‘Whatever are you staring at?’ he asked. He had run a comb – rather carelessly and without benefit of mirror - through his hair after he had taken off the wig, and he couldn’t imagine what was causing Holmes to look at him so oddly.
‘Earrings,’ squawked Holmes, reddening with embarrassment.
Garden put up his hands and found that he hadn’t taken off his clip-on earrings, snatched them from his lobes and placed them hurriedly in his desk drawer, but Holmes continued to stare at him.
‘What?’ he asked somewhat tetchily. ‘What is it now?’ He could not understand what was fascinating the other man so.
‘Make-up,’ squeaked Holmes, hurriedly looking back down at his desk and Garden, taking a small mirror out of his drawer, noticed, with some embarrassment that, in his overwhelming joy at Joanne’s new underwear, he had forgotten to remove the make-up he had so hurriedly applied before checking his appearance in the mirror for that dreaded VPL – visible panty line.
‘Quick trip upstairs,’ muttered Holmes, as Garden hurriedly got to his feet. ‘That’s the way to sort the ladies out,’ his partner concluded in a somewhat muddled fashion.
Chapter Five
‘Good evening, Sanjay,’ Indraani Chandra greeted her husband. ‘You don’t look at all well. Are you feeling a little off colour?’
‘Good evening, my flower. No, I am not unwell; merely worried,’ he replied.
‘And what is it that is worrying you?’ asked his wife.
‘It is one of the other candidates for promotion: Peterson, this time,’ he returned, his face paling further.
‘What has happened to him?’
‘He has fallen down an escalator in a department store at lunchtime and broken his arm.’ Sanjay informed her.
‘How tragic. Now, can I get you a cup of tea?’
‘Indraani, you don’t sound very sympathetic. The poor man could have broken his neck.
‘What a pity he didn’t, and that would make one less in the running for this senior position,’ she replied; rather cold-heartedly, he thought.
‘But it is his right arm, and he won’t be in work for a long time. He cannot write and will have a job even using his computer. Apparently it was a very bad break.’
‘Then the gods are smiling on you, Sanjay. Do not complain about this accident.’
‘But I feel I may be next in this cursed situation.’
‘Don’t be so silly, Sanjay. Nothing will happen to you. This is just silly superstition on your part. Now, drink your tea while I see to your meal.
Chapter Six
In the police station in Farlington Market the next morning, a woman sat in Detective Inspector Streeter’s office dressed in a floor-length flowing kaftan, her long hair crimped into a retro frizz, a plethora of beads round her neck and rings on her long, tapered fingers. It was a long time since he had seen a hippy, but the sight brought back many memories to the inspector of trouble the police had had in the late sixties and early seventies, not that he had even been born in the sixties, let alone on the force.
‘How can I help you, madam?’ he asked politely, although he hated the non-conformist members of society and just hoped she wasn’t a traveller. He had had enough run-ins with travellers to last him a lifetime, and they had turned him into somewhat of a bigot. She certainly wasn’t old enough to have been around in the swinging sixties – the summer of love and all that - but she was no spring chicken either, he thought, somewhat waspishly.
‘I am Mystic Carla, and I am afraid that I have caused the death of two men and the injury of another,’ she announced, without preamble, and taking the inspector rather by surprise.
‘What?’ he spluttered. ‘You’ve committed two murders and had an attempt at a third?’ He’d certainly caught her drift, if not the specifics of it.
‘I have cursed them, Inspector, and two of them have passed over, the other suffering only mortal injury. I wish to hand myself in before I cause further damage to human life,’ she explained, a smug smile curling at the corners of her mouth.
‘Would you like to explain how you have caused these unfortunate events, and to whom they have happened?’ asked Streeter, completely nonplussed. ‘And may I have your full name, please?’
‘I am Carla Rothwell, also known as Mystic Carla, tarot card reader and psychic, Inspector,’ she replied, with a little preen. ‘At the moment, my husband is being considered for promotion at the firm of accountants situated a few doors down from this police station. He is hoping to become head of a team of accountants to work with international clients, and there are – or rather, were – four other prospective candidates.
