The Christmas Pudding Lie

by P. B. Phillips

  Dodd follows, “All right, Holmes?” He knows know perfectly well that Sherlock planned an excursion for two. He made that clear when he announced his plans this morning. But they all are single minded, independent spirits and will have their own way in most things, most of the time.

  Sherlock tries to dissuade them, “You long legged brutes won’t be too uncomfortable in the Escort?”

  Dodd offers the solution, “No problem man, we’ll take the Rover.”

  Mycroft settles it all by whistling the tune to ‘we’re off to see the Wizard.”

  The ride through the countryside restores the general good will of the four. Anna sits quietly in the back with Sherlock at her side. Her mind is not about to forgo its stronghold of doubts. She begins to worry that the Lady Banks masquerade is also a hoax.

  She asks in all frankness, “Am I to conclude then that all this Lady Banks stuff was a matter of jest?”

  Mycroft sets her right, “Oh no, for sure, Lady Banks is very real.” He looks over to Dodd for confirmation.

  Dodd confirms Mycroft’s profession of honesty, “Anna, Lady Banks lives and breaths. And I am behind this 100%. But her fate hinges on you.”

  “How so..?”

  Dodd explains, “The plight of Lady Banks is not for the faint of heart, cara mia. So I think that you should be clear about your goals for this project.”

  The air suddenly becomes scarce within the crowded camouflage green Rover. She rolls down her window. She thinks yes the hidden agenda. But she is not prepared to answer Dodd’s challenge. She stalls for time,

  “Thanks for your candor. I’m not sure how my interests fit the mix here.”

  Looking in the rear view mirror Dodd adds, “We’re all in this together then?”

  Anna’s eyes are locked on his. She shrugs and says, “Umm for the moment yes.”

  Dodd eyes front again smiles, “So Doc B, convincingly unconvinced.”

  She redirects their attention to the matter at hand, a day in the country. She comments,

  “Ripe apples… autumn’s musk… umm delicious...”

  Dodd is equally relieved to leave the matter of Lady Banks on the back burner for now. He turns his full attention to the tour of the countryside.

  “This place is called Avalon, ‘the valley of apples.’”

  “Really how very Camelot…!”

  “It is indeed! The story of Somerset County is the history of apples. This county grows the best apples in all England. The surrounding areas of Crewkerne, Chard and Ilminster are apple country. Their reputation reaches back to Roman times. We are most proud of our Cider, one of the oldest brews cultivated. There’s a local pub just a few kilometers ahead whose scrumpy is legendary. In fact the pub keeper at our next stop makes the best scrumpy hands down. I intend to score some scrumpy for my Christmas pudding.”

  Sherlock follows with “You must try Somerset’s scrumpy, Anna!”

  “Is that a shrimp dish?” she asks with eyes on the passing landscape. She dare not look him in the eye, not just yet. The three rooks laugh. Mycroft explains,

  “It’s Scrumpy, a ‘harder they come’ cider, if you know what I mean. It’s ban from public sale. But every landlord has his own stash hidden away.”

  “So scrimpy is moonshine?” she asks.

  Sherlock corrects her again, “It’s Scrumpy as in grumpy. That’s the ‘why’ of the ban. It makes grown men very grumpy.”

  Anna, laughing at herself, nods vigorously that she gets it now.

  Dodd continues, “This whole cider industry originated under holy orders.”

  She has to ask, “So what is it, grumpy or holy?”

  Mycroft follows her thought, “I think that you can say it’s both. The Monks planted these orchards. They’ve been harvesting apples for thousands of years. Along the way, you will see sign posts indicating the few remaining ancient abbeys and monasteries that survived Henry’s wrath.”

  Dodd continues with the history of the area, “Somerset County is also home to cedar cheese. Just a few miles up there is a place called Ceddar Gorge in the Mendip Hills that offers tours of working farms.

  And not far from Ceddar is Glastonbury, the burial place of the legendary King Arthur.

  And there are the Moors that loom so ominous in nineteenth century pulp fiction. Maybe you would care to take a ride over to Exmoor of Lorna Doone fame?”

