There was another long interval as she inspected it, actually walking away at one point to fetch what he later discovered was a magnifying glass, before he could introduce himself and ask if she could spare him a few minutes of her no doubt valuable time in pursuance of his current investigations into the disappearance of local pets.
There was another long pause as she considered his entreaty, then she unclipped the chain, shuffled away from the door, and asked him to enter. She was using a walking frame, and this explained why it had taken her so long to answer the door, as did her response when he asked her if they should take a seat.
He had automatically raised his voice when speaking through the tiny crack available to him through the only slightly open door, but when he used his normal volume, she didn’t respond at all. Speaking again rather more loudly, she put a hand up to her ear, staring at him with eyes as big as saucers and asked him to, ‘Say again?’
‘IS THERE ANYWHERE WE COULD SIT TO TALK?’ he positively yelled, at which enquiry she cracked a smile, and ushered him very slowly into the front room of the property.
‘CAN YOU GIVE ME ANY DETAILS OF THE VAN YOU SAW THAT MIGHT BE INVOLVED IN THE THEFT OF VALUABLE PETS?’ he bellowed, taking his notebook out of his pocket and a pen out of his jacket breast pocket.
‘Eh?’ she replied, once more cupping her ear with a hand.
‘IS THERE ANYTHING YOU CAN TELL ME ABOUT THE VAN YOU SAW THAT MIGHT BE INVOLVED IN THIS BUSINESS?’ he repeated, even louder. This was going to be harder than he thought.
‘What van?’ she asked, looking puzzled. Sigh!
‘THE VAN THAT YOU TOLD …’ – here, he consulted his notebook – ‘ MRS PETULA EXETER ABOUT WHEN SHE TOLD YOU HER PEDIGREE CAT HAD DISAPPEARED,’ he roared.
It was a long and frustrating visit from which he gleaned precisely nothing, and when he got back into his car, against all his rules, he lit up a pipeful of tobacco, and puffed away in impotent, mutinous rage. What a waste of time that had been, and all he had got was a sore throat.
Determining to get more from the woman whose Siamese had also disappeared, he consulted his notebook once more for the lady’s name and address, and drove off in high dudgeon, even stalling his car, so cross was he, before he managed to drive off.
Inside the house, Mary Wilton, realising it was time for her favourite Australian soap opera, removed her hearing aids from the bureau drawer, slickly fitted them and turned them on, then switched on the television set and settled down to a good helping of scandal and neighbourly skulduggery, well satisfied with her performance for that interfering busybody with the ridiculous moustache. He wouldn’t be back in a hurry, and it would count as her bad deed for the day.
At Holmes’ next port of call, the door was answered by a spry woman, probably in her mid-sixties, about whose ankles a Siamese cat wove itself in and out. Looking down at it with a jaundiced eye, Holmes handed over a card, saying, ‘I was here to ask about your cat’s disappearance but, as I can see, he has returned.’
‘Just this morning,’ replied the woman with a broad, beaming smile. ‘Little tinker had been setting up home in next door’s works van. Neighbour didn’t notice him getting in and out of it when he left the doors open on peoples’ drives: said he must have hidden in the old dust sheets, and gone hunting during the day. He’s a painter and decorator, so when he goes out to work, he’s usually at the same address all day.
‘This morning he was unloading the paint pots from his last job to reload for the place he’s working in all of next week, and this little chap just sauntered out through the back doors. Cheeky-looking ornament that he is, he just swanned in and stood by his empty food bowl with a look of disapproval on his face that it wasn’t full and ready and waiting for him. He’s a bit of a traveller, is his lordship; Oyibo Barnabas Joe, to give him his full name.’
‘I’m sorry to have bothered you unnecessarily,’ said Holmes, fighting down the tantrum he could feel coming on. He might as well have stayed in the office doing something useful, like putting a half-page ad in the local paper. Deciding that that was just what he would do when he got back, he returned to his car and drove off with an angry squeal of tyres.
