The Christmas Pudding Lie

by P. B. Phillips

  Anna accepts Holmes offer. So begins Anna’s mystery weekend in London town. Over tea and crumpets, Mycroft fills her in on the latest news relating to the recent bombings. She tells him about her few short moments of pending chaos in Grand Central Station. Together, they lament the ‘fait accompli’ of the police state. Mycroft determines that it is time to change the subject. “Now what do you want to see first?”

  “The London Eye, please!” Anna happily takes up the idea of being a tourist.

  Holmes nods in agreement, “Splendid, the eye it is. Generally reservations are required. However, with the recent troubles, I’m sure that we will have no trouble in finding a place.”

  On board the London eye, high above the land, Mycroft points out familiar landmarks. It takes but a few reference points for Anna’s memory bank to recall her favorite haunts of yore. She is thoroughly giddy seeing London one last time.

  She exclaims, “The altitude, the vista below …the eye of the condor...”

  Before Anna can complete her thought Mycroft adds, “Indeed the condor!”

  With the whole of London and beyond on one canvass, Anna is transported. She points below, “Mycroft is that a bridge yonder? I don’t know it. Is it new?”

  Mycroft fixes his sight and answers, “Indeed, it is Wobbly Bridge. It is part of the New Millennium landscape at this end.”

  Anna asks curiously, “Wobbly?”

  Mycroft fills in. “Millennium Footbridge, officially. It is a new footbridge between St. Paul’s and the Tate. On its grand opening it was named anew, the Wobbly Bridge. All the Queen’s designers, architects, engineers and builders never imagined the hordes of people who would come out that day to cross the bridge. The sheer number of people crossing at one time caused the bridge to sway, which in turn set off a panic. This brought about a giant wave effect. The Millennium Footbridge closed that very first day. It just recently opened.”

  Back on the ground, Mycroft asks “Shall we continue on?

  He has a destination in mind. “There is something I want to show you.” He points the way, “Over towards Kensington Palace.”

  Strolling, they talk of the pleasantries of the fine day before them. In no time they arrive. “Here it is,” Mycroft announces.

  Rings of white Cornish granite pave the way for softly flowing, sometimes bubbling, and even racing waterways.

  She asks, “This? What is it?”

  “It’s Princess Diana’s Memorial Fountain,” he whispers.

  “Oh my soul…! Where’s the fountain?” Doc looks about.

  “This is it. It is the eternal circle of life, a series of streams is how I see it.”

  “Truly… ” is all that she can utter. She is visibly moved. Mycroft motions to a nearby bench. Mesmerized by the memory of Diana and the rhythm of falling water, she mutters, “They shoot horses don’t they!”

  Mycroft doesn’t know what to make of this comment or if he should ask. Anna suddenly knows that she is out of order. She exclaims,

  “So sorry... I mean no disrespect. It’s this place. It’s her tragedy. I didn’t realize that we were heading here. I was sorry from the start that she got mixed up with the do nothing Windsors.”

  Mycroft presses her, “And Fayad was a better choice?”

  “Not at all… Diana was never serious about making falafels. It was a power play. She lost. ”

  Mycroft doesn’t have a response. All he can think to do is invite her to supper at his family’s home. She didn’t see this coming. Words escape her again. But she rather likes this guy. He appears to be genuine. And she is not anxious to get back to the mystery tour crowd. She is torn.

  Fortunately for Anna, Mycroft won’t take no for an answer “You must come. Dodd will be livid if I let you go without a proper meal. And if I might add, I think that you will find our humble abode very interesting. And I do have an ulterior motive.”

  She is curious now. She cocks her head and tries to read his mysterious blue eyes. Failing that she has to ask, “Ulterior motive? What might that be?”

  “Lady Banks, need I say more!” Mycroft is surprised that she has to ask.

  Anna, a bit embarrassed, replies, “Oh, yes Lady Banks.”

  Mycroft hails a cab and replies, “Dinner conversation will not be boring.”

  The two jump aboard the next taxi. “180 Baker Street,” Holmes directs the driver. He continues the guided tour from a townie’s point of reference.

