The Bookcase of Sherman Holmes: A Holmes and Garden Anthology

by Andrea Frazer

  Before they closed the office for the day, there were three callers whose arrival caused great consternation for the two business partners. The first one came in about four o’clock. ‘Good afternoon,’ he greeted all three of them as they sat in the front office having afternoon tea together, this half of the day having been very quiet, but not wanting to leave the outer office unmanned.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Holmes replied, standing and holding out a hand to greet their new prospective client. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I wondered where you kept the patio furniture. Is it out the back? Do you have anything in cast iron?’ He smiled.

  Three startled faces stared back at him, one of them with storm clouds gathering on its forehead. ‘Are you mad, man?’ asked Holmes, an edge of steel in his voice.

  The man stopped smiling and replied, ‘It says Homes and Gardens on the window.’

  ‘It says Holmes – with an “l” – and Garden on the window, and it also clearly states that we are private investigators. I am Sherman Holmes and this is my business partner, John H. Garden. We deal with matters that need investigating, not garden furniture. No, you are very much mistaken.’

  ‘Sorry to have bothered you,’ replied the now-puzzled man, walking out and looking hard at the window to ascertain that it was not the three inhabitants of the building who were hallucinating.

  Half an hour later, a middle-aged woman came in and asked if they stocked any barbecues, and just before five o’clock, a middle-aged man came in in search of potting compost.

  ‘Right, that’s it!’ barked Holmes. ‘Garden, get on to the signwriter straight away and tell him to come back and re-do the lettering on the window with the emphasis on what we do. I will not be mistaken for a garden centre. It’s outrageous.’

  As soon as he had done that, Garden sloped off upstairs to his flat. If he had to be up ready for his shift at the allotment by half-past two, then he needed all the sleep he could get considering the time that he had risen this morning, and the fact that he would have to do back-to-back surveillances the next day.

  He would spend an hour or so practising putting on false eyelashes, a skill that he hadn’t yet perfected, eat a microwave dinner for two – the ones for one weren’t big enough to keep a bird alive – then set his alarm clock so that he could get up to relieve Holmes.

  Holmes met Jimmy James at the entrance to the allotments at just before ten o’clock. Having no idea what to dress in for this activity, and not owning anything as unobtrusive as a pair of jeans and an old sweatshirt, Holmes was as immaculate as ever in a light suit and a white shirt. For the sake of the informality of the situation, he had not worn a tie.

  ‘Blimey, guv’nor, if he’s using a torch you’ll glow back at him like a lantern with that pale gear on,’ commented the client.

  Holmes blustered that it didn’t do to lower standards just because a job didn’t involve a desk and documents, to which James replied, ‘You haven’t done this sort of thing before, have you?’

  Again, Holmes squirmed, and changed the subject to that of where he should position himself to get a good view of the relevant lot, but not be in clear view, and James directed him towards one of the last plots which had a small shed on it. ‘If you wait just here in the shadow of the building, that should do you fine, and you can look down the plots, but not be seen by anyone approaching from the entrance.

  Carefully hidden thus far behind his back, Holmes produced a folding fishing stool and prepared to take his place. ‘So, you have got some common sense then,’ the allotment-holder grunted, then added, ‘I’ll expect your partner to report in tomorrow morning first thing, so that I know whether there’s been any action or not: nothing happened last night, so you’re in with a chance,’ before disappearing off into the darkness.

  Holmes didn’t like the sound of that possibility but nevertheless made himself as comfortable as possible on his tubular seat and began his long, boring wait.

  Except it wasn’t as boring or as long as he had expected. About midnight, he heard rustling noises coming from the entrance to the allotments plots, and chanced a peek round the small wooden structure. At the end of the enclosed area he could see a figure creeping furtively down towards the back, what looked like a holdall in one hand and a garden fork in the other. The only light was from the moon, but it was bright enough for him to duck back into his hiding place.