  Sherlock chimes in “My plan is that you will consider a trip to the sea with me. Ancient fishing villages dot the coastline. They still fish employing ancient methods of nets. They don’t use boats, motors or diesel. They put out their nets and wait for high tide to fill them. They employ ‘mud horses’ or, wooden sleds, to bring in the catch. This primitive fishing technique harkens back to the Stone Age. In Watchet, you can sample another of Somerset’s gourmet delicacies, smoked eel. Eel is another one of those common ingredients in nineteenth century novels.”

  Anna arches her right eyebrow; her mouth turns downward into a disagreeable frown, in fact, her whole being cringes.

  “Nix the eels and I’m all for a trip to the seashore. I’ll leave the eel for the scrumpy lovers, please! ”

  Sherlock is quick to add, “It’s a date then. All this talk of food has my stomach growling. Let’s say we stop soon and sample the local fare.”

  Dodd agrees, “I’m on it.”

  Mycroft returns to the local color, “The wineries in this region go as far back as 1086. They are recorded in the Doomsday Book.”

  Anna observes, “I can’t believe that the harvest is in already, goodbye to summer!”

  Dodd answers, “Indeed, the grapes are in. And the workers prepare the vines for winter. This was a good year for the farmer. And so the atmosphere throughout the county is festive.”

  Dodd pulls off the paved road. A weathered beaten wooden sign reads ‘Kingston, St Mary.’ “We’re here,” he announces as they enter the car park of the Swan Inn at Kingston. Sherlock is the first to see foreboding in Anna’s face. She is unnerved by yet another Jamaican link.

  With doubt in her voice, she asks, “Another island cold supper joint?”

  Dodd exclaims, “Kingston is a Somerset county name. There is no sinister plot afoot. The name was originally Kingsdon. Over time it evolved into Kingston. It’s a feudal thing. You have such places in the states even. Shall we go in?”

  Anna regains her composure. “Of course, JB lives in Somerset County.”

  The foursome strikes a handsome pose as they strut in lock step around the converted old mill inn. This fine late autumn day finds Sherlock dressed in an oxford white shirt with blue pinstripes, opened at the collar, no polka dots today. He sports sandals on his slight feet. Mycroft strikes a pose in his tattered denim washed shirt with his designer jeans. He goes sock less in his loafers. Dodd is country dashing in his green snake skin boots, denim jeans and regulation kaki shirt complete with brass button epaulets. Anna in her silk tee and skirt completes the senior set.

  The inn is made of limestone accented with three eyebrow windows. The landlord leads the group onto a sunny patio of used red bricks. Round garden tables with striped beach umbrellas provide a delightful setting for an English country lunch. Once seated, the landlady comes out with a tray of tall glasses filled with ice. She offers the guests water, lemonade or ice tea to start. All four agree on ice tea. She proceeds with the specials of the day.

  The three rooks wait patiently for Anna to make the first selection. She is oblivious to their attention to etiquette. She’s been out to lunch so to speak for many a year. Manners are the first thing to go when one lives solo. She hums softly as she reads every offering on the menu. Then she recognizes the awkward silence. She proceeds quickly, “May I have the Risotto of Wild Mushrooms with Roquefort cheese, roasted chestnuts and beetroot essence.”

  The rooks nod their approval. Dodd follows, “I’m going to indulge in the smoked salmon blinis with crème fraiche and avruga caviar.”

  Anna likes the sound of that and considers ch
anging her order. In the meanwhile Mycroft selects, “I’ll have Somerset’s signature dish, pan friend breast of local wood pigeon with celeriac.”

  Anna’s eyes pop, her nose wrinkles, she shudders. In utter shock, she asks, “I’ve suddenly lost my appetite. Are they going to do in one of those gray things cooing about the place? That’s a little barbaric for my taste.”

  Mycroft decides his little joke has played out. The devil lurks in his clear blue eyes, he remarks, “Did the idea of pigeon get your goat?”

  Anna’s lower lip protrudes. Suddenly it comes to her, why Mycroft is so appealing. She sees a lot of JB in him. She wishes that she had a clever comeback. Sherlock nudges his little brother thereby ordering him to rectify the situation. But it is the Landlady, who changes the subject,

  “Sorry me lord, but all our pigeons are carrying the mail today. It’s a postman’s holiday. May I suggest the vegetarian cottage pie made of roasted root vegetables with tasty gravy blanketed in buttery mashed potatoes topped with cheddar cheese?”

  Mycroft responds, “Splendid!”

