The Christmas Pudding Lie

by P. B. Phillips

  Sherlock lowers his eyes again to save any embarrassment his dear friend may bear. He speaks stealthily, “From what you say I am sure you have the heart. You are not alone. Remember that is why you called the Holmes Gang, the Spy Busters.”

  The dark somber cloud that shades Dodd’s countenance lifts. The twinkle in his blue eyes returns. His lips want to break out in a smile but the seriousness at hand demands some resolution.

  Sherlock sighs. He raises his hand and offers, “What if we ask Harry to carry on from here?”

  Light returns to Dodd’s eyes, “But of course, Harry, who knows the plight of Lady Banks better? Indeed but will Harry…? It is too much to ask. And besides, how will we ever get Anna and Harry together?”

  Sherlock waves his hand in the air to dismiss Dodd’s concerns, “Leave the details to me. Let’s just enjoy the adventure at hand. No need for us to speak of Lady Banks for now.

  And it is not too late to fan old flames? I can slip out now. Why not stay with her for awhile?”

  Dodd allows his shoulders to rest and his brow to soften, “Old man, you are a treasure. It’s too complicated. One mission at a time I say. But I will let Anna decide?”

  Sherlock’s eyebrows arch. He is so taken aback by Dodd’s words of old feelings. He is about to ask for a clarification when Anna returns. She zips her sweat jacket, pulls up the hood and adds, “Dodd, the cups and glasses are drying. I hope that is okay. I put some toweling under them.

  Dodd smiles at Anna’s domesticity. He recalls for a fleeting second her bustling about in her enormous kitchen preparing paella. He hands her the last of the chilled champagne.

  “The last of the sweet wine … a nightcap? We just couldn’t pour it down the pipe. You know it doesn’t keep.”

  She takes a seat on the pillow nearest the fire. Sherlock grabs two additional pillows. The three get comfortable and enjoy the last of the good wine, the goodnight and the good company in quiet.

  Sherlock raises his eyes to hers and says, “Who feels it knows it!”

  She allows the echo of a Marley’s lyric on Holmes’ lips to pass without comment. She knows that she’s met her match here. Dodd sees that Anna’s lips quiver as she tries hard to suppress a smile. He is ever so relieved. He desperately wants this night to end on a good note. With true sincerity he beseeches her,

  “Before we put this night to bed, Anna, you’ve been so silent throughout most of the talks around Lady Banks, do you have any sense of the character? What I am asking is if you want to go on? Just say the word and I will call off the Holmes hounds.”

  Doc treasures her old friend’s perception and concern. “Honestly I’ve been so taking in by the treachery in the mechanics of the operation that I’ve left the poor thing out in the cold I guess. If you and the gentlemen Holmes want to pursue this I am in.”

  She softly places two friendly kisses on either side of Dodd’s day old scratchy stubble.

  He toasts her, “Forever.” She returns, “Forever.”

  Sherlock Holmes rises. He offers his hand to Anna and spryly asks, “Got Zen?”

  They walk in reverent silence to the cottages. A tree owl hoots from the century old mulberry. Anna bolts. Sherlock holds on to her just a bit tighter. In a small voice, so as not to disturb the night creatures, he whispers low into her ear,

  “That old hoot owl is a scream. He gets me every time I am here. Listen you can hear the last song of the last nightingale. Any day now, he will leave these parts and migrate back to his original home on the African coast.”

  The warmth of his breath upon her face whispers without words ‘stay just a little bit longer.’ In the deep shadows cast off from the luminous light of the Beaver Moon, Anna shuffles her feet on the crushed stones. Anxiety harkens within her. She disengages her arm from Sherlock’s toasty side. She looks for an imaginary stone in her shoe. She lifts her head towards the heavens above to redirect her Qi.

  Holmes silently measures the craters of the moon. Anna asks, “Holmes, how did you come by all your facts? Did you grow up in the Bodleian?”

  He quips, “The Oxford Library, no, I am Cambridge man.”

  Anna nudges him with her elbow and says, “And?”

  Holmes adds, “And I took two firsts there. And then I did the expected stint at the London School of Economics. To know is to be. I think we have that in common.”

