‘Do you have any more of this no doubt excellent stew?’ asked the besplattered Garden.
‘Terribly sorry, but no. Why?’
‘I can hardly eat food that a cat has landed in, now, can I?’ Garden was totally bemused that Holmes had not fathomed this one out.
‘Sorry. I put the last of it into the cat’s bowl. I’ll have to fetch you some bread and cheese to be going on with, but I can assure you that you’ll enjoy dessert.’
‘If I can get first go at it,’ mumbled Garden under his breath for, if it involved cream at all, no doubt Colin would be back on the prowl for his share of the course.
As Garden toyed with a piece of mousetrap, Shirley picked at her food uncomfortably. She would be glad to get home. In her experience, it never did to socialise with colleagues from the office, and tonight she was breaking her golden rule simply because she couldn’t think of any way of avoiding it.
Dessert proved to be good old spotted dick and custard, the heat of which deterred even a cat of Colin’s determination. As Garden spooned the heavy confection into his mouth, he decided that Holmes cat was the only one with psychopathic tendencies he had ever met, and with his sights set on only one human target – himself. The animal acted like a huge furry angel with his owner, and had left his mother alone, except for a few minutes when he had deigned to allow her to stroke his muscular back, but whenever Garden visited, he always came off worst.
Chapter Ten
Time had run out for Streeter, and Habeas Corpus was waving a stern finger at him with regard to Mystic Carla, aka Mrs Rothwell. A self-confessed murderer in the hand was worth two in the bush, in his opinion, and it was with great reluctance, that he had to let his quarry go. Having the final say in the matter, though, he sent her home in a police car with two uniformed officers in it to keep her company, as a hint to her that she was still not off the hook.
The officer from the passenger seat of the vehicle accompanied her to the door, and waited while she called into her husband. He wanted to see her into her other half’s custody before he returned to the station, to make sure she didn’t float off anywhere else with murderous intent.
There came no answer, so he followed her into the house, she clicked on the lights, then screamed for all she was worth. At the foot of the staircase which, in this abode, rose from the sitting room, lay the body of her husband, crumpled into a heap.
The constable caught her as she passed out, and then requested, via his police personal radio, that his partner in the car contact the police station about another possible murder; or, at the very least, a possible suspicious death, for when he had looked at the body, he noticed a large amount of blood behind the head.
On closer examination, this turned out to be a hefty blow from a blunt instrument, and not one that could have been caused accidentally by the fall. There was a definite indentation of the skull, and the local area had now clocked up its third murder as well as a possible attempted one, in a very short space of time. Rex Peterson was absolutely positive that he had been pushed down the escalator, and there was obviously a dangerous person at large which, now, could not be Carla Rothwell.
Later that evening, Inspector Streeter felt like pulling out his hair in frustration. If Mrs Rothwell couldn’t have committed this latest murder, who on earth could have, for they must all be connected? She was definitely in the clear, and he had no suspects. It was true that the modus operandi had been different in all four cases, but the deaths so close together, not to mention the attempted murder, could not, surely, have been coincidence? He didn’t believe in coincidences, not where murder was concerned.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning, Garden went back to keeping an eye on Miss Helena Patman, a task he considered to be a complete waste of time but, as long as she paid her bill at the end of the surveillance, who was he to judge her?
Sitting outside her house in his car, he read his current library book, the corner of his eye on the entrance to her front garden. Only the postman had called so far, and he did not think she would receive any more visitors this morning; he could feel it in his water. She was not at work today, as she was at the end of a few days’ off, and he expected her to stay in the house for the duration.
It might be a different case tomorrow when he had to follow her to a small art gallery in Farlington Market, which made him think that maybe they had opened their offices in the wrong town. A little deeper consideration of this drove him to decide that that would not have been a good idea, as people wouldn’t like to consult a detective agency on their own doorstep. They would prefer to disguise their consultation with a trip to one of the other local establishments, and then slip in quietly where none of their neighbours would be likely to notice them.
Happy in this conclusion, he let his attention slip a little and was, therefore, bemused to hear the sound of shrill screams coming from the open kitchen window of the house in which their client dwelt. Dropping his book without heed to which page he had reached, he exited the car with all alacrity, and headed towards the house.
Meanwhile, Inspector Streeter, finally accepting that Mystic Carla Rothwell couldn’t be his murderer if the same person were responsible for all, had paid a call to what he had discovered was the employer of the three dead men and the one only injured.
Messrs Carlton, Piccadilly and Mayfair, Chartered Accountants, were only a few streets away from the police station, and he asked to see the senior partner immediately, being straight away led to the office of a Mr Sandiford. Expressing his surprise at the surname, Mr Sandiford smiled at him, and informed him that the firm’s name was a complete fiction from earlier times. The company had been set up by three men with much more prosaic names, but they had adopted the fancy-sounding components of the firm’s title by deed poll, thinking that it would bring them more business from the local business snobs, and they had been right, at the time.
‘It hasn’t done too badly for us, since then, either,’ he concluded his little historical anecdote, before expressing his chagrin at the loss of so many employees at a time that they were expanding.
