The Fantastic Family Whipple (20 page)

“Yes, of course, sir,” Arthur nodded gleefully. “Thank you, sir.”

Turning and scampering back toward the waiting car, Arthur could hardly believe how well his meeting with the inspector had gone. Far from being ridiculed or spurned, the boy had actually managed to become a secret partner in the investigation. His head brimmed with visions of stakeouts, hideouts, and shootouts.

“Really wanted that autograph, didn’t we?” Henry remarked as his brother bounded through the car door and into his seat.

“What?” said Arthur, momentarily confused. “Oh, right. Yep—just couldn’t help myself.”

As Henry shrugged and turned away, Arthur failed to suppress a subtle smile. He could hardly wait to see the looks on his family’s faces when they discovered he had played such an integral role in cracking the case and avenging their honor. Surely after seeing him awarded the title of World’s Youngest Crime-Solving Sleuth by Inspector Smudge himself, they would never doubt him again.

Upon their return from the hospital, the servants promptly resumed their duties—as there was much to be done—while most of the Whipple children headed directly into the house and set about constructing the World’s Largest Get Well Card for Mr. Mahankali and Shiva. Now that Arthur was part of the investigation, however, he had more important matters to attend to—like a survey of the crime scene. And so, as his parents and older brothers, Henry and Simon, accompanied Inspector Smudge out to the east lawn, Arthur tagged along a few steps behind them.

Peering across the sunlit grounds of Neverfall Hall, it was difficult to believe that something so terrible had taken place there hardly twelve hours earlier. Unless, of course, one noticed the cake.

The early morning sun had not been kind to the already disfigured dessert-turned-bringer-of-destruction. There was a massive sinkhole in the cake’s upper surface and several glaring bare spots around its curving face, where slabs of hardened icing had sheared away from the cakey cliff
underneath. The ground around its base was scattered with enormous fallen birthday candles, like a game of pick-up sticks abandoned by some frustrated giant child.

On the south side of the cake lay the ruins of a once spectacular stage, now reduced to a massive pile of splintered planks and twisted metal. A towering construction crane (the type that might be used to hoist an unconscious elephant out of a collapsed stage) stood motionless nearby, staring down at the carnage in silent judgment, no doubt thinking to itself,
For such tiny creatures, they certainly can make a mess.

The entire area comprising the cake, the stage, and the crane was cordoned off by yellow tape that read
INVESTIGATION IN PROGRESS
in bold black letters. Positioned next to the wilting cake was a large wheeled staircase, similar to the one Arthur had stood upon the night before to light the wicks of fourteen doomed birthday candles. At the top of the stairs, a man stood hunched over the edge of the cake—and appeared to be sniffing it.

As Arthur’s group approached the crime scene, the cake-sniffing man quickly stood up, brushed himself off, and started down the stairs. He was slightly thinner and shorter than average, with bright brown eyes and a pair of spectacles perched halfway down his narrow pointy nose, the tip of which was smeared with white icing.

“Inspector Smudge, look at this!” cried the man as he reached the ground, referring to some unseen object in his upturned palm—an object which he promptly proceeded
to drop before anyone could catch a glimpse of it. “Oh dear,” said the man, quickly dropping to his knees and proceeding to comb through the surrounding blades of grass with his fingers.

“Ahem,” grumbled Inspector Smudge. “Allow me to introduce Detective Sergeant Callum Greenley, my
impeccable
assistant. D.S. Greenley—Mr. and Mrs. Whipple.”

D.S. Greenley looked up from his foraging and held out a slightly grubby hand to Mr. Whipple. “Pleasure to meet you, sir,” the sergeant smiled, vigorously shaking the Whipple patriarch’s hand. “Big fan, big fan.”

After holding onto Mr. Whipple’s hand a moment or two too long, D.S. Greenley tipped his hat toward Mrs. Whipple and her sons, smiled, and said, “Ma’am. Lads,” then returned to his search.

“You’ll have to forgive D.S. Greenley,” explained Inspector Smudge. “Since my retirement, Scotland Yard has asked me to personally train a select few of their
most promising
young detectives, allowing them to accompany me around the globe, observing my record-breaking investigation tactics and lending assistance when possible. It’s hard to believe this is really the best the Yard has to offer these days. It’s a wonder any crime in London gets solved at all—isn’t it, Greenley?”

“Uh, yes sir. I suppose so, sir,” the sergeant replied distractedly, still rooting about through the grass on his hands and knees. A moment later, he exclaimed, “Ah, here it is!” and, with one hand cupped over the other, slowly rose to his feet.

Drawn in by the suspense surrounding this mysterious object, Arthur joined his parents and brothers as they gathered around D.S. Greenley’s outstretched hands.

“What do you make of
this
, Inspector?” inquired the sergeant as he removed his uppermost hand, revealing a thin clump of gray ash resting in the center of his palm. “It appears to be a used section of dynamite fuse, sir.”

“I know what it is, Greenley,” snapped Inspector Smudge. “Now tell me, where did you discover this?”

“There are bits of it on some of the candle stumps at the top of the cake—as well as on the sides of some of the severed candles on the ground. Here, sir—have a look.”

The group followed D.S. Greenley as he scurried over to one of the fallen candles and began pointing out various sections of the wax pillar with giddy enthusiasm.

