The Bookcase of Sherman Holmes: A Holmes and Garden Anthology

by Andrea Frazer

  Apart from the odd ‘oh!’ ‘really?’ and ‘how very interesting,’ Garden more or less worked in silence, tapping away at the keys and making notes on a pad to the right of the keyboard of the laptop that he had, thankfully, thrown into the back of Holmes’ car out of force of habit. In their occupation, one simply didn’t leave the office without one’s laptop, although they had yet to find one that Holmes felt happy with.

  Holmes, on the other hand, made quite a bit of noise over his phone calls. Sometimes he spoke to the member himself, at others, to wives or house-mates, and he, too, took copious notes of what was being told to him.

  It was one o’clock before they both came up for air, and Holmes suggested a spot of lunch before they compared notes. He was feeling so hungry that he could eat a scabby donkey; not that he counted such an expression in his vocabulary.

  After a scratch meal of ham salad sandwiches washed down with a cup of tea, they each took their notebook, and sat opposite each other on the twin sofas. ‘What have you got, Holmes?’ asked Garden, deciding that the host should go first.

  ‘The chair, Stephen Compton, is a widower and lives alone: retired doctor. Specialist area, the short stories. He returned a spade he had borrowed from his neighbour, however, on his way out, and got talking. By the time he looked at his watch, he really had to rush, and arrived at the pub to find us at the bar hatch, waiting for the Wordsworths to come through.

  ‘Here’s the members’ list. Could you write in pencil underneath his name, “check with neighbour”. Next, we have Ludovic Connor, a forty-year-old single bank clerk. Specialist area, the longer stories like The Hound. He worked overtime, and was five minutes late, arriving while we were in the back parlour, from what he tells me, as he remembers us coming back through. Under his name, put “check with employers”, although how we’re going to do that, I have no idea. You know what secretive buggers – pardon me – bank staff are and how loath they are to give out any information whatsoever.’

  ‘We could always chat up one of the other employees there, and see if they worked late last night or knew of anyone who had,’ suggested Garden.

  ‘Excellent idea, Watson, er, Garden: first-class thinking. Next, we have Aaron Dibley, a divorced probation officer: specialist area, just the written stories. He says no one can confirm when he left the house, because he lives alone, so we may have to do a bit of checking with the neighbours there. Make a note: “check with neighbours”.

  ‘Next, we have Peter Lampard, gas engineer and single, although I know he lives with another gentleman, and I’ve never looked too closely at their living arrangements. The other gentleman said Lampard didn’t leave until twenty minutes before the meeting was due to start and, although he doesn’t live far away, by then we were already on our way upstairs. He’s the one that’s potty about the series starring Benedict Cumberbatch: thinks it’s sheer genius. Make a note, Garden: “check on relationship”, not that it’s any of our business what he does behind closed doors. Whether he’s telling the truth or not, I don’t know. He did sound a little furtive.’

  ‘But if Lampard is gay, he might have felt that the story was written just to get him and to “out” him. Or he may even have felt annoyed that Antony had depicted an obviously straight character as a gay. Some people can be very sensitive about their particular foibles, you know,’ said Garden, and winked at Holmes, sparking a memory of the first time Holmes had seen Joanne in full fig, and causing a blush to rise to his face, as he remembered how attractive he thought she looked. This, coupled with the fact that he found Shirley Garden a very attractive woman was something that he needed to keep suppressed in Garden’s presence.

  He cleared his throat in embarrassment, glad that Garden couldn’t read his mind, and continued, ‘Rupert Mitchell had been sunning himself in warmer climes, to get away from both his profession and the grimness of the English weather. There’s definitely “brass” in embalming!

  ‘Dave Warwick was much too taken up with his new baby to have even considered attending. Similarly, Bob Wiltshire, a generalist, as far as Holmes was concerned, and a social worker by profession, had been called out to an emergency case conference, and wouldn’t have turned up either.