  Anna thinks the man is too polite. Upon reaching her door, she turns to say goodnight. Both sense a strange awkwardness in the moment. Holmes walks on. But she catches on the wind his parting words “by the sea, by the sea, bye and bye.”

  Chapter Ten

  A cock crows in the dark of night waking Anna from a surprisingly sweet slumber.

  “Damn that rooster, he must have radar ears. He must hear the sun yawning before rising. There’s not a scrap of light to be seen. Man, what time is it any hoots?”

  She rearranges the bedclothes and settles down to the quiet again. “I bet that damn rooster has gone back to sleep already. I have a good mind to screech out that window right now and wake up the blasted creature. Oh heaven I need to work on my country rapport.”

  Fortunately Anna manages to fall back to sleep. Silently, the warm rays of a rising sun plant a peaceful caress upon Anna’s face. This time she wakes more kindly. Still a bit groggy, she lands out of bed and opens the door of her cottage to see if there is any movement outdoors. She quickly closes the door remembering the pesky barking sentinel.

  Ready to face the day, Anna dances the two-step up the garden path. Sure enough, the hound is the first to catch her scent. He playfully nips at her heels herding her towards the farmhouse. The aroma of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee floats seductively on the morning breeze. Upon entering the sunny kitchen, Anna notices that all are in sync. She comments, “Have denim will travel.”

  The four laugh at their stuck in the sixties fashion. Dodd asks Anna “Tea or coffee?”

  Anna answers taking her seat at the trestle table, “I never pass up a cup of Blue.”

  Dodd pours her a cup. Sherlock working diligently over the stove asks without turning “How many hot cakes, Anna?”

  “How many you got?” she impishly replies, blowing caution to the wind.

  Sherlock serves her up a hot platter of pancakes and replies, “This should do for starters.”

  Mycroft pipes in, “Did any one hear that blasted old cock this morning? He woke me up from a perfectly good night’s rest. Someone should market night shades for those birds.”

  The image amuses the choir. Mycroft, always up for adventure, can’t wait for Anna to finish her first cup of coffee. He must know the day’s agenda.

  “Well what’s on for today?” he asks carefully, posing the question to include himself of course.

  Dodd puts down the morning paper, “I should tell you that the news in London is not good.”

  Anna jumps in immediately, “More bombings?”

  Dodd nods yes, “At least four more bombs were discovered. Luckily none went off as they were botched in the making. And the Orangemen rioted in the streets of Belfast again. Who could have foreseen this assault upon Civilization in this the new millennium?”

  With a breath, he goes on, “We celebrated this new century like none before. We were sure we left our problems behind.”

  He goes silent. The band of seniors is visibly shaken. Dodd takes the lead, “No doubt nerves rattle in London best we stay on till things settle down a bit.”

  The joy and enthusiasm of a new day dampens. Sherlock sees disappointment in his brother’s smoky blue eyes and a hint of fear in Anna’s cinnamon toast eyes. He looks for a way to make the most out of a bad situation.

  “I agree, Dodd, best to stay on here for another day. So we leave in five minutes for Watchet.”

  Anna declares, “I’m ready. Back in a flash...” She dashes out the door.

  The three rooks take up the discussion of how to get to Watchet.

  Anna rejoins the men in the front courtyard. Dodd
and Mycroft wear matching navy watch caps. Sherlock sports a great burgundy beret. The three remain engrossed in earnest debate.

  Anna laughs at them, “Plans have changed already? We’re not going to Watchet? What’s the debate now?”

  Dodd laughs. “We are discussing the merits of taking the train over to the coast. Sherlock, here, thinks the train ride is a nice alternative to the car, seeing how we will be in the car most of the day tomorrow.”

  Sherlock makes his pitch, “It’s a charming old steam engine called the Dinmore something. It’s a short jaunt, a grand twenty minutes. It hovers along the coast.”

  Anna is open to anything, “I’m aboard. So do we walk to the station or drive?”

  “We drive,” Mycroft says as he opens the door to the Rover for Anna.

