The Adventure of the Dead Wild Bore

by Andrea Frazer

  The Adventure of the Dead Wild Bore

  A short story featuring Holmes and Garden

  ANDREA FRAZER

  The recently-formed private detective agency of (Sherman) Holmes and (John) Garden is going from strength to strength. Holmes invites Garden to a meeting of the Quaker Street Irregulars, a society for die-hard fans of his near-namesake, Conan Doyle’s own Sherlock Holmes.

  Garden is somewhat taken aback by the fervour with which members of the Irregulars defend their opinions on the great fictional consulting detective – but nobody expects a run-of-the-mill disagreement to turn into brutal murder …

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  Sherman Holmes – a fan of Conan Doyle’s world-famous detective and a private investigator

  John H. Garden – cross-dresser and also a fan of the detective; friend and partner of Sherman Holmes in ‘Holmes & Garden – Private Investigators’

  Joanne – wait and see!

  Members of the Quaker Street Irregulars – a Sherlock Homes appreciation society:

  Antony, Cyril

  Cave, Christopher

  Connor, Ludovic

  Crompton, Stephen

  Dibley, Aaron

  Jordan, Elliot

  Lampard, Peter

  Warwick, Dave

  Wiltshire, Bob

  Wood, Kevin

  – and Sherman Holmes

  Staff of The Sherlock public house:

  Brownlow, Richard ‘Dick’ – barman

  Peake, Suzie – chef

  Richardson, Tony – waiter

  Shields, Michaela ‘Micki’ – barmaid

  Wordsworth, Greg and Tilly – landlord & landlady

  The Officials

  Detective Inspector Streeter of Farlington Market CID

  Detective Sergeant Port, also of the CID

  Contents

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Part Five

  Part One

  Sherman Holmes put down the telephone handset and stared around him with satisfaction. He was at his desk in the dining room of his apartment, which was furnished and decorated in homage to his fictional hero, the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes.

  He gazed fondly at the violin mounted on the wall above the fireplace and the row of meerschaum pipes displayed on the mantelpiece. He smiled at his slightly battered leather Chesterfields facing each other across the pathway of the fire’s welcome heat, and he thought about his new, cloaked overcoat, which hung out on the hallstand, a deerstalker hanging above it. He was very pleased indeed with his late Victorian/Edwardian time-warp apartment at 21B Quaker Street, in the relatively quiet town of Farlington Market.

  Holmes was in his mid-fifties, fairly short and plump, and with a fine moustache that was definitely ‘of the era’, and he spent a lot of his time reading Victorian or Edwardian novels and re-reading the fascinating tales that Conan Doyle had related about his genius detective.

  Before he had met his new business partner, John H. Garden, he had led a mundane life as a local government officer. Then fate had intervened, when a large inheritance from a hitherto unknown relative had landed in his lap, and he decided that it was time to change his life before it was too late. The unexpected money had given him the freedom to do just that.

  At that juncture, he had decided to go away for a few days to really mull over his options, and had chosen to stay at The Black Swan Hotel in Hamsley Black Cross, a small town just a few miles away, and his fate was sealed, for he met his new business partner there, and they now had offices just a few steps away from the hotel.

  As he smugly contemplated his cosy residence, his cat, Colin – he of the mercurial temper – strolled in and began to rub his face on the leg of Holmes’ trousers. ‘Hello here, old boy,’ he greeted his pet, not particularly acknowledging what a fine mood the animal was in, as, in his eyes, Colin never suffered from a bad temper and could do no wrong, no matter what house guests told him to the contrary.

  He did not have a busy social life or many visitors, but even his new friend Garden had complained of being ill-treated by this feline, and Holmes believed, contrary to the evidence of his own eyes, that this was merely playfulness on Colin’s part, and that the cat meant no real harm – even when he’d decorated the inside of one of Garden’s shoes in a most unpleasant way.

