‘It’s the shop, this time. Is there no end to my troubles?’
‘What’s the shop?’
‘That’s been broken into. At least, I suppose it has been. It’s been turned upside down, but I’m absolutely positive that I set the alarm last night: I know I did.’
‘Can you actually remember doing it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then someone else must know the code,’ Garden insisted.
‘But only me and Dad know it,’ Roderick insisted, now seeming genuinely scared at what, Holmes perceived, must feel almost like persecution.
‘Have you informed your father?’
‘No, and I don’t intend to either, before he comes back. I can’t be held responsible for ruining his holiday as well.’
‘And what was taken this time?’
‘Absolutely nothing,’ he replied in confusion. ‘Everything – watches, clocks, chains, rings – absolutely everything was there when I did a quick check of the stock.’
‘This is indeed a mystery worthy of the master himself,’ muttered Holmes.
‘What?’
‘Nothing, Mr Fredericks. You just leave everything to us,’ Garden reassured him. ‘We’ll be over later to look for any fingerprints.’
As Roderick Fredericks left the premises to attend to tidying up his shop, Holmes suddenly announced that he had to go to the barber’s to have his hair and moustache trimmed for the forthcoming dinner/dance this evening.
‘But, Holmes, you can’t just swan off. We’ve got to go to the police on this one,’ Garden protested, but in vain.
‘I have to look my dashing best for the beautiful Shirley, now, don’t I? I promise you that, if nothing’s turned up by closing time tomorrow, we’ll go to Streeter.’ As Holmes uttered this, he thought: and he’d better be wearing black, because it’ll be over my dead body.
‘Just to disturb his Christmas?’ asked Garden.
‘If you like to think of it that way, yes.’
There was no further progress that day because Holmes was so distracted with the forthcoming event and, in the end, he went off home early in order to prepare himself for his ‘date’. Shirley went off shortly after her boss, snivelling and sneezing into a handkerchief. ‘I’m sure I’m coming down with an awful cold,’ she told her son, before slipping into her coat and shivering her way out of the office.
Garden locked up that day with relief. At last he could try on Joanne’s beautiful new jacket in peace and in costume. He was just slipping a dress over his petticoat when the phone rang.
‘Hello, Mother. What on earth do you want? You should be beautifying yourself for your firm’s night out with the boss.’
‘I can’t go, Johnny,’ she croaked.
‘You can’t let him down just because you don’t fancy him. What about both our jobs?’
‘It’s not just because I don’t fancy him,’ she continued. ‘It’s because this cold has developed into an absolute stinker. My head’s throbbing, my nose is running, and my throat feels like sandpaper: and I can’t stop sneezing,’ she concluded, matching act to declaration.
‘But how on earth are you going to tell him? What were your arrangements?’ Garden could see Jobseeker’s Allowance on his New Year horizon.
‘We were going to meet at the office, because I couldn’t face all this “your place or mine” thing for coffee after the dinner dance. I was just going to go, and put up with it, then escape when we came back for our cars. The hotel’s only a few steps away.’
There was silence on the line for a few seconds, then Garden replied, ‘You just leave it to me. I think I’ve got a plan.’
‘Good. I’m going to bed. If I feel a bit more human in the morning I’ll come in, but I’ll be bringing some Lemsips with me, and a large box of man-sized tissues.’
Chapter Eight
Holmes had scrubbed his skin until it shone pink, polished his shoes until he could see his face in them, and tripped over Colin, his beloved but Garden-averse cat, twice during his long-winded preparations to look his best for his assignation. On arrival at the office, there was only a low light on, and he entered and cooed, ‘Hello, my lovely Shirley. Your beau has arrived.’
A shadow stirred in the half-darkness, and a tall figure arose from a seat through the doorway into the back office. ‘Is that you, my dearest?’ he called, a little confused by the figure’s height, then stared with bemusement as it emerged into the brighter, but still low, lights of the outer office. Who was this tall beauty who awaited him? Had someone from the Association come along to escort him to the celebrations?