  “On this block you have the finest tailor in the West End. And just beyond, is the best green grocer.”

  Anna recognizes Baker Street immediately. She had a small basement room somewhere nearby. She recalls its coin operated gas heater, which she fed non-stop. And that was not the worst of it. The landlord supplied hot water two hours in the morning and two in the evening. If you slept in or stayed out late, you were out of luck. But she had to vacate abruptly when a strange Russian sat down beside her.

  She studies the distinctive Georgian architecture of Baker Street. It remains well attended. Standing side by side, the town homes wear subtle shades of white, off white, beige, eggshell, blush and gray. Fanciful black wrought iron fences trim the individual estates. Most are four stories tall. The arched entry doors are painted the traditional black or red, with a few new colors added some fresh blues and even bright yellows.

  Taking in the sights Anna observes, “Is that really a Sherlock Holmes museum?”

  Mycroft nods yes. The taxi stops in front of 180. Doc alights and looks about.

  “You’ve got to be kidding. The Sherlock Holmes Hotel! Get out! This is your family’s home? Anna laughs, “This is a joke, right?”

  Holmes takes care of the driver and answers, “No this is my brother’s place.”

  Anna is not buying any of it. “Get out! No way! Is this really the Sherlock Holmes Hotel?”

  Mycroft holds open the ornate black lacquer door. “Indeed, it is. I hope that Sherlock is in.”

  Upon hearing that there is a Sherlock, Anna asks with amusement,

  “Wait there is a Sherlock Holmes too? Okay, the joke is over. Is this Doddie’s doing?”

  Mycroft smiles broadly and with a twinkle in his eye adds, “Ahh, the game is afoot.”

  Anna draws back. Mycroft sees that she is put off. He tries to settle her.

  “I assure you that this is not a hoax. I’m sorry but I assumed that Dodd mentioned Sherlock.”

  The entry with its highly polished lemon scented oak floor is simple, unadorned but with a homey feel. The mahogany and leather furnishings are functional but tasteful. The tall stark white adobe hearth is cold as it is unseasonable warm so late in the season.

  The front desk porter greets Mycroft, “Cocktails are being served in the Watson Lounge, Guv. Will you be dining in, sir?”

  “We’ll find our way to the Grill. Is Sher here?” Mycroft inquires.

  The porter replies, “I’m sorry sir, Mr. Holmes is with our guest. Tonight is our West End theatre tour night.”

  Mycroft and Anna make themselves comfortable at a quiet table in a small cozy dining room. It resembles a nineteenth century drawing room complete with highly polished mahogany tables with ornate pedestal bases. The walls of the room pay homage to the legend of Holmes. There is a whimsical collection of pen and ink drawings depicting the many adventures conjured up by Conan Doyle. One whole wall is lined with bookcases. They contain a sizable collection of various editions of the Sherlock Holmes Mysteries. In addition to the books, there is an assortment of vintage detective paraphernalia. Anna takes her seat in the comfortable upholstered Windsor chair that flanks their table.

  After ordering the house special, fish and chips, Mycroft proceeds to explain the mystery of the family name.

  “Visitors to the hotel think that Sherlock and I are the imposters. But I swear to you we are the real thing.”

  Anna smirks. Her eyebrows are arch. She anticipates a good joke.

  Seeing this look of total skepticism on her face, Mycroft has to smile.


  “It is all mater’s doing. I swear. She never missed an occasion to tell one and all that she was related to Sir Conan Doyle. And even more astonishing, as fate would have it, she chanced to marry the venerable Horace Holmes. Harry, our papa, was the more grounded parent. He was a first rate geologist.”

  Anna’s eyes widen in disbelief. The misadventures and strange people she encountered on her first visit to London begin to haunt her. She prays this is not ‘déjà vu’. She dispels the very thought. She won’t let that happen.

  Mycroft is still trying to convince her. “Mummy believed that it was her familial obligation to name her children Sherlock and Mycroft. I can tell you that it was sheer hell during our years at school. But as you can see, we both managed to take full advantage of our fantastical fate.”

