The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  Gibson House was a delightful old stone dwelling which dated back to the early 1900’s, though it had been kept current in terms of amenities and services. Mr. Gibson had been a college professor, and had, according to Ryker, kept the family homestead up to date. When his son, a member of MI6, had died in the line of duty, Professor Gibson had willed the home to Her Majesty’s Secret Service as a safehouse and getaway cottage in his son’s memory. It was currently used largely as an innocuous getaway, so no significant security was in place.

  It was accessed down a country lane, with a gravel drive neatly cordoning the front of the property into two parts: the lawn, in front of the house proper, containing a couple of ancient and venerable trees; and a vegetable garden to the right, dormant at this time of year. In the rear of the house was an extensive and typically English floral and herb garden. Gravel walking paths ran through it. A low stone wall surrounded the entire property, and it was fronted and screened from the road with a row of tall arborvitae.

  A garage had been added to one end of the house, and this opened into a mudroom, thence into the hallway. The single bedroom opened off the hallway to the immediate right. The bedroom was cozy and old fashioned, with a wardrobe instead of a closet, a large chest of drawers, and a mirrored dresser. The bed was standard sized, with two nightstands flanking it. The whole was decorated in a medium shade of blue with cream accents.

  Across the hall from the bedroom was the study. Its walls were lined with dark oak bookshelves, save for one area reserved for an old style slate chalkboard; a fireplace was embedded in the outer wall, around which clustered a small sofa, tea table, and two wing chairs. An oak desk and ergonomic desk chair stood near the blackboard, and a cordless phone unit sat unobtrusively on its corner.

  The bathroom was next the bedroom, and between the bedroom and the sitting room. It was largely white and chrome, containing a built-in ceramic tub with shower, a toilet, a sink and vanity combination with mirror, and a substantial shelving unit, which housed all the bath toweling, as well as room for personal products.

  A small linen closet opened off the hall and took up part of the bathroom’s space; it contained all the bed linens, blankets, spare pillows, and another shelf of bath towels.

  The hallway dead-ended in the sitting room. The sitting room was the main room of the house, with a small foyer leading to the front door. It, too, had a fireplace, but a full sized sofa, several comfortable armchairs, end tables with lamps, a coffee table, and one dilapidated old wooden spindle rocking chair flanked this fireplace. Another cordless phone rested on one of the end tables. More bookcases stood in various corners, these in a cherrywood dark with age. Correspondingly, the room was decorated in deep reds with sage green accents.

  Most of the house, save the mudroom, bedroom and bath, was floored with hardwood; but the bedroom was carpeted, and the mudroom and bathroom had stone tile flooring. Throw rugs were scattered attractively about, providing protection as well as decoration.

  Opening off the other end of the sitting room, and comprising the last room in the house, was the kitchen. It was not over-large, Holmes noted, but it had a sink, a refrigerator, a range, and a microwave, as well as a small dining table and chairs, and cabinets—already stocked, he observed—sufficient for a week’s foodstuffs. It was floored in vinyl for ease of cleaning, though Holmes suspected it had once been hardwood as well. A door opened to the garden in the rear, so the herbs there could be easily reached. This will do nicely, he decided.

  They brought with them few items of equipment, save their lenses, a small forensics kit, their special cell phones with cipher capability provided by the Secret Service at the beginning of their collaboration months earlier, and the entire accordion folder Ryker had provided, to include the medical report on the death. The dead man was one James McFarlane, a farmer in the region. Initial reports from his personal physician indicated he had died of a previously unknown heart condition. Evident fear from the UFO sighting had apparently triggered a massive coronary; the man had been found dead in his fields the next morning.

  Holmes had promptly requested of Ryker the opportunity to examine the body; this was scheduled for the third day after their arrival, at the coroner’s office in Woodbridge. Their liaison also set up an appointment the day before that in Sutton with McFarlane’s personal physician, who had made the first post-mortem examination. After some discussion between themselves, Skye decided to stay at the cottage and try to organize the facts of the case while Holmes visited the attending physician. This had the dual advantages of allowing them to equitably distribute their attentions as well as permitting for a certain amount of discretion, as to any outsider it would simply appear they were a new couple in the area, the wife moving in while the husband set up logistical matters.

