The Big Over Easy (Nursery Crime, #1)

by Jasper Fforde

If Queen Anne hadn’t suffered so badly from gout and dropsy, Reading might never have developed at all. In 1702 the unhealthy Queen Anne, looking for a place to ease her royal infirmities, chanced upon Bath; and where royalty goes, so too does society. In consequence, Reading, up until that time a small town on a smaller tributary of the Thames, became a busy staging post on the Bath road, later to become the A4, and ultimately the M4.

Briggs drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment. “Do you want to hear me play the trombone?” “Might it be prejudicial to my career if I were to refuse?” “It’s a distinct possibility.” “Then I’d be delighted.”

Ripvan—as in “Winkle,” naturally—was the laziest cat that had ever lived, ever. She would sleep in corridors, roads, paths, puddles, gutters—anywhere she suddenly felt tired. She would rather sit in the cold and have to be revived from near hypothermia with a hair dryer than trouble herself to use the cat flap. If she hadn’t had the sense to lie on her back under Stevie’s high chair with her mouth open, she would probably have starved.

“What did you do at school, Jerome?” asked Jack when Madeleine had gone upstairs to change into something a little smarter. It didn’t do well to turn up at a charity bash dressed scruffy, even if you were only the photographer. “Nothing much.” “Then it’s a bit pointless sending you, isn’t it? Why don’t we just cancel school, and you can stay at home and—I don’t know—just eat chocolate and watch TV all day?” Jerome perked up at this gold-edged scenario. “Really?” “No, not really.” His shoulders slumped. “But school’s sooooooo boring.” “Agreed. But it’s almost perfect training for a career at Smileyburgers.” “But I’m not going to work at Smileyburgers.” “You will if you do nothing much at school.”

Jack was immediately assailed by a powerful odor that reminded him of a strong Limburger cheese he had once bought by accident and then had to bury in the garden when the dustbinmen refused to remove it.

I would have sued him for libel, but he died—which was most inconvenient.” “Yes,” agreed Jack, knowing that to an immortal such as Prometheus, death really was something that only happened to other people, “it generally is.”

Mary’s mobile started ringing. She dug it out of her pocket and looked at the Caller ID. Arnold again. “This is a guy named Arnold,” said Mary, handing the still-ringing phone to Tibbit. “Can you tell him I’m dead?” Tibbit frowned doubtfully but took the phone and pressed the answer button anyway. “Hello, Arnold?” he said. “PC Tibbit here. I’m afraid to tell you that DS Mary has been killed in an accident.” He winced as he said it, and there was a pause as he listened to what Arnold had to say. “Yes, it was very tragic and completely unexpected.” He listened again for a moment. “That’s no problem, I’ll tell her. Good day.” He pressed the end-call button and handed the mobile back. “He said he was very sorry to hear about your accident and he’ll call you later. I don’t think he believed me.”

“Otto,” he replied, then added by way of explanation, “Palindrome as well. My sister’s name is Hannah. Father liked word games. He was fourteen times world Scrabble champion. When he died, we buried him at Queenzieburn to make use of the triple word score. He spent the greater part of his life campaigning to have respelt those words that look as though they are spelt wrongly but aren’t.” “Such as…?” “Oh, skiing, vacuum, freest, eczema, gnu, diarrhea, that sort of thing. He also thought that ‘abbreviation’ was too long for its meaning, that ‘monosyllabic’ should have one syllable, ‘dyslexic’ should be renamed ‘O’ and ‘unspeakable’ should be respelt ‘unsfzpxkable.’

Mr. Pewter led them through to a library, filled with thousands of antiquarian books. “Impressive, eh?” “Very,” said Jack. “How did you amass all these?” “Well,” said Pewter, “you know the person who always borrows books and never gives them back?” “Yes…?” “I’m that person.”