‘I’m so terribly sorry, but Shirley has been taken ill and I have come instead as your partner,’ replied a husky voice.
‘That sounds delightful, indeed,’ replied the love-sick swain, only for Garden’s voice to then reply,
‘Don’t overdo it, old cock. It’s only me, but Mother’s got a frightful cold, so I decided to stand in for her so that you wouldn’t be disappointed,’ and Garden flicked on the full light to reveal the form of Joanne, his alter ego, dressed in her new crystal-adorned faux fur jacket.
‘Bugger!’ exclaimed Holmes before he could stop himself and, quick as lightning, Joanne replied, once more in her female voice, ‘I wonder what your car’s computer would reply to that?’
‘And just how am I to introduce you to the other members of the Association? I can hardly say you’re my secretary/receptionist, can I?’
‘You can tell them I’m your partner’s sister,’ improvised that partner, lying with unsettling ease.
‘Oh, come along, then, Joanne. Let’s get this over with,’ snapped Holmes.
‘Get this over with? Have you seen this jacket? It, if not I, deserves a good night on the town.’
Chapter Nine
The food at The Black Swan proved much more inspiring under new management, than it had been when the two detectives had first met earlier that year, and the band was also worthy of its hire.
Holmes spent the evening schmoozing the committee members, while Joanne proved quite a hit with the elderly male members for boogying on the dance floor. In fact, he went so far as to forget himself as far as alcohol went, and when he became aware of his consumption, realised that he had drunk far too much over the limit to drive home that night. Bum! Never mind, Colin wouldn’t go hungry, for he had fed him before leaving his apartment, and he could always bunk down with Good old John H. Where was he, by the way, or rather, she?
Holmes giggled to himself at the deception, which owed more to alcohol than it did to the amusement of missing out on an evening with Shirley: that wasn’t at all funny, and his chuckles soon subsided into huffs of self-pity. He felt decidedly hard done by, but had he known where Garden actually was, he might have reserved a bit of sympathy for him.
Garden or, as we must refer to him this evening, Joanne, had been strutting her funky stuff on the dance-floor with the greengrocer Charles Mott when that personage had grabbed her suddenly by the hand, and dragged her out of the Hotel and into The High. Joanne was speechless with shock, as Mr Mott commented, ‘Such large hands you have, my dear. I do so like a woman with capable hands; so very useful for weighing potatoes.’
Garden risked comment or disapproval. ‘Won’t your wife be cross at you taking me outside?’
‘Nonsense,’ he retorted. ‘Too busy canoodling with Henry Morgan. She does so admire a man of power.’
‘Who’s Henry Morgan?’ asked Joanne, inexplicably getting a picture of a bottle of rum in her head.
‘Why, our esteemed president, of course. ’
By this time they had reached the bedecked fir tree that was the town’s crowning festive glory, and Mr Mott let go of his companion’s hand and removed one of the smaller parcels that had been attached to it. ‘I’m not sure what is in these little packages, but may I make the seasonal gesture of presenting you with one as a gift?’ he said, an unmistakeable glint in his eye.
Joanne, without thinking, shoved the small p
arcel into the pocket of her beloved jacket, and then became conscious that Mr Mott’s hand was on her right buttock. Without a moment for consideration, she lumped him one round the side of the head, and made her way as fast as her stilettoes would allow her back towards the Hotel.
She found Holmes drowsing on a banquette, and made a desperate effort to rouse him, ‘Get me out of here,’ she hissed, with some urgency. ‘Old Mott’s trying to do a number on me.’
‘Whassup?’ mumbled Holmes, his eyes glazed and staring. He had rather over-compensated for the absence of Shirley and had imbibed well, but rather unwisely. He was definitely not in a suitable state to drive back to Farlington Market tonight.
Putting one of his partner’s arms around her neck, Joanne heaved until she had him in an upright position, then began to drag his inebriated body towards the nearest exit. ‘Come on, you drunken bum, do make an effort,’ she exhorted the almost inert form, in Garden’s voice.
