‘You’ve actually been in his house?’ This did arouse Streeter’s interest.
‘Would you, please, just go round to his house and take the newspaper package from his dustbin, then compare any fingerprints on that with any you found on the sheet of paper that was with Antony’s body? If they match, and you confront him with that evidence, I’m sure he’ll confess,’ pleaded Holmes. Nobody must find out about Garden’s alter ego, or their secret member of staff would be blown, and they couldn’t use him for undercover work in the future.
‘And if they do match, and he doesn’t sing like a canary?’ asked Streeter, looking for some sort of deal as to these two rivals’ sources.
As Holmes and Garden left the police station with obvious relief, Garden said to Holmes, ‘You know they say fact is stranger than fiction?’
‘Yes, old man?’ replied Holmes.
‘Well, I don’t know if that’s true, but it’s certainly less dangerous than fiction.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I read quite a lot of contemporary murder mysteries …’ At this, Holmes raised his eyebrows in disapproval.
‘Whatever for?’ This was anathema.
‘New stories. I can’t exist for the rest of my life on Conan Doyle.’ Holmes looked scandalised. ‘Anyway, when it gets towards the end of the story, the hero or heroine always get themselves into a tight spot with the murderer, and their own life is endangered, then the intrepid policeman, or whoever, comes along and saves them. We’ve hardly been put in any peril in this case, have we? In fact, when I get to that bit of the modern formula now, I usually just stop reading. It’s obvious that the main protagonist isn’t going to be killed, and it just seems a bit too formulaic.’
Holmes nodded solemnly, then said, ‘We did get in a bit of bother at The Black Swan.’
‘I prefer to think of that as the exception, rather than the rule. Let’s hope things continue the way they’ve gone in this case. I don’t want to end up with high blood pressure, or a hole in the head.’
‘Just so, old chap. Just so,’ agreed Holmes, sagely. He could hardly argue with that, could he? ‘And we’ve won the first battle. This is definitely our victory, and nuts to Inspector Streeter.’
The fingerprints did match, Dibley had sung like the proverbial canary, and everything had happened just as Holmes and Garden had surmised, with it later being reported in the local paper that Dibley had entered The Sherlock public house, sneaking in by the outside entry to the gents, where he’d removed and hidden his tie and jacket. He had then gone into the bar and seen the jugs and tray waiting to go upstairs, unattended, in the hatch from the kitchen.
Moving behind the bar, the crush of young people meaning he didn’t bump into anyone he knew, he came back out again, through the snug, and upstairs, where he knew Antony to be, having kept watch for him arriving. His crime was, indeed, premeditated.
Having seen off his intended target, and having used the deerstalker that had been hung on the wall of the meeting room, Dibley then left the tray in the upstairs room and calmly came back down again, went out by the saloon bar door, stashed the slim briefcase with the disgusting manuscript inside it in his car, entered by the outside door to the gents for a second time, re-donned his tie and jacket, and came out into the pub as if he’d only just arrived.
It was an audacious crime, but one in which he had carelessly neglected to remove his fingerprints from the title sheet of the story, and the man had been shattered when told that Cyril Antony had already unleashed it on an unsuspecting public in e-book form and that, furthermore, there was nothing he could do about it at all. Once self-published, it stayed published, unless the author unpublished it.
DI Streeter, of course, took all the credit, and just referred to the sudden and unexpected solution to it as ‘acting on information received from an unnamed source’. But it still rankled when he thought of the identity of that unnamed source, and the credit he’d received soured in his memory.
Holmes and Garden, meanwhile, seemed to have put it behind them, after a couple of mutual pats on the back, and were interesting themselves in ways to disguise the human face and form. That was much more fun. Maybe they’d get to try it out soon, on their next case. Garden had really been a trail-blazer with his portrayal of Joanne, although he decided he may have to make himself a little less attractive on his next venture out in that persona. He didn’t want to be ravished by some macho man who was out for a good time. The poor fellow would end up in therapy.