  So Holmes took the car and headed off to the appointment Ryker had clandestinely set up with one Dr. Nathan Victor, while Skye took the accordion folder and spread its contents out on the desk in the cottage’s study.

  * * *

  “So, Mr. Holmes, you must admit, this makes for an interesting situation,” Dr. Nathan Victor said in his office, a wry grin on his face. “Of all things, I’d never have expected to have Sherlock Holmes in my office, investigating a death. Your parents certainly must have had a devilishly lively sense of humour.”

  “They did,” Holmes agreed with a comradely chuckle. “My wife occasionally receives some…grief…about it from time to time. And the looks I get! You’d think I was the real thing, sprung to life from the pages of Conan Doyle’s stories!”

  “I should think so,” Victor laughed. “I have to admit to a double-take when I saw your name on the appointment book. Your business card must have to have the whole story printed on the back.”

  “No, not as yet,” Holmes grinned, “but I am considering it. Now, if you don’t mind, we really should get down to business. I’m sure you are a very busy man, and I myself have much to do to get the investigation organised and under way.”

  “I expect so, outside investigator and all. I’m afraid I won’t be able to help too much, though. I assume you’ve already read my attending report?”

  “I have. In some detail.”

  “There really is nothing more to tell.” Victor shrugged. “Massive coronary, evidently brought on by severe shock and fear; time of death concurrent with a nearby, observed sighting of this UFO. McFarlane was found early the next morning by a passing neighbour, collapsed in one of his fields next the road. He’d been dead for some hours.”

  “Who were the witnesses to the UFO sighting?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t say,” Victor answered disinterestedly. “I suppose the local constabulary would have the reports. You know, I do recall seeing some unusual atmospheric phaenomenae that night, myself, though. Nothing that really got my attention until after poor McFarlane’s death, just some phosphorescent streaks in the sky, like you sometimes see after a meteor’s passage. It wasn’t until I considered it in retrospect that I realised I’d likely seen the UFO’s ion trail.”

  “Did you report it?”

  “No, no,” Victor shook his head. “I didn’t actually see the UFO, mind; and what I saw was innocent enough. It may well have been as innocuous as a meteor trail.”

  “I take it you are not a believer in the UFO phaenomenon?” Holmes asked, cocking one eyebrow.

  “Oh, I don’t know I have an opinion, either way,” Victor offered indifferently. “The term ‘UFO,’ I’ve no objection to; it simply means ‘unidentified flying object.’ The notion that they’re flying saucers from another world? Well, I’m a man of science, certainly, and I would need proof, hard evidence, of something as momentous as all that. But on the other hand, the Drake Equation certainly lays out the concept that there are more species than just we humans floating around the universe. What a pity we’ve no idea the values that should go into that equation. I suppose in the end I’d have to say I think there are other beings out there, but I’m skeptical about their visit
ing us.”

  “Well, that is certainly a very sound and rational way of thinking about it,” Holmes agreed. “Given that, what do you think is the true explanation for this phaenomenon that seems to be popping up all around here in recent weeks?”

  “Oh…I shouldn’t like to speculate,” Victor shook his head, the physician obviously awkward and uneasy with the question. “Could be anything, could be several things. I’m inclined towards natural causes, myself. Meteors, clouds in the jet stream reflecting the moonlight, any of dozens of things.”

  “And did you know McFarlane well? That is to say, was he a fanciful or superstitious man, excitable and prone to alarm or apprehension?” Holmes reverted back to his original line of inquiry.

