Case of the Shady Shamrock

by Jeffrey Poole

  “I hadn’t heard what had happened,” Jillian reported. “What did they find?”

  “Nothing, I’m afraid.”

  Jillian sighed. “It’s empty? That’s disappointing. I was hoping there’d be something in there.”

  “I guess I should explain,” I added, drawing everyone’s attention. “I had the chest x-rayed, only …”

  “Only what?” Vance asked.

  “The x-ray was blank. They tried several times to get some type of image, only we saw nothing but an empty square each time it went through the scanner.”

  “The inside is lined with lead,” Jillian whispered.

  Vance nodded. “That’s what I’m thinking. Oh, this keeps getting better and better! Who in the world would send you a strange Irish chest, from Wales of all places, and without a way to open it up?”

  “And without a way to see inside?” Tori added.

  I held up my hands in a helpless manner. I just didn’t know.

  Right then, another group of people wandered by our table. Sherlock and Watson scrambled to their feet and focused on one of the women. She was in her thirties, the same as the rest of the group (as near as I could tell). What, then, had caught the corgis’ interest this time? As if on cue, three guys passed our table, dressed in jeans and tee shirts. The dogs immediately zeroed in on the last guy to pass us.

  I honestly have no idea. I quietly snapped a few pictures and silently hoped that no one noticed I was taking pictures of passing strangers. That would take some explaining to Jillian, no doubt about it.

  FOUR

  “Just try to understand,” the woman at the semi-circular front desk was saying, “if they make a mess in any way, shape, or form, then you will be the one responsible for cleaning it up.”

  I looked down at Sherlock and Watson, who both turned to look up at me.

  “Perfectly understandable. Thank you for allowing them in here. I get the impression I leave them alone in my Jeep more often than I should.”

  “They’re cute,” the middle-aged woman decided. Finally, with a smile, she waved me through, as if she was a bouncer at a bar and she had finally located my name on the VIP list. “Welcome to Medford Community College library. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Thanks. Most libraries have public-use computers. Do you know where I could find them? I’ve got some research to do.”

  The librarian perked up. “Oh? What kind of research, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Well familiar with people asking me this question, I had five different responses primed and ready to go. Opting for the most popular, I gave the woman a smile and a wink.

  “It’s for a book I’m working on. I’m sorry, my publisher has forbidden me from talking about it until a month or two before its release. I hope you understand.”

  “If I wasn’t curious before,” the woman began, “then I certainly am now. Please, help yourself. You’ll find the computer cubicles over there, against the eastern wall.”

  Thanking the matronly librarian profusely, the dogs and I headed for the closest, open work station. Signaling the dogs to stay put, I began my search. As the computer worked to tabulate the results from my query, I thought back to the events of the last two days.

  Ever since learning that x-rays were ineffective against the chest, I had been doing everything in my power to try and figure out what was in it. Pomme Valley’s antique expert, Burt Johnson, had assured me the box was British. He even went so far as to point out which symbols were which. Granted, the mysterious chest had all sorts of figures and images, recognizable or not, over every available surface, save the bottom. Now, the most identifiable, the shamrock, had cemented the link to Ireland.

  I wanted to know why.

  So, I spent the vast majority of yesterday in PV’s own tiny library, hoping against hope that I’d be able to find some type of clue as to the nature of the chest. I sat at one of the library’s public terminals for hours, looking at image after image of shamrocks. Did I find one that was a match for the chest? No. Did I find any books that referenced a shamrock? Yes. In fact, way too many to count, which explains the amount of time I spent digging through crammed cases, full of books. Hour after hour I searched and not one of the hundreds of shamrocks I had found was even remotely close to the one on that silver chest. What did it mean? Easy. I needed to expand my search, and that was why I was currently one town over, with my dogs in tow. I wasn’t about to leave them alone in the house for a second day in a row.

  After close to an hour of fruitless searching, a sense of exasperation had settled in again. Was I finding new books to read? Of course. Were there new designs to ponder? Indubitably. But, were any of the images close to what I was looking for?

  No.

  “Aww! What cute dogs!”

  I turned at the sound of the friendly voice. This hadn’t been the first time one of the college’s many students had stopped by my work station to give Sherlock and Watson a friendly scratch. The owner of this particular voice was young, female, and maybe eighteen or nineteen years of age. Two other girls were directly behind her, and all of them, I might add, were laden with books.

  “Hey there. How are you three doing today? Are you working on a research project?”

  “The American Revolution,” the first girl said, nodding her head. “Could I pet your dogs?”

  “Sure. This is Sherlock and Watson. They’re both …”

  “… corgis!” the girl happily exclaimed.

  Without waiting for permission, she set her stack of books next to my discard pile, and immediately dropped into a sitting position on the ground. Both of my dogs raced to see who could get in the girl’s lap the fastest. And the winner? Watson.

  “Sherlock and Watson?” the black-haired girl in the back repeated. Then, her face lit up with a smile of recognition. “I know these two! They’re police dogs, aren’t they?”

  I shrugged. “Kinda.”

  “They’ve solved murder cases, haven’t they?” a third voice incredulously asked.