  In the back of her mind, Anna maintains doubts. This has all the earmarks of a JB hoax. Is there anyway to force his game she wonders. But nothing comes to mind. She will have to wait him out. Sooner or later, JB is going to laugh himself silly with this, his most elaborate and extravagant practical joke ever.

  Anna believes that there is more to Mycroft’s story. She has to ask, “Is the hotel a front?”

  Mycroft somewhat put off by such a question replies, “What a question? No, nothing of the sort this is a proper establishment. In fact, Sherlock is a first rate hotelier. He was groomed for the post. Father’s family has impeccable credentials as innkeepers in Switzerland. In fact, Sherlock was born in a small village outside Lausanne.

  And I, well, I am more my mother’s son. She was an avid mystery buff. She was torn between her love for Peter Wimsey and Philip Marlowe.”

  Hearing Marlowe’s name in such close proximity to her recent encounter aboard ship, sticks in Anna’s throat. She chokes. Mycroft rises immediately ready to administer the Heimlich maneuver. She waves him off and starts to laugh at the absurdity of her position.

  “I’m okay really. I should have known that I was in for the bizarre seeing how you are a friend of Dodd’s.”

  She refocuses the dinner chitchat, “The fish by the way is superb. And the chips are perfectly done.”

  Mycroft relishes in describing the entree before them. He notes that the fish is North Sea cod bought fresh daily from the fishmonger. It is prepared in light beer batter. The spuds are seasoned with gray sea salt and a splash of malt vinegar.

  Anna asks, “Do you cook?”

  Mycroft answers wiping his satisfied lips, “No, I take most of my meals here. Do you cook yourself, Anna?”

  She confesses, “Well if setting the timer on the microwave is cooking, yes. I am the queen of microwaves. Cooking for one is such a chore I find.”

  Anna decides it’s time to address the ulterior motive, “So who exactly is this Lady Banks? And what makes this woman’s story interesting? And please don’t leave out the part about who is really interested in her foibles Lady Banks?”

  Mycroft‘s striking blue eyes dart left and right. He bends in close, speaking softly, “Lady Banks is a grand subject for an espionage novel. Maybe yours?”

  Mycroft makes a minor disclaimer before beginning the tale of Lady Banks. “Before I start, I want to make it perfectly clear that I don’t have the whole story. I have pieces to this puzzle. This is why we need you. In the end, you will have to put Lady Banks in her proper setting. The plot is your domain exclusively. Think of me as your technical adviser on the inner workings of the spy game. Dodd is convinced that you will chip away and mold the story.”

  For the first time, Anna sees that this is a big deal.

  Mycroft asks “Shall we continue this conversation in my rooms? I can assure you that they are more comfortable and secure. I run regular checks for bugs of every sort. I can offer you a pot of tea.”

  Anna and Mycroft make their way to the family’s private quarters. Standing in the doorway, she is stunned by the simplistic beauty before her. “Wow! I love art deco. Did you design this room yourself?”

  The sparkle of excitement in Mycroft’s eyes reflects off the polished chrome fittings that adorn the furniture and fixtures.

  “Yes, do you like it? Sherlock and I have invested heavily in the art of the late 20’s and 30’s. We share this affinity with The Lost Generation. Please make yourself comfortable.”

  He carefully skirts around the edge of the area rug with it concentric geometric circles in shades of red, black and gray.

  Anna makes a mental note, ‘You would never take him for a fastidious man given his shabby chic fashion in dress.’

  Mycroft catches himself. “Oh forgive me, it’s a habit. It comes from being in the hotel business, preserving the nap of the rug and all that.”

  To her surprise, Anna feels at home. Her jitters quiet down. She takes in the details of Mycroft’s life. She loves the ice cream cone shaped sconces. And the frosted long stem fluted vase captures her fancy. She turns it on. She runs her fingers softly across the hand blown acid etched lily on the shade and down the pewter base.

  Mycroft steps carefully over to the sitting area and hands her a cup of his special herbal brew. He takes up his position on the adjacent chair. He adjusts the slight glare from the lily lamp. Satisfied with the ambiance in the room, he gets comfortable again and pushes on.

