The Happy Family Facade

by Allison Osborne

  The Happy Family Facade

  The Fourth 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. Stories

  Collection One:

  A Study in Victory Red

  The Circle Code Conundrum

  The Impossible Murderer

  The Happy Family Facade

  Coming Soon:

  The Red Rover Society

  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

  Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it is upon the logic rather than upon the crime that you should dwell.

  -Sherlock Holmes, The Copper Beeches

  Chapter I

  A Woman with a Strange Tale

  Irene Holmes laid on the sitting room floor of 221B Baker Street, hands clasped across her belly, staring at the ceiling. The recently Hoovered carpet tickled her neck, and if she made an effort to look beside her under the couch, even that part of the floor was spotless. The radio sitting next to her shoulder crackled with the latest instalment of the new quiz show she’d taken to, despite it frustrating her to no end. The host once again asked a simple science question to a gentleman he’d plucked off the street.

  The contestant gave yet another wrong answer, and Irene threw her hands in the air.

  “No, you imbecile!” she snapped. “We are the third planet from the sun. The third! Oh, the ignorance of society.”

  From his desk in the corner of the room, Joe spoke. “What did society do to you now?”

  “Insulted my intelligence by asking stupid questions and offering equally stupid answers.”

  Joe laughed, his wooden chair squeaking as he stood up. “Then go find the man asking the questions and give your own answers.”

  “And be on the radio? I don’t think so,” she replied, dropping her arms, hands thumping on the floor.

  “You’re right,” he continued, still chuckling. “You definitely don’t need a platform to announce your disappointments with the world.”

  Irene reached up and turned off the radio. “I could ask better questions than them, though.”

  “And no one would be able to answer a single one.” Joe’s footsteps sounded from his desk to the window, and she heard the curtain slide open. “To be fair, not everyone knows the particulars of the solar system. And, don’t take offence to this, but I’m surprised that you care so much about it.”

  “I do not,” she protested. “But there was a particular point made for me to learn the solar system, and for some ghastly reason I’ve remembered every detail.”

  She sat up and spun on her bottom to look at him, pulling her legs close to her chest. He stared out the window, hands in his pockets, head pressed against the glass. His auburn hair, recently cut, still hung in shags over the tops of his ears, his clean-shaven face pale.

  “I tire of these dreary days,” he sighed, breath fogging up the glass. “I’m tired of the damp and the chills. Mostly, though, I’m tired of dragging coal up the stairs every time it’s delivered.”

  Irene smirked, resting her chin on her knees. “I’ve told you that you can tip the coalman and he will bring it up for us.”

  Joe shook his head. “I’m not going to use up all our money to tip someone for something I can do myself.”

  Irene had no issue with paying others to do menial work that took her away from her studies or cases, but Joe grew up on a farm, and that particular upbringing seemed to make him proud to do physical labour, even if he preferred his large stack of novels.

  “It will only get worse through the winter,” Irene said. “We just require more blankets, that’s all.”

  He glanced at a discarded pile of wool and needles sticking out of a basket at the end of the couch, a wry smiled playing on his lips. “How are your winter blankets coming along?”

  “Slowly,” she said, refusing to look at her small cloth square, no bigger than a tea towel. “Miss Hudson says I am a terrible student and need to stop treating my knitting needles as if they are weapons to be used for stabbing.”

  Joe chuckled, grin crinkling his constantly tired eyes, and Irene felt a smile tug at her own lips.

  After a moment, he suddenly cut his laughter, wiping the bit of fogged window with his sleeve. He perked up a bit, spotting something in the street below.

  “Irene, a woman is walking down the street.”

  Baker Street was a busy part of downtown London, and Irene didn’t understand his urgency. “Women do exist outside of this flat, you know.”

  Joe waved her off, practically pressing his nose to the glass. “She is alone.”

  Irene let out a dramatic gasp. “A woman walking without a man to guide her? Lock her up, then.”

  “Stop being cheeky,” Joe retorted with a frown. “She looks lost. I’m going to see if I can offer my assistance.”

  He strode across the room, brushing past her and out of the flat. She went to call for him again, but he was already down the stairs.

  Poor Joe, chivalrous almost to a fault.

  Irene hopped to her feet and went right to the window to peer down at the cold pavement below. Automobiles rushed through the streets, and the sparsely populated pavement would soon be crowded with people leaving work to head home for the evening.

  The woman in question couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, with light brown hair pinned up under her hat, brown dress swishing as she turned on the spot. She had a piece of paper in her hand, searching for something up and down the street.

  Joe emerged from the house and greeted her, prompting Irene to open the window, hoping to hear a slice of their conversation.

  Joe shook his head. “I’m afraid he doesn’t live here anymore.”

  Irene instantly went on alert, the breath snatched from her lungs. Was someone looking for her father, or perhaps her uncle?

