jack,” said Vinnie in a kindly tone, “calm down. I think you’re suffering a temporary excess of resolutions.”
Jack took a deep breath to compose himself. Vinnie was right. And Ursula was pointing not at baby bear but at the bookcase behind him.
“She means a book,” muttered Vinnie, running across to the bookshelf and gathering up an armful of volumes, which he then proceeded to show to Ursula one by one. By the time they’d got to the third shelf, they’d found what she meant. It was the authorized biography of the Quangle-Wangle, and most households in Reading had a copy.
Jack opened it to the first page and sat on the bed to show Ursula the list of chapters. She indicated the appendix, Jack rapidly flicked to the back of the book, and Ursula pointed to a popular ballad that described in broadly lyrical terms the formation of the characters who came together to form the Quang’s business empire.
"‘The Quangle-Wangle’s Hat’? asked Jack, and Ursula nodded. She then closed her eyes and relaxed, her energy spent. Jack cleared his throat and read:
“On top of the Crumpetty tree, the Quangle-Wangle sat,
But his face you could not see, on account of his beaver hat.
For his hat was a hundred and two feet wide,
With ribbons and bibbons on every side,
And bells and buttons and loops and lace,
So no one could ever see the face
Of the Quangle-Wangle Quee.”
“That doesn’t make any sense at all,” murmured Jack.
“Maybe it picks up further on,” suggested Vinnie.
“But there came to the Crumpetty tree,
Mr. and Mrs. Canary,
And they said, ‘Did ever you see
Any spot so charmingly airy?
May we build a nest on your lovely hat?
Mr. Quangle-Wangle, grant us that!
Oh, please let us come and build a nest