  ‘He was just putting his mark on it, to show that he likes you,’ Holmes had told Garden, but his partner knew better, and avoided Colin as much as good manners allowed. If it was possible for a feline to look malevolently at a person, then Colin certainly did so with Garden, and Garden wisely kept his distance.

  John H. Garden had received Holmes’ call on a cold, misty, damp November afternoon in his bijou flat above their offices in Hamsley Black Cross, and had been delighted to receive an invitation to accompany him that very evening to a meeting of a local branch of a Sherlock Holmes appreciation society.

  He was as big a fan of Conan Doyle’s detective as his colleague, and was grateful for the opportunity of something to do and some company, for he did not get out much either. The reason for this was also the reason that he had also gone to The Black Swan Hotel, for John H. was a transvestite who was still in the closet. He had also thought that a few days away would help him sort out what he actually wanted to do, and if he dared really be himself, and had booked a bargain break at the very same hotel.

  The threads of fate that had drawn them together, then threw murder in their pathway, and in the light of this, they had made an unlikely alliance, quite quickly gaining offices, due to Holmes’ large windfall, and set themselves up as private investigators.

  At the time they met, John H. was thirty and still living with his mother with whom he did not get on. He had a very unhappy working life with an insurance company, and a huge secret life locked in his bedroom and wardrobes, consisting of frocks, skirts, blouses, ladies’ shoes, wigs, make-up, and costume jewellery, and yet only his mirror had seen his alter ego, Joanne.

  Physically, he was slim and on the tallish side, with wavy brown hair and a predilection to brightly coloured clothing, mostly due to his experience with women’s clothes. Although he always dressed smartly, now he dressed brightly as well, and had been delighted when the office premises they’d leased proved to have a small flat above it, where he now lived a fairly contented existence, especially as Joanne had made her debut public appearance during their first case together.

  The business had been trading for months now – not always busily, but steadily – but today was a Sunday, and they didn’t open on Sundays as a matter of principle. Not only did they not expect anyone to be able to get away from family on that particular day of the week to consult them in confidence, but Holmes dictated that they have one day a week free just to pursue other interests. Wednesdays was half-day closing in the sleepy town of Hamsley Black Cross, so they took it in turns to man the office on this afternoon.

  The only thing the younger man had difficulty in coming to terms with in his new life as a private investigator was his mother, but for different reasons to those from which his negative attitude had arisen in the past. He had considered her a dragon when he first met Holmes, and was simply terrified of her. It was only on taking Holmes to his old family home to give him courage to tell his mother the truth about his cross-dressing that had opened his eyes to who she really was – a warm and completely understanding woman, although he still found the truth hard to believe, and his previous impression of her almost impossible to erase from his memory.

  Holmes had merely seen an attractive and fashionably dressed woman of about fifty, who seemed to have lovely manners,
and who seemed to harbour no malice or resentment towards her son at all. Garden realised that the only reason he had felt why he did was because his mother was so busy, and their timetables rarely coincided. He had taken the fact that they had communicated mainly in e-mails, notes, and texts for something far more sinister, and believed his mother hated him.

  He had been horrified when Holmes had engaged her as their receptionist in the office, but was gradually coming round to the idea of seeing so much of her, although he still found their relationship difficult.

  Privately flattered that Holmes should invite him to the meeting in his local pub – it was another little entrée into the man’s private world – he felt rather bewildered that his partner should want to spend some of his precious free time with him.

  His flat was now decorated to his rainbow-bright taste, and he walked through the plethora of brightly coloured pictures, ornaments, and throws into his bedroom to select something to wear suitable for the occasion.

  Flopping down on to his cerise and lilac striped bedcover, he surveyed the contents of his male wardrobe, suppressing the thought that it might be a bit of a wag to turn up as Joanne. Deciding, however, that this would not be taken in good part, he decided that he really ought to wear quite dull clothing, almost akin to that which he used to wear in the office. After all, they were going to Holmes’ local, and he didn’t want to embarrass the poor man, and make him a figure of fun right on his own doorstep.

