‘This is very sloppy,’ commented Holmes. ‘Whoever’s been in here doesn’t seem to think there’s much likelihood of Miss Everton coming to check on her inheritance in the near future. Good, the other internal doors aren’t locked.’
The morning room, study and library showed very little signs of disturbance, but the stairs showed the presence of some traffic. They moved upwards, discovering that pieces of furniture not in good enough condition to sell had been left to rot and fall to pieces. No one had cleared the place properly, although Miss Everton swore that a firm had been instructed – and paid – to empty it completely. Even a four-poster bed, in a state of great dilapidation, still sat, forlorn, in one of the large bedrooms.
Holmes had become even more susceptible to the air of decay, and jumped whenever one of the others spoke. ‘Are there any attic rooms?’ asked Garden, making his partner actually appear to levitate, for a fraction of a second.
‘Of course there are, Mr Garden. You can hardly imagine that a place like this ran without servants,’ she replied coolly.
‘Where is the access, Miss Everton?’ he asked politely.
‘At the end of this corridor through that narrow door. That leads to the staircase to the servants’ night-time quarters. There are several rooms up there, for this place took some running, with the sort of catering and entertaining the original owners would have done.’
Holmes certainly looked haunted as they climbed the dim, narrow staircase to the top of the house. As they progressed through the maze of small rooms, Holmes actually yelped at what turned out to be a dressmaker’s dummy in the dark corner of one of the rooms, and Garden looked at him in surprise. He hadn’t supposed his partner was that susceptible to atmosphere.
There was no disturbance to the accumulated dust and grime up here, indicating that this had not been an area whoever had trespassed had found of interest or use. When they left the old house, the sun was sinking in the west, and the outside of the building seemed to be brooding in its arboreal hideaway.
Holmes drove away with relief, and Garden loaded Miss Everton back into his passenger seat, intending to drop her at her own house, preparatory to returning to his flat and practising his make-up technique for the next time ‘Joanne’ would be needed. He had a new dress that he very much wanted to try on, but had not had the opportunity, so far, to admire in his full-length mirror.
Before she left the car, they discussed when they should return to the house in the woods and arranging, to meet after she had phoned and confirmed which evening she was next available, with the same transport arrangements as tonight but the next rendezvous, at nine thirty.
Arriving home Garden was now free to slap on as much war paint as his heart desired. He had put on his new dress, then, after admiring himself from every possible angle except that of standing on his head, he sat down at his dressing table to apply some make-up, being careful to don a protector for his clothes like that used by a hairdresser when cutting hair.
He was just finishing back-combing his hair when there was a ring at the front doorbell. Although it was very late to expect a caller, his professional instinct, newly minted just a few days ago, ripped off his clothes protector and raced down the stairs, with a dawning realisation that he wasn’t at all himself at the moment and would have to be fairly inventive to whoever was disturbing his evening.
Arranging his face into a smile he opened the door to find Mr James outside. The client gave him a bemused look at the unexpectedness of a woman answering the door, and Garden remembered, just in time, that he should not know the man’s name. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked, in his best Joanne voice.
‘I was looking for either Mr Holmes or Mr Garden,’ stated Mr James, trying to see behind Garden to see if either of these gentlemen was present.
‘I’m afraid they’re both out on a case at the moment. May I be of any help?’ Garden asked, offering no explanation as to who he was, or who he was pretending to be.
James’ eyes moved down the figure of the tall woman, finally resting on her feet, which were encased in tartan socks and stout Hush Puppies. Following his gaze with a sinking feeling, Garden improvised wildly. ‘I have such a problem with my feet after a day spent in stilettos that I usually change into something more comfortable for the evenings,’ he lied shamelessly.
Giving him/her a very old-fashioned look, James explained that he had just called round to offer his thanks for the help the new firm had given him in ridding him of his greengrocery thief. He had just left the police station after giving his statement – and being informed that the perpetrator had been picked up and was the purveyor of vegetables at a local market – and he had just called round on the off-chance to thank Mr Holmes. Would the lady mind passing this on to him when she saw him? Garden/Joanne wouldn’t mind at all. Mr James walked away shaking his head in puzzlement. He had the feeling that he had been duped in some way, but could not work out how.
Garden ascended the stairs again with a feeling of great relief that he seemed to have got away with it, even though he had completely forgotten about his footwear. It was a careless mistake that he could not afford to repeat. The only thing that could have been worse, in his opinion was answering the door in his daytime garb, but in high heels. On looking in the mirror, he was horrified to see that his false eyelashes, applied with such care, had come away on his right eye, and he looked like he had a spider on his eyelid.
Chapter Five
Wednesday was a quiet day with no new clients and Holmes running around fretting about advertising. However Garden did get a call from Mrs Markham and he told her what had transpired the previous day.
‘I can’t believe it,’ exclaimed the woman, in high dudgeon, ‘Are you absolutely sure?’
‘I have pictures,’ said Garden, ‘and if you give me your mobile number I can send them now.’
Having got her number, Garden was able to send the pictures whilst she was still on the line and he could hear her sharp intake of breath as she viewed them.