The thought crossed his mind unbidden that the great Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t have spent his time looking for pets, but he quickly pushed this away, not wanting to undermine his dream so early in the venture. Maybe the time would come when he would find a blue carbuncle … maybe even in his Christmas goose!
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Garden was glowing with triumph. He had phoned all the veterinary surgeries in the area, and all the animal sanctuaries here and nearby, and had hit pay dirt with two of them. Princess Leia was in a rescue centre just a few miles out of the town, and Prince Rupert had turned up at a rescue centre as far away as Farlington Market.
After informing both that he had located the owners, then informing their owners of their precious pets’ whereabouts, Garden had been ready and waiting when a third client turned up, and he was able to deal with the gentleman his own. Again, it wasn’t anything exciting, but it was a bit more of the bread and butter work they probably would be relying on, and with these small consultations, the word would spread about their service – especially if they delivered the goods.
The third client had come in about vegetables being stolen from his allotment. It wasn’t just the odd parsnip or carrot; this was much larger in scale. Every time he visited his patch, more of his lovingly nurtured vegetables and flowers – for he grew these too, for display in the house – had been taken. He had no idea who was doing it, but he wanted the plot put under surveillance and the culprit or culprits brought to justice.
This tiny plot of land was his passion, and he couldn’t bear the thought that someone felt they had the right to help themselves to the fruits – and vegetables – of his labours. Garden had diligently taken down the details, then received some photographs of the bare patches on the well-kept plot, and had assured its carer that he would discover who was ‘at it’ with his produce.
Apparently complaints to the council, from whom the allotment was rented, had proved fruitless. Complaints to the police had proved equally unsuccessful, as they claimed they simply didn’t have the manpower to put an allotment under overnight watch on a long-term basis, and the man was incandescent with rage that nobody except himself cared. His plot was the most densely planted and most rigorously attended, and he felt that his heart would break if whoever was responsible was not apprehended and punished for their sheer brass-necked cheek.
He had been keeping watch as much as he could, but he had to sleep sometime, and nothing had been filched during daylight hours when other allotment renters were at work on their patches. Garden suggested that maybe, if this passionate gardener could watch alternate nights, the detectives would cover every other night, until they had a result.
This was agreed as a satisfactory arrangement, relieving the frustrated grower some sleep at least, and he went off, happy in the knowledge that Monday night, at least, he could go to bed and sleep, knowing that his patch of ground was under surveillance.
Holmes returned to the office with a face like thunder – fortunately for the piper’s sake, he had gone on his own lunch break – and Garden sat back and listened to his partner blustering and swearing as he gave the account of how he had spent the majority of the rest of his morning. The redder Holmes’s face got with fury, the more the voice of triumph in Garden’s head sang. He, at least, had some good news: he had some bad news as well, but this should be tempered with the tidings that their first two cases had been solved without him setting foot outside the premises.
When Holmes had finally complained and sworn himself to a standstill, Garden gave him a beaming smile, and the glad tidings that he had located both Princess Leia and Prince Rupert, and passed on the good news to both the royal households which, at this very minute, were rejoicing in the news that their little darlings would within the hour be back at home where they belonged
with their respective mummies.
Holmes did not seem as happy as Garden had hoped he would be, as he finished his tale of success with, ‘and that’s the first good news.’
‘What’s the second?’
‘We have a third case.’
‘Really?’ The moustachioed partner had perked up at this statement. ‘Tell me all.’
‘A chap called Jimmy James called in …’
‘I can hardly believe the lack of imagination some parents display when naming their offspring,’ interrupted Holmes.
‘He’s an allotment holder just outside the town and, apparently, someone is stealing his fruit, veg, and flowers on quite a large scale. He’s given me some photographs of the bare patches that have been left – here, look – and he does have a real problem.’
Holmes examined the photographs briefly. ‘And what, exactly, does he expect us to do about it?’