  As the figure drew level with the shed, Holmes rushed out at it with his arms out in front of him, shouting, ‘Aaaargh!’ The unexpectedness of this took the figure off balance, and it dropped what it was carrying, gave a yell of fear, and lost its balance, rolling down on to the earth of the vegetable plot, crushing a few plants on his way. Holmes, similarly unbalanced, toppled down on top of him, and the two men began to grapple very gingerly, neither wanting to be hurt. Eventually the detective’s opponent managed to regain his feet and ran off in the opposite direction.

  Holmes tore off after the fleeing culprit who, before he left the allotments, turned and faced the good private detective, reaching out and landing a direct punch to the eye, then continued fleeing from this ghastly, pale apparition that had so startled him.

  With one hand over his eye, Holmes tottered back to collect his stool then returned to his car where he immediately phoned Mr James, and then the police station, to report an attempted theft and several similar previous incidents, and a personal assault to boot.

  Garden was terrified out of a deep sleep with the ringing of the telephone beside his bed in the early hours, and nearly jumped out of bed with surprise, adrenaline pumping through his system, his heart pounding. Who on earth could it be at this time of night?

  It was with a feeling of great relief that he realised that he would not have to get up soon and go and sit in a deserted allotment waiting for someone who, in all probability, would not show up. ‘So, you got him?’ he asked Holmes.

  ‘Not quite, but I got his holdall and garden fork, and I’m just about to take them into the police station. No doubt there will be fingerprints that can be matched to the owner, and earth that can be matched to that at the allotments. They’ll have to take it seriously now. Mr James is driving over to meet me there, and I shall come into the office a bit late tomorrow, to compensate for my very late night.’

  Chapter Four

  Garden was up bright and early the next morning, and down in the office at eight thirty to turn the phones off answerphone. He found that there had been one message the night before, at about ten o’clock. Replaying it, he heard the voice of Eileen Everton, but with a slight quaver in it, as if she were nervous about something.

  ‘Um, this is a message for, um, Mr Garden. This is Miss Eileen Everton calling about that house I told you I’d inherited. My neighbour has just got back from a visit to her daughter, and she passed the old place on her journey home. She said there were lights moving about inside it – she thought they might be torches. I shall be in to see you later today, as I really think we ought to get the keys and have a look around inside.’

  The main door pinged as his mother let herself in, and with this noise, something pinged in his mind. He was supposed to be on surveillance outside Mrs Markham’s house right now! Grabbing a light jacket from the back of his chair, he hared out of the office without a goodbye, rushing into his car and squealing off towards the place where he had intended to be an hour ago, hoping his absence had not been noted.

  He did not have time to stop for today’s newspaper, but he would have to be content with using yesterday’s to hide the brightness of the magenta shirt he had put on this morning with nary a thought for where he should have been headed. He had turned off his alarm after Holmes had rung him, almost as a reflex reaction, and his mind had been a blank when he woke at his usual time, without the help of artificial aids.

  He drove slowly down the second half of the road in which the Markhams lived and parked as unobtrusively as he could. Five minutes after he had arrived, the formidable figure of Mrs
Markham came out of the front door, checked to see that it was locked, then marched down the front path and turned right, on her way to the office. He had made it just in time, and she gave a little wave to him with her right hand as she disappeared up the road.

  Turning back to yesterday’s news, he was upset to find that he had finished both crosswords, and was left with only the minor puzzles to engage his mind. Only a few minutes later, however, he was alerted by a movement out of the corner of his eye, and spotted the head and shoulders of the youngest member of the household, Ailsa Markham, peering round the corner of the end of the terrace. She must have seen the diminishing figure of her mother hurrying off to her office, stayed stock still for the time it took for the now-distant figure to disappear round a corner, and allowed the rest of her body to follow her head and shoulders.

  She slowly rounded the corner with a boy in tow, and they both headed for the locked garage. Slipping a hand into the pocket of her school uniform, she took out a small key and unlocked the garage door. That done, she extracted a set of car keys from her rucksack, and the two of them went into the garage and got into the car.