  “This is a story of conspiracy and treachery. Lady Banks’ story involves peeling away at the layers of deceit. Lady Banks is the name given to a special cadre of hand picked women recruited to be wives for a particular breed of secret agents.”

  Anna interrupts, “You mean women actually sign up to be wives of spies? Honestly, I never once met one woman who dreamed of being married to a spy! ”

  He smiles broadly. He continues on with his story,

  “Lady Banks never imagines that her Mr. Right is a spy. On the contrary, at the heart of Lady Banks’ story is the fact that she never knows that she is a player, a Lady Banks. Her life, unbeknownst to her, is one big lie.”

  Anna shakes internally. ‘Did he say that her life was one big lie? God help me.’ she prays silently.

  Mycroft bends in closer. She struggles against the electricity in her fervor. He sees that she is somewhat spooked. But he doesn’t know why. He asks “Will you hear me out before you dismiss this as dime store fiction?”

  Anna gestures that he has the floor. She leans back in her chair ready to be entertained.

  He clears his throat as if preparing to deliver a speech. He tightens his ponytail. He begins, “So as to dispel any preconceptions about Lady Banks, I want you to know that she is not a 007 counterpart. And on that same line, she is not a Pussy Galore minx either.”

  Let me start by laying out the typical environment for the spawning of a Lady Banks.”

  Mycroft doesn’t stop for a breath. His tone turns a degree more serious though.

  “The university setting is the back drop for this story. The university is the number one recruitment center for most intelligence agencies be they, MI5, MI6, FBI, CIA, KBG, SYNOD, SISMI, Mossad, whoever. It is a perfect match as they both deal with information gathering.”

  Anna’s conspiratorial mind is awake with the mention of a tie in with university. She needs to slow things down here.

  “May I ask a question?”

  “Of course, you must.” Mycroft beckons her inquiry.

  “Are you implying that all universities are spy factories?”

  Mycroft is pleased that they are on the same page. He pauses, waiting for her eyes to meet his. He answers her inquiry,

  “The relationship is fundamental. To say more would be to challenge the old chicken egg controversy. Whether the university grew out of the intelligence community or the intelligence community grew out of the university is moot. The alliance is ancient. Take the Jesuit schools, for example. It is a well-known fact that the Jesuits were organized to be spies for the Vatican. ” Mycroft pauses to see where Anna’s thoughts go next.

  She resumes, “But how do you know if a university is a spy hive? Are spies on the university
’s payroll? Do the academics know about the deep pockets?”

  Mycroft raises both hands to halt the barrage of questions. He cuts her off,

  “The best way to determine whether a university is a front for a spy agency is to follow the money, as they say. Follow the soft money. The course will twist and turn, even dead end. But with persistence, you will find an FBI, a CIA, a KGB, Echelon, even MI5 at the end of the line.

  As to how the spies are paid in universities, it is the same thing. Many of the endowed chairs lead back to a spy hive. More commonly, payment comes in the form of grant money. Mind you, Intelligence is not the direct grantor. They use well-established fronts. And they do so with the unspoken consent of the faculties in most cases. I dare say that most folk would be shocked to know how much intelligence controls university coffers. Now to our mystery…”

  Anna nods in silence and is eager for the story to unfold.

  Mycroft stares purposefully into her eyes thereby holding her attention. “Let’s begin with a thumb nail sketch. Lady Banks is your typical coed. She is young, impressionable, and naïve. Away from home for the first time without family or friends, Lady Banks is emotionally vulnerable. Add to this fertile mix, the very atmosphere of the university with its introduction to new ideas, its challenges to tradition and authority. At university, Lady Banks comes face to face with the Wizard’s curtain, the portal to knowledge. Will she dare to open that curtain?

  And if Lady Banks dares to open the floodgates of knowledge will she survive? In her quest for truth, knowledge and meaning will she succeed in forging a new and independent self-identity? Or will she become confounded?

  The hunt for Lady Banks begins, in earnest, in the Michaelmas term. By this time, month three, our young coed is well enmeshed in her new identity of fledgling. And as in all life, the young are always easy prey.