  He looks over at her with apologetic eyes and the remnants of a smirk on his pale pink pouty lips. Anna rolls her dark brown sugar eyes at him. Sherlock pats her hand by way of asking her to forgive the antics of his brother. He leans in and says,

  “I can’t decide. The wild mushroom risotto sounds yummy, as does the warm terrain of goat’s cheese with dried figs and chive oil. Let’s share OKAY?”

  She bites her lower lip and nods yes.

  Over lunch the trio regales Anna with the local tales of piskies, faeriers, knockers and small people. In short time the landlady returns to take their dessert order. Pippin Pie is the unanimous choice for dessert. The landlady serves coffee as she recants the recipe, “Pippin Pie is as old as the apple industry in these parts. The apples are slow cooked in cream seasoned with orange flower water and sugar.”

  After the four finish their apple pie treats, Dodd raises his coffee cup and clamors, “Three cheers for the EU.” The three gents join in a chorus of “hip, hip, hurray.”

  Sherlock explains, “The EU has revolutionized English dining.”

  Anna is perplexed, “How so?”

  Mycroft answers, “The continental influence on English dining is immeasurable.”

  Dodd agrees, “Anna, do you recall anything like this luncheon menu on your earlier voyages to England?”

  Anna gives a resounding “Nooo. It was pretty much bangers and mash, bubbles and squeak.”

  Sherlock laughs and adds, “You’d be surprise. Even bubbles and squeak is served with a European accent. Fine cuisines can now be found throughout England, Wales, even Ireland. I dare say that fine dining is about the only sign that civilization is still alive today.”

  Dodd settles the bill with the landlady. He pours a second cup of coffee and says, “So may we go on with Lady Banks?”

  She bites her lip. Her mind is sluggish due to the rich food. She asks in all honesty, “So you all were serious about Lady Banks. To tell you the truth I was hoping that she was part of the hoax. So what Dodd … you’re serious about a book?”

  Dodd proceeds with slow and deliberate caution, “I’m interested in your first impression.”

  Anna can’t fathom why. But she obliges him, “I’m trying to keep an open mind for now. I’m encouraged that Lady Banks is not the Sydney Bristow in ‘Alias’ or even the lovely Anne Chandler in your series, ‘Spooks.’ Yet this in fact may be the deal breaker. No Wonder Woman, no wonder, no interest, right?”

  The three rooks just nod. Sherlock encourages her, “Go on.”

  She speaks candidly, “Truthfully, I am not positively inclined. Presently, she is but a pawn in the spy game. How interesting is that? Pawns are expendable. But of course her story does expose the underbelly of intelligence. She takes us inside where supposedly the good guys reside and offers us a different slant on things. And that, you roguish rooks, is the page that I am on.”

  She pauses for input. The rooks remain silent. Their silence unnerves her. It is Sherlock who breaks the spirit of the moment by slapping the table with his two hands, “Shall we move on? The subject is a bit delicate. The less said in public…”

  He leaves it at that and prepares to exit. Dodd calls ahead, “I’ll be there in a jiff. I have to see the landlord about my order for Christmas.”

  The three stroll leisurely pass the skittle alley and across the chamomile laced courtyard. Dodd grinning ear to ear joins them in the car park. He pats his jacket gently and winks.

  Mycroft understands. Dodd was able to persuade the landlord to part with his legendary scrumpy. He teases, “Aye it’s going to be a Christmas with fireworks. Mind the bumps lad you know how explosive that stuff is.”

  As the vintage Rover pulls out onto the main road, Anna asks, “What was that back there? Less said, best said?”

  A tincture of pink tips Sherlock’s cheekbones. He explains, “Oh sorry, nothing sinister I can assure you. I can be such a git. I’m embarrassed now. Can we just forget it?”

  Dodd and Mycroft together without a cue say, “No chance in hell mate, tell.”

  Sherlock takes the teasing in stride. He proceeds, “You two will enjoy this I’m sure. On a recent voyage in cyberspace, I set about researching what work if any was out there on Lady Banks. To my amazement I got back over nine thousand hits.”

  Mycroft, Dodd and Anna in union exclaim, “What!”

  Sherlock turns a deeper shade of rose now. “I was ‘spambarded’ with thousands of sex links. It seems that Lady Banks is a popular alias for those selling sex in cyberspace. You can imagine how put off I was. Now, I’m afraid that my name is linked to that drivel. I am forced to close out my e-mail account and open another with a new name. So I’ve become a bit self-conscious and overly cautious about mentioning the name in public. The End.”