  “He was a patient of mine, yes. I suppose I knew him fairly well. For my part, I considered him a friend. What a shame we hadn’t any prior indication of his cardiovascular condition; I might have been able to treat him, to prevent his death…” He went off into a regretful reverie for a few moments before returning to the subject. “He could be a bit superstitious, yes, as any rural, relatively uneducated man can be on occasion. Excitable? I suppose so. I’ve seen him hot over the odd incident, such as when the neighbour’s dog chased one of his geese to death. And it didn’t help a bit when that same dog started running his cows. He had Celtic blood, of course, and red hair on his mum’s side, if that means anything. I’m not sure it does, personally, but plenty of folk around here hold by those things denoting a fiery temperament.”

  “I see,” Holmes noted. “Could you tell me the name of the neighbour with the dog?”

  “Certainly,” Victor agreed readily. “Jonathan Carver. About a half mile down the lane past McFarlane’s place. A friendly enough chap, but don’t criticise his dogs. He raises prize winning spaniels.”

  “Very good. I’ll be sure to take that into consideration. Well, I suppose I should not use up any more of your time, doctor. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

  “Not a problem, Mr. Holmes,” Victor grinned. “Something to tell the youngsters, if I ever have any—how I met Sherlock Holmes in the course of an investigation.”

  Holmes maintained a calm demeanor and said, “I would appreciate it if you did not speak of it at the moment, however. The situation is delicate, and I should not wish to alarm the locals overmuch.”

  “Of course, of course, Mr. Holmes. Very thoughtful of you, but you should know the locals already know you’re in the area. I’m sure you’re aware how gossip flies through places such as this, and with a name like yours, it wasn’t hard to figure out who the investigator might be. In the two days you’ve been here, I’ve already heard you’re staying in the old Gibson cottage, you’re definitely married, and the women of the locality are very disappointed by that little fact. You see, most of the single, and half of the married, women in the area think you’re positively ‘dreamy,’ and the other half think your government liaison is.”

  Holmes felt the heat rising in his face.

  “And my wife?” he queried in mild annoyance. “Are half the men in the area coveting her, as well?”

  “That I couldn’t say,” Victor grinned at the other man’s discomfiture. “To my knowledge, nobody’s actually seen her yet; it’s reported she stays in the house most of the time, much to the gossip-mongers’ chagrin. But I’ll be happy to let you know if I hear anything.”

  “Ah, well, I’m sure I shall hear of it myself, soon enough,” Holmes sighed. “I shall keep in touch, Dr. Victor.”

  And with that, the detective departed.

  * * *

  “Not especially helpful, then?” Skye decided from her seat in one of the wing chairs in the study, upon hearing an abridged version of the tale, minus the local gossip.

  “No,” Holmes noted succinctly, with evident disgust. “Victor spoke much, and said little.” His head thudded against the back of the other wing chair in annoyance.

  “Sounds like someone else I know,” Skye tossed off nonchalantly, then shot her husband a pert grin.

  “Oh, do you think so?” Holmes replied innocently, hiding his own grin. “Anyone I might know?”

  “Possibly,” Skye observed laconically, in her best imitation of Holmes’ own style.

  “Really, my dear, you are a quick study!” Holmes laughed aloud. “Perfection! Even I recognise myself in your responses. You are quite the impressionist.”

  “I have a good teacher,” she chuckled. “So what are you going to do now?”

  “Probably seek out the coroner in Woodbridge tomorrow per schedule. Then go see McFarlane’s neighbour the day after. I should do it today, but it is rather late in the day for calling unannounced upon the rural folk. How is the organisation coming along?”

  “All done,” Skye gestured to the new filing cabinet MI5 had provided, sitting in the corner. “Ready to be reviewed in detail. Alphabetical, as you prefer.”

  “Capital! In that case, would you care for a drive, before the sun sinks too low? I thought we could survey the area and get the lay of the land.”

  “I thought you’d never ask. Let me grab my coat and hat and I’ll be ready to go.”

  “Don’t forget your scarf—er, muffler,” Holmes suggested, mentally noting it would help hide her face as he followed her to the mudroom. “The wind is damp and raw.”

  “Got it,” Skye said, bundling herself efficiently as Holmes reached for his own outerwear.

  They headed out for a long, rambling drive, to get a feel for the overall locations of towns and villages.