As he contemplated this ghastly fate, Holmes cleared his throat to get his attention. ‘Yes, Holmes, what is it?’
‘The battle may have ended, but we must remember we are still at war.’
‘Surely not. Haven’t we proved something by solving this case first?’
‘Not at all, my man. There will be other skirmishes, and we must be triumphant.’
Garden sighed.
THE END
The Curious Incident of … THE BESPANGLED FUR
Chapter One
The sky was leaden over Hamsley Black Cross, louring and threatening of bad weather to come and lightened only by the growing array of coloured lights that grew daily as December was heralded in by sharp frosts and chill winds, causing the occupants of homes and offices alike to seek the cheer of electric lighting to relieve the mood.
Into such an office, with a cheerful ping of the doorbell, entered Sherman Holmes, dragging a fragrant pine tree behind him. ‘Christmas has arrived,’ he called joyfully, so that his voice reached not only his secretary/receptionist, Shirley Garden, sitting near the front window, but also her son and his business partner, John H. Garden, ensconced in the rear office.
Shirley got to her feet, exclaiming at the size of the specimen, while John H. put his head round the door to this front office and declared, ‘Not already! I thought you could have put it off for just a bit longer.’
‘Why?’ asked Holmes, propping his recent purchase against a convenient wall. ‘Christmas is coming, is it not?’
‘Certainly, it is on the way, as there were electricians crawling all over the front of the buildings the other night to get the lights up, and then again last night – nothing but men up ladders, it’s been – but you do realise that getting in a real specimen such as that simply won’t last. We shall have to replace it before we close for the festive season,’ replied Garden.
‘And your problem with that is?’ Holmes’ cheerfulness would not be so easily dented.
‘That it has to be decorated and, should all the needles fall off due to the central heating drying the thing out, that the decorations will then have to be taken off – no easy task, with an office full of needles – and then a new one redecorated.’ Garden was suitably gloomy in this prophecy.
‘That’s no bother for such a happy time of year.’ Holmes was equally as stubborn in his mood. He may have hated Hallowe’en, but he positively loved Christmas.
‘Then you can do it, for I won’t have anything to do with it.’
‘Don’t be such a wet blanket,’ Holmes batted back at him.
‘Well, I think it’s lovely to have a tree so early.’ Shirley Garden came down firmly on the side of the angels, knowing which way her bread was buttered in that Holmes paid her wages – and very good wages they were too, for such an undemanding job.
‘There’s a box of lights, decorations, and tinsel on the back seat of my car, and a bucket. Garden, if you would be so kind as to bring them in, then go out to the back and fill the bucket with earth, we may commence to give this business a festive touch.’ Holmes was on a seasonal roll. Garden’s eyes were, too, as he exited the offices and went to Holmes’ car to collect the rest of the boss’ booty.
‘Don’t you know anything about fir trees?’ asked Garden mutinously.
‘Of course I do. I have one every year in my apartment,’ replied Holmes, surprised at his partner’s attitude.
‘And when do you usually buy it?’
‘Why, the t
wenty-third of December. Colin has quite a time, what with knocking off the decorations, and even, one year, having it down on the floor, the whole kit and caboodle.’
‘So you don’t usually have one around for long?’
‘As a matter of fact, I don’t.’
‘Well, be it on your own head but, as I said, I’m not taking off all the gubbins and doing it all over again with a replacement.’ Garden was uncharacteristically adamant on this point.
‘It did happen to us one year,’ confirmed Shirley, remembering one terrible Christmas in her son’s childhood.
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ retorted Holmes. ‘Inadequate watering, I’ll be bound.’
Holmes did, indeed, have a box of everything that was needed to make an office or two look seasonal, and had several strings of fairy lights as well as tinsel garlands in his box of tricks, and a giant paper Santa Claus that opened out and could be pinned, in all its three-dimensional wonder, to a wall. ‘I’ll pick up some holly and mistletoe,’ he continued, winking slyly at Shirley, ‘when I’m next in the greengrocer’s.’