  Tilting her head to fit through the opening, she leaned out the window, the cold air rushing through her. When she looked down upon the street, however, Joe and woman were gone.

  Pulling herself back into the flat, she heard Joe leading the lady up the stairs. They entered 221B and Joe took the lady’s coat and hat, hanging them on an empty hook in the hallway.

  Irene immediately did a sweep of the woman and found nothing out of the ordinary. She looked to be a hard worker, with a slender figure but strong hands. Her hair was pinned tight, a soft smile upon her angular face.

  “This is Miss Holmes,” Joe announced. “Irene, this is Miss Chloe Flagner.”

  “Miss Holmes,” Chloe repeated with flushed cheeks. “I must apologize. I did not realize your father no longer resides here.”

  Irene looked beyond her to Joe, and he offered an apologetic shrug.

  “I shall fetch Miss Hudson for tea,” he said, befo
re motioning to the sitting area in front of the fire. “Please, Miss Flagner, take a seat on the couch.”

  He hurried away to find the landlady, leaving Irene to stare at the young woman. Miss Flagner flashed another smile at Irene, then took up a spot on the worn cushions.

  Irene perched on the armrest of Joe’s chair, suspicious about this woman’s intentions. “You were seeking the services of my father. May I ask where you heard his name from?”

  “Of course, Miss Holmes,” Chloe nodded. “I was in need of private investigation services and remembered that the butcher’s father, from the east of the city, said he used to run errands for a man who did just that. Investigations, solving crimes and mysteries, working for Scotland Yard.”

  “With Scotland Yard,” Irene corrected. “Continue.”

  “Yes,” Chloe replied, looking a bit askance while she fiddled with her gloves. “Well, I asked him the man’s name, and he told me Sherlock Holmes and offered me this address.”

  “He no longer practices,” Irene said stiffly, swallowing through the small lump forming in her throat. “But I would be glad to hear about the case you have brought me, and if it is worth my time, I will take it on.”

  Joe entered the room, and Miss Hudson with a tea tray in her hands followed behind. He took up his place in his armchair after grabbing his notebook, as Miss Hudson set the tray on the table. The landlady excused herself and departed to her own flat on the first floor.

  Irene immediately helped herself to a cup then took up her spot upon Joe’s armrest again.

  “Miss Flagner was just about to begin her story,” Irene told Joe, shifting on the armrest as he got comfortable. The chair next to him was still stacked with pillows, and every day Irene grew more and more tempted to clear it off.

  Today was not the day, however, as Miss Flagner’s story brought up painful memories and Irene would use that as an excuse to leave those pillows right where they were.

  “I worked as a clippie during the war,” Chloe started, busying herself with making a cup of tea. “And to be honest, Miss Holmes, I quite enjoyed the job. It wasn’t long until I had full command of a bus all to myself and knew the city upwards and backwards. Well, as you know, when the war ended, the men returned and wanted their jobs back. I hoped to stay on, even if it was simply taking bus tickets. But earlier this year I was replaced by a young soldier who looked like he should’ve been home recuperating. But that was not my place to say. I tell you this, Miss Holmes, because I want you to know that I am a competent woman and wouldn’t request help if it was truly something I couldn’t handle.”

  Irene grinned at her. “I assure you, Miss Flagner, I got that impression the moment you stepped into this flat.”

  “Good,” Chloe said, then continued with her tale. “Needless to say, I found myself without a job. I admit, I stewed in sadness for a few months, using up my savings and wondering just what I was going to do with my life. I had finally settled on a housekeeping job until I could get myself back on a bus. For a week, I scoured the papers during my morning tea at the cafe outside my apartment building. The spot was rather inspiring as it sat across from a large office building, and I could watch the men and women travel back and forth to their jobs. By the end of the week, one of the men from the groups that routinely past me stopped and sat opposite me at the table. He must have seen me looking at the paper every day because he offered me a job.”

  Irene leaned forward as Joe scribbled as many words as he could in his notebook. So far, Miss Flagner’s story had been rather typical. Even this sudden offer of a job could have simply been a man assuming she was looking for work.

  “Give me the details of this encounter,” Irene ordered. “And the exact offer he made.”

  “Of course,” Chloe said. “It was four months ago and like I said, I was looking through the papers when the man sat down. I’d say he was about fifty years old, possibly younger, but he seemed aged and tired. At first, he didn’t say anything, just smiled at me as if working out which words to choose before he spoke. It was a bit strange, but my mother taught me to be polite, so I smiled at him and asked how I could help him. He asked me if I happened to be looking for a job. When I told him I was, in fact, he offered me a housekeeping position starting immediately.

  “He could tell I was flustered, so he invited me to at least come to the house to meet his family and talk details. He told me the pay, and honestly, Miss Holmes, I almost said yes right there on the street. He was offering me triple what I made on my best day on the bus. But, I kept my composure and agreed to come to the house to meet the other members of his family first.”