‘Damned strong filly,’ came to her ears, as she became aware of Mott’s figure, just inside the door, his cheek reddened by the blow he had received, but a smile still on his face.
‘Get a grip,’ she hissed into Holmes’ ear. ‘You’ve only got to get back to my flat before you can go sleepy-byes, damn you.’
‘Wossamarrer?’ enquired her burden before, once more, returning to a squiffy silence.
Garden, for it was definitely he again, now his wig was knocked askew, had to put his shoulder under Holmes’ behind to propel him up the stairs, then dumped his almost comatose form on to the sofa, before tearing off his wig, his jacket, and kicking off his uncomfortable shoes with the thought that some women had Botox injections into the soles of their feet to lessen the pain of very uncomfortable designer shoes. Maybe he should copy their example.
Without a word, he fetched a sleeping bag from the airing cupboard and covered his partner’s inert figure, now sonorously snoring, then went to his own bedroom in a foul temper. His mother’s cold had a lot to answer for.
Chapter Ten
The next morning, Garden found himself alone downstairs. Holmes was still sleeping deeply, and would do doubt need some time to recover from his hangover before he came down to the office. His mother had telephoned in sick just before he unlocked the doors and, although the shops were swarming with last-minute shoppers, this being Christmas Eve, he found that no one had any problems that were in need of investigation today.
With all their records up to date, all invoices issued, there was little for him to do except play solitaire on the computer. About eleven o’clock, there were sounds of stumbling footsteps overhead, heading first for the bathroom, then for the kitchen, and Garden presumed that he wouldn’t be on his own much longer.
At just before noon, a very shame-faced Holmes tottered down to the office and began to make his apologies. ‘I really don’t know what came over me,’ he said in a very quiet voice, evidently so as not to irritate his throbbing head. ‘I acted totally irresponsibly and I ask that you accept my humblest apologies, but please don’t speak too loudly, there’s a good chap.’
‘Apart from having had to lug you home, you got me out of a very difficult situation,’ Garden whispered in reply.
‘What happened? What did I miss?’ Holmes’ interest had been piqued, and he lost a lot of his pallor as he asked this.
‘That wandering hands merchant, Mott. He dragged me outside and actually put his hand on my bottom.’ Garden may have been whispering, but the lack of volume did not detract from the embarrassment of the admission.
‘Good God. What did you do?’
‘I slapped him round the chops and then rushed back to the Hotel, where I found you blind drunk, and had to get you home.’
‘Was I terribly difficult?’
‘Yes, but at least it got me out of a very awkward corner. I had no idea Joanne was so attractive.’
Holmes blanched again when he remembered his first reaction to the female figure shrouded in the darkness of the offices the evening before, then made a very flippant comment just to cover his own discomfiture. ‘Your mother doesn’t know what she missed.’
Remembering Shirley’s apprehension about the dinner/dance, and wondering if one could bring on the symptoms of a cold just by thinking about them, Garden thought that she knew exactly what she’d missed, and must be very glad that she had done so. If she’d been there, it wouldn’t have been Joanne fighting off the greengrocer, Mr Mott, it would have been his mother fighting off Holmes.
Fortunately it was (again) a quiet morning, and while Holmes merely sat at his desk sulking and consuming large mugs of black coffee, Garden manned the reception desk. When there was absolutely nothing else to catch up with and nowhere left to tidy, he begged Holmes’ indulgence while he went upstairs to clear away the evidence of his unexpected overnight visitor.
While he was up in his flat, he put away the stilettoes he had kicked off in so cavalier a fashion on arriving back with his somnolent partner, and picked up his gorgeous jacket to hang it up out of harm’s way. One wouldn’t want a careless casual visitor to spill a drop of red wine on its pristine condition.
As he picked it up, something made its presence known in one of the pockets, and he remembered the tiny parcel that Mr Mott had removed from the town’s Christmas tree and presented him with the night before. He slipped his hand inside this receptacle and drew out the small, gaily wrapped box.
