[Graham King]

Chalk outlined where Rottweil district’s foremost horologist had perished, horribly contorted, amongst tumbled gears and tools. Heidegger leaned forwards: left thumb in his lederhosen braces, right forefinger mimicking the clockmaker’s wares, ticking off points.

“So: the gateau found here held poison. But did it kill Pfählentropf?”

Sceptical, Inspector Stumpf frowned: “His stomach contents show that-”

“-That he’d eaten a large helping? Yes. But the gateau was toxified afterward, to misdirect blame. Laboratory results show tetanus toxin in Pfählentropf’s blood- but not stomach.”

“So how was he poisoned?”

“A scratch– or peck! A minutely blood-stained rag is in the waste bucket. He was working on this clock, recently brought in for repair; examine the ledger! Test (warily!) for tetanin smeared on its sharpest components; check when its mechanism was set to go off, relative to the established time of death.
This was murder not by cook, but by cuckoo-clock.”