by Dawn Harris
After I’d read Jordie a story, he threw his arms round my neck. ‘S...Sandy,’ he began haltingly, and I felt his whole body quiver, ‘you’re wearing the same perfume as my mum.’ Then he began to sob. Huge, heart-rending sounds, that tore me apart. I held him tightly in my arms, rocking him gently, and smoothing his hair, until he finally stopped crying.
‘Oh, Jordie,’ I choked, hugging him. ‘Would you rather I didn’t wear that perfume?’
‘No,’ he said at once, looking at me from under dark, wet lashes. ‘Uncle Neil says I must always remember everything I can about my mum and dad.’
‘Uncle Neil is right,’ I said.
I’d wondered what Lauren was like, and told myself that if she turned out to be nice after all, I must do the decent thing and back out. But when Neil returned from church, bringing Lauren with him, I saw at once that backing out wasn’t a matter of choice --- it was my only option. Lauren was the most gorgeous creature I’d ever seen. As for competing against her, I had more chance of flying to Mars.
Within half an hour I had Lauren all figured out. I knew exactly why Jordie didn’t like her. And why she wasn’t right for Neil. She oozed charm, yet her smile never reached her eyes. Those huge blue orbs were as hard as nails. I guess even a clergyman can be blinded by glamour. Frankly, it surprised me that she’d settled for a mere vicar. Until she let drop that her father was a bishop. I understood then. Neil was to go far.
The things Jordie needed, like love and affection, weren’t part of her plan. If I’d had any sense, I would have left for good then, but I couldn’t just abandon the child to his fate. One raw deal in life was enough for any six year old. So I offered to take Jordie to my parents’ house the following Sunday, to our weekly family gathering. ‘He can play with my nieces and nephews,’ I said. If it meant heartache for me, then so be it. That child badly needed a break. Something to help him over the trauma he’d suffered.
Lauren was delighted. ‘That would be wonderful, wouldn’t it, Neil?’
Neil frowned. ‘I wouldn’t like to impose on your family.’
‘You won’t be,’ I said, smiling. And added pointedly, ‘My parents love to see children enjoying themselves.’ Lauren didn’t even blink.
Jordie loved our family gathering so much, I took him every Sunday after that. In those weeks my love for Neil grew and deepened. He still seemed unaware of Lauren’s true character and plans for their wedding went ahead. What could I do? I mean, how do you tell a man his fiancée will ruin the life of a child, and probably his own too? I forced myself to face the truth. In two months, Lauren would become Mrs Neil Hawkins, and it would be goodbye Sandy. There was nothing I could do about it.
The following Sunday, hiding my despair from Jordie, I showed him the kittens newly born to our family cat. With shining eyes he said, ‘Do you think Uncle Neil will let me have a kitten?’
‘Ask him,’ I said, smiling. It seemed to me a cat would give Jordie something to love and care for. Something to take his mind off the tragedy. But I’d reckoned without Lauren.
‘No!’ she stormed at Jordie, greatly agitated. ‘There’ll be no cats in this house.’
Stunned, Neil said, ‘Surely we can talk about it.....’
Seeing the disapproval on his face, she sat on his lap, playfully messing up his hair. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she purred, as I clenched my fists tightly to stop myself scratching her eyes out, ‘but cats catch mice and bring them into the house. Alive,’ she said with a shudder. ‘You know I’m terrified of mice.’
To my astonishment, Neil shoved her off his lap and hurried over to Jordie, who stood with silent tears running down his cheeks. When Neil tried to hug him, Jordie pushed him away, and in a voice filled with loathing, yelled, ‘I hate Lauren. I hate her.’
Eventually, at Neil’s insistence, Jordie apologised. He remained subdued, however, but when Lauren stood up to leave, he offered to fetch her coat. After he’d left the room, Neil said to Lauren, ‘I think you owe Jordie an apology too. There was no need to scream at him.’
‘Apologise to a child?’ she protested. I could see she was desperately trying to keep calm, but her face was still white with rage, even when Jordie returned with her coat.