  Ailsa backed the car on to the drive, got out and closed and locked the garage door, then reversed out into the road and drove away. Garden dutifully followed them. It might be job done for someone else, but he felt it was his duty also to report where the car was taken.

  The girl drove first to the woods, where the two of them left the car and went into the remains of an old hut. Emerging forty minutes later looking a bit dishevelled, she then drove to a coffee bar in Farlington Market, leaving the car in a convenient space not far from her destination.

  Garden took the opportunity to double-park and shoot into a coffee shop to emerge a couple of minutes later with the largest serving of Americano they offered, then looked for somewhere to park where he could still observe the coffee bar door.

  The couple of youngsters emerged some thirty minutes later, and he followed them again, just to end up back at the Markham house, where they went inside, after locking the car and placing it neatly in the garage. The boy emerged at lunchtime and sauntered off down the road whistling. It sounded like he’d enjoyed his morning. Twice! Little madam; lucky boy!

  He could now go back to the office to write up his report and submit it to his client, who would, no doubt, be most displeased. And, no doubt, her daughter would hate his guts forever. Hard luck, Ailsa! He was only doing his job, for which he would also issue an invoice. They were beginning to earn.

  Just after they had all returned from their split-timed lunch breaks, Miss Everton entered the office and asked Shirley if Mr Garden were free to see her. Shirley duly buzzed through, confirmed Mr Garden’s ‘free’ status, and ushered the old lady through to the inner office.

  ‘Good afternoon to you, Miss Everton. I got the message you left on our answer-service. Take a seat and tell me everything you can about what your neighbour saw.’ Holmes looked up in confusion. Garden never mentioned that there had been a message for the business, and he scowled across the room at his partner.

  Garden smiled back innocently and turned to face his client with an expression of deep interest on his face. Holmes may have been the hero of the night, grappling with a would-be thief and having to face the wrath of the local police, whom he had pipped at the post, but Garden had wrapped up a case since the office had opened, and was dead chuffed with himself.

  ‘It was the woman next door, who knocked on my door just as I was going up to bed last night. She’d just driven back from her daughter’s house, and as she’d passed where the house is, she said she could see lights moving around inside it. Well, she knew that wasn’t right, so she came straight round to tell me, and I said I’d talk to you about getting the keys and going out there one evening to keep watch. If nothing happens, we could go in the next day and see if we can work out what has been going on.’

  ‘Why don’t we get the keys this afternoon and have a look around it before it gets dark today, see if whoever it was has left any traces behind?’ asked Garden, thinking that doing things this way round was a much better plan, as he could get an idea of the layout of the rooms so that he could identify where whoever the intruders were in the house, if they returned.

  ‘Young man, you are quite right; just get on and do it, whatever it is. I shall trot round to my solicitor and collect the keys forthwith. I shall return here a little later.’

  At this juncture, Holmes made a face of such longing across the room that Garden suggested, ‘Why don’t I and my partner pick you up from home, maybe about five thirty, then you could get yourself something to eat before we go out.’

  ‘How very courteous of you, Mr Garden. I should be very grateful to get home and have a little rest before leaving the house again. I shall see you at five thirty.’

  When Garden returned from seeing out the elderly lady, Holmes face was like that of a wistful child, looking forward to a treat. ‘Thank you very much for including me in this expedition. I caught up with my sleep a bit this morning, and I didn’t come in until eleven o’clock, so I feel as fresh as a daisy,’ he said, stifling a huge yawn, which belied his words of bravado.

  At five fifteen, a bleary-eyed Holmes and a better rested Garden left the office leaving Shirley Garden to lock up, and headed off for the address that Miss Everton had given them. It proved to be a detached house in the style of the 1930s, with a small but immaculate front garden. Holmes rang the doorbell, and their client answered it fairly promptly, but looking as if she had just woken up from an afternoon nap. ‘Good day to you again, gentlemen,’ she greeted them, and went to fetch a light jacket, checking that she had the relevant keys for the empty property. Popping these in her old-fashioned handbag, she closed the door firmly, locking the deadlock, and followed them to their cars.