  By the time he left the flat, he was clad in a pair of dove-grey trousers and a lemon shirt, with a bottle green tie – didn’t want to show the old boy up – with a natty navy overcoat over the top. In Quaker Street he parked neatly behind Holmes’ car and rang the doorbell.

  It took some time for his summons to be answered, and when it was, it was by a very flustered Holmes. ‘Come away in, old chap. I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a tizzy, and I’m not quite ready. Thing is, I was just getting changed when I heard this awful noise, and when I went into the sitting room, I found poor old Colin had been rather ill in my slippers. Been eating mice again by the looks of it, and he knows they don’t agree with him.’

  Garden was of the opinion that Colin had done this on purpose, either because he wasn’t getting as much attention as he thought he deserved, or, more likely because he knew Garden was coming round. He wouldn’t put it past the sneaky feline to be aware that he was on his way over.

  Following Holmes into the main living room, he became aware of the sound of the washing machine chugging rhythmically from the kitchen, and the cat sitting on one of the sofas, glaring balefully at him. It looked like it was still war between them. He took a tentative seat on the free sofa, all the while with one eye cocked for any movement from his nemesis, and asked, ‘So, what exactly do you do at these meetings, and who goes?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just a bunch of local aficionados. We meet once a month and discuss our favourite stories, and also give our opinions of various film versions that have been made of the great detective’s exploits. Sometimes one of us reads a little essay written as a fictional exploit that never graced Watson’s pen.’

  ‘How long do these meetings last?’

  ‘A couple of hours. We’ve always got plenty to discuss, as we include television series in our debates, and the pub provides refreshments for us. Have you eaten?’

  ‘Actually, no,’ replied Garden, suddenly concerned for his stomach.

  ‘That’s the ticket. There are always plates of hearty sandwiches, and soft drinks if someone is driving. If you fancy something a bit harder, we have a waitress take our orders. I shall pay tonight’s subscription for both of us. We usually pay a fiver a head to cover the food and squash.’ Holmes beamed at Garden and rubbed his hands together in anticipation of sharing one of his pastimes with his new friend.

  ‘That’s very civil of you, Holmes, but I can pay my own way,’ he retorted.

  ‘Wouldn’t hear of it, John H. Wouldn’t hear of it. Now, I’ll just slip my coat on’ – he smirked as he removed his very Holmesian new garment from its hook – ‘I’ve taken the liberty of booking us a taxi as it’s so inclement out, and I believe I’ve just heard it pull up outside.’

  Garden was glad of not having to drive, because the mist had become a fog in Farlington Market – probably more of a smog, he thought, as there were quite a few industrial units on the periphery of the town – and he wasn’t the most confident or gifted of drivers. He got around alright in his rather elderly Fiat Panda, but it wasn’t his preferred mode of transport, being stuck behind a steering wheel and responsible not only for his own life, but possibly for someone else’s as well.

  Within ten minutes, they were dropped outside a corner building, the windows of which glowed murkily through the fog, and Holmes opened the door of the pub, releasing the sounds of quite a crowd of people letting off steam prior to returning to the daily grind of work in the morning. ‘How many people normally attend these meetings,’ Garden asked with some trepidation.

  ‘Oh, only about a dozen of us. We’re in the meeting room upstairs, so we won’t be bothered by this rowdy lot,’ replied Holmes, waving cheerily at a couple of acquaintances.

  He led Garden through a door into a small snug from which two other doors led, one to the ladies’ – the gents’ being entered from the public bar or by an odd little outside door – and the other on to a narrow and quite steep staircase leading to the first floor. ‘Up we go, then,’ announced Holmes, his good cheer sounding in the tone of his voice, and Garden followed him upwards.