  Sherlock joins the three in a good laugh at the quandaries of the Internet

  Upon returning to Dodd’s estate, Anna excuses herself and takes five to recharge her gray cells. A slight twitch of sadness tweaks her soul as she observes the return of the season of long nights. She heaves a long whippoorwill sigh lamenting autumn’s brief sojourn. The force of the gloaming seduces her. Through the small worm rotted wood frame window of the petite cottage, she peers out on the changing of the guard as day turns into night. Betwixt the purple hues of twilight, she chances to catch the twinkle of Taunton castle’s turret lights as they flicker on.

  She smiles knowing that the birds are in their nests, the chickens in their roosts, the cows in their barns, the sheep in their coves and the farmer and his wife are seated finally at their hickory table. She’s certain that all heaven mutters ‘amen’ as the songbirds finish vespers. Silence blesses the land.

  A soft rap at her door removes the senior from her contemplative vespers. “Yes, yes come in.”

  Dodd, aware of the primordial sacredness of the first moments of nightfall, gently opens the door and quietly places a basket inside.

  “Hot cider and cold supper in the great room whenever,” is all he says as he departs tiptoe across ancient pebbles.

  Inside the basket, she discovers a pair of sweat pants and jacket.

  “Heart of my heart…!”

  As she dons the duds left by Doddie, she squashes her innate squeamishness about wearing other peoples clothing. She twists and turns trying to get a glimpse of herself in the small shaving mirror over the washbasin. She gives up and concludes, “Slumpy.”

  Chapter Nine

  The foursome regroups in the sitting area of the center hall. The soulful wailing of Neil Young plays upon a CD. Anna scans the stage that Dodd and Mycroft have prepared. Dodd has exchanged his city jeans for a pair of sweat pants. She smiles inwardly. She has never seen him in kick back clothes. She is sure that he has done so only to make her feel less a schlemiel. He chose an oversized, well worn but warm corduroy shirt, a deep brown to layer over his kaki shirt. His attention to detail is probably second natur
e to him, she concludes.

  The Holmes boys remain in their smart leisure daywear. Sherlock has added a solid burgundy sweater over his pinstripe shirt. Mycroft has what looks to be a gray sweatshirt tied around his waist. Anna gets it now, the why of the sweats, no central heating in the place.

  Dodd greets Anna with two pecks of friendship on both cheeks. He takes her arm and together they take in the cold supper laid out on the old-fashioned sideboard.

  “Cara mia, we have Shiraz Margarite, a perfectly subtle red wine, chilled Roderer champagne, piping hot malty Assam tea and warm local cider. The cured ham is from the parsonage farm. We passed it on the way in. The cheddar is from Cheddon Bronfield.”

  Pouring himself a glass of the bubbly, Dodd announces, “Heaven helps those who help themselves. I remembered that you were a fan of Neil Young.”

  “Indeed I was. Were you?”

  “No sorry, tin ear. Do you still follow him?”

  “No. I’m afraid that my hearing has gone the way of my youth.”

  Having set the fire, Mycroft turns his attention to creating atmosphere. He places tall thin tapers of golden beeswax into four matching baroque silver candelabras. He lights each candle reverently. Anna asks, “Were you an altar boy, Mycroft?”

  The glow of candlelight turns his eyes a smoky blue. His lips curl into a charming grin. He answers, as he places the first candelabra on the mantle. “We are, high church, public school, and all that rot.” He strikes a long match against the blackened stonewalls of the fire cave. One match and several strong breathes of air and the fire catches. Pleased with the curling fire of red and gold he takes up one of the flanking wing chairs. He settles down with a tall slim crystal stem glass of the bubbly champagne.

  She is tempted to sample the cider, but plays it safe with a cup of the Assam tea. But first she has to inspect the celestial midnight blue bone china cup. She notes that it is made in Ireland. She sweetens the strong tea with a smidgen of brown sugar and then indulges in a chocolate brownie. Content with her choice she sits at one end of the settee with Mycroft on her right. She takes a nibble of the brownie, as the tea cools. Gradually, she realizes that the Rooks are focused on her. She feels ever so self-conscious and scrambles to fill the void of silence. She offers,