He’d been gone rather a long time, but I didn’t think anything of it until Lauren put the coat on. There was a small bulge in one pocket, which she immediately investigated. Jordie could hardly contain his glee when she pulled out a mouse by its tail. Eyes wide with horror, she screamed, dropping the mouse, and continued to scream as it landed upright and shot across the floor to the skirting board. Where it came to an abrupt halt.
‘It’s only a toy,’ I spluttered. Well, someone had to stop her screaming and Neil was too busy trying not to laugh.
Eventually he managed to speak. ‘Try to see the funny side, Lauren. It’s only a silly joke.’
‘Oh, is it?’ she shrieked. ‘And that makes it all right, I suppose. I think that child means more to you than I do.’
He looked at her for a moment without speaking, and then said with quiet regret, ‘Yes, I’m afraid he does.’
With nostrils flaring, she pulled off her engagement ring and threw it at Neil’s feet. ‘Daddy was right. You’ll never amount to anything. You’re too soft.’ And she flounced out, slamming the door behind her.
I longed to cheer, but Jordie was far more practical. He asked hopefully, ‘Can I have a kitten now?’
Neil choked back a laugh. ‘After what you’ve just done?’ But the twinkle in his eyes said Jordie would get his cat.
‘Would you like me to put Jordie to bed?’ I asked.
Neil shook his head, and the look in his eyes made my heart lurch. He turned to his nephew. ‘Jordie, I want to speak to Sandy alone for a few minutes.’
Jordie burst out excitedly, ‘Are you going to ask Sandy to marry you now?’
We both gasped, and Neil said, ‘Life isn’t always that simple, I’m afraid.’
Cheekily he grinned. ‘But she likes you, Uncle Neil. Don’t you Sandy?’
‘I...er...,’ I looked up to find Neil watching me intently, and I went crimson.
Jordie begged, ‘Come and live with us, Sandy. Ple—a—se.’
Neil walked Jordie to the door and opened it. ‘Out!’ he ordered cheerfully. ‘Go upstairs and tidy your room.’
Shutting the door again, he turned back to me. ‘I’m sorry about that. I mean....you probably have a boyfriend.’ When I shook my head, his eyes brightened. ‘Oh good. I..er...began to realise a few weeks ago that I’d made a terrible mistake with Lauren.’ He added ruefully, ‘I was dazzled by her, I suppose. Unlike Jordie-- he saw through her straight away.’
‘Children do.’
He was looking at me in a way that set my heart pounding so loudly I was convinced he would hear it. ‘Just lately, Sandy,’ he said, ‘whenever the doorbell rang, it was you I hoped to see, not Lauren.’
I was too choked with emotion to speak, but I smiled at him and my eyes must have said it all anyway, for he took two swift strides towards me. At that moment, the door opened again and Jordie stood there grinning. ‘Are you going to kiss her, Uncle Neil?’
‘I do hope so,’ I said fervently. And walked joyfully into his open arms.
Red Herrings
The sign on our office door stood out in bold, clear lettering: Baker Street Detective Agency. Underneath were the office hours, followed by an invitation to enter. At five minutes past nine the door opened and I looked up hopefully. When an attractive, long-legged blonde sauntered in, I sighed in disappointment. ‘Oh, it’s you. I thought it was a client.’
It had been six months since Tara and I, after years spent working for other people, set up on our own in Baker Street – surely the perfect location for a detective agency. OK, so it wasn’t the Baker Street of Sherlock Holmes fame. It wasn’t even in London. But let’s not get too picky, eh?
I organised our schedule, when we had one. Today, we didn’t. Tara perched herself on the corner of my
desk and asked the question I’d been dreading. ‘Kirstie, exactly how much work do we have on?’
‘You mean, right now?’
Tara nodded, and I chewed the end of my pen, praying the phone would ring, or a client would appear. But nothing happened. ‘None,’ I muttered.
What we needed was some good publicity. One really successful case, with our names in the newspapers, and we’d be made. But, right now, that seemed as likely as us orbiting the earth on a tandem. ‘It’s not fair,’ I burst out, thumping my fist on the desk so hard that all the pens leapt into the air.
