A Baker Street Wedding

by Michael Robertson

  “The play is about to start,” warned Roy.

  “We’ll just be a moment,” said Siger. “You can go on in yourselves; just leave the door unlocked, and we’ll be right in.”

  Siger put his hand under Lois’s arm as if for support and hurried her back across the pavers to the car.

  “What?” said Lois along the way. “What’s going on?”

  Siger waited until they had almost reached the car and were completely out of earshot. He glanced back at the entrance, where Roy was still waiting, holding the door. Siger waved, held up two fingers to indicate how long they would be, and then opened the boot, as if to find Lois’s shoes.

  At the entrance, Roy nodded and finally went inside.

  “What?” said Lois again.

  “When we met them for tea,” said Siger, “I noticed some fine yellowish dirt deep under Roy’s fingernails. Like the dirt in the local fields. There was just a bit of it, a fine layer well under the fingernails, that he hadn’t been able to clean out. It’s why I asked him about being from the British Museum.”

  “Oh,” said Lois. “It wasn’t just the tie?”

  “No. And as you recall, he said he is retired, not on a dig, and hasn’t been on one in ages.”

  “He lied,” said Lois.

  “Yes. And not only did he lie initially but he went to the trouble since then of trying to cover up by cutting his own fingernails so closely that they almost bled.”

  “Are you sure? Oh, don’t tell me. I suppose you were a manicurist at one time?”

  “No. I dated one.”

  Lois just stared at Siger for a brief moment.

  “What?” said Siger.

  “Nothing, nothing. I was just … trying to imagine. But why? Assuming you are right, why would he cut his fingernails so short?”

  “Exactly.” Siger nodded. “That’s the question. Would you get the yearbook from the front seat, please? And come around the other side; if they come back to the door, we want them to see only that we are looking in the boot with your torch. You must look as though you are still hunting for your spare shoes.”

  “I am hunting for my spare shoes,” said Lois. “Or I will be shortly. It’s no fun walking on one heel.”

  Lois got the yearbook and flashlight. Siger opened the boot, they set the yearbook down inside it, and as Lois shone the light, Siger flipped through to the two-page spread showing Laura’s Winter Holiday Dance photo.

  The spread was not all just about Laura, of course. Lois and Siger saw the photo of the banner that proclaimed the occasion for the dance, the photo of the streamers and the glitter ball, the photos of the two teacher chaperones, and of all the other students present at the ball, in a whole slew of awkward poses.

  And beneath each photo was a caption—in a typeface so small that it was barely noticeable, and not readable at all from just a quick glance.

  “You said you recognized someone,” said Siger.

  “No, I said one looked familiar.”

  “Which one?”

  “This one. The chubby boy with the acne and the embarrassed look dancing with Laura.”

  “Hmm. I suspect you’re right; I suspect you do know him. However, I saw someone else on this page that looks familiar as well, and I am quite certain about the one that I recognize. But of course it’s not a fair contest. I think you are trying to match a photo with someone whom you have only seen for the first time some twenty years later. Whereas I have the advantage of seeing my subject in two photos taken within a relatively short time of each other.”

  “Who?”

  “This one,” said Siger. “The adult chaperone standing here by the exit. I saw a photo of him somewhere else—on the wall in the coroner’s office. It showed him standing in front of the artifact discovery that was reported to the coroner twenty years ago.”

  “This was the man who discovered those stones?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right,” said Lois. “One of Laura’s teachers at the boarding school made an archaeological discovery nearby. Is that important?”

  “I would not have thought so,” said Siger, “if someone had not lied to us about being near that site, and if someone had not gone to the trouble of switching dental records to make it appear as though Laura died in the plane crash.”

  Siger stared at the yearbook photos a moment longer, and said, “So we have an archaeological discovery not very far from the school, in a field that is referred to in one of the other student photos as ‘Romeo’s Meadow.’ No doubt our bartender friend is familiar with the location. Now look at this boy in the ‘Winter Holiday’ photo, standing along the wall, watching Laura dance.”

  “Why—that’s him, isn’t it? Our bartender.”

  “Yes. Tell me what emotion you see on his face; I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Oh my,” said Lois. “Someone wants Laura who can’t have her.”

  “My interpretation, as well,” said Siger. “But he’s not the only one. Who else? I mean just from these photos?”

  “Well, I would say the embarrassed boy rather likes her, too,” said Lois, “judging from the way he’s trying to stretch his pants pocket out to disguise his … obvious indicator.”

  “I think there’s one more interested party,” said Siger. “Look closely at these other two shots—this one, where you see the male chaperone watching Laura slow-dance, and this one, where he is glaring at the other boy who is watching her slow-dance.”

  “Oh my,” said Lois. “That’s a look.”

  “Yes,” said Siger. “Of some kind.”

  “I don’t know quite how to describe it, but it certainly creeps the bloody hell out of me.”

  “Agreed. Now, the photo that looks familiar to you—the boy dancing with Laura— Here, I’ll hold the light; you check the caption.”

  Lois looked at the caption.

  “It says his name is ‘Potty Bobby.’ Oh, that’s just mean. Didn’t they have any supervision on this yearbook? Wait, there’s more. His real name is—”

  Lois gasped.