The Reading genetic industry suffered a severe blow last night when the Quatt Foundation for Genetic Research was closed following its owner’s admission that she conducted morally dubious experiments. “So I kept a monkey brain alive in a jar,” said the disgraced Dr. Quatt, “so what? It’s only a bit of fun.” Once the nation’s foremost expert in reptilian genome mapping and skilled at grafting frogs’ heads onto whippets, Dr. Quatt has been permanently banned from funded research. The disgraced pariah of the medical establishment has been shunned by every decent hospital in the nation, except for St. Cerebellum’s, which asked if she could start Monday.

“Dr. Quatt is a brilliant woman,” said the nurse as they took a clanking lift to the third floor. “The popular view is that she’s as mad as a barrel of skunks, and many people see her as a perverter of all the decent virtues that bind society together, but they said the same about Galileo.” “I must say I don’t remember the bit where Galileo grafted sheep’s hooves onto amputees,” mused Mary. “Or subjected toads to Iron Maiden’s ‘Number of the Beast’ so loud they exploded,” added Jack.

“Jack Spratt?” she asked, staring at him quizzically. “Have we met before?” “We were in the same year at Caversham Park Junior School,” replied Jack, astounded that she remembered. “Of course we were. You always insisted on being the pencil monitor—a policeman at heart, clearly.” She said it with a slight derogatory air that he didn’t like. “And you were expelled for sewing the school cat to the janitor.”

We wanted to talk to you about one of your patients—a Mr. Dumpty.” Dr. Quatt shook her head slowly. “I never discuss patients’ records, Inspector. It is a flagrant breach of doctor-patient confidentiality. However, I could stretch a point given some form of fiscal reparation. Shall we say fifty pounds?” “Doctor, you do know that he’s dead?” “I was nowhere near him,” declared Dr. Quatt haughtily.

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.

LMAO Hercule Porridge and Miss Maple 😂

Stevie then stared at Prometheus with all the seriousness that one-year-olds can muster, which is quite a lot. “Da-woo,” he said at length. “A-boo,” replied Prometheus. “Woo…?” asked Stevie doubtfully. “Wa-boo. Oodle-boo,” responded Prometheus with a large smile. “Da-woo!” said Stevie with a shriek of laughter. “You speak baby gibberish?” asked Jack. “Fluently. The adult-education center ran a course, and I have a lot of time on my hands.” “So what did he say?” “I don’t know.” “I thought you said you spoke gibberish?” “I do. But your baby doesn’t. I think he’s speaking either pretoddler nonsense, a form of infant burble or an obscure dialect of gobbledygook. In any event, I can’t understand a word he’s saying.”

The entire crime-writing fraternity yesterday bade a tearful farewell to the last “locked room” mystery at a large banquet held in its honor. The much-loved conceptual chestnut of mystery fiction for over a century had been unwell for many years and was finally discovered dead at 3:15 A.M. last Tuesday. In a glowing tribute, the editor of Amazing Crime declared, “From humble beginnings to towering preeminence in the world of mystery, the ‘locked room’ plot contrivance will always remain in our hearts.” DCI Chymes then gave a glowing eulogy before being interrupted by the shocking news that the ‘locked room’ concept had been murdered—and in a locked room. The banquet was canceled, and police are investigating.

An official report confirms what most of us have already suspected: that the alien visitors who arrived unexpectedly on the planet four years ago are not particularly bright, nor interesting. The thirteen-page government document describes our interstellar chums as being “dull” and “unable to plan long-term.” The report, which has been compiled from citizenship application forms and interview transcripts, paints a picture of a race who are “prone to put high importance on inconsequential minutiae” and are “easily distracted from important issues.” On an entirely separate note, the aliens were reported to be merging into human society far better than has been expected—the reason for this is unclear.

“Where are you off to?” “Clubbing,” replied Ben as he carefully combed his hair in front of the mirror. “Those poor seals. The leisure center really does cater for just about any minority sporting interests these days, doesn’t it?”

DOG WALKERS FACE BODY-FINDING BAN Citizens who find a corpse while walking their dog may be fined if proposed legislation is made law, it was disclosed yesterday. The new measures, part of the Criminal Narrative Improvement Bill, have been drafted to avoid investigations looking clichéd once they reach the docudrama stage. Other offenses covered by the act will be motorists declaiming in a huffy tone, “Why don’t you catch burglars/real criminals for a change?” when caught speeding, if there is a documentary crew in attendance. Civil libertarians, motorist groups and dog walkers are said to be “outraged.”