‘Oh well, that’s life, I guess,’ Tara said with a shrug. Not much fazed Tara. It was an asset in our professional lives, but her calm acceptance of our failure made me so livid, I picked up one of Conan Doyle’s masterpieces and threw it at the door.
At that precise moment the door opened --- and the man who entered caught the missile deftly with his left hand. In our business we learn to assess people on sight and, even as I jumped out of my chair, I mentally ticked honest, sensible, confident and caring.
Physically he was fairly ordinary, but I liked the wide, sensitive mouth and laughing brown eyes. He had nice hands too, with clean, square-cut nails. He was that rare species of man --- my type. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, flushing with embarrassment.
‘Slipped out of your hand?’ he inquired with a grin, returning the book to me.
I laughed. ‘Something like that. Um --- can I help you?’
Smiling, he sat down opposite me. ‘I certainly hope so.’
I took a deep breath. ‘I should tell you we’re an all female agency.’ Well, why waste time?
His lips quivered in amusement. ‘That’s why I’ve come to you.’
‘Really?’ I gasped.
Tara the unfazed took over. ‘What can we do for you, Mr---?’
‘Smith. Gordon Smith. And I want you to find the man who’s threatening to, er --- bump me off.’
I blinked, and asked him how the threats had been communicated. ‘By my landline phone,’ he said. ‘The man’s voice was obviously disguised, and he withheld his number. My number, incidentally, is ex-directory. And to be perfectly honest,’ he confessed ruefully, ‘I find it all rather unnerving.’
‘Not nice,’ I agreed. ‘Did he give a reason?’
‘Mmmm. It’s rather bizarre really. I earn my living writing detective fiction, you see.’
Tara’s eyes widened. ‘Should we know you?’
He told us his pseudonym. We knew him all right. A rising star, the critics said. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘this screwball accused me of stealing the plot of my latest book from him. To be exact, from a manuscript he’d sent to me. But when I refused to compensate him, he threatened to kill me.’
‘Why would he send you his manuscript?’ I inquired, puzzled.
He shrugged. ‘There’s always someone who thinks I can help them get a publishing deal. But my secretary would have returned it to him immediately, with advice on how to approach a publisher. I never even saw his manuscript, so any similarity between his book and mine is pure coincidence.’ I nodded and he said, ‘The police advised me to take the threat seriously, which is why I’ve come to you. Because for the next three weeks I’ll be cruising out to the Caribbean and back, lecturing on detective fiction. As this crank is a writer he could be----‘
‘On the ship,’ I cut in. ‘And at your lectures.’
‘Precisely.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Someone that unbalanced needs to be caught quickly. And I reckon female investigators would be less obtrusive on a cruise ship.’ I could feel my jaw dropping, and Tara’s eyes were out on stalks. ‘Do you have anyone available at such short notice?’ he asked uncertainly. ‘All expenses paid, of course, plus your fee. The cruise line has been both co-operative and generous. On account of a murdered guest lecturer being bad publicity,’ he ended with a grin.
As he sat waiting for an answer, I held our appointment book upright, ran a finger down the blank pages, slammed it shut and smiled. ‘Our other agents are tied up at present, but Tara and I can manage it.’
After all, what did we have to lose? If this crackpot was on the ship and we nailed him, the Baker Street Detective Agency would take off like a rocket. If he wasn’t, at least we’d get a free Caribbean cruise. Before we went bankrupt.
So I took note of all the usual personal details, explaining, ‘It’s important to have an overall picture.’
When I asked if he was married, he said, ‘Yes, but I’m separated. The divorce is going ahead, now that my wife’s finally accepted a financial settlement that doesn’t leave me destitute.’
Tara commented on the unusual design of the ring he was wearing and he said, ‘My wife had it made for me when we married. Designing jewellery is one of her hobbies. I’ve always liked it, which is why I still wear it occasionally.’
Not many people would come out of a bad marriage so well-adjusted, I reflected. I handed him a Baker Street Detective Agency card and introduced myself properly. ‘I’m Kirstie Watson.’
‘Watson?’ he spluttered, amused. ‘Oh, come on, you can’t expect me to swallow that.’ Silently I produced a copy of my birth certificate, kept in my desk for unbelievers. ‘Kirstie Elizabeth Watson,’ he read out loud, and instantly turned to Tara, his eyes alight with laughter. ‘Then, of course, you must be Holmes.’