‘That’s the not-so-good news. I promised him that we would put his allotment under surveillance every other night, if he fills in in between. I positively assured him that we would catch whoever was doing this and hand them over to the police.’
‘You did what?’
‘Promised him we would … doalternatenights,’ Garden finished in a hurry. ‘But don’t worry, we don’t start until Monday night, and he may even catch who’s at it himself before that.’
‘Well, thank you very much, Garden, for planning to deprive me of fifty per cent of my normal sleeping hours over a few bits of greengrocery.’
‘He said nothing is ever taken during daylight hours when there are other people working on their allotments. Surely we could split it into two shifts? After all, it doesn’t get dark until quite late at this time of the year, and one of us could take the early shift until about two-thirty, and the other from two-thirty until seven.’
‘Marvellous! Absolutely bloody marvellous. And if we get inundated with other cases in the meantime, how the devil are we supposed to stay awake to investigate them?’
‘If I’d turned him away, he would have told all his friends and neighbours, he’s in such a state about it, and we could have been ruined before we even got going.’
Holmes thought about this for a moment and had to grudgingly agree, but he wasn’t at all happy about it. ‘Had he been to the police?’
‘Too busy, apparently.’
‘Had he complained to the council? To my knowledge, they rent out these plots.’
‘Equally unable to help. We were his last resort.’
‘Bugger! Just like Bognor. Well, let’s hope that our vigilance proves fruitful, eh?’ This pun cheered him up a little, as did the noise of the outside door opening and closing once again, also proving that the piper was back at his post and puffing away like billy-o in his efforts to attract the public’s attention to this brand new and novel service available on its very own doorstep.
It was barely a minute later when Shirley Garden knocked lightly on the door and ushered in a well-built woman in her middle to late thirties. Before Mrs G could utter a word, she made her problem known in a very bombastic way.
‘My name is Lesley Markham, and I have reason to believe that someone is using my car during the day without my permission,’ she stated boldly in a no-nonsense voice.
Both Holmes and Garden sprang to their feet, standing almost to attention at this unexpectedly bossy woman in their midst. ‘Please take a seat, Ms Markham …’
‘Mrs.’ Holmes’s political correctness had tripped him up this time.
‘Er, Mrs … Markham, and let me take a few details,’ offered Holmes, risking an avuncular smile.
‘I won’t be fobbed off,’ she announced, flinging herself into the client’s chair in front of Holmes’ desk and making it creak alarmingly in protest.
‘First, tell me why you think someone has been using your car,’ Holmes began.
‘I don’t think. I know someone has been using it. I only work ten minutes’ walk away from my home, so I always go in to work on foot. I leave my car in the garage – locked in the garage – and usually only use it evenings and weekends.’ At this statement she nodded her head once, briefly and decisively, in emphasis.
‘I began to suspect, last week, that all wasn’t as it should be when I found my seat in not quite the right position. That I could explain away by my maybe, suddenly, having required a slightly adjusted position. Later that week, however, I was surprised to notice that there was more fuel in the tank than I knew I had. The volume seemed to have gone up instead of down. That was definitely impossible, and I knew, instinctively, that there was something wrong, so I made a note of the mileage.
‘I then left it alone for a couple of days, as I wasn’t planning to go out anywhere, and when I checked it this morning – by sheer coincidence, I understand, your opening day – against my handy little notebook, and there had been over a hundred miles driven since I last looked. I also examined the fuel gauge to find that the fuel was a bit lower and, once again, my seat wasn’t in exactly the right position. Hmph!’
‘Very damning evidence, Mrs Markham,’ Holmes concurred. ‘Would you be so kind as to tell me who else lives at your address?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Please, madam, allow me to do my job. Their names, please?’
‘There’s my husband, Edward. He, of course, has his own car and works in Farlington Market. There’s also my daughter, Ailsa, who is still at school, just finishing the first year of her A-levels. She’s at the grammar school in Market Farlington and has a bus pass, which is just as well, as my husband leaves so early for work. That’s it.’
