Reg Crumplethwaite and the Custard Catastrophe

Reg had only meant to detect biscuits.  
That was the whole point of the machine. A simple rig — three coat hangers, a moped battery, and a stolen supermarket scanner — that beeped when a Hobnob was within a ten-foot radius.

But on Tuesday morning, it picked up custard.

It shouldn’t have. Custard isn’t technically a biscuit. Not even a rogue Jammie Dodger could account for this.  
Reg adjusted the dials, thumped it once for clarity, and followed the beeping.

It led him to No. 12, Sycamore Close. A bungalow that hadn’t smelled of custard since the trifle incident of ’94.

He approached the door with the caution of a man who’d once been bitten by a Garibaldi. The beeping grew frantic, like a robot with a bladder problem. Reg pressed the doorbell, which played “God Save the Queen” in the key of F flat (which, as everyone knows, is a key reserved for emergencies and very flat queens).

The door opened a crack. Mrs. Blenkinsop peered out, her hair in curlers and her face in a state of mild confusion.

“Reg Crumplethwaite!” she exclaimed, as if he were a rare cheese. “What brings you to my threshold at this ungodly hour? It’s only half past elevenses.”

Reg held up his machine, which beeped in reply.  
“I’m on official biscuit-detecting business, Mrs. Blenkinsop. But my device has gone rogue. It’s picking up custard.”

Mrs. Blenkinsop’s eyes narrowed. “Custard? Here? Not since the trifle incident of ’94, and I swore never again. The stains are still on the ceiling. And the cat.”

Reg peered past her into the hallway. The beeping was now so loud it threatened to summon the local fire brigade, or at least a curious badger.  
“May I come in?”

Mrs. Blenkinsop hesitated, then relented. “Mind your feet. I’ve just polished the carpet with goose fat.”

Inside, the smell of custard was unmistakable. It hung in the air like a yellow fog, thick and suspicious. Reg’s machine began to vibrate, then emitted a small puff of smoke.

He followed the scent to the kitchen, where he found the source of the catastrophe: a large, upturned bowl, a trail of yellow goo, and a very guilty-looking cat.

“Mr. Tiddles!” Mrs. Blenkinsop wailed. “You’ve been at the Bird’s again!”

Mr. Tiddles, a feline of considerable girth and questionable morals, licked his whiskers and attempted to look innocent. He failed. He looked like a cat who’d eaten an entire custard factory and was considering seconds.

Reg knelt beside the machine, which was now making a noise like a kazoo in a wind tunnel.  
“I think I’ve solved the mystery, Mrs. Blenkinsop. Your cat is custard-positive.”

Mrs. Blenkinsop sighed. “He’s always had a weakness for the yellow stuff. Ever since the trifle incident.”

Reg made a note in his Official Biscuit Detective’s Notebook:  
Case #47: Custard Catastrophe. Suspect: Mr. Tiddles. Motive: Greed. Method: Licking.

He stood, wiped a splodge of custard from his shoe, and tipped his hat.    
“My work here is done. But I recommend you keep your Bird’s out of reach. And your cat off the ceiling.”

As he left, Mrs. Blenkinsop called after him, “Would you like a biscuit for your troubles?”

Reg paused, considered, and nodded.    
“As long as it’s not a ginger nut.”

And with that, Reg Crumplethwaite strode off into the morning, his machine beeping contentedly, ready for the next great biscuit-based adventure.

Mr Tiddles watched from an upstairs window...