‘That little madam,’ she said, ‘and that shifty Luke Armstrong, boy are they in trouble. I’m sorry I doubted you, Mr Garden. You have done a quick and efficient job. Just send me your invoice.’
‘It’s already prepared Mrs Markham,’ said Garden, glowing with pride, ‘thanks for your business and if you or your friends need anything else looking into, please contact us.’
‘I will certainly recommend your services, goodbye.’
Garden put down the phone and turning smugly to Holmes, said, ‘Another satisfied customer.’
It was Thursday afternoon before Miss Everton telephoned to say that she was finally free on that evening, and Garden agreed that tonight would be the night, passing this information on to Holmes, who was convinced, to the contrary, that Saturday was the night – the night that he would have a dinner a deux with Shirley.
He had become more and more jittery as the week wore on and had finally made a visit to a pharmacy out of the town to buy a little packet of ‘life-savers’ for his adventure into the romantic. He had also wimped out on the venue, plumping for familiar territory in his local, The Sherlock, Shirley turning down his offer of a lift, saying that she would make her own way there if he would give her directions. Was this a good sign that she did not want either of them to drive? The very thought sent cold shivers of anticipation down his spine.
Nine thirty was the time they had arranged with Miss Everton to pick her up, and they both went home first to get something to eat and to change into dark clothing in case they were seen creeping round the old Gothic pile.
When they arrived at her house, Miss Everton was dressed in black and looked very much as if she were in mourning for Prince Albert, an impression only enhanced by her wrinkled face and wispy hair. Her eyes were very lively, though, no doubt in anticipation of the adventure to come.
It was dark when they reached their destination. The car was left on the edge of the woods as they made their way through the first straggl
ing saplings to get a glimpse of the house. They had already noticed, however, that there seemed to be a source of light ahead of them, as Miss Everton’s neighbour must have done on her trip back from her daughter’s.
There seemed to be a dull yellow glow from the front entrance, and a couple of moving lights, presumably torches, on the ground floor. There were definitely people in there, but there was no clue as to who they were. It was Garden who spotted the end of a car sticking out at the rear of the house, and they made their way as silently as possible to investigate.
There were two vehicles, and Garden used the torch on his mobile phone to see their number plates clearly enough to note the numbers down. There must have been somebody in the house who was on guard, however, because there was a shout from inside, and the two detectives had to hide themselves and pull Miss Everton with them behind a large shrub, as the back door opened.
They stayed there until the door had closed again, holding their breath as much as possible in case their breathing gave them away. Making their way back slowly and carefully to the car, it was only as they got back into it again that Holmes exclaimed in disgust.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ enquired Garden, and Holmes pointed to the right sleeve of his jacket with a moue of distaste.
‘When we dived for cover, I must have landed in some animal droppings,’ he croaked, removing the offending article and getting out of the vehicle to put it in the boot of the car, where it would not be so obviously fragrant.
Taking no notice of either of them, Miss Everton suddenly shushed them and pointed towards the house, where the two cars that had been hidden behind it began to edge out from behind the building’s bulk. ‘It looks like they’re going. Shall we give them a head start then go in?’
‘Let’s all crouch down out of sight, so that they don’t spot our silhouettes as they leave,’ suggested Garden, but they needn’t have bothered, as there was obviously a way off the property from the rear, and the cars did not need to pass them. Ten long minutes later, the two men got out of the front of the car, then had to go back for their client, who had stretched out on the back seat and had dozed off.
‘Come along, Miss Everton, they’ve driven away and we can go in to see if things are any different from the last time we came,’ urged Holmes, in his best ‘humouring little old ladies’ voice.
‘There’s no need to patronise me, Mr Holmes. I’m just a bit tired as I had an aerobics class this afternoon.’ That soon settled his hash: fitter than she looked, then.
As they entered the house, they noticed a couple of spades and shovels in the hallway, and a noxious smell assaulted their nostrils. All three extracted handkerchiefs from their clothing and covered their mouths and noses.
‘Whatever’s that ghastly aroma?’ asked Holmes. ‘Surely it can’t be coming from under the floorboards?’
‘Did we see absolutely all the house last time?’ asked Garden, as a sudden thought struck him.
‘We never went down to the cellar. Do you think that awful stink could be coming from there? It certainly wasn’t noticeable last time we were here,’ she replied, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
‘Look, Garden, there’s an old oil lamp on the mantelpiece,’ Holmes alerted his partner, using his phone as a torch.
Garden approached the lamp and held out a hand. ‘The glass is still warm,’ he announced, getting out his lighter and applying it to the wick. ‘There, that’s better.’
‘That’s what we must have seen from outside. The lamplight has certainly got a yellowish tinge to it,’ Holmes declared, with a self-satisfied smile. ‘Come on, let’s go and see what is making that revolting pong down there.’
Miss Everton pointed him to the door as Garden held the lamp. He applied his hand to the door knob and turned it, but nothing happened. He tried again, and it still refused to budge. Taking a few steps backwards and ignoring the little twitters of Miss Everett, he charged the wood with his shoulder, but the only result was a ricochet, and a pain of some sharpness for our unlikely hero.