‘We shall put your garage under surveillance and have your little mystery solved in a trice, if you would be so good as to give me your address and contact numbers,’ tootled Holmes, ever helpful.
As the good ship Markham sailed out of their office, Garden rose and went over to Holmes’s desk. ‘You do know what you’ve done, don’t you?’
‘Um, taken on another client?’ Holmes asked in an interrogative voice. Surely he had done the right thing? Whatever could Garden be concerned about?
‘You’ve agreed to us doing daytime surveillance as well as all-night surveillance,’ said Garden, crossly.
‘Crumbs!’
‘Come on, let’s go for some lunch. We might be about to die of exhaustion; the least we can do is make sure we don’t pass out from lack of nourishment.’
‘What about Shirley?’
‘Mummy dearest can take a break after we’re well fed and watered,’ replied Garden, with uncharacteristic schadenfreude. Prior to his association with Holmes, he had hated his mother like poison. It was only with the older man’s intervention that he had discovered his negative perception of their mother-son relationship had been fomented and manufactured entirely in his own mind.
Being a secret cross-dresser, he had assumed that his mother would hate him for it, and so had not had the guts to confess to her. They were, in his opinion, at daggers drawn, and he wanted to get away from her, his sad life at home with his mummy, and to dump his grey and boring office job. Once Holmes had heard this sad tale and made him confront the dragon Garden saw his mother as, it turned out that John H. had taken it upon himself to regard every communication between them as hostile. A busy woman herself, she had often left notes for him, texted him and sent him e-mails, all with the best of intentions. Garden’s guilt at his secret passion had made him read all these the wrong way, and he had avoided her whenever possible, keeping his room firmly padlocked against intrusions into his secret world.
Holmes had not only uncovered the hoard of misapprehensions and misunderstandings, but had taken a liking to Shirley and, much to Garden’s horror, taken her on as secretary and receptionist to the business. Her son, fortunately, had had time to make some adjustments to his attitude, as the premises were prepared and kitted out for their occupation. As luck would have it, there was a flat upstairs which he could move into once it had been re
decorated and re-carpeted, and he grabbed this opportunity to live independently so that he could get used to his mother not being a monster.
Still unable to shake off his false premise about how his mother felt about him, he had moved in with Holmes in his Farlington Market apartment for a while, then gleefully moved into his own home – his own space – to reassess his attitude towards his mother. Now, they existed, in Shirley Garden’s mind, in perfect harmony, in his, in a state of truce but, in this sudden, unmissable chance to score a point against her, he had expressed himself in the old way.
Chapter Two
Holmes became quite jolly after a bellyful of steak and kidney pudding, and not even the thought of both night- and day-time surveillance could dampen his spirits about what he saw as the inevitable success of their new business venture. When they returned to the office, he sent Shirley off to get herself something to eat, mumbled something about sorting out official dinner breaks for the three of them, and asked Garden to take his mother’s place on reception until she returned.
Garden, well aware of who held the purse-strings in this partnership, settled himself down with some empty files and began to type up the notes from their first morning for printing. Every case, no matter how small, needed to be recorded and filed. One never knew when information would be useful in the future, and the empty filing cabinets had been leering at him since they opened the outside door, mocking their lack of either experience or history.
About two o’clock, another of the inevitable old ladies tottered into the office and collapsed into the client’s chair. ‘Good afternoon, young man,’ she greeted him, fanning herself with a copy of the local newspaper which she had just purchased. ‘It’s getting rather warm out there today.’
Garden saved his computer notes and looked up with a welcoming smile. ‘Good afternoon, madam. My name is John Garden, one of the partners in this firm. How may I be of assistance to you?’
‘I have a problem with a house, Mr Garden, and I really don’t know what I should do about it. I saw your signage and thought that you might be just the person who could advise me as to what to do for the best.’
The Bookcase of Sherman Holmes: A Holmes and Garden Anthology Page 2