  ‘Along the same lines, Christopher Cave, a cabbie whose specialised area was the oddball works about the great detective, had actually dropped a fare off at the pub, then simply parked his car round the back in the car park, and entered the bar just as the clock was chiming the hour.’ That was another perfectly good suspect down the drain, thought Holmes. Garden was relieved. They didn’t want too long a list when they’d been through everyone, or they’d never get to the bottom of things.

  Elliot Jordan, the librarian whose field of expertise was the films, had walked from the library, but he’d seemed to have taken an unconscionable time to get there, but as long as they had confirmation of the time he left the library, there was nothing more they could do, in all reality.

  The last one on the list, apart from Holmes himself and the victim, was Kevin Wood, a married teacher who doted on the last series but one. He had claimed to come straight from a staff meeting, without the time to go home and get changed, but that was confirmed by his wife, who happened to be in when Holmes rang his home after speaking to him on his mobile. ‘Who does that leave still on the list?’ he asked, at last running out of steam.

  ‘If we ignore all the follow-ups and queries?’ queried Garden.

  ‘Just so, John H. Who’s definitely still in our sights, then? And then you can tell me about what you found out.’

  Garden consulted the pencilled notes he had taken while Holmes had been talking, and said, ‘The only ones who can’t prove an alibi are, firstly, Elliot Jordan, who seems to have taken four times longer than necessary to walk the short distance to The Sherlock. Secondly, there’s Aaron Dibley, who lives alone and hasn’t anyone to vouch for when he left the house. Thirdly, you seem to want me to include Peter Lampard, because we think his house-mate may be lying, and he may be more than his house-mate, coupled with what I said about him taking a scunner to the man and/or the manuscript. Who knows, maybe he wanted to steal and peddle it as his own work – the gay re-creator of Holmes.’

  ‘I’m afraid we’ll just have to trust our hunch on the last one. It’s a gut instinct thing,’ said Holmes, twirling the ends of his moustache thoughtfully. ‘Where should we start first?’

  ‘I think we should start by leaving any personal visits till this evening. I could do with a shower and a change of clothes, and a lot of people who aren’t working on a Saturday go out shopping. These are no fly-by-night youngsters we’re looking at, and I shouldn’t think they’d be out on the razz on a Saturday night.’

  Garden was feeling a bit jaded after their ‘bit of a binge’ the night before, and a fairly sleepless night with not being in his own bed. ‘Just let me tell you what I came across. I think you’ll find there’s food for thought in it. That’s another reason why I don’t want to act precipitately. We need to think this through, and not act on the spur of the moment.’

  ‘So, what have you got in that notebook of yours, before you scoot off back to the flat?’

  ‘I checked on the possibility that there were other Sherlock Holmes appreciation societies that might have an online presence, and I found a few.’

  Holmes whistled softly, though he had no idea what this could possibly mean. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I e-mailed them – hey, E-mail and the Detectives!’ Holmes looked puzzled. ‘Never mind … A couple of them have actually replied, and confirmed that Cyril Antony turned up at one of their meetings asking to join, sat in on a meeting, and tried to read them his story.’

  ‘So, he was definitely out for some sort of glory, though how he could achieve it …’ Holmes fizzled to a halt.

  ‘I decided to follow this theme a little bit further, and looked on line for recently self-published short stories, and there it was, bold as brass: “A Study in Cerise”, available at – get this – si
x pounds ninety-nine, as an e-book.’

  ‘Scandalous!’ spat Holmes. ‘What’s an e-book?’

  ‘You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Holmes, ‘and what a lot to charge for a download where there’s no physical product, and it’s only a short story.’

  ‘I know. He’ll never sell any at that price,’ mused Garden, relieved that he didn’t have to describe this particular reading revolution to his older partner.

  ‘I meant that he’d had the brass neck to publish it at all, and inflict that piece of absolute rubbish onto an unsuspecting world.’ Holmes’ indignation was on the part of Conan Doyle’s character, rather than that of a gullible public who were about to be relieved of much too large a sum of money for what had seemed like far-fetched drivel.