“Complex, sir, very complex.” “How do you mean?” “It’s about gold.” “Gold?” queried Jack “What is it?” “It’s a yellow-colored precious metal. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”

“We thought you’d be in Hollywood…or Caversham Heights at the very least,” added Mary, who remembered seeing Lola performing Anthrax! live when she was a little girl. “Hah!” Lola spat contemptuously. “Being waited on by an army of cosmetic surgeons? No thanks. What you see is what I am. I’ve not had my boobs done or my arse lifted, no nips, no tucks. No ribs removed, nothing. Those little strumpets we see on the silver screen today are mostly bathroom sealant. They buy their breasts over the counter. ‘What would you like, honey, small, medium or large?’ They give us stick insects and tell us it’s beauty. If someone of their size went for an audition in my day, she’d have been shown a square meal and told to come back when she was a stone heavier. What’s wrong with curves? Anyone over a ten these days is regarded not as an average-sized woman but a marketing opportunity. Cream for this, pills for that, superfluous hair, collagen injection, quick-weight-loss diets. Where’s it going to end? We’re pressured to expend so much money and effort to be the ‘perfect’ shape, when that shape is physically attainable by only one woman in a million. It’s the cold face of capitalism, boys and girls, preying on misguided expectations. Besides, I always found perfection an overrated commodity.”

Think of this: If it weren’t for greed, intolerance, hate, passion and murder, you would have no works of art, no great buildings, no medical science, no Mozart, no van Gogh, no Muppets and no Louis Armstrong. The civilization that devises the infrastructure to allow these wonderful things to be created is essentially a product of war—death and suffering—and commerce—deceit and inequality. Even your liberty to discuss the shortcomings of your own species has its foundations in blood and hardship.”

“Your viewpoint is depressingly callous. Are you saying that there’s nothing we can do to improve ourselves?” “Of course there is. There’s lots you can do.” “Such as…?” “Try to be pleasant to one another, get plenty of fresh air, read a good book now and then, depose your government when it suspends the free press, try to use the mechanism of the state to adjudicate fairly, and employ diplomatic means wherever possible to avoid armed conflict.” “But there will still be wars!” “Of course. There will always be wars. It has been in your nature

“You will have to excuse Mr. Porgia,” announced Aardvark, “but he speaks only in the language of his heart.” “And what language is that?” asked Jack, hoping that Mary could understand Italian. “English,” replied Aardvark. “He is the son of the Bracknell Porgias. You understand what that means.” “Of course,” said Jack, without understanding what it meant—or particularly caring.

The spinning industry was shaken to its foundations yesterday by the shocking royal proclamation that all spinning wheels in the nation were to be destroyed. The inexplicable edict was issued shortly after the King’s only daughter’s christening and is to be implemented immediately. Economic analysts predict that the repercussions on the wool, cloth and weaving trade may be far-reaching and potentially catastrophic. “We are seeking legal advice on the matter,” said Jenny Shuttle, leader of the Spinning & Associated Skills Labor Union. “While we love our King dearly, we will fight this through the courts every step of the way.” The King-in-opposition has demanded a judicial review.

The albino community demanded action yesterday to stop their unfair depiction as yet another movie featured an albino as a deranged hitman. “We’ve had enough,” said Mr. Silas yesterday at a small rally of albinos at London’s Pinewood Studios. “Just because of an unusual genetic abnormality, Hollywood thinks it can portray us as dysfunctional social pariahs. Ask yourself this: Have you ever been, or know anyone who has ever been, a victim of albino crime?” The protest follows hot on the heels of last week’s demonstrations when Colombians and men with ponytails complained of being unrelentingly portrayed as drug dealers.

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, Mr. Spratt. You work in criminal law; you know the full meaning of that. To run the criminal-justice system, innocent people must, however regrettably, be occasionally sent to prison. It’s unfair, but it’s for the good of the many. To be efficient, the system can’t be fair; to be fair, it can’t be efficient.