‘Don’t hang it over my desk,’ squeaked Shirley. ‘I don’t want to be kissed by any old stranger who comes into the offices.’ Nor by you, she thought: that would be just too convenient for this ageing lothario. Garden scowled and began to sort out the tree decorations from the general ceiling and office ones, and thought that it would all end in tears.
The end result was a bit like a cross between an explosion in a tinsel factory and a Santa’s grotto, but Holmes seemed to be pleased and was quietly humming Christmas carols as he opened the mail: a job that should have been Shirley’s, but in a lean period, a task that Holmes took on himself to keep himself out of mischief.
‘Oh, just look at this,’ he exclaimed, holding up an invitation card for Garden’s inspection. ‘We’ve been invited to the HBCRA’s Christmas dinner dance.’
‘The what?’
‘The Hamsley Black Cross Retailers’ Association’s annual dinner dance, to be held in The Black Swan Hotel. And guests,’ he added, cryptically.
‘The Black Swan?’ queried Garden, horrified at the opportunity to attend a social engagement at the scene of the first murder they had investigated together. ‘And guests?’
‘Come along, old man; you surely haven’t got a “thing” about that place? And “and guests” means we can each take a partner.’
‘No I haven’t got a “thing”, and neither of us has a partner,’ snapped back Garden.
‘I shall ask Shirley to accompany me.’ Holmes smiled happily at the prospect of swanning in with Garden’s attractive mother on his arm.
‘Well, I don’t think I want to go.’ Garden was definitely not in a good mood, and he didn’t fancy being a gooseberry to his mother and Holmes.
‘Well, that’s settled, then.’ Holmes resumed humming carols under his breath, firmly convinced that Shirley would jump at the chance of showing off in all her finery.
Chapter Two
A few days later, the HBCRA caused a huge Christmas tree to be erected in the centre of the main shopping street, which was separated by flower beds, with the occasional pedestrian walkway through them. The tree was put in one of these which, although it may have hampered some shoppers, gave more pleasure than it caused inconvenience.
It was really quite impressive when it was finished, with a great number of coloured lights upon it. It was also bedecked with a number of parcels, which were rumoured to be for the local children’s home, and destined to be cut off on Christmas Eve. This was only a rumour, however, as such a reality would have resulted in the theft of same, long before that date. It was a heart-warming deception, however, as real presents did exist, and would, indeed, be delivered to the children’s ward of the hospital on the twenty-fourth.
The president of the Association was there for the erection and the decoration, as was his deputy, and Holmes made a point of introducing himself in person and informing them that he would be attending the dinner/dance and would like to pay for two tickets, but his partner would, unfortunately, be unable to attend. As only to be expected, he was directed to the Association’s secretary, but cordially welcomed by its two representatives, both of whom were well-rounded men who would not have looked out of place in Dingley Dell.
On his way back to the office, Holmes called into Messrs Charles Mott and Son, greengrocer and fruiterer, and purchased a fine brace of bunches of holly and a respectable bunch of mistletoe with plenty of berries which, he hoped against hope, he might be able to remove in exchange for kisses from his secretary/receptionist.
He returned to the office in triumph and informed Shirley of her fate, in that he had arranged to purchase tickets for this sparkling local social occasion, a fate she accepted with all the grace of a horse being offered a beefburger for consumption. Garden was then informed that his declination of the invitation had been passed on to the president of the Association, Mr Henry Morgan, and the vice-president, Mr Robert Findlay. The son was much happier about the situation than his mother, who could see no polite way of declining the invitation.
Chapter Three
A few days before the dinner/dance and coinciding with a dearth of clientele, a young man rushed into the office in a state of mild hysteria. ‘You have to help me,’ he declared dramatically. ‘My father will kill me, after what I’ve done. Oh, I’m such a fool!’