  * * *

  The Holmeses and their British liaison stood in the medical examiner’s office bright and early the next morning, discussing the details of the case with the coroner, one Dr. James Robert Merriwether. “It’s an interesting situation, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, Captain Ryker,” the coroner observed. “Looks straightforward on the surface, but the deeper I dig, the more my hackles rise.”

  “How so?” Holmes wondered courteously.

  “Well, there’s that odd sunburn of his, for one,” Dr. Merriwether pointed out. “A farmer like McFarlane, they’re brown as nuts, from being outdoors all the time. Skin cancers, I’m used to seeing on such men. Sunburns, especially of this degree? Well, those are pretty rare.”

  “Hm,” Skye murmured, putting her finger to her lips in a considering manner. The azure eyes grew distant. Her husband and their liaison both shot her curious glances.

  “Does that ring a bell, my dear wife?” Holmes wondered softly.

  “It might,” she decided, rousing herself from contemplation. “Did you take photos of the burns?” she addressed the coroner.

  “I did,” Merriwether confirmed, “but the body is still here, undergoing examination. I’ve already cut on it, I’m afraid. But if you can stomach it, you’re welcome to examine the burns directly.”

  Skye looked momentarily uncomfortable before her expression firmed. “Yes, I can stomach it.”

  “Good girl,” Holmes breathed proudly, only loud enough for his wife to hear, before speaking up. “Yes, doctor, we should like to examine the body in a bit. But for now, pray continue with your very interesting narrative.”

  “Well, the most unusual thing about the whole affair is that I can’t find any evidence of any pre-existing heart tissue damage or severe arteriosclerosis, let alone atherosclerosis, in the body. The man was as healthy as you might expect for a man in his early forties, active, possessed of a relatively wholesome lifestyle, and it makes no sense, at least to me. In other words, the cardiac markers are positive for sustained ventricular tachycardia, and the autopsy results indicate corresponding death by hypoxia—but I can’t find the reason for it. Normally there’s evidence of a prior heart attack, but not here. Fear is, I guess, as good a reason as any. The problem with that is, fear would release large quantities of epinephrine, and that’s one of the usual treatments for cardiac arrhythmias and arrest.”

  “That is odd,” Holmes muttered. “I take it you are still looking for the root
cause.”

  “We are,” Merriwether confirmed. “Captain Ryker here, and his superiors, indicate it’s absolutely essential.”

  “It is, indeed. Would you please keep us apprised of your findings?”

  “Gladly,” Merriwether nodded, handing them a folder. “Here are my conclusions to date, and I’ll contact Captain Ryker whenever I have further data and have him bring it to you.”

  “Actually, we’re putting in a fax at Gibson House,” Ryker informed them. “It might even be in by the time we get back. You can send the information directly to the Holmeses. I’ll make sure you have all the pertinent phone numbers before we leave, Dr. Merriwether.”

  “Splendid,” Holmes noted, accepting the folder and handing it to Ryker temporarily. “And now, if you would be so kind as to allow us to examine the body?”

  “This way,” Merriwether offered, leading the way deeper into the forensics lab.

  * * *

  Sherlock Holmes watched his wife carefully, if clandestinely, for some minutes as she studied the body of James McFarlane. As the autopsy had already been performed, he was concerned she would, with her personal history and relative lack of experience as an investigator, become distressed or even ill by the sight. But her jaw was set, and the blue eyes were hard, almost steely, as she minutely scrutinized the body. After several moments, he nodded to himself, pleased; Skye was handling the situation well, her mind obviously fixed upon some predetermined intent. Merriwether and Ryker stood back, out of the way, as the couple examined the corpse.

  McFarlane’s face was contorted and set by rigor, in a grimace of what might be construed as fear, though Holmes was of the private opinion it could as well be severe pain. The skin of the torso and legs was pale, but the face and neck, as well as the hands, forearms, and upper arms to the edge of what would have been short sleeves, displayed nasty burns, actually blistered in a few areas.