‘What is it, Miss Everett?’ asked Garden, and she shuffled across to him and whispered in his ear. Without further ado, Garden went over to the recalcitrant door and opened it. ‘It opens outwards, Holmes,’ he informed his partner, who was holding his damaged shoulder and wincing.
As the door swung open, the smell got stronger, and they realised they had been spot-on in identifying its source. Garden held aloft his beacon and went first down the rickety wooden staircase, Holmes following, with Miss Everton bringing up the rear. She had less need of light, for she had been down here many times in the past, and the details were all coming back to here now her memory had received this prompt.
The cellar wasn’t as large as they thought it would be, and Garden started walking round the perimeter, holding aloft the oil lamp and almost choking on the foul air. He tracked it down to a dark corner, where the decaying body of a woman was laying. Getting a grip on his protesting stomach, he called to the others to keep away, and walked back the few paces, taking the light source with him. There was no need to expose their client to this visual horror. ‘Dead body, over there,’ he informed them, almost gagging.
Their client must not have had such a highly developed sense of smell, or was more used to such nasty niffs, for she ignored the atmosphere and merely pointed to a dilapidated table at the opposite end of the underground room. On its surface sat two coarse sacks and a smaller calico bag. ‘I wonder what’s in there?’ she asked, eyes bright with excitement.
Holmes and Garden immediately took this opportunity to move away from the source of their nasal discomfort, and Garden carried on holding up the lamp while Holmes began to open the receptacles. The first sack contained nothing but papers and documents, and he soon shoved them back inside, perhaps to be examined later. The second’s contents were much more exciting, consisting of a large amount of bank notes, and things were beginning to click into place.
Holmes picked up the calico bag and began to pull it open, to reveal a fine selection of very expensive jewellery and watches. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said, his voice like syrup. ‘It looks like we’ve found the hoard from the bank.’
‘We’d better alert the police immediately,’ responded Garden, with a little smirk at what Inspector Streeter would say at their unexpected haul. ‘Damn! Can’t get a signal down here. I’ll have to go back up, and you two had better follow as I’ve got the only reliable source of light that doesn’t need a battery.’
Suddenly there was an unexpected scuffling noise back at the doorway down, Holmes shoved the jewellery back into its bag, Garden extinguished the lamp, and the three of them retreated behind a convenient wine rack, still full of dusty bottles from yesteryear, feeling their way in the complete darkness. A voice shouted, ‘Well, you didn’t leave the lamp in the hallway. I don’t know what you’ve done with it, but we’ll have to use our torches. Come on, and we’ll get the sparklers, so that we can show them to that dodgy jeweller.’
Two sets of heavy footsteps trundled down the wooden stairs and, peeping out from just behind the wine rack, Garden could see two men checking out the contents of the calico bag, before one of them slung it over his shoulder, and the other one lit the way back to the ground floor. Garden thanked his lucky stars that the smell of the lamp would have been overwhelmed by the smell of the body. As they got to the top, the other one said, ‘When are we going to get rid of her?’ but they heard no more, as the door closed, and sinking hearts in the cellar heard the sound of a turning key.
As the sound of their footsteps above retreated, and they heard the bang of the front door, Holmes said hollowly, ‘What are we going to do now? We’ve got no phone signal, and they’ve locked us in.’
There was a jangling in the darkness, and Miss Everton said, ‘Just as well I have a key to the cellar on my little keyring, isn’t it?’ as Garden used his lighter to set the lamp going again.
Holmes handed out strong mints in the hope that the fumes wou
ld slightly dull the stench of the corpse, as they patiently waited another ten minutes before venturing back upstairs, after which Garden immediately tried his phone again. ‘Nope, still no signal,’ he declared, and they had to get back into the car and drive until he was able to make the call to the police station.
As he punched in the number, Miss Everton declared, ‘I believe I know both of those voices, but being out of context, I can’t identify them straight away. But, I’d know them again if I heard them.’
‘Not much good to us,’ grunted Holmes ungraciously, as he’d been thoroughly rattled by what they had found, and the visit from those responsible, and needed a bit of time to get back his customary good manners.
‘Did they have gloves on?’ asked Miss Everton, with a moment of perception that Holmes would have thought impossible.
‘They did not!’ replied Garden in triumph, as the phone rang. ‘I peeped.’
It was DC Moriarty who was on duty that evening, and he took Garden’s call, then followed that with the dubious honour of rousing DI Streeter, who was enjoying the unexpected luxury of an early night, from his bed. Taking the opportunity to spread the pain around somewhat, he, in turn, disturbed the quiet evening in front of the late film that was DS Port’s way of unwinding, and then told Moriarty to stay where he was, as they would handle it.
Holmes and Garden, having had Streeter’s spleen vented on them for interfering with police business again, were dismissed, as was Miss Everton, with the promise that statements would be taken the next day, and they’d better keep their noses out of anything else like this. Garden’s explanation that Miss Everton had contacted them to find out who had been trespassing on her property cut no ice with the inspector, and he was still in high dudgeon when they left the scene.
The Bookcase of Sherman Holmes: A Holmes and Garden Anthology Page 6