‘Did you not think it odd?’ asked Streeter, giving the man a cod’s eye stare.
‘Don’t really look at anything other than figures,’ he replied, oblivious to the real world around him. ‘Odd thing, though. They were all up for a promotion,’ he commented. ‘There’s only one candidate left, so we shall have to advertise for extra staff before we make the decision about who shall head up our new international department.
‘We’re in expansion, you know. At a time like this, globally, there’s even more need for good accountants to make the most of the firm’s figures,’ he informed Streeter, who had stood there with his mouth open at the thought of a firm doing so well in today’s financial climate. Fiddling the books, more like, he thought, but did not vocalise.
‘Who is left to consider for this promotion?’ Streeter considered this a cunning question, and was rewarded by an answer in the affirmative.
‘There’s still Sanjay Chandra: very good head for figures, and very creative,’ replied Mr Sandiford, colouring up as he let slip the last phrase of this information.
‘I’d like to have a word with him, if I may?’ requested the sturdy inspector with a gleam in his eye, then thought to check the employee’s attendance at work which had been excellent.
‘Good day to you, Mr Chandra. I’m Inspector Streeter of the Farlington Market CID, and I would like a few words with you about your unfortunate colleagues.’
Chapter Twelve
Garden could get no answer to his pummelling on the front door, and the screeching continued unabated. Thus, he went round to the back of the house where he found the patio door into the living room unlocked, and let himself in that way. The screaming was much louder inside, and he covered his ears as he headed to the front of the house.
In the kitchen, he found Miss Patman with the hands of another woman round her neck, trying her best to strangle the ex
-beauty queen. ‘Stop! At once!’ he commanded them in a very loud voice, and the two women fell apart. ‘What the hell’s going on here?’ he shouted, thoroughly discombobulated by the presence of another woman in what he thought was a case about a male stalker.
Miss Patman put her hands to her throat, rubbing at it where it had been crushed, swallowed somewhat ostentatiously then, in a rather hoarse voice, thanked Garden for his timely appearance.
‘And this is?’ he asked, feeling his temper rise at the lack of information that had been given to him at their original consultation.
‘My apologies, Mr Garden. This is Sherelle Lavelle, who has hated me ever since I pipped her at the post for Miss Hamsley Black Cross. She attacked me three times in my year of duty to the town, and I eventually moved to another area to get away from her. I returned here only because my mother is getting rather frail and forgetful, and I honestly thought this woman would be over it by now.
‘I only caught glimpses of my stalker out of the corner of my eye, and I’m afraid I don’t often wear my glasses,’ she explained, patting at her mussed up hair and proving that this habit was out of vanity rather than prudence.
‘Shall I phone the police?’ asked Garden, still somewhat bemused.
‘I never wanted to kill her,’ stated Sherelle Lavelle. ‘I just wanted to get back at her for what she did to me all those years ago. She was sleeping with one of the judges, you know.’
‘This is true,’ confirmed Miss Patman with a shameful smile.
‘How could you,’ added Ms Lavelle.
‘I know. He was rather awful, and terribly old,’ continued Helena Patman. ‘We used to be best friends, you know,’ she informed her knight in shining armour, indicating the woman who had but a few short minutes ago had her hands round her throat.
‘Did you really?’ Garden was now definitely mystified by the working of women’s minds. Dress like one he might, but fathoming out the mental processes of one was a completely different matter.
‘Shall we call it a day?’ asked Sherelle, with a tear in her eye.
‘Why not. What happened to that awful boyfriend of yours?’
‘I married him, more’s the pity. He left me five years ago, and I’m still on my own.’
‘How about you and me going out on the town, then, just like the old days?’
‘But, Miss Patman, she’s just tried to kill you, and she’s been stalking you.’ Garden was now aghast.
‘It may not be Friends Re-united, but it works for me,’ replied his erstwhile client. ‘Send me your bill at your convenience. You may go off duty now, Mr Garden.’
Garden walked back to his car his mind in a whirl. Could their relationship really have gone from murderous enemies to best friends in the blink of an eye? Women! Who could work out how they thought?
Chapter Thirteen
At the offices of Messrs Carlton, Piccadilly and Mayfair, Inspector Streeter was interviewing Sanjay Chandra about his movements at the time of the deaths, or the events that led up to them, and the accident.
He explained that, at the time of the death of Mr Andrews, he had been working late at the office. It had been impossible to work out exactly when Mr Davidson’s car had been tampered with, but there seemed to have been no opportunity, as Mr Chandra seemed to have spent all his time between the incidents either working late or at home with his wife.
For the incident with the escalator, he had a cast iron alibi, as he had brought a packed lunch that day, and he and a junior colleague had been rushing to get out the annual accounts of a local firm, and neither of them had left the office during the time that this unfortunate accident had taken place. ‘Had samosas and a little leftover lamb jalfrezi,’ he offered, ‘and delicious they were, too. My Indraani is a superb cook.’