Shirley directed him to a seat before he swooned, and asked him about his problem, for he obviously had one. ‘They’ve all been stolen, and I thought I was doing the old man a favour. Oh, whatever shall I do?’ he squawked.
‘Tell me your name and what has happened,’ she persisted.
‘I can’t even remember it, I’m so distressed.’ This was a little too melodramatic for Shirley, and she indicated that he should go through to Mr Holmes and Mr Garden.
‘I’m sure they will be able to assist you in the resolution of whatever is distressing you,’ she assured him, knocking on the door to the rear office.
‘Enter,’ called Holmes imperiously, and Shirley opened the door and led in her distressed visitor. ‘And who is this?’ asked Holmes, receiving the mysterious reply,
‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’
The young man was visibly trembling, and Holmes bade him enter and take a seat before giving details of how they could help him. He duly sat, Shirley retreated, and Holmes asked whom he might be addressing.
It took three attempts before the client could stutter, ‘Roderick Fredericks.’ Both investigators approached his chair and held out their hands, giving their names as they shook hands with him.
‘And how can we be of assistance, Mr Fredericks?’ asked the senior partner.
‘I-I-I can hardly br-bring myself to utter the w-w-words,’ he stuttered.
‘I shall arrange for my secretary to bring you a reviving cup of tea, Mr Fredericks, and perhaps you will feel more calm,’ stated Holmes, with unbelievable faith in the restorative powers of the dried leaf infusion.
After a few sips, the young man got a grip on his emotions and began to tell his sorry tale.
‘I am the son of a jeweller who has a shop in this very street,’ he began.
‘Ah, yes, Adolphus Fredericks and Son,’ interrupted Holmes, and then had to wait a moment or two before Roderick could continue.
‘My father, who took over the business from his father, has gone on holiday for two weeks to the Viscount Hotel in Miami’ – his father had hammered home his destination enough times since he had booked it – ‘and left me in charge of affairs. I’m afraid that I have been very foolish in the way I have conducted them, and lost a large proportion of our stock,’ he enlightened them.
Both Holmes and Garden’s ears pricked up at this information. ‘And you haven’t gone to the police?’
‘I’d very much rather it was cleared up quietly and privately, without it getting to their ears,’ replied their prospective client.
‘And how did this calamity come about?’ G
arden had dragged a chair over to Holmes’ desk so that he should not be left out of the commissioning of their services.
The young man turned a fetching shade of scarlet before he continued. ‘In the normal run of events, I am responsible for the cleaning of all the second-hand pieces we acquire. We’ve had rather a lot in, recently, what with the economic climate and Christmas coming, and I decided to take them home with me after close of business on Saturday so that I could work on them out of business hours on Sunday.’
Here, he swallowed convulsively before continuing, ‘I very foolishly went out to a club with a few friends that evening, and when I got home the pieces were gone.’
‘Do you not have an alarm system?’ asked Holmes.
‘I forgot to set it,’ replied young Mr Fredericks, hanging his head in shame.
‘And who knew about you taking the pieces home to clean?’ asked Holmes, thinking what a foolish action this had been: surely far better to go into the shop on a Sunday and work, than expose the pieces of jewellery to the less secure premises of a private house?
‘I didn’t tell anybody, but I suppose some of the customers may have seen me packing them into a secure case during the last of Saturday’s business. I didn’t think anyone would know what I was about.’
‘You were evidently wrong,’ Holmes admonished him and, such was his youth in the presence of someone of Holmes’ seniority, that Roderick Fredericks hung his head in shame.
‘My father’s going to kill me,’ he whispered.
‘We will come out to your home and your business premises and see if there are any obvious clues but, if we don’t turn up something very soon, I really think you will have to report this to Inspector Streeter of the Farlington Market police.’ Although the suggestion nearly choked him, Holmes managed to utter it, shuddering as he did so. The inspector had recently ‘got one over’ on him, good and proper, and he was still smarting from the experience.
The Bookcase of Sherman Holmes: A Holmes and Garden Anthology Page 19