  At the top of the stairs, a swing door led into a small meeting room measuring about fifteen feet by fifteen, in the middle of which stood a long table surrounded by chairs. On the tabletop were plates of doorstep sandwiches which purported to be either ham and mustard or cheese and pickle, and several jugs holding a choice of either orange or lemon squash.

  They were five minutes late, due to Holmes having had to clear up Colin’s mess before he booked the cab, and five or six people were already sitting round the table chatting quietly. They had just taken seats at the far side of the table when another four entered, passing on apologies from Dave Warwick, whose wife had gone into labour a couple of hours ago.

  ‘That’ll be his fifth, won’t it?’ asked a red-headed man from the end of the table nearest the window, and there was a small titter of laughter accompanied by a few lewd comments on the man’s fertility.

  A small, elderly, white-haired man at the other end of the table called the meeting to order, and they were off. As this month’s subject was given as the portrayal of the immortal detective on television, Garden suddenly flushed. There were no women present, and he had a vision of how daft he would have looked if he’d come as Joanne. Now, what did he know about Holmes on television?

  Trying his best to remember who was who, Garden merely listened as they set off on the most recent portrayal of their hero as a modern young man, working with computers and smartphones – a phenomenon that he had greatly enjoyed, but which seemed to be frowned upon by these enthusiasts, with the exception of one man, whom Garden learnt was Peter Lampard, and he had seriously enjoyed these excursions into the twenty-first century and all its technological gadgets. One fellow present seemed insistent on getting over his own take on things, however, much to the disapproval of the other men.

  As the discussion launched itself, Holmes muttered the names of the speakers to Garden to help him with identification of the members. They entered the subject in hand with a discussion of the most recent portrayal of ‘the master’ as a young gentleman in modern times, with an ex-army man from Afghanistan as his side-kick.

  There was a fair amount of disapproval at this updating of the classic stories, but one member in particular struggled to insert his opinion, over-riding the contributions of other members in order to put forward his own viewpoint, even quenching Lampard’s obvious enthusiasm for this series.

  ‘I think it’s very telling that Holmes and Watson were taken to be in a
gay relationship in several episodes,’ said the man identified to Garden as Cyril Antony, a big man with a very pompous and overbearing nature, who was determined to be heard.

  Other members, amongst them Stephen Crompton, the white-haired man who was the chair of the meeting, tried to shout him down, but he persisted on this theme.

  ‘It was obvious they had a close relationship,’ he boomed, ignoring protests to the contrary. ‘They had rooms together, they worked together, and Watson returned to live with Holmes after he married. I am of the opinion that the plot for the film Brokeback Mountain was based on their physical but compelling gay relationship.’

  ‘What absolute tosh and rubbish,’ shouted Ludovic Connor, a bank clerk. ‘Theirs was a simple friendship. How could you possibly think anything different?’

  ‘What a sewer of a mind you must have, Cyril, to even suggest such a thing,’ contributed Aaron Dibley, identified to Garden as a probation officer. ‘Take that back.’

  ‘You filthy swine. How dare you even suggest such a thing?’ shouted Peter Lampard, a gas fitter, who was particularly hurt at this attitude because of a secret in his own life.

  ‘Getting a bit heated,’ muttered Holmes behind his hand to his partner. ‘Don’t get involved. They can be like wild dogs when someone gets under their skin.’

  ‘Not only do I believe this to be the case, but I back it up by the extremely camp acting of the principal actor in the previous series made for television. Sometimes he actually resembled Kenneth Williams in his indignation and superiority.’

  Cries of ‘Shame! Shame!’ greeted this accusation, but he rode roughshod over them all.

  ‘I should now like to read you a short story I have penned to seek your opinion,’ yelled Antony above the furore. ‘Its title is “A Study in Cerise”, and I lay it before you all now for your opinions.’

  ‘Order, order!’ roared Stephen Crompton, for all the life like the Speaker of the House of Commons. ‘Let Mr Antony have his say before you condemn him.’ He was at least fair, even if a little misguided at this juncture.