  Garden calmed down his partner and summed up the situation by stating, ‘The way I see it, we’ve got to check out a divorced librarian – the library doesn’t close till seven – a possibly gay gas fitter, and a probation officer who doesn’t have a witness to when he left home. I’ll come up with a plan, and come back here about six-ish. We can always go to the chippie later.’

  ‘Me? Go to a fish and chip shop?’ asked Holmes, in righteous indignation.

  ‘Oh, lighten up, old man. It won’t kill you, and you might actually enjoy it,’ Garden said, as a parting shot. He then shot out as quickly as he could to the waiting taxi that he had called, as he’d heard the ominous clatter of the cat-flap in the kitchen door, and knew that Colin had now entered the building.

  Garden, a veritable study in cerise himself and steaming from his shower, wrapped himself in a thick towelling robe, and padded in his slippers towards his wardrobes. Flinging open a door, he fingered his way through the items hanging there, and finally selected a kingfisher blue blouse and a cream linen skirt before having a bit of a rumble through Joanne’s undies drawer. A pair of black ballet pumps would set off the outfit, if he wore his black woollen jacket against the weather.

  He dressed and sat in front of his dressing table, selecting the make-up that would go with his chosen items just as carefully as he had chosen the clothes, and treated the choice of his jewellery to the same careful consideration. He wanted to look smart and official, but friendly enough to have a real chat too, for Garden had a plan.

  Holmes wouldn’t like it, but he didn’t know what else they could do. He’d just have to wait until he got back to Farlington Market before he could put it to him, for he didn’t want to give him a whiff of what he proposed they should do until he was there in person to judge his reaction.

  At half past five, a very different figure from that which had entered by the front door just a while ago slipped out of the back door of the office. The first Holmes knew of his partner’s return was a short ring on the doorbell, but when he answered the summons and opened the door, he was puzzled.

  Standing on his doorstep was an attractive young woman, quite tall and with blonde hair which was highlighted by the light from the street lamp situated outside the property next door. ‘How may I help you?’ asked Holmes, noticing that she carried a clipboard. Some sort of survey, perhaps?

  The young lady winked at him, causing him even more confusion, then greeted him in quite a deep voice. ‘Come on, Holmes, old man, let me in for God’s sake. It’s perishing out here.’

  Holmes’ mouth dropped open as he admitted his visitor, who whispered, ‘Shut your mouth, Holmes, you look like you’re catching flies.’

  ‘Garden? Is that really you?’ asked the astonished Holmes. He’d seen Garden in his female gear before, but it never ceased to amaze him how believable he was. And he must have a selection of wigs, because that wasn’t the one he had seen him in when he was ‘in Joanne’s skin’ once before. He felt himself reddening again at the thought.

  Garden seemed to have the knack of shaving his face so closely that there was never a hint of a five o’clock shadow or a stray whisker. Maybe that, in itself, should have been confirmation that he was not female, as most women of his age or older seemed to have the odd wiry hair or two protruding from their chinny-chin-chin or top lip.

  ‘I have a cunning plan, Holmes,’ announced Garden with a smirk.

  ‘That’s just as well, because I haven’t thought of any way we can check out what we need to,’ replied Holmes. ‘Come and sit down for a moment, and you can put me in the picture.’

  Once seated opposite each other, the fire blazing away merrily between them, and not a Colin in sight – Holmes had put him out, lest he snag Garden’s tights – Garden suggested that they sum exactly what they needed to ascertain.

  ‘We need to find out who killed Cyril Antony,’ stated Holmes, simplistically and baldly.

  ‘We also need to find out if the rest of the original manuscript of “A Study in Cerise”’ – Holmes winced at the title – ‘still exists, but whoever has it in his possession must be the murderer.’

  ‘But surely he’d have destroyed the whole thing,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Maybe not if he doesn’t know it’s out on the internet yet. Maybe he wants to retitle it and publish it in his name, under a new title,’ suggested Garden.

  ‘Like what?’ asked Holmes abruptly.

  ‘Perhaps … “The Secret Life of Holmes and Watson”.’

  ‘But Cyril had read it to people,’ countered Holmes.