  Irene leaned on the back of Joe’s chair, bending her elbows and steeping her fingers. She nearly toppled into him but kept her balance as she stared at the young woman. Her story thus far was out of the ordinary but not entirely odd. Many men came back from the war, desperate to find a wife or have family members desperate to find one for them. Perhaps this man was simply looking for a wife for his son, if he had one.

  “What was the man’s name?” Irene asked.

  “Mr. Albert Johnston.”

  “Albert Johnston?” Joe repeated, scribbling the name down, hair falling into his eyes. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

  He looked to Irene, but she simply shrugged. “I do not recognize it.”

  “They own several properties around London,” Chloe replied. “Most of them avoided the bombings.”

  “Yes.” Joe tapped his pencil on the paper. “I know now. I’ve seen the name around advertising flats for rent. Those signs come down almost as fast as they go up. The Johnstons must make a fortune.”

  “Apparently they do very well, Doctor Watson,” Chloe said. “I did my due diligence and asked around before I went to meet with them.”

  “Very wise of you,” Irene commented, impressed by the level of detail this woman put into her job offer. “What did you find out?”

  “Everyone said similar things,” Chloe sighed. “That they were a lovely family and generous with their money. I was told they were gentle and kind. Not one nasty word was spoken about them, and trust me, I listened to every word that was said. Everyone seemed to have such an excellent opinion about them that I decided to pack what little I had and if I liked them when I met them, I would simply stay. I don’t have many belongings, so I stuffed two bags and went.

  “Unlike their rental properties, their house had been hit by a buzz bomb and half of the building was still in various states of repair. Mr. Johnston was delighted to see me at the front door and ushered me in and right to the maid’s quarters. I was the only worker, except for the landscaper that tended to the few animals and the giant lawns. I met Mrs. Johnston and was greeted with a strange reaction. She looked surprised for the briefest of moments, then seemed disappointed in her husband’s choice of housekeeper. Perhaps he brings home young maids often, I’m not sure. After that, she was quite pleasant to me, but every now and then I would catch her looking at me with that same disappointment. Mr. Johnston, however, was over the moon.”

  Irene pressed her fingers to her lips, piecing together this picture Chloe painted for her. Everything seemed on point so far, if not for the over joyous husband.

  “At first,” Chloe continued. “I stayed in the maid’s quarters on the first floor at the back of the house. I went about my daily routines: cleaning, cooking, and general housekeeping. I’m quite handy, so I fixed the piano when a key came loose and even helped the groundskeeper pick apples. Here is where my story takes an odd turn, Miss Holmes. I’d only been working for about two weeks when Mr. Johnston asked me to join them at the dinner table one evening. I refused politely. I was only a maid after all, and I had so much washing to do that night, but he insisted. So, I sat down to dine with them. The same thing occurred the next day at breakfast. Mr. Johnston asked me to sit, so I did, if to be nothing but polite, of course.”

  “What went on during these meals?” Irene asked. “Were they silent or jovial?”<
br />
  “Normal,” Chloe said, brows pushed together. “During the breakfasts, Mr. Johnston read his paper and scoffed at various statistics. Mrs. Johnston chatted away about her latest embroidery project she worked on or moaned about the ladies in her bridge group.”

  “Mrs. Johnston never spoke down to you?” Irene pressed. “Never treated you like you shouldn’t be there?”

  Chloe shook her head. “Not at all. She wasn’t as welcoming as Mr. Johnston, but she was pleasant. The only thing that altered her mood was when Mr. Johnston offered me a dress.”

  “A dress?” Joe said. “That seems a bit personal if you don’t mind my saying, Miss Flagner.”

  “I thought so too,” she said. “After a week of dining with them, Mr. Johnston presented me with a beautiful blue dress. I refused it, but he was so insistent, practically begging me to wear it. Mrs. Johnston was in the room, and she finally scowled at me and told me to ‘wear the damn dress’. Well, when I put it on, it was a little big. I told Mr. Johnston, and he said he would pay for any supplies I needed to make the dress fit. Over the next few weeks, he presented me with an entire wardrobe, five or six outfits that were all slightly too big. He also hired another housekeeper and moved me into a bedroom upstairs, in their private wing of the house.”

  “You were no longer in their service, then?” Joe’s words sounded as confused as Irene felt. She was wholly intrigued by this story, but Chloe didn’t appear as if her narration was finished quite yet.

  “I was still being paid,” she said. “But I really had nothing to spend my money on. I had everything I wanted. Nice clothes, a beautiful spacious bedroom, as much food as I could eat. But the whole affair was so strange, and then it became even more bizarre.”

  “Oh wonderful,” Irene said, a grin spreading over her face. Chloe’s eyes widened at her statement and Joe patted Irene’s knee.