  “They have,” I confirmed. “Go ahead and ask.”

  “Ask what?” the first girl wanted to know.

  “You want to know if they’re smarter than me? Well, the answer is a resounding yes.”

  This made all three girls laugh out loud, and they were promptly shushed by the same woman who had allowed the dogs access in the first place.

  “What are you doing here?” the first girl said, in a hushed whisper. “Are you working a case?”

  “Consider it my research project,” I admitted. “I’m trying to track down a very specific shamrock design, and thus far, it’s been eluding me.”

  “A shamrock?” the black-haired girl asked. “As in, Ireland?”

  “Yes. Have you ever seen an intricate Celtic knot, woven into the shape of a shamrock?”

  All three girls shook their heads. Then, the black-haired girl blinked a few times as, clearly, something had just occurred to her.

  “You should ask the professor of my World History class. She’s the smartest person I know.”

  “She’s not a grump, is she?” I hesitantly asked. “The last time I was on this campus, and asked a professor for assistance, he turned out to be a real jerk.”

  All three teenagers shook their heads.

  “You’ll have nothing to worry about,” the first teen assured me. “She’s … how would you describe her?”

  “Patient,” the third girl decided.

  “Fair,” the second teen said.

  “Approachable,” the first girl said, after taking a few moments to decide on the proper adjective.

  “I love her accent!” the second teenager said, drawing grunts of affirmation from her two companions.

  “Accent?” I repeated. “Er, where is she from?”

  “Great Britain,” the first girl answered. “Or is it Australia? I always have a hard time distinguishing between the two of them. Anyway, if you go talk to her, then I’m sure
she’ll be able to help you.”

  I looked at the third girl, who smiled at me. She mouthed British, and then nudged her two friends, tapping on her watch as she did so. Right on cue, both corgis rolled to their feet, gave themselves a thorough shaking, and tugged on their leashes. And people don’t think dogs can understand English? They’ve obviously never owned a dog before.

  “Thank you, I think I will. Where can I find her?”

  The girl gave me instructions on where to find the professor, and the class where she would be teaching. Bidding the trio goodbye, the dogs and I headed for the exit. This time, we were stopped only four times. Yes, you can take their pictures. No, the dogs don’t have their own social media accounts. No, I’m not going to consider creating an online presence for the dogs.

  What was it with the general public, anyway? Do people really put their pets online and try to get strangers interested in what they’re doing? Now, before you respond to that, I will say yes, most people would be very interested in what Sherlock and Watson do on a daily basis, but there’s no way I’m going to approach absolute strangers and ask them to become fans of the dogs. The dogs already have enough admirers in Pomme Valley alone. They don’t need more, thank you very much.

  I’d like to say that I was able to follow the girl’s directions without getting turned around, but then again, I did have to consult my notes. Somehow, Sherlock and Watson knew where I wanted to go and took the lead. Ignoring all the compliments the students heaped upon them, the dogs led me through hallways, down several flights of stairs, and past a row of identical doors, only to stop at a door that looked no different than all the others. Leaning forward, I pressed my ear to the surface. What did I hear?

  Nothing. Well, nothing discernible, that is. Television shows and movies would have you believe that sound could easily travel through walls. Anyone in close proximity to a spoken discussion would easily be able to hear what was being said.

  Well, I’m sorry. That’s not how it happened for me. What I heard was a very muted, one-sided conversation. I could only assume that, since it was coming from the other side of the door, the history teacher I had been referred to was in the midst of some type of conversation.

  Knocking politely, I waited for a few moments until I heard a woman’s voice telling me to enter. The dogs and I stepped through, and found ourselves in a surprisingly large faculty office. There was a large, eight-foot-long executive’s desk directly in front of the door. Book cases lined the walls, and there was a large world map with a plethora of multi-colored pins sticking out of it on the wall behind the desk. And sitting behind the desk, chatting away on the phone and completely ignoring me? A thirty-something woman with wavy brown hair currently pulled up in a ponytail. She was wearing a dark blue, long-sleeved blouse and black slacks. A laptop was on the desk, facing the owner of the desk, and a leather satchel sat on a barrel chair in the far corner.

  Without making eye contact, she pointed at the chair in the corner and continued her phone call, all without a care in the world that I could overhear the conversation. I could only assume she thought I was some type of student.

  “No, Lou, I’m not going to continue arguing this point. Nothing you can say will sway my mind. Now, if you want to talk about the Six Nations finals, I might be inclined to listen. Otherwise, you’ll just have to accept that most people here don’t care.”

  The girl from the library was right. British accents are amazing. Just listening to this professor talk, er, argue, was almost enough to make me pull out my phone and book another trip to London. Yes, I have been there before, and yes, it’s just as amazing as you’ve heard and/or imagined.

  “With that out of the way,” the woman continued, “do you have any legitimate business to discuss, or are you still trying to argue your point? Argue it is. Listen, I have to go. I have someone in my office. Yes, love, until next time.”

  The woman placed the phone’s receiver back onto the cradle on her desk, sighed, and looked up at me. She slowly rose to her feet. After a few moments, she noticed my two canine companions and a smile broke out on her face.

