Raven - Rainow

The e Case oof the 64 Crumbsby Rosie DanielsThe semi-darkness pressed againstthe windows of the Institute andDetective Cuthbert Benson surveyed theinterior with unease. He had never beenone for mixing business with pleasure and thefirst Christmas Party of the Rainow PoliceSquadron violated this rule in the worst way; garishpaper chains dangled limply from the ceiling (did noone else think chains at a police party were somewhatsinister?) and senior officers with blotchy faces laughed raucouslyover a bowl of sickly pink punch. There were even – horror of horrors– conical party hats, which perched defiantly on every head,tangling themselves in the streamers.The squadron itself was a joke, reflected Benson. A spate ofrather mean-spirited letters to Rainow’s most politically activeresident had brought them here, but the hate mail had leftwhen their target did – no doubt in a first-class carriage.Bitterly, Benson thought of his previous post in Hurdsfield. Barely anight had gone by without, at the very least, a case of loiteringwith intent. Those were the days. He had been hailed as avigilante, maybe not the Batman but certainly the CommissionerGordon of the Macclesfield Area. Now look at him – chasing up aresident for keeping their hedge too long was the mostexcitement to be expected. He looked with disdain at hiscolleagues, all of whom had chosen to be here. It was an inch fromretirement!Covertly, he eyed the stairs next to the stage. Perhaps, ifhe kept his head down, he could to creep down there, squeezethrough a window and escape. Not exactly police etiquette, butdesperate times… He waited for a distraction (ConstableThomson’s impersonation of a steak pie had never been morewelcome), but as he began to ease the door open, a screampierced the party atmosphere.What now? he thought angrily. He had played ‘Pin the Nose onRudolph’ twice, sampled the punch, which was as strong as aviationfuel. Surely – no, they couldn’t want another conga line? He turnedand saw Sergeant Dutch, a white-haired crone with whom Bensonhad an ongoing feud, standing at the head of the main stairsclutching a crumb-laden platter. The Institute fell silent as theconstabulary cowered before Dutch’s fury.“Someone,” she said with a shaking voice, “has eaten myChristmas cake.” No one spoke. There was a pause in whicheveryone, as one, thought so? “My Christmas cake,” continued Dutch,louder, “that I baked with these hands. MY Christmas cake –“Benson had had enough: “Calm yourself, Dutch! We’ll apprehendthe culprit, don’t worry.” He stepped into the room, ready to takecharge. “Johnson, O’Hannigan. Call forensics. Peters, with me. Therest of you, spread out; search the area. The thief could still beat large.” He started towards the main stairs, followed by Peters,a tall policewoman who had been transferred from Bollington, butbefore he had gone two steps, Dutch cut in:“Hold it, Benson. How do we know the thief isn’t with us here?”Benson protested, saying he would trust these officers with hislife (untrue, most were so senile he wouldn’t trust them with hisgroceries) but Widdershins, a pompous old man with a moustache oflaughable proportions, interrupted him:“I say, Benson, why were you going downstairs?” and thecompany turned to stare at him.Benson’s heart sank. He had smelled mutiny in the ranks for awhile, but he had never experienced any divergence from hisword – except from Dutch, of course, who undermined him at everyturn.“What are you implying, Widdershins?” growled Benson. “That Iam the thief? I didn’t hear you questioning my authority when Isolved the Case of the Slightly Inconveniencing Vandalism lastyear, or when I saved all your necks from the Car with the WornBrake Pads.” He stepped up to Widdershins so they were nose tonose. “Remember who you’re working for, Constable,” he said quietly.“Now, I have a crime scene to investigate. Peters, with me.” Andhe descended the stairs.*“What do you think, Detective?” asked Peters. She leantagainst the wall, watching him carefully. “So many crumbs…” shemurmured.“Not a pretty sight, is it?” agreed Benson, his sharp eyesanalysing the scene. He straightened up suddenly and examinedthe windows. “Exactly sixty-four crumbs to be precise. Look here,the door is ajar - very interesting. What’s this?” He handedPeters the white fibres he had found on the floor. “Send theseto forensics. Very interesting… These footprints are mostmysterious. Almost… Cloven…” He sank into silence as hecontemplated the clues.“That’s it!” he cried suddenly. “Peters, it’s so simple! I’msurprised you didn’t see it yourself. When we take into accountthat the thief certainly did not take the cake to eat it – whowould? Did you taste Dutch’s Halloween Flan?” his face contorted.“Not good. It’s clear that the cake was taken for another purposealtogether: intimidation. I saw it a thousand times in Hurdsfield.What we have here is a gang, no doubt bent on spreadingdiscontent through the force.” Peters opened her mouth to speakbut he beat her to it: “What gang, no doubt you are about to ask.The crumbs explain that.Sixty-four, such a perfect number, wouldn’t you agree? Sixty-fouris the number of the Cow Lane Gang, who put cloven soles on theirshoes, as you can see. Peters – they can’t have gone far! Quickly!”Benson sprang to the door and was about to leap through itwhen Peters spoke, “Quite brilliant, Detective, but I’m afraid youmissed the mark this time.” She took his arm and led him outsideand to a nearby field. She scanned the herd of shivering sheepand pointed triumphantly to a particularly plump one. “There’s ourthief,” she said.“Don’t be a fool, Peters,” snapped Benson. “Think of the clues:the slightly open door; the seemingly random crumbs; the –““Wool?” interjected Peters, and seeing the truth sink in sheadded gently, “Of course, the sheep could have meant to beintimidating.”Benson nodded, cold air burning his lungs. “A sheep,” he whisperedhoarsely. “I need a holiday.”12