  ‘I’d be willing to bet he never got as far as the second page, as he didn’t with your group, and only the first few pages may have to be re-written. Or, yes, maybe he just wanted to destroy it. With these two things in mind, I offer you my plan for this evening.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That I represent myself as someone doing a survey, and go inside our suspects’ houses, make some sort of diversion, like spilling a cup of tea on the carpet, and have a quick look round inside for any signs that the manuscript is, or has been, there.’

  ‘And what do I do while you’re going through all this subterfuge?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Well, I suggest you dress in old clothes, because I want you to go out into their back gardens, search for any signs of a recent bonfire, and go through the contents of their dustbins, to see if you can locate any pages or fragments of it.’

  ‘!’ Holmes was speechless for a few seconds. ‘What? You want me to go rummaging through people’s refuse and old food scraps?’

  ‘If it apprehends a murderer, then it’s all in a good cause, isn’t it?’

  ‘Do I have to?’ Holmes’ face had a look of desperation and disgust about this request to go through people’s trash.

  ‘I can hardly do it dressed like this, can I?’ retorted Garden.

  ‘You could go home and change … No, I suppose that would take too long,’ admitted Holmes, suddenly seeing that there was no way out of his role in Garden’s plan for their evening – but he was going to have a very long soak in a lavender-scented bath when he got home, he decided.

  ‘So, remind me of the three members, and what their specialist areas are,’ requested Garden, ‘so that we can decide what’s the most sensible order in which to visit them. If one of them seems a better bet than the others, it’s senseless to waste time – especially with your part of the job – drawing out the visits.’

  ‘Thank you so much for your kind consideration,’ mumbled Holmes sarcastically, once more picking up his membership list.

  ‘We’ve got Peter Lampard, specialist area the most recent series starring, what is this fellow’s name? – Benedict Cumberbatch? Extraordinary!’

  ‘He’s the member whom we suspect may be having a relationship with his male housemate – the gas fitter? To be honest, and taking all things into consideration, I don’t think it’s likely to have been him. Is he really that sensitive about coming out of the closet? Would he really be stupid enough to think that if he rewrote the first few pages and changed the title page, he could just steal the story? So, why do I think he should be left on the list? What are my reasons?’ he asked, as Holmes op
ened his mouth to do just that.

  ‘Firstly, there is no fire without some smoke, to quote the saying correctly, and if he is in a gay relationship, he’s hardly likely to have taken “A Study in Cerise” as a slur and, if I remember correctly, there was some sort of newspaper accusation that the couple in that particular series were closer than it was previously supposed – the characters, of course, not the actors, I hasten to clarify. Maybe he really thought he could make something out of the story. Who’s next?’

  ‘Elliot Jordan, the librarian. His specialist area is the films.’

  ‘Again, I find him unlikely, but we’ll at least have to take a look round at his place. And thirdly?’

  ‘Aaron Dibley, the probation officer, whose specialist area is just the original books and short stories. He has no interest whatsoever in films or television portrayals.’

  They had emptied a pot of tea while they were talking, and Garden looked at his watch. ‘If you go and get changed into your tattiest clothes – assuming you have any, which I find unlikely,’ he stated, ‘I suggest that we start with our librarian chappie, Jordan, then go to Dibley’s place, and leave Lampard to the end, because I get the feeling that he’s an also-ran, or a red herring.’

  ‘And how are we going to work this thing?’ asked Holmes, not having the faintest idea how this was going to work.

  ‘I’ve got a large-scale local map with me. I’ll check out the addresses while you get changed, and explain our strategy to you when you’re ready.’

  It was a full twenty minutes later when Holmes returned to the room. ‘What have you been doing all this time?’ asked Garden, who had thought his partner would have returned within five. It was, after all, only throwing on his oldest clothes that he had to do, not getting himself ready to go to the opera.

  The older man appeared in paint-splattered trousers, a jumper, the wool of which was covered in minute bobbles, a battered trilby hat, and an overcoat that was crumpled, and rather torn about the hem, but was, thankfully, quite long and black.