  “My God,” she said. “I can’t believe it. Him? Really? He’s done nothing but give Reggie and Laura grief, and I think he’s just the biggest—”

  Suddenly, Siger slammed the boot closed and called out toward the theater entrance.

  “Still looking! Any minute now!”

  Lois turned and saw what Siger had seen: Roy had come back outside and was staring across at them, and now Nancy joined him, pointing at Lois and Siger. Nancy and Roy began a rather animated conversation between themselves.

  “Why are they so bloody determined for us to join them?” said Lois under her breath as she looked back at them.

  “I have a theory,” said Siger. “I hope I’m wrong, but if I’m right, we have very little time. I will have to go into the theater.”

  “But—”

  “I can delay it, I think. I used to be an actor, after all, but—”

  “Delay what?”

  “Well, I … it’s only a theory, mind you, but when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however unlikely—”

  Lois interrupted him.

  “And what do you mean, ‘used to be an actor’? Isn’t there any occupation that you haven’t previously—”

  “Very few,” said Siger. “But we haven’t much time. You must hurry. Drive as fast as you can—I know you can do that. As soon as you get a connection, call Potty Bobby, tell him who needs him, and that he must come immediately with all the help he can muster. Here are the coordinates to give him. You could mention Romeo’s Meadow as a reference point, but perhaps he won’t know exactly where it is. I’m guessing that, unlike our bartender, he didn’t get to make much use of it back in the day.”

  “Now that we know who he is, I very much doubt that he’ll take my call,” said Lois. “He’s never much liked Baker Street Chambers, you know.”

  “No, the thing he didn’t like was competition for Laura. He will come, if you explain. Drag him out
of his Wapping castle one way or the other; this town has no local constable; he can get here quicker than the police from the next parish, and with more force. Go.”

  Siger shut the boot and stepped back; Lois got in the driver’s seat, started the car, and drove out.

  Siger hurried up the path to join Roy and Nancy, who had not stopped watching Siger’s and Lois’s attempt to find her other shoes.

  And now they seemed more than a little alarmed.

  “Where on earth is she going?” asked Nancy.

  “To the bed-and-breakfast. We realized that is where her shoes are.”

  “It’s not far, really,” said Roy. “She could have walked.”

  “Yes, but she doesn’t want to miss even a minute of the play.”

  “Well,” said Roy, “I suppose we can just wait out here for her until she gets back.”

  “No, no, not at all. You two go in; I’ll stay out here and do the watching. I mean waiting.”

  Roy and Nancy looked at each other as though this was a much more important decision than it should have been.

  Now Siger was convinced that his theory was correct.

  Roy tried to step around Siger to get a better view in the direction Lois had driven.

  Siger blocked him.

  “Come, come, we don’t all want to miss the beginning of the play, do we?” said Siger. “The witches are the very best part!”

  Roy looked again at Nancy, and then finally he said to Siger, “All right. We can come back out at the first intermission if she hasn’t arrived by then. But you mustn’t miss the beginning, either. We’ll all go in.”

  “Of course,” said Siger. “That’s exactly what I meant.”

  26

  They all three sat in the back, not in the front-row seats that Nancy and Roy had promised earlier.

  Siger asked why, and they told him it was so that they could more easily check for Lois.

  No doubt true, thought Siger. The issue was why they were so concerned about it.

  Before the auditorium lights went down, Siger managed a look around at his fellow theatergoers.

  The theater was filled almost to its two-hundred-person capacity. Given the size of the theater, Siger was reasonably certain that the small town’s entire population of 136 was present.

  Siger scanned the faces, looking for anyone who was about the same age as Laura. There were only a few. The town had mostly an older population, along with some of their grown children, in their late teens and early twenties. It was the kind of town people would come from to start their careers and families, but not so much go to.

  The footlights came on, and the director came out onto the stage to say a few words. He announced the name of a local actress taking the place of Melanie as Lady Macbeth. No mention of Laura.

  Now the director left the stage and the lights went dark. Sound effects of wind and thunder began blasting, in a cheap, non-surround-sound sort of way, from two floor-size speakers to the right and left of the stage. The curtains parted and a stage spotlight came on.

  “Double, double toil and trouble.”

  At center stage was a big papier-mâché pot painted black, and around it were gathered the three young local witches.

  Siger ran through the play in his mind, trying to determine when the stage would be most dark, giving him the best chance to get out of the theater without being seen by Nancy and Roy.

  If they saw him leave, he was certain they would immediately get out their smart phones and, if they got even a minimal wi-fi connection, raise a social-media alarm. The alarm wouldn’t be meant for the people in the theater—they weren’t in on it; at least he didn’t think they were. This was not a village on the verge of a mass-hysteria event. No, the reason that the locals had all been cajoled and bullied and coaxed into the theater was so that none of them would see what was about to happen outside.

  More specifically, what was about to happen on the moor—in the lower portion of it that was easily visible from just one location in the village: the pub.

  It wouldn’t do to wait too long. When the play was over, the pub would reopen, and most of the theater patrons would head in that direction, wanting their pints. That had to mean that the event that Roy and Nancy didn’t want them to witness would then be over, as well.

