The Red Rover Society
The Fifth Holmes & Co. Mystery
Allison Osborne
Copyright © 2020 Allison Osborne
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-13: 9781234567890
ISBN-10: 1477123456
Cover design by: Art Painter
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
Holmes & Co. Mysteries
Collection One:
A Study in Victory Red
The Circle Code Conundrum
The Impossible Murderer
The Happy Family Facade
The Red Rover Society
Coming Soon:
The Detective's Nemesis
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
About The Author
It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify.
-Sherlock Holmes, The Red-Headed League
Chapter I
A Chat in Kensington
Irene Holmes nocked another arrow in her bow and drew the string back. She laid on the couch in 221B, her dark hair spilling around her, and her bare feet tucked under a cushion to keep them warm. She aimed at an imaginary target on the ceiling, her pyjama sleeves falling and bunching around her elbows. She took a steady breath, before slowly placing the string back to its original position, muttering a thwhip sound as if the arrow struck a bullseye.
She nocked the arrow again, aiming at the same spot.
“Irene...” Joe warned. “If you release that, it’ll be stuck in the ceiling and Miss Hudson will not be pleased.”
Irene kept the arrow taut and looked at him, but he’d gone back to his novel, slouching in his chair, shaggy auburn hair falling into his eyes.
“Miss Hudson’s ceiling will remain intact,” she promised with a wry smile. “I would be outside practising, but it is bound to rain, or snow, or be cold enough for a jacket, and that just won’t do.”
“In the springtime,” Joe said, pausing his book again. “Will you promise to teach me? I think I shall want to learn this particular hobby.”
Irene laughed, slowly releasing the string. “So you can pretend to be those characters from that fantasy novel you’re reading?”
“Precisely.” He flashed a grin at her. A frigid November draft flew through the second-story sitting area, and they both shivered. Joe pulled his robe tighter around him, the bottom hem hilariously short on his tall frame.
Irene eyed her own robe laying over her desk chair by the window, the warm red tartan beckoning her. But her chair was simply too far away, and she’d learned that Joe would only do so many favours for her before refusing because she ‘gave more orders than the queen.’ So, she endured the coolness of the flat, leaving her blue flannel pyjamas to do the best job they could.
Joe shivered. “It is rather chilly in here. Perhaps more coal is needed.”
He stuck a piece of paper in his book, set it down, and stood.
“Oh good,” Irene said. “Since you are up, pass me a pear from the table.”
He hesitated and raised a brow at her.
“Please,” she added.
Once he’d scooped some more coal into the dwindling flame, he obediently retrieved a pear from their small fruit basket in the kitchenette. He held it out to Irene with a curious expression.
“Excellent!” She sat up and pointed to the other side of the flat. “Now, stand there with the pear on your head, and I will shoot it off.”
“Absolutely not.” He attempted to hide a laugh at her idea, but she caught the smile on his lips as he went back to his chair. He set the pear on his table, then retrieved a book from a pile on the floor beside his chair. “I have some classics I borrowed last week to refresh myself on them. Why don’t you read this while we wait for a case, or we can ring Lestrade and see if he has anything for us?”
Irene glanced at the book he held and shook her head. “I’ve read it. I quite liked Mr. Darcy when he wasn’t being insufferable.”
She faced the ceiling again, drawing the string once more. She and Joe hadn’t had a case in a month and Irene was restless. Joe was correct, she could phone DI Eddy Lestrade and see what tantalizing cases he was working on, but she didn’t want to open herself up to the possibility of some dull mystery that wouldn’t even take her the afternoon. Plus, Eddy's sister was coming home for Christmas from her schooling in Edinburgh, and as much as Irene tolerated and even liked Marla at times, Eddy would attempt to make plans for the holidays that she wasn’t prepared to think about right now.
The door to their flat door flew open, banging against the wall with a loud thud. Irene jumped, startled, and her fingers released the bowstring.
The arrow stuck in the ceiling, but she ignored it, leaping to her feet, ready to confront whatever had just flown through the door.
Miss Hudson stood a few steps into the flat, clutching her chest as if her own heart had been pierced instead of the ceiling.
“Irene Holmes!” She stormed forward, staring at the arrow, her Scottish accent thicker than ever, waving today’s newspaper at her. “What did you do to my ceiling?”
Irene quickly tucked the bow behind her back as if that would hide the arrows that had spilled from the quiver and rolled around on the carpet. Miss Hudson rounded on Joe.
“And you, Doctor, you went along with this?”
Joe stumbled over his words. “She promised she wouldn’t actually fire the arrows.”
He shrunk back into his chair as if trying to sink into the cushions and hide. Miss Hudson glowered at him and came to the couch, standing beside Irene, looking up at the arrow. “Your father did this to me, as well.”
Irene hopped onto the couch, reaching upwards, fingertips brushing the feathers on the arrow. “I believe he used a pistol and bullets, Miss Hudson.”
