“I’m here for the murder investigation,” Edmund announced.
“Which one?” asked Sallowpad dryly.
Edmund blinked. “There’s more than one?”
“It depends on whether you mean murder or murder, Your Majesty.”
“That clears it up,” Edmund muttered. He strode into the glade and pulled up short. The trees were black with crows — a shifting, restless, but unusually silent mass of crows — and black feathers mingled with russet leaves falling to the ground. In the center of the clearing, there were no birds.
There was, however, a corpse with a knife in its back.
“Ah,” said Edmund. “The second murder. Quite.”
“Please, sire — the /other/ murder. Otherwise you’ll start rumors that more than one person has been killed,” censured Sallowpad.
“Right.” Edmund sighed. “And the, er, original murder investigation?”
Sallowpad mantled, shedding a few black feathers of his own. “The theft of visiting royalty’s jewelry, while of grave importance, is not as pressing as the death of one of the Calormene guards.”
“Of course not!” Edmund rolled his eyes. “What I meant is — why are they here? Don’t tell me the cases are related!”
“Unknown,” croaked Sallowpad. “But I heard one of the Calormene delegates threaten bodily harm to one or more members of the Royal Murder.”
“Tell me.” Edmund’s voice was dangerously low.
“He said that, should the true thief be unmasked, he would… eat crow.” Sallowpad shuddered.
But Edmund grinned like the proverbial well-fed cat. “Did he now? It’s not what you think, Chief” — and someday, he would have to explain the idiom, but the longer he could put off that conversation, the better. “I have the feeling our two cases are related after all. Dismiss the murder — we’ll have to interview the crows later, but I think we’ll find the delegate himself is behind the thefts. The /other/ murder may hold the key, but I suspect Calormene infighting is at the root of it all. Someone is trying to lay the blame — not to mention the corpse — at our doorstep.”
“I hope so,” said Sallowpad darkly. “Or the Tisroc will eat us all.”
“Not to worry, my friend.” Edmund crouched next to the body. “I’m on the case.”

—

“I’m here for the murder investigation,” Edmund announced, trying to ignore the sense of deja vu.
The Scotland Yard detective in charge took in the sight of Edmund’s Oxford robes and blinked. “Professor…?”
“Pevensie, three E’s, one I, not in that order.” Edmund crouched next to the body, trying to ignore his aching, arthritic knees along with the sense of deja vu. “This is the fourth dead crow left on an MP’s doorstep. The previous three have been followed by assassination attempts. Yes, yes, all very hush-hush, I didn’t find out through the paper. My brother Peter told me. He was MP number two on your list, I would have thought you could spell our surname by now.” Edmund straightened with a wince. “You need a man who can tell you about crows, so you can track down the perpetrator before he perpetrates again. I’m your man.”
The detective seemed far too young for such an important case, but was no younger than Edmund had been when the Calormenes killed one of their own, stole their own jewels, and tried to blame it on Narnia. Still, he seemed a little slow — it took him a full minute to formulate a response to Edmund’s introduction.
“You’re… an ornithologist?”
Edmund shook his head. “You’re thinking of my cousin, Professor Emeritus Eustace Scrubb, and he doesn’t just study birds, it’s all tied to dinosaurs. No, I’m a professor of law. But for anything involving crows, not to mention the other sort of murder, I’m your man. In fact,” he added with a sly smile, “I’ve been called the Crowfessor.”
For some reason, the detective did not look appropriately reassured.