  And quite possibly, so would Laura Rankin’s life.

  Unless, of course, Siger had it all wrong. In the darkened theater, with the witches announcing schemes and predictions, while he waited for the opportunity to make his move, he had the opportunity to consider the possibility that he might have it all wrong.

  Was Laura Rankin formerly Laura Penobscott, otherwise known as the Scarecrow? Certainly the yearbook proved that.

  Had someone lured her to this town by writing to Sherlock Holmes and asking for the Scarecrow? Yes, that had to be the case. The letters to Sherlock Holmes were common knowledge. And anyone who followed the depictions of Baker Street Chambers in The Daily Sun knew both about the letters and about Laura’s relationship to the QC of those chambers.

  Was it connected to Laura’s school twenty years ago? It had to be. Only the former teachers and pupils from that school, and in the year that Laura was there, knew the nickname Scarecrow.

  So which of them had written the letter? Only three people still in town were possibilities.

  There was Mrs. Hatfield, Laura’s former drama teacher, who, according to the director, had had to leave on a sudden unspecified emergency.

  And there was the social sciences teacher, who was not among the audience, and who had been the dance chaperone who had interrupted Laura and the future bartender on the moor. And who had made the archaeological discovery twenty years ago. The man in the yearbook photo and the man in the photo on the coroner’s artifacts wall were the same; Siger was nearly sure of it.

  Of course, there was also the bartender himself. Where was he? Now the scene with the witches was done, the lighting expanded onstage—and bled into the aisle where Siger was seated—with the arrival of the Scottish warlords.

  Siger was angry with himself. He had probably just missed his first best chance to get out unnoticed.

  He resolved not to miss the next one.

  27

  Laura woke to the acrid scent of something burning.

  She opened her eyes. She wanted to rub them but couldn’t. Rough rope chafed her wrists when she tried.

  The room had gray walls. That was all she could tell from the dim candlelight some ten feet across from her.

  With some effort, she sat up. The wall behind her felt cold and hard on her back.

  Now she heard a voice. She couldn’t see him yet; he was standing well away from the light.

  “Welcome back,” said Mr. Turner. “You’ve been out for quite a long while. We were beginning to worry. We’d hate to have to get someone new.”

  She didn’t recognize the voice at first, as she still wasn’t fully conscious. Her head was throbbing.

  “Where the bloody hell am I?” she asked.

  Now Mr. Turner came forward, and she could see him in the flicker of the candles, and the older couple behind him.

  “You are home, in a way. As I said, welcome back.”

  “What do you mean, ‘home’? And what stinks? Is it those candles?”

  “Home because this is where you went to school. Or, more accurately, you are directly below it. And candles because they are traditional. Made of sheep fat, as you might expect. The ancient Celts didn’t yet have the technology to employ the more sophisticated techniques of rendering. I’ll extinguish them if they bother you, but there is something you’ll want to see first.”

  “What?”

  “In a moment. First, I must tell you this: We need your cooperation. What you did in running away was an act of highly resistant will on your part, and you put us to great trouble. First we had to rescue you from your crashed plane. That wasn’t easy, since you were so limp from striking your head. You were quite lucky, of course, that the plane d
idn’t catch on fire. But since it didn’t—and since the noise of it was likely to attract attention and prompt discovery of the plane itself—we had to set fire to it ourselves. Make it appear as though you had crashed on landing, as it were. We used your necklace for that, as an identifiable object that would survive the fire. I will tell you that we considered knocking some of your teeth out as well, to match up with dental records. But such wounding in advance would have been inconsistent with the ritual. And, fortunately, I had an alternative available—Mrs. Hatfield, whose dental records were kept in the same location.”

  “Why … why are you talking about Mrs. Hatfield’s dental records?”

  “As I said, we need your voluntary participation. I hope now you will be persuaded to provide it.”

  “My voluntary participation … in what?”

  “First things first. There’s something you need to see.”

  “Untie me. Then you can show me anything you like. Well, within reason anyway.”

  He laughed and shook his head.

  “You’ll want to see it. Yes, there you go; I knew you could stand on your own. Turn to your left, please, and walk toward the main boiler.”

  Mr. Turner had a flashlight, and he flashed it briefly, high on the left wall—long enough for Laura to see rusting yellow pipes, and a half-ton heating boiler, draped in months’, or perhaps years’, worth of dust.

  “Go on,” said Mr. Turner. “What you need to see is on the floor.”

  Laura moved tentatively in that direction. Mr. Turner shone the light on the floor in front of her, a couple of feet at a time, just enough for her to continue.

  She proceeded in that manner about ten feet.

  Then, on the next move of the light, she gasped.

  At her feet, below the heavy main pipe of the boiler, was Reggie.

  The body of her new husband lay on the floor in front of her.

  He was completely still. His eyes were closed. His legs were straight out, his arms limp.

  “He is still alive,” said Mr. Turner. “You can get down and take a closer look if you like.”

  “Untie me, you pretentious wanker.”

  “No.”

  Laura got down on her knees and leaned over Reggie.