When she couldn’t retrieve the arrow, she looked to Joe. He switched places with her, his tall frame and long arms able to reach the arrow with ease.
“This isn’t better,” Miss Hudson complained, glaring at the two of them.
“It’s quieter,” Joe offered, grunting as he yanked the arrow from the ceiling.
Miss Hudson smacked his shoulder with the rolled-up newspaper when he stepped off the couch. Irene stifled a laugh as she took the arrow and stuck it back in the quiver, then tucked it and the bow under her desk.
Miss Hudson didn’t leave straight away, nor did she continue to chide them. In fact, she appeared to be stalling as to whatever was on her mind. She tapped their investigation board.
“Getting anywhere with this, then?” she asked.
The one side of their swivel chalkboard was blank for their next case, but the side that faced the room had half a dozen scribbles and pictures pertaining to Irene and Joe’s very first case together.
“Not yet,” Irene sighed. “I sent out a letter to Uncle Mycroft’s friends with the results from the case, the description of the tall blonde woman who was hiding an accent, and what Mrs. Gro
uper had discovered about the co-ordinates in America. The government seemed quite keen, but I still have heard nothing as to what was found at those co-ordinates in New York.”
“Hm.” Miss Hudson nodded, as if very interested, and yet saying nothing more as she remained in the flat.
Finally, Irene’s impatience grew too big, and she folded her arms across her chest. It wasn’t like Miss Hudson to keep stories to herself.
“Miss Hudson,” Irene said curtly. “What do you want?”
“Irene!” Joe scolded.
“Oh, it’s quite alright, Doctor,” Miss Hudson said before sitting on the couch. “I suppose I’ve stalled long enough.”
Irene let out a huff of angry air, but worry stirred in the pit of her stomach. “Is everything alright?”
“Oh, love, it certainly is not.” As if a dam finally broke in Miss Hudson, she dropped her head in her hands and shook her head. “I am mortified. Absolutely mortified!”
Irene and Joe exchanged determined looks.
“Did someone hurt you?” Joe clenched his fists in preparation for a fight, and Irene picked up her quiver, ready to sprint out the door as soon as Miss Hudson named the culprit.
“Are you both aware of the Beauchamps?” Miss Hudson asked, looking at them
Irene shook her head, and Joe asked his question again. “Did one of them hurt you?”
Miss Hudson shook her head and sighed. “I stepped out of the grocers this morning and standing on the pavement was Mrs. Francine Beauchamp in the finest coat, gloves, and hat that I’ve ever seen. I had no thought that she was waiting for me, so I snuck another look at her coat and went about my business. Well, then, she came right at me.”
“She attacked you?” Joe exclaimed in surprise.
Irene narrowed her eyes. Miss Hudson showed no indication she had been injured or sustained a fall of any kind.
“Oh, heaven’s no,” Miss Hudson replied quickly, waving him off. “She simply wanted to speak to me, about Mr. Holmes and his services, as she needed a private investigator.”
Joe let out a long-suffering sigh and sunk back into his chair. Irene dropped the quiver from her shoulder, tucking it back into the corner.
“Miss Hudson.” Irene strode over to her. “I was prepared to walk out that door and shoot someone with that bow and arrow because we were under the impression that you’d been accosted.”
Miss Hudson scoffed. “Like you’d need a reason to shoot that in public. I was not accosted, but I had never felt so dishevelled and penniless in my life as when that woman spoke to me.”
Joe swooped in, ready to save the day with his calm approach to any situation. “Why don’t we all have a cuppa and you can tell us what Mrs. Beauchamp said to you. I am assuming that you referred her to our services?”
“Oh, most definitely.” Miss Hudson stood. “I shall bring up tea and biscuits, and you shall hear my tale of woe.”
She bustled out of the flat and downstairs to her own living quarters to prepare the tea. As soon as she was out the door, Irene sunk onto the arm of Joe’s chair and hunched her back, resting her head on his shoulder.
“I was prepared to go to war over Miss Hudson’s tale,” she said, then a laugh overcame her.
Joe chuckled along with her and patted her knee. “Miss Hudson would never leave her flat if another war descended upon London on her behalf.”
Irene laughed some more, then a new smell came to her. A sweet, pleasant smell of lovely cologne. She sniffed Joe’s cheek, and he squirmed away from her.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“You’re wearing cologne.”
“Just a tad,” he said, cheeks blushing. “I was handed a sample while walking past the new shop a few blocks away. I never used to wear it because it sometimes made the animals sneeze at my practice. But, I’m not working with them anymore, so I thought I would give it another try.”
Irene felt a smile tug at her lips. “It smells quite lovely.”
He blushed even more, the colour moving back to his ears. “Thank you.”
Miss Hudson came back into the room, tea tray in hand.
As the three of them made up their tea, Irene perched back on the armrest, ready to hear her tale.
“Oh, Love,” Miss Hudson chided. “You will flatten that bit of the chair.”
“This is where I sit, Miss Hudson,” Irene stated, glancing to her father’s old chair, still stacked with pillows, though the number had dwindled to only three piled on top of one another. “Please start your story.”
