The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  “I see,” Holmes remarked in amusement. “The local communication channels precede me, I gather.”

  “Rather,” Carver grinned. “Oy hope you and your missus are comfortable over in old man Gibson’s place.” He turned toward the front door of the farmhouse, waving Holmes behind. “C’mon in outta the cold. Bring the pup with ye.”

  “Yes, we are quite comfortable in the cottage, thank you,” Holmes replied, cupping the little spaniel puppy in the crook of his elbow and following. “I hope I do not intrude.”

  “Not a-tall,” Carver shot the detective another smile, leading the way into the kitchen of the house. “Truth of it is, Oy’m glad to see James’ death bein’ taken serious, and bein’ investigated proper-loyke. Oy hain’t seen any evidence of the ol’ RAF bases bein’ active, the way some of the biddies around here talk. But there’s somethin’ odd—un-natcheral-loyke, ye know?—goin’ on around here, and somebody has to get to the bottom of it. C’n Oy ask you a question, Mr. Holmes?” He gestured Holmes into a chair at the table.

  “Of course,” Holmes said, settling into the sturdy wooden chair, complete with wriggling puppy.

  A woman of some five or so years more than Holmes’ age, plump and pretty, if nearly as weather-beaten as her husband, bustled out of the pantry.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Jonny, you didn’t tell me we had company.”

  “Ah! This is Mr. Holmes, Hazel,” Carver introduced the two. “Not t’ worry, dearie, he only just got here. Mr. Holmes, this is my wife Hazel.”

  “Ah, the detective. Glad t’ hear it. Can Oy be getting ya anything, Mr. Holmes?” Hazel Carver queried. “Nice cup o’ hot tea on a cold mornin’, maybe?”

  “That would be nice, thank you,” Holmes agreed gratefully, and Mrs. Carver bustled about the kitchen, preparing fresh tea. “Mr. Carver, what did you desire to ask?”

  “Oh, that’s right!” Carver grinned sheepishly, having temporarily forgotten his question upon his wife’s entrance. “Oy was just wonderin’ what your opinion of poor James’ death might be.”

  “Well, I am only starting the investigation, Mr. Carver,” Holmes replied urbanely. “And I make it a practice never to theorise without all the facts in hand. So at this point, I really have no opinion, as yet.”

  “Oy see,” Carver said thoughtfully. “So what did ye want to be askin’ me?”

  “I wanted to ask you the nature of your relationship with Mr. McFarlane.”

  “Me an’ James was the best of mates, Mr. Holmes,” the dog breeder told the detective, then he sobered. Carver smiled fondly, if sadly. When he next spoke, his voice shook slightly. “Oy was never so upset in my life as when Oy found him, dead near the road in ‘is own field.”

  “So you were the one who found him?”

  “Oy was,” Carver said, deeply moved. “Hazel can tell ye, Oy was in a right state when Oy finally got home.”

  “He surely was,” Mrs. Carver averred from her position by the stove. “My poor Jonny sat down at that there same table where you sit now and just cried, Mr. Holmes. Oy ain’t seen ‘im that upset since our wee babe Jenny died in the cradle, nigh unto twenty years ago. Him an’ James was best mates, had been about ever since James moved in as a young man with ‘is bride Maggie. Maggie died ‘bout eight year ago in a car crash over Ipswich way, an’ my Jon stood by James every step. Many’s the time, that first year after ‘e lost ‘er, James was over here, a-cryin’ on Jonny’s shoulder, lit’ral. A’most brothers, they were. Never a harsh word passed between ‘em in almost thirty year.”

  “That is not quite what I heard,” Holmes suggested softly. Carver sat up straight, shocked, and