  ‘I’ve never had one,’ she announced, settling herself into the passenger seat of Garden’s car.

  ‘Never had one of what?’ he asked, caught off guard.

  ‘A car,’ she replied. ‘I just never seemed to get round to learning to drive.’

  ‘Well, I should be grateful if you would act as navigator, because neither of us recognises the address you gave us.’

  She directed him away from the town and to the north, where a fair acreage of woodland brooded. She then guided him down a small road through the trees to a position from which he could not immediately recognise a house, then pointed through the foliage to a property just visible, if one knew it was there.

  ‘It’s quite isolated, isn’t it?’ he remarked. ‘I’m surprised your neighbour noticed that it had intruders.’

  ‘It’s so dark in here after twilight, with no street lighting, that any light looks like a beacon,’ she replied. ‘Here, turn left. There are no gates marking the entrance to the drive.’

  Garden indicated, and Holmes followed suit behind him. Using two cars guaranteed that they could both head for their separate homes afterwards, with Garden taking Miss Everton, and Holmes free to head for Farlington Market and his Edwardian-style apartment.

  After about two hundred yards, a hideous Victorian pile loomed before them, giving the appearance that they were about to enter the realms of a Gothic novel. After parking, Miss Everton withdrew the keys from her handbag, and pulled out a huge key for the front door. It creaked open with all the enthusiasm of a door in a horror film, revealing a cavernous hall behind it. The sun had not set yet, so there was some natural light filtering through the dirty window panes.

  ‘Just as I remember it,’ the old lady sighed, in a nostalgic breath, ‘only rather smaller. I suppose memories get more inflated in one’s mind after a while. The staircase is still quite magnificent, though.’

  Holmes looked around him and said, ‘There’s some disturbance of the dust on the floors. There must have been someone in here recently.’

  ‘And someone’s thrown cigarette butts in the fireplace,’ Garden added, walking over to a vast stone edifice in which, once, a welco
ming fire would have burnt. ‘Are all the internal doors locked, do you know, or are we free to wander around, Miss Everton?’

  ‘I have no idea, it’s so long since I’ve been here,’ she replied. ‘I only have the keys to the external doors – front, kitchen, and French doors from the drawing room.’

  Garden tried the first door to his right and found the kitchens and scullery, with dirty cups on a wooden draining board beside a double shallow stone sink, and the presence of an electric kettle. ‘There’s definitely been someone using this place for something, but whether it’s kids or not, we have no idea, at the moment,’ he opined.

  Here, too, there was evidence of recent feet disturbing the years of dust that had accumulated whilst Miss Everton’s aunt had been in a nursing home. A rusty range stood brooding in an old chimney breast, and a tap dripped monotonously over one of the sinks.

  ‘I bet this place is eerie at night,’ said Holmes, evidently affected by the atmosphere of neglect and abandonment, and looking over his shoulder covertly.

  ‘It was a bit unsettling, in my opinion, when I used to visit it. I always felt as if I were being secretly watched,’ cut in Miss Everton, with a shudder. ‘There’s no way I could live here. It’s just a question of how to sell it: whether to someone who will demolish it and build something else, or someone who wants to convert it into something like a nursing home or flats.’

  Holmes also gave a shudder, and thought that being left here when one was old and deprived of one’s independence would be his worst nightmare. ‘Shall we move on?’ he asked.

  ‘Not before I photograph the evidence,’ replied Garden, who already had out his smartphone and was snapping away. ‘Never know when a bit of photographic evidence will be useful,’ he explained, as the other two looked at him in surprise. ‘If you want to prosecute whoever has been using this place, it’s as well to have evidence of their presence,’ he finished.

  They visited the drawing room next, which also showed signs of recent occupation, with a carelessly discarded whisky bottle in the fireplace along with another collection of cigarette butts. The dining room had a definite aroma, easily traced to the remains of a Chinese take-away meal on a card table.