  They arrive at the train station just in time. The train, that resembles a toy, readies to depart. The four take seats far from the engine so as to hear themselves. Anna loves the leisurely pace of the 'clickety clack' once more under her feet. The conductor provides local color along the way. His tales of lore are quite entertaining.

  The sky grays as they approach the sea. A loud blast on the whistle announces, ‘Blue Anchor.’ Sherlock declares, “This is us.”

  The wind is wet, steady and with a bit of North Sea bite in it. The sky hangs so low you might think to pocket a bit of it. A shiver takes hold of Anna. Sherlock aware fusses with his tattered faded blue day sack. He rescues a bright orange cardigan. He offers it to her,

  “Anna, take this. The weather is turning a bit nasty. And we’ll be able to see you in the encroaching fog that covers the shore.”

  She ties the orange cardigan around her neck and shoulders. Warm and comfy, she is ready to see the seaside. She takes in the landscape and asks, “So what’s the story here, mates?”

  Mycroft jumps in, “Fossils, fossils and more fossils, which is why, Sherlock, here decided on this place. It’s a mineralogical gold mine. Rock lovers from all over congregate here looking for bones. And as I am not a collector of relics, I’m bailing. I'll wait for you in the pub. They are wired. I want to check in on London. You won’t miss me, Anna.

  This is Sher’s scene anyway. He is in his element amongst the petrified. Remember turn back anytime you’ve had your fill of fossils. Sher can go on endlessly as you may have noticed once or thrice.”

  Dodd follows Mycroft’s lead, “I’m with you mate. I need to see the landlord about an order of baccala for the Christmas dinner.”

  Sherlock and Anna walk past the pub, down to the beach. Up and down the coast, smooth bluish rocks and small boulders stand at a slight tilt towards land. The first set of cliffs is a deep russet. Suddenly Anna recalls her first encounter with Sherlock Holmes. It was on a train trip also, amidst another set of majestic rock formations, Windy Gap in the Rockies. She tries to resist, but a small smile shapes her lips.

  “So Mr. Sherlock Sid Holmes, are you really a geologist?”

  Holmes gives her a coy eye and redirects her focus, “Just a passion … but look just ahead. See that marvelous fault line exposed.”

  Anna doesn’t know where to look. Sherlock moves in close behind here. He reaches his right arm across her shoulder pointing her eye in the direction of the fault.

  Again she feels his breath upon her ear, “Look so, the red side of the cliff dates back to the Triassic Age. Look on the other side of the riff. It’s blue. The blue rocks come from the Jurassic period.”

  Anna tries to follow but she has no rock sense. She slips from under his arm. “I’m afraid all your hard rock knowledge is wasted on me. When it comes to earth science, I’m as dense as the pilfering fog.”

  She adds, “But it is beautiful. And it makes me a wee bit homesick. The cliffs in my back yard are rich with historical fossils also. But I’ve never seen such a juxtaposition of the red and blue rocks. I never give a thought to the vast, mysterious and ever violent world beneath our feet that is until an earthquake. ”

  Encouraged Sherlock goes on, “These exposed fault lines are a library of sorts. The layers are shelves of books. Each shelf is the history of a particular time in our past. This is what captures me. Herein lays truth. Rocks never lie. This is real history. It is not interpretation. It is not a selected collection of facts. It is our living past.”

  Anna anoints his sound judgment with an “Aye!” She takes in the rocky vista “Hey is that a landslide ahead? Is this fault line still active? Is it safe to walk here?”

  Sherlock laughs, “Is it safe to live in California?”

  Anna understands that, “Yeah really!”

  They walk silently, side by side, studying the variations of stratified history, he in his slick canary yellow slicker and burgundy beret and she now in his burnt orange sea worthy cardigan. Anna breathes in deeply the salt of the place. The crashing crescendo of the surf’s ‘Symphony in Blue Minor,’ the soprano pitches of screeching diva seagulls and the long mournful moan of the baritone foghorn trick all her senses. She closes her eyes and for a moment, she is transported thousands of kilometers back home.

  But she returns to quickly seize this moment, to learn something more of this man of intellectual riches.

  “Holmes, what were your subjects at Cambridge?”

  “A first in earth science and a first in theology...”