Out of sheer curiosity, for he didn’t really expect there to be anything in this – surely it was merely a decoration? – he picked at the wrapping paper until its contents were revealed. Upon opening the cardboard box, he was bedazzled with an array of what looked like diamonds, or his name wasn’t John H. Watson: which it wasn’t, but at that moment, he felt exactly like his fictional counterpart.
‘Holmes!’ he shouted, running down the stairs, two at a time, ‘Look what I’ve found.’ Tightly grasping the brooch-cum-pendant, he held it out for his business partner to see, and smiled at the goggling expression on Holmes’ face.
‘Where in the name of glory did you get that?’ he asked.
‘It was that Mott. When he took me outside last night, he led me to the Christmas tree and removed one of the little parcels, handing it to me as a gift, just before he copped a feel.’
‘This must be from the stolen jewellery. Let’s have a look at those insurance photographs again.’
After a quick examination they easily identified the piece, and Holmes’ mood changed to one of jubilation; so the caffeine and paracetamol must have done their job, Garden thought.
His face quickly fell again, as he remembered that, although they knew directly from whence the jewel had come, they didn’t know how it had got there. ‘That’s it,’ declared Garden, ‘We have to go to Streeter now. We can’t hold this information back any longer, even if it is Christmas Eve.’
‘Bum!’ said Holmes.
Chapter Eleven
Inspector Streeter was not at all welcoming, and thoroughly disgruntled because he was just thinking of going out somewhere on some errand or other, and slipping off quietly home. ‘What do you two want?’ he asked very discourteously.
‘We’ve had reports of two break-ins involving the business of Messrs Adolphus Frederick and Son, and we’ve got some of the booty from the first break-in here.’ With such scant information, Holmes held out the sparkling brooch.
‘What break-ins? When? What booty? What have you been withholding from me? That’s a criminal offence, you know, withholding information when a crime has been committed. I could charge you both with that.’ Streeter frequently relied on this legal-sounding threat as most people would believe it. ‘I thought I’d sorted you two out once and for all.’
‘I’ll start at the beginning, shall I?’ asked Garden, feeling that he was the only one of the pair who could explain the events of the recent past to the policeman without resorting to offensive remarks. This situation of stand-off had to be sorted out.
‘Orf you go, then.�
�
‘Our offices received a visit, quite recently, from the son of the proprietor; a Mr Roderick Fredericks, who stated that he had taken some pieces of very valuable jewellery home with him for cleaning, whilst his father was away on holiday in Florida.’
‘And it got nicked, did it?’
‘It was indeed stolen from his house, but without there being any signs of a break-in or the alarm being set off – although Mr Fredericks doesn’t exactly remember setting it.’
‘Helpful.’
‘We feel that that is immaterial. What followed was rather more unusual. The jewellery shop was subsequently broken into and, although nothing was stolen, the place was definitely entered by force although, again, the alarm was dealt with.’
‘When did these two events occur?’
‘It’s all back in our records in the office.’
‘And?’ Inspector Streeter was now beginning to look more than a little irritated.
‘And, these purloined pieces of jewellery were not taken to a pawnbroker’s, but wrapped up and hung on the town Christmas tree, hidden in plain view, to be recovered later.’
‘How do you know this?’
Garden began to feel flustered. ‘I’m afraid that we must protect our sources.’
‘I could get a court order!’
Both private investigators were struck dumb by this threat, and Garden, in particular, was in a terrible quandary about what he would do if Joanne’s identity were revealed.
‘However, I think I have the answer to our little problem.’ So, it had become ‘ours’ now, had it? ‘We have recently arranged to be installed some CCTV cameras in The High. On the principle that people will look down rather than up, with the brightness of the shop windows at this time of year when the lights were hung, we sent a crew along to put up the cameras as well, hoping that people wouldn’t think anything of it.’
‘Good grief!’ Garden was almost speechless. ‘They must have been the second team of what I concluded were just council electricians swarming over the front of the buildings.’
The Bookcase of Sherman Holmes: A Holmes and Garden Anthology Page 21