“See, there’s a bit of burnt fuse stapled near the candlewick here, and then similar bits stapled every couple of feet or so down the side of the candle. It looks like—”

“Aha!” cried Inspector Smudge. After a quick glance at the burnt bits of fuse toward the top of the candle, he had darted down to the candle’s other end. He now stood stooping forward with a magnifying glass, examining the circular cross section at the foot of the candle where the waxy pillar had been cleaved from its base. “Judging by this blackened stain here, it seems our saboteur started by boring a hole in the base of each candle, into which he then inserted some sort of explosive charge before running a length of slow-burning fuse from the charge all the way
up to the tip of the wick—so that when the candle was lit, the fuse was lit as well.”

Arthur suddenly remembered the tiny sparkling flames he had seen inching down the backs of the candles during the candle-lighting ceremony. If only he had been an aspiring junior detective back then, he might have realized what they really were.

Meanwhile, Inspector Smudge continued his examination of the evidence, relaying his findings to the rest of the crowd.

“And while the surface of the wax here at the candle’s foot is rough on one side of the black mark—consistent with a sudden break—the wax is relatively smooth on the other side, showing signs of what appear to be saw marks. Our culprit no doubt sawed halfway through each candle, so that when the charges were detonated, the candles’ weakened bases would snap, thus propelling their upper stalks over the edge of the cake. My, my. If it weren’t so despicable, it might actually be quite clever. I trust you’ve arrived at a similar conclusion, Greenley?”

“Yes, sir. Something like that.”

“Of course you have, Greenley,” the inspector smirked. “So. We are looking for an individual or individuals in possession of some or all of the following items: one, dynamite fuse matching the residue stapled to the candles; two, a staple gun; three, some sort of saw, probably with candle wax in its teeth; four, a drill with a two-inch bit; and five, explosive charges. Furthermore,” he added, winking slyly
at Arthur, “certain information has come to light leading me to believe these items may be located in a large black leather case with the insignia of a dragon etched into the side.”

“What an odd coincidence,” Mrs. Whipple remarked with a smile. “Charles and I gave a set of knives to our chef, Sammy, in a case just like that for Christmas last year. Every now and then, I catch a glimpse of it when I venture into the kitchen.”

Inspector Smudge cocked his head and arched his brow. “Really? Well that is an odd coincidence, isn’t it now?”

Mrs. Whipple’s eyes widened. “I mean,” she added hastily, “I think it’s a dragon—but you know, on second thought, it might actually be a winged dog—or perhaps a carnivorous goose. Yes that’s it…”

Paying no attention to Mrs. Whipple’s suddenly foggy memory, Inspector Smudge interrupted. “It’s funny you should mention your chef in regard to this investigation, madam—because Mr. Smith has indeed been at the top of my list of suspects since the first candle fell.”

Mr. and Mrs. Whipple gulped, while Henry and Simon traded dubious glances.

Arthur felt his heart drop.

“But surely, Inspector,” cried Mrs. Whipple, “you can’t sincerely believe our Sammy was involved in this?”

“I’m afraid I have very
good reason
to believe he was involved. You see, this is not the first time Sammy ‘the Spatula’ Smith and Inspector Hadrian Smudge have crossed
paths. I, in fact, was chief inspector on the Caviar Case—the one that finally sent Mr. Smith to prison after years of unchallenged criminal activity. If you knew him like I do, you would not be shocked in the least by his involvement in this latest act of villainy.”

“Inspector Smudge, I assure you,” Mr. Whipple insisted, “Sammy has absolutely nothing to do with this. We trust him completely. He’s been our personal chef for over seven years!”

“Ah yes, but what about his previous occupation?”

“Now, sir,” replied Mr. Whipple, “we are well aware of the troubles he had with the law before he came to work for us—but that was a long time ago. He’s truly a changed man.”

“Really? Well that would be something. In the forty years I’ve been hunting criminals, I’ve yet to meet a single one who has suddenly woken up and decided toiling away for the rest of his life was a better way to attain the things he desired than simply taking them. Don’t ever let anyone tell you crime doesn’t pay. Crime pays loads. So much, in fact, these types are completely powerless to resist it—no matter how well they may convince you otherwise.”

“But what would he possibly have to gain by sabotaging
us
?” asked Arthur’s mother.

“Your naïveté is charming, Mrs. Whipple—but hardly methodical. Surely, given your family’s current standing, there are many who would gladly pay to see the Whipple name tarnished, perhaps offering substantial
compensation
to an individual on the inside—an individual with access to information and facilities not available to outside parties. Such compensation might go a long way towards, say, paying off a certain record-breaking gambling debt?”

For the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Whipple offered no rebuttal. Seeing that he had dredged up doubt in his clients’ minds, the inspector softened his tone.

“I’m afraid justice is not a pretty business, my dear Whipples. Many a trusting soul has found a loved one capable of unexpected evil…. Of course, then again, it is quite possible your friend had nothing at all to do with this dreadful business. But I’m afraid there is only one way to find out. So, if you wouldn’t mind, please direct me to the kitchen.”

Mr. and Mrs. Whipple reluctantly led the detectives through the house, where just outside the kitchen, the group was met by Mrs. Waite.

“Oh hello, Mr. and Mrs. Whipple. Inspector,” said the housekeeper. “Just finished folding the spider-silk tablecloths from the extravaganza. Hard to get any work done at a time like this—but after last night, a bit of order might do us all some good. Any progress on the case?”

“Actually, Mrs. Waite,” replied Mr. Whipple, “you may be able to assist us. Do you know where Sammy keeps his chief set of knives?”

“I believe he keeps them locked up in his secret-ingredient cupboard, sir. I can show you to it if you like.”

“Please, Mrs. Waite.”