She smiled. ‘Tara Blenkinsop, actually.’
A few days later, along with hundreds of other passengers, we leant over the rail of the cruise liner, throwing streamers onto the quayside, while the band played “Sailing.” As we sailed majestically down Southampton Water, Tara said dreamily, ‘I’m really going to enjoy this. Just think, three whole weeks of sun and sea. What more could a girl want?’
‘Romance?’ I suggested.
Tara giggled. ‘If I can find a suitable hunk. I mean, I won’t get a look-in with Gordon, will I?’ she teased, fluttering her eyelashes at me meaningfully. ‘Not with you around.’
I laughed. ‘He’s not interested.’ And he wasn’t. Not yet. His wife had given him too rough a time. But I could wait. ‘First,’ I reminded her, ‘we have to nail this nutter.’
Our plan was to sit in on Gordon’s lectures, pretending to be budding writers. If our man was there, it would be easy to suss him out. He’d be a loner; these types usually were. But none of the men in the group showed any hostility towards Gordon. Not even in their body language, which is how people usually give themselves away.
We attended every lecture as we crossed the Atlantic, and kept tabs on Gordon whenever he was outside his cabin, and still no-one gave us the slightest cause for suspicion. So why did I feel so uneasy?
Once we reached the Caribbean, Gordon suggested to me that Tara and I should relax our vigil and enjoy ourselves. ‘If that madman was on the ship, he would have tried his luck by now.’
When I told Tara, she was ecstatic, having found her shipboard romance in the shape of a very handsome, fun-loving London stockbroker called Dean. The four of us spent a lot of time together.
‘Don’t get too excited,’ I warned her. ‘I refused.’
‘You did what?’ she gasped, astounded.
‘Tara, if anything happened to Gordon while we were.......’
She snorted. ‘Don’t give me that. You just want an excuse to be near him.’
I shook my head. ‘It’s not that.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I can’t get this feeling out of my mind that we’ve missed something.’
Her eyes widened, but she didn’t laugh. In our business intuition was something we’d learned to trust. ‘OK,’ she capitulated, ‘we’ll keep things as they are then. With just the four of us.’
If Dean minded, he didn’t show it. Spending so much time with us, we’d had to explain to him about Gordon, or we couldn’t have talked about it in front of him. He was clearly shocked and offered to help, making a great show of flexing his muscles. He certainly looked fit; useful if an attempt was made on Gordon’s life. He was f
un too, and just grinned when we teased him about his collection of pendants. He had enough to open a shop and never wore the same one twice.
Returning across the Atlantic, Gordon resumed his lectures, which I continued to attend. Tara said it was simply an excuse to sit gazing at him. But the truth was I enjoyed the talks. Particularly the one on red herrings. Which, Gordon informed us, played an essential role in detective stories, being a ploy the culprit used to throw the fictional detective off the scent. It was all fascinating stuff but, as I told Gordon afterwards, ‘I don’t come across many red herrings in my line of work.’
We were making our way down the carpeted stairs to our cabins at the time, and he grinned at me. ‘Ah, but fiction should be more exciting than real life, surely?’
I suddenly missed my footing and lurched towards him. He caught me in his arms, and I knew which of those choices I found more exciting. And it wasn’t fiction. I was still trembling when I reached the cabin.
Dean and Tara joined the rush for places on the sundeck that afternoon. Meanwhile, Gordon and I settled for the cooler promenade deck, sitting with our feet on the rail, watching the flying fish, lulled by the gentle movement of the ship. Surely Gordon was safe while someone was with him? Yet the hairs on the back of my neck continued to warn me he was in great danger.
Again and again I sifted the evidence in my mind, but it wasn’t until I was dressing for the Captain’s cocktail party that the answer hit me. And it took my breath away. Tara glanced at me. ‘Hey, are you all right, Kirstie? You’re as white as a sheet.’
‘Tara, if anything happened to Gordon, where do you think we would start looking for the culprit?’
‘Among the writing fraternity, of course.’
