“You mean he isn’t a Wonderland Monster?”
“Jittery?” The Pillar laughs. “I may not have met him much, but I’m sure he isn’t one. At least the last time I saw him.”
“Which was when?”
“A few years go, in a famous convention where he was showing his genius architectural works,” the Pillar says. “Jittery designed most of the world’s greatest gardens, some public, some private.”
“He did?” I wonder why a talented man like him is locked away.
“You wouldn’t believe the beauty of those gardens,” the Pillar says. “He was part of a worldwide crew that designed the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew, for instance. A masterpiece. He was a major landscape consultant in the designing of the Chateau de Versailles gardens, and the Master of Nets Garden in Suzhou, China. Such a brilliant landscaper.”
“I don’t know about most of these gardens.”
“Just google them. You’ll love what you see,” the Pillar says. “Jittery is also a scientist. He contributed a lot in studying the Big Bang Theory at CERN in Switzerland. A highly respectable organization in their field.”
“Then why is he locked away in some high-tech asylum?”
“This is like asking why you’re locked away in the asylum—or the Muffin Man,” the Pillar says. “At some point in history it will be scientifically proven that the real asylum is out there, not behind bars in underground facilities. But that’s another story for another time. All I know is that Jittery is one of the few who hadn’t been locked away by Lewis. He is like Fabiola. Lewis Carroll released them to the real world where they could have a better life. Fabiola used to say she liked Jittery, if I remember correctly. But I am sure she can’t help now.” The Pillar stops and gazes in Inspector Dormouse’s direction. “What really concerns me is this so-called high-tech asylum. I’ve never heard of it.”
“I agree,” I say. “I mean, why isn’t he just confided to the Radcliffe Lunatic Asylum?”
“I was thinking the same thing.” The Pillar taps his cane once on the floor, eyes twitching at the inspector making his phone calls.
“Do you think we should try calling Dr. Tom Truckle?” I offer. “Maybe he can help?”
“I did.” The Pillar purses his lips. “He hung up once I mentioned Jittery. Tom’s head is buried in illegal practices, bribes, and extortion. He barely tolerates me, so I don’t expose him.”
“That’s reassuring.” I sigh.
“Bear in mind that there is a lot we don’t know about in this world we’re living, dear Alice,” the Pillar says. “There is so much secret politics, moneymaking, and monkey business concerning asylums and insanity. Most of the people in asylums aren't as mad as you think. I said that before, but hey, it wouldn’t hurt to be boring once in a while.”
“Are you talking about me?” I joke.
“Nah, you’re bananas,” he says. “I was talking about me. Contrary to common belief, I am the sanest man in the world.”
Inspector Dormouse summons us to the back of his car. We enter and close the door behind us, ready to listen.
“Look, it’s not easy.” He cranes his neck and talks to us. He has a sleeping mask wrapped around his forehead, the way people wear their sunglasses when they don’t need them. I guess he is planning to take another nap soon. The five o’clock tea nap, maybe? “To get you to meet Professor Jittery, I will risk my career. I don't know a man who’d risk such a thing at my age.” He tries to play coy, while he is the sweetest of men. “You promised I get the credit of catching the rabbit if you do. I need to make sure you will stick to your promise. My daughter will be proud of me. She never has been proud of me until this point.”
“I swear in the name of the Jabberwock and—”
I cut through the Pillar’s sarcasm, and say, “Trust me, Inspector Sherlock. I have no use for the credit. It’s the life of a rabbit that’s at stake here.” Have I just called him by his first name to gain his trust? I think the Pillar’s tactics are growing on me.
“Aye, young lady, I believe you. Like I said, you remind me of my daughter.”
“So how are we going to meet the famous Jittery?” the Pillar asks.
“You won’t, Mister Petmaster,” Inspector Dormouse says. “But you, Amy Watson, will.”
“But why—”
I cut through the Pillar’s disdain again. “I have a good feeling about this. You’re Sherlock, and I am Watson, your assistant,” I tell Inspector Dormouse.
Way to go, Alice. No wonder you’re supposedly majoring in Psychology in Oxford University—where you have not attended one class so far.
Inspector Dormouse chuckles. The car shakes.