  “Glory be such a magnificent and imposing body of knowledge. And how do you come by your knowledge of psychology?’

  Anna feels dwarfed by his depth of learning.

  Holmes bows his head humbly, “No mystery, I studied political psychology at LSE.”

  Anna screws up her face trying to decipher his code. She asks, “Political psychology, there is such a thing? And LSE?”

  Sherlock smiles, and explains, “It was a fairly new field when I did my turn at the London School of Economic. You know the place.”

  Anna answers, “Of course, just a pesky senior moment, delayed recognition syndrome, I call it. What was your thesis?”

  Holmes replies, “It was on the paradigm shift in Realpolitiks. I studied the rising importance of psychological models in politics. In other words, if Machiavelli were alive now he would be a behavioral psychologist. Need I say more?”

  “Of course,” she strains to hear his every word as it drifts out upon the mist of the sea.

  “The theme was simple enough. The Paradigm Shift refers to the change in the power struggle from Who Controls the Guns Rules to Who Controls the Intelligence Rules. In two words, ‘Got Brains?’

  Basic psychological tenets governing human behavior are now the secret weapons, the new guns of choice. The intelligence community controls not only individuals but also large bodies of people without weapons. Organizations such as the CIA and MI5 peddle their political agenda today through covert, subliminal maneuvers.”

  He looks over at Anna. She just blinks twice for him to go on. He so enjoys her attention.

  “For example, MI 5 wishes to place and keep a mole. They research carefully the environment they wish to infiltrate. Then they give the mole a name that inspires trust and confidence within that particular organization. So the mole will have, say, the name of one of their founding fathers or heroes. The mole will dress, talk and walk in the manner of the personality. Through their understanding of human behavior, the intelligence community knows precisely what words, key phrases even colors to employ in order to achieve their desired end: CONTROL. In place of military tactics, they employ loud, obnoxious, offensive colors and low level annoying sounds to destabilize the one or the many.

  Here is something you will recognize. Say the agency decides to out a leader, a PM, a president, if you will. The plan of action is entrapment. The agency goes digging into the victims past, distant past. They search for a weak link. The desired flaw is some childhood dysfunction. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they play upon an oedipal issue. It’s a version of the old honey pot scam but dressed in mummy’s clothes. The spy of choice for the job will be someone who resembles the man
’s young mum. She will wear the same perfume and you can bet they know that. And the encounter is always sexual.

  The aim here is two fold: to expose the target and to rally the public. The public loves a juicy sex scandal. The higher up the victim the greater the interests in his fall.

  The agency’s role in the coup d’etat goes undetected. They manipulate it so that public opinion is the executioner. The sex scandal is quite lethal because it is both titillating and cleansing.”

  Anna interrupts, “cleansing?”

  “Indeed, cleansing. The sex scandal is the modern sanitized version of the gruesome public hanging or burning at the stake or crucifixion. By punishing its leader, their father figure for sexual transgressions, the public purges its collective soul of sexual transgressions. Thus it preserves its sanctimonious sense of self.”

  Anna is overawed. She says, “Oh my god, you are the ‘pro.’”

  Holmes merely looks askance at her and lets the left end of his lip curl into a half smile. He changes direction abruptly, “Do you know what these rusty bits are in the rocks?”

  Anna didn’t see them until Sherlock pointed them out. She shakes her head no. Sherlock answers, “Bones.”

  Anna replies astonished, “Get Out! Bones? Really?”

  Holmes walks over to the rocks on the headland and scraps away dirt and brown algae.

  “Yes this bone bed is famous. It’s popular with the tourists. Herein lay some very old bones and teeth. See these tiny fragments they are the remains of an Ichthyosaur.”

  Anna sees another story therein, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

  Sherlock smiles “Yes and eventually rock.”

  Anna follows Holmes’ lead as he turns back. She is anxious to open up the discussion of Lady Banks before they get back to the pub. Yet she can’t find a proper opening. As it is, Holmes is laying the groundwork for his new approach to Lady Banks. He stops and faces Anna straight on. He looks into the liquid sepia of her watery eyes and asks, “So Anna, have you got what you came for?”