An examination by the appointed doctor – and the evidence of the rectal temperature – had confirmed that Mr Rothwell was murdered as soon as he had got home from the office, and Mr Chandra had an alibi in the form of Mr Sandiford himself, who had been explaining that the firm would wait until they had appointed replacement staff before appointing a head of department.
He was, of course, very shocked to hear news of Mr Rothwell’s death from the inspector, but he couldn’t be of any help in their enquiries. Indraani would, no doubt, be very distressed when he got home and told her.
That evening, his wife greeted him with her customary smile, and listened while he told her that Mr Rothwell had been murdered the previous day. Her first reaction was one of happiness as she said, ‘And now you will be promoted while they get new underlings to work for you?’
‘No, I told you yesterday that there were to be new staff. I thought I’d made it clear that the promotion would not be given until after the new members of staff were in place.’
‘You never said exactly that, Sanjay. How could Mr Sandiford be so unfair as not to recommend you after all your years of devoted service and unpaid overtime?’
‘I might still be appointed, my dear. But that is for the gods to know, at the moment, and not for us mere mortals.’
Indraani huffed off into the kitchen to attend to her pots of food, whilst an anxious frown adorned her husband’s face.
Chapter Fourteen
The next morning, Sanjay rang in from his office to see if he could come in to visit Garden again in his lunch break, as he would never dream of doing something like that during the firm’s time.
After the phone call, he discussed the details of what was happening at the firm of accountants with Holmes, who sat for a moment, lost in thought. ‘Seems to me to be a very clever murderer,’ he pontificated. ‘It must be the man himself doing it just to secure promotion.’
‘Can’t be,’ replied Garden curtly. ‘He says the firm is going to replace the men who were killed with new employees before they come to a decision about the promotion.’
‘Then, he must think he’s odds-on favourite. He must be guilty, otherwise why has no one tried to attack him? Stands to reason that he’s responsible. He’ll have wangled his alibi for when the man was pushed down the escalator. Maybe he had the chance to alter the man’s watch so that he didn’t know what time it really happened.’
‘That’s far too airy fairy, Holmes. The ambulance crew and the department store must have a note of the actual time it occurred, for their records.’
‘That’s splitting hairs, isn’t it, old chap? And what about this boss man? What’s his name again?’
‘Sandiford,’ supplied Garden.
‘Why can’t it be him having a purge of staff so that he doesn’t have to pay redundancy money? It’s quite feasible.’
‘It seems too far-fetched for me, Holmes. There must be some other explanation.’
‘What about that chap Rothwell’s wife getting someone else in on the act to “do” her husband, who was the intended victim after all? It could all be an elaborate plot to get rid of hubby and strengthen her reputation as a psychic.’
‘Holmes, you really do have a fertile imagination.’
‘And you say this Indian feller’s coming in here in his lunch hour? He’s the last man standing. Don’t tell me that doesn’t mean something, because I won’t believe you.
‘Make your mind up. You seem to be suspecting everybody.’
‘Par for the course, in this job. You have to look at every situation from every angle,’ replied Holmes smugly.
‘I wouldn’t like to be inside your head. It must be like being at the eye of a hurricane, with everything whirling around madly in your mind.’
‘Merely logic in there, Garden. Can’t solve things without it; take my word for it.’
Sanjay Chandra turned up at about a quarter past one, his packed lunch with him in a small shoulder bag, and asked permission to eat it while they talked. Permission received, Holmes began to fire his theories at him, confusing the client so much that he dipped his onion bhaji into his tea instead of into the raita.
‘Please,’ he exhorted the moustachioed older
man, ‘just let me think about all these ideas. They have not occurred to me before and you are making my head spin.’
‘Got to look at all the possibilities, Mr Chandra. Can’t let someone get away with all these murders and the attempted one as well; just not cricket.’
This mention of his beloved cricket confused the client even more, and he wondered if Holmes had, in fact, escaped from a lunatic asylum, and Garden was, maybe, harbouring a fugitive. ‘Mr Garden, I don’t understand.’
‘Never you mind, Mr Chandra,’ chipped in Holmes, his voice an unwelcome sound in their client’s ears. ‘We will come back to the office with you this afternoon and we will have a word with this Mr Sandiford.’
‘But you will lose me my job,’ wailed Sanjay, trying to drink from his little container of lime pickle instead of from his teacup.
‘Nonsense. We’ll just drop in for a little chat.’
‘And we won’t come straight after lunch,’ Garden reassured him.
‘We won’t?’ asked Holmes, now confused.
‘No. We’ll drop in just before you finish work, so that Mr Sandiford’s day won’t be too disordered,’ declared Garden decisively. If they were going to go a-visiting at all, it would be at a time when the poor man had a chance of easy escape through his wife expecting him home, or a business dinner to attend: allegedly. He knew he would have had something similar if Holmes had just turned up in his office, a perfect stranger, and started asking him odd questions that implied he was a murderer. Still, Holmes was the boss, ultimately. It was his business, and he must run it however he wished.
The Bookcase of Sherman Holmes: A Holmes and Garden Anthology Page 9