  “Corgis! Oh, I so love the breed.”

  That’s all Sherlock and Watson needed to hear. They would have switched to their Clydesdale personas to yank me over to the other side of the desk, but seeing how there was nowhere for them to go, and I was effectively blocking the door, I decided to let the leashes drop. In a flash, both corgis were sitting before the professor, and looking up at her with large, intelligent eyes. Sherlock even had the audacity to raise a foreleg, as if in greeting.

  “Brown-nosers,” I grumbled, but not before letting the woman see my smile. “Are you Professor Whyte?”

  The woman shook my hand. “Call me Amanda. What can I do for you?”

  For those of you familiar with my dogs, you will know what was about to happen. A certain someone did not like to be left out of the introductions. You’d think I would have remembered that, considering how many times I thought Sherlock had shattered an eardrum or two.

  My tri-colored corgi let out a sharp, piercing bark. Sitting there, in an enclosed office, I had briefly wondered if, had Professor Whyte had a window in her office, it would have shattered. Squatting next to the dogs, I laid a friendly hand on Sherlock’s back.

  “Are your ears bleeding? I think mine are. Sorry. You’d think I would know not to ignore him.”

  “Is your dog trying to say he wants to be introduced?” Professor Whyte asked, incredulous.

  “He’s not a fan of being ignored. So, on my right is Sherlock, and on my left is …”

  “… Watson!” Professor Whyte exclaimed. “You three are from Pomme Valley, aren’t you? I’ve heard all about you.”

  “You know me?” I asked. “I’m shocked. Most people only know my dogs.”

  Professor Amanda Whyte stared at me as though she was trying to see into my soul. Uh-oh. Had I said something to upset her? Then, the reason for the disquieting look became clear, and I couldn’t help but smile.

  “You don’t, do you? You know my dogs, but you don’t know me. Well, that’s okay. I can forgive you for that.”

  “I am so sorry,” Amanda began. “Please tell me, what’s your name?”

  “Zachary Anderson, caretaker to their Royal Canineships, Sherlock and Watson. At your service.”

  Professor Whyte briefly smiled at me before dropping her gaze back to the dogs. She gave each of them a thorough scratch behind their ears before turning back to me.

  “Tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? What can I do for you?”

  I pulled the chair close to Professor Whyte’s desk and leaned forward to rest my elbows on the walnut surface.

  “What do you know about shamrocks?”

  “Shamrocks? Of all the things you could have said, I wouldn’t have expected you to start with that. Well, I can tell you they’re a nationally recognized symbol from Ireland. Let’s see. It shouldn’t be confused with a four-leaf clover. It … what is your interest with shamrocks? Did you say and I missed it?”

  “Have you ever seen a Celtic knot in the shape of a shamrock?” I nonchalantly asked.

  Amanda stared at me a for a few moments before sinking back into her chair. “Shamrocks have been represented in a myriad of ways throughout the years. But, as a Celtic knot? Why do you ask?”

  “It’s a mystery I’m trying to solve,” I admitted. I pulled out my cell and brought up the picture of the chest I had taken a few days ago. “What do you think?”

  Professor Whyte took my phone and was silent as she studied the image. I watched her zoom in on the image, then out, and then back in. We spent the next five minutes in absolute silence as she stared at my phone. It wasn’t until Watson shook her collar that the professor finally looked up.

  “What is this shamrock on? Some type of box?”

  “Of sorts,” I answered. “I’m just trying to find out more about it, that’s all.”

  Amanda handed me my phone, closed her
eyes, and leaned back in her chair. After a few moments, I saw the chair begin to gently rock back and forth. I detected movement coming from the ground, and after glancing at the dogs, I could see that both of them had practically fallen into a trance. The corgis were staring at Amanda, unblinking. What was going on?

  “Are you okay?” I softly asked.

  “Just a moment,” Amanda softly returned. After a few more minutes had passed, her eyes opened and she looked over at me. Smiling, she nodded. “I’m sorry about that. Most people become completely uncomfortable whenever I am quiet for that long.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “It’s a type of memory exercise. You see, I remember seeing a very unique shamrock, much like the one you had just shown me, only it was many years ago. What do you know about Method of Loci?”

  “I’m not sure. Is it some type of memory exercise?”

  “It’s a memorization technique commonly known as Memory Palace, which is something an old friend taught me years ago.”

  Unsure what this had to do with shamrocks, I politely smiled and nodded.

  “I could take the next four hours and teach you all about how to build your own memory palace, but suffice to say, I have one, and it’s how I manage to remember things. That shamrock? I have seen it. I was just looking at it. It was in an old book I found in the library at the University of London.”

  “What do you remember about it?”

  Amanda’s eyes closed again. After a few minutes, she began to speak. “The reference is old, at least a hundred years or older. Your shamrock spent nearly two months on the front page of the local newspaper. However, try as I might, I can’t read the article. That means I never read it in the first place.”

  “You said local,” I recalled. “What is considered local to you?”

  A few more moments of silence passed. “County Dublin.”

  “Ireland,” I whispered. “So, the chest is tied to something that happened a hundred years ago, in Ireland, but what?”