‘I’m afraid that I am so anxious for him to get the promotion that I put a curse on the other four men. So far, two are dead, and a third has been injured. ‘How did these men die or get injured?’ asked Streeter, sure that he would have details of a couple of murders.
‘Harry Andrews was involved in a hit-and-run and died of his injuries, Dale Davidson was killed when his brakes malfunctioned, I believe, and Rex Peterson fell down a department store’s escalator and broke his right arm rather badly. I fear that my curse has worked only too well. The company is the loser, however, for whoever got the promotion was to lead a team made up of the other men, and I’m afraid they will have to recruit more staff before they can implement their new section.’
‘Who is the other man?’
‘Sanjay Chandra, who is almost middle-aged. I don’t think he will give my husband, Peter, too much competition.’ She smiled smugly again, and then had her breath taken away when Streeter had her taken away to the custody suite, to be retained until he had made his own investigations. He didn’t like his time being wasted, and he wasn’t going to stand for it without wreaking revenge.
To his amazement, the two men named had died during the last few days and, even more surprisingly, a call to the named accountancy firm had produced the news that, not only had they lost two staff in tragic circumstances, but that a third had had a very bad fall, would have to take some time off work, and would then return decidedly under par because he had broken his right arm.
While he sat in his office recovering from this surprising and disturbing news, a phone call was put through to him from a man, Sanjay Chandra by name, informing him that he thought his life was in danger. Maybe he should read his horoscope more often. Maybe there was something in this after all.
Reassuring Mr Chandra that he was perfectly safe – he had a self-confessed murderer in custody, after all: he just needed to find out how she had committed the crimes physically. All this mumbo-jumbo was ridiculous, wasn’t it? – he ended the call, his mind racing as he worked out how he was going to prove that the so-called Mystic Carla had killed two people, and just why she had confessed.
In the offices of Holmes and Garden, Garden decided that he would have to discuss with Holmes whether they should report the visit from Mr Chandra the day before. He might need police protection if what he believed was correct, and his life was, indeed, in danger.
At first, Holmes pooh-poohed the whole idea, as he was not at all keen to speak to Inspector Streeter, but eventually Garden persuaded him that it would be best to do so just in case anything happened to that worried accountant. It was with trepidation that he listened to the phone ring at the other end of the connection and, when he heard Streeter’s voice, he came over all blustery; like autumn weather.
‘Well, I didn’t exactly meet him, myself, but Garden didn’t seem to think the man was out of his tree,’ he spluttered in self-defence, then listened carefully.
‘What? You’ve got someone who what? And you believe them? Extraordinary!’
Putting down the handset, he stared at Garden in disbelief. ‘The man says he’s had someone come into his station and confess to the murders of Harry Andrews in a hit-and-run, Dale Davidson, whose brake pipes were cut, and also claimed responsibility for the fall that was apparently suffered by another member of the accountancy firm’s staff.’
‘How odd, but then Mr Chandra did seem to think there was something sinister behind the events. Did he say who exactly was in custody?’
‘Said he wasn’t able to give out that sort of information to non-police personnel – non-disclosure, that sort of thing.’ Holmes harrumphed in disgust at such secretive behaviour. ‘So, I suppose that means we don’t need to waste any more time worrying about Mr Chandra. He should be fine now somebody has ’fessed up.’
‘Sounds like it,’ replied Garden. ‘Pity. I thought it might turn into quite an interesting case.’
‘Apropos of nothing, old chap, I think the three of us need to get together and see how we can boost business – maybe expand the advertising for our little venture – and I just had the idea that the office is not the most peaceful atmosphere in which to do this. Why don’t you two come round tonight for a bite of supper and we can chew more than the fat. I know an excellent source of ready-prepared meals that are of first-rate quality, and we could have a good old session over one of these. What do you think?’
‘Well, I’ve got to go out again today to keep an eye on that delusional woman who thinks – or hopes – she’s got a stalker, so it would be quite convenient not to have to cook a meal afterwards. If my dearest mother says yes, then I’ll come along.’
As Garden went out of the office to keep an eye on the environs of Miss Patman, thirty-five years ago a Miss Hamsley Black Cross and still missing the limelight, Holmes trod determinedly into the outer office to put his supper proposal to his receptionist-cum-secretary. It may not be as good as a tete-a-tete, but an evening spent in her company, even if her son were in attendance, was better than nothing. It wouldn’t be out of the way to put candles on the table, considering that he was going to be paying for a top-notch meal for their consumption.
Chapter Seven
That evening, Sanjay Chandra came home with a smile on his face. ‘You look very happy tonight, my Sanjay,’ Indraani greeted him. ‘Did you have a good day at the office? Have you been given the promotion?’
‘Not yet, my little flower, the firm will have to advertise for new members of staff before anything is decided. But, I did hear that someone has confessed to the murders and the injury that have haunted the company. It would appear that I am safe at last.’
‘Hire more staff members? How can this be so? They had a solid list of candidates, and you and Peterson are the only ones left. Surely you’re a much better candidate than him?’ Indraani stamped her petite foot and pouted at her husband.
‘Are you not pleased that my life is no longer in danger, my dear wife?’
‘Of course I am, but they should have appointed you straight away.’
‘It’s not quite so straightforward, Indraani but, of course, you don’t understand business. Leave this to me.’
Indraani pouted at her husband again, then stalked off into the kitchen.
Chapter Eight
Inspector Streeter was getting very frustrated indeed. He had been questioning Carla Rothwell for hours, but she still insisted that the deaths were caused by magic that she had conjured up from the mystic ether. She denied point-blank that she had driven the car that hit Mr Andrews, that she had cut Mr Davidson’s brake pipes, or that she had pushed Mr Peterson down the escalator of a well-known department store.
Suddenly he didn’t know what to do. It was all very well detaining a citizen who had confessed to two murders and an attempt at a third, but if she would only talk about this mumbo-jumbo, he had no solid evidence. Maybe he would have to let her go until his men had turned up something from the clothes of the first victim, the car of the second, and the witnesses of the third. He had never been in this situation before, and felt all at sea, although Mystic Carla still seemed as cool as a cucumber and as self-satisfied as a cat that had got at the cream.
He couldn’t hold her for much longer with no evidence other than her own word that she was responsible, and he had even told that amateur Holmes that he had someone for all the incidents that had occurred. He would look an absolute incompetent if he had no physical evidence, and had to own up that he had let his self-confessed murderer go.
DS Port and DC Moriarty would have to get things sorted out for forensic examination, while he sent a couple of PCs to the sites of all three incidents and see if they could summon up any witnesses. He, Streeter, would be making a radio appeal and inserting a plea in the local paper for witnesses to come forward. He would not be thwarted on this.
He would keep her in custody until later that evening, as she had already left a message on her home phone and her husband’s mobile about her whereabouts. He’d then send her home in a police car, just to further put the wind up her.
Chapter Nine
Garden had had a fairly fruitless and exhausting day, following Miss Patman from shop to shop, and from bistro to tea shop, as she made her rounds of the local retail and catering establishments. There was no sign of anyone following her, but they had been engaged to watch her. Fleetingly, he wondered if she had only engaged their services so that she could be sure of at least one set of male eyes upon her throughout the day. She was sixty if she was a day, and she looked like she had had quite a hard life since she had swanned around in a swimsuit. However, as Sherlock Holmes would undoubtedly have said, “There is danger to him who snatches a delusion from a woman”.
Doggedly, he trailed on, now quite looking forward to a civilised evening in Holmes’ apartment in convivial company, instead of having to eat a microwave meal in his own flat. It might prove quite entertaining, and most relaxing, to lounge on one of his partner’s Chesterfields with a glass of wine in his hand, rather than sitting on his rather hard futon with a ready meal on his lap, for he didn’t boast a dining table yet. He would certainly not have the energy to put on Joanne’s clothes again, to re-experience the luxurious feeling of her new underwear, so he might as well go out.
Picking up his mother on his way, Garden rang the bell of Holmes’ apartment, quite looking forward to an evening in familiar company. He was beginning to come to terms with his crossed maternal wires with his mother when he had lived in the family home, and was getting to know her anew.
Holmes opened the door, peering with appreciation at Shirley’s fashionable dress and her attractively made-up face. At Garden, he looked with trepidation, pleased that the man didn’t prove to be wearing earrings and warpaint. He had had no idea what his partner had been doing during his lunch break, but was rather worried that wearing make-up may be his new fashion for the office. Thankfully, he was wrong, and Garden was a little startled by the sigh of relief that Holmes gave when they shook hands.
‘Come on in,’ he invited them, standing aside to admit them, and settled them in his comfortably Edwardian-style sitting room. ‘Let me get you a pre-prandial drink and we shall discuss how to move the business forward.’
Shirley looked around her at the period furnishings. There was an over-mantel mirror that had an elaborately carved frame above the fireplace, and the sideboard was also a confection of the carver’s art. The Chesterfield sofas on which they perched were reproduction, more for the comfort than because Holmes couldn’t source originals. He was not a fan of horse-hair and was glad of modern furniture-making techniques when his evening and weekend comfort were at stake.
The heavy maroon velvet drapes were drawn soon after they arrived to give a cosy atmosphere of times past, and Holmes handed round glasses of a delightfully dry sherry to his guests.
‘What do you think about going on local radio?’ asked Garden, as the idea suddenly popped into his head. It would be a good means of publicising their services for those who did not know of their existence.
‘That’s a topping idea, old chap,’ replied Holmes. ‘Me or you? I suppose it should be me, as head of the firm,’ he added, immediately becoming media conscious, and the thought of his own voice filling people’s living space was suddenly very appealing.
‘I don’t think I should like to do it
,’ replied Garden. ‘I hate to hear my own voice recorded, so I think your tones would be more acceptable.’
Holmes smirked at this praise, proposed a toast to future business, then set the three of them talking about flyers and business cards in various shops on the counter. This latter seemed to him to be a remarkably discreet way of advertising, where only those who may have need of their investigations would pick up one. ‘What about an appearance on regional television?’ he asked, at once seeing his face on the area’s TV screens.
‘You can count me out,’ Garden replied immediately. I don’t want people to see me in case they recognise me as Joanne. The more I can keep out of the limelight the better. I don’t mind the investigation side of things, but I want to stay in the working background, if that’s all right with you, Holmes?’
‘Perfectly, John H. Have you any ideas, dear Shirley?’
Surprised at being thus addressed, John H’s mother turned bright crimson, and looked into her lap in confusion. ‘Sponsoring local events?’ she offered, more in desperation than in hope.
‘Splendid idea, my dear. It’s not as if the coffers are inadequately filled. That sort of thing should certainly spread the word admirably. We’ll make a publicity pundit of you yet, Shirley.’
Fortunately, as she fought to recover from this charm onslaught, something beeped in the kitchen, and Holmes sprang up to attend to the food and serve the first course, while Garden hosted her to her chair at the dining table.
The crab bisque disposed of, Holmes served a boeuf bourguignon for the main course, and Garden was setting to, to attack his plateful, when a missile shot through the air, and landed mouth first on his plate. Colin, Holmes’ spoilt and beloved cat, had managed to get on to a high book shelf and aim straight for Garden’s portion of tender beef.
Gravy splashed all over his shirt and tie and on to the table cloth and his wine glass landed on its side, while Holmes sat there in bemusement, and Shirley gave a little squeal of surprise. ‘Colin, get out to the kitchen. I’ve left you some in your bowl, you naughty boy,’ declared Holmes in indulgent tones, then turned his eye to Garden. ‘I’m awfully sorry, old chap. Let me get you a damp cloth with which to clean yourself up.’
The Bookcase of Sherman Holmes: A Holmes and Garden Anthology Page 8