She nodded solemnly and sipped her tea. “I was at the grocer’s, in line as you know, and–oh that reminds me. I will need your coupon books for next week, I must start stocking up on winter supplies. Anyway, I was at the grocer’s, just about to leave for the butchers and–you know, Mr. Tillman’s son helps him out now, and that boy–”
“Miss Hudson!” Irene groaned, ignoring Joe’s stifled laugh. “I know that you are desperate for gossiping at this moment since the weather’s been too foul for your bridge night, but if your tale is a prelude to an actual case that you require assistance with, then I need you to be as succinct as possible.”
Miss Hudson scoffed. “Between the arrow in my ceiling and that tone, you are on your way to a smack-bottom, young lady! But, fine, if it suits you, I shall be as brief as I can.”
“Much appreciated,” Irene said.
“Mrs. Beauchamp approached me outside the grocer’s this morning,” Miss Hudson began. “She told me that someone pointed me out as the mother to the man who used to solve bizarre crimes and mysteries. I knew at once she was asking about your father, so I told her that Mr. Holmes was retired for years now and she looked very disappointed. I instantly offered up your name and said you do just as good a job. She asked your rate and, I will admit, I inflated it a wee bit because I knew she could pay it. Well, she thought it was such a reasonable price and grew suspicious, so I told her that was your rate per half-day.”
“Wait,” Joe said, swiping some jam-filled biscuits. “Why would she be suspicious if our rate was so low?”
Irene chuckled. “Because the rich put stock in price. If something is priced higher than it must be of good value.”
“Precisely.” Miss Hudson nodded in agreement. “Either way, the money will do you both right through Christmas. Anyway, she said she couldn’t get into details with me on the street but said that someone important was missing and that she hoped to find him soon. She wrote her address down, and I nearly died when I read it.”
Miss Hudson fished a piece of paper from her pocket and held it out to them. When Irene went to take it, however, she snatched it back.
“Before you take this,” she said. “Just know that these are some of the poshest flats in the city and so help me if you both strut in there looking like anything less than perfection.”
Joe took the address and wrote it down in his notebook.
“We will visit her tomorrow,” Irene decided.
“Oh good,” Miss Hudson clapped her hands together. “That’s when I told her you would be there. Ten o’clock sharp, I said.”
“Miss Hudson,” Irene sighed dramatically. “Please do not make plans for us.”
“Oh hush,” she chided. “This one is significant. If you can impress these people with your solving skills, then your name shall be known all over London, and you shall have more clients than you know what to do with.”
“I do not want more clients,” Irene replied stiffly. “I want decent and intriguing cases.”
Miss Hudson appeared not to hear, whether she was ignoring Irene or simply stopped listening was anyone’s guess.
“Dress your very best,” Miss Hudson ordered before sticking her finger out at Irene. “Just as these folks can make your name, they can also break it. Be as polite as you can, even if you want to take that bow and arrow to them.”
Irene nodded. “Yes, Miss Hudson.”
The landlady left them the rest of the biscuits and sauntered o
ut of the flat, shutting the door behind her.
“These flats are near Kensington Gardens,” Joe said. “They are worth more than some of the estates we’ve visited. It shall be interesting, to say the least, to see how the war affected even the most affluent among us.”
Irene climbed off of the armrest, eyeing her father’s chair again. “I shall be interested to see what type of posh cakes we are served with our tea.”
They both exchanged greedy looks of glee, like Hansel and Gretel finding a gingerbread house, before bursting into laughter at one another.
* * * * *
Ten o’clock the next morning came fast, and once Irene and Joe had escaped the vigilant eye of Miss Hudson, they drove their nine-year-old Vauxhall to their destination and parked in a row of luxurious automobiles.
The building overlooked Kensington Gardens, its bay windows stretching to the sky, fresh white paint on the bricks.
Despite Miss Hudson’s worry, Irene did heed the landlady’s words and put on her best trousers and sweater. She did her eyes and lipstick very precisely and put on her most darling winter hat, a navy blue fedora with a red feather to match her lips.
Joe had pulled out his nice cream shirt and blue vest, inadvertently matching Irene’s outfit.
They both stood on the pavement for a moment, marvelling at the view. They were only an hour’s walk from Baker Street and had a park of their own a block away, but these buildings stayed mostly intact throughout the war, whereas Baker Street was hit straight down the entire right side.
Plus, their park, Reagent Park, seemed dismal compared to the Gardens.
Irene finally turned to their target building and nudged Joe.
“Come on, before we’re completely distracted,” she urged, clutching the camera bag she had yet to return to Scotland Yard.
They passed through an iron gate and climbed a few steps toward the front door. A doorman greeted them eagerly. He was too young to have served, though he looked like he’d kept himself in fighting form in case he was ever called up. Irene was immediately intrigued. All the doormen she’d seen previously were older and wiser, but this young man seemed to have no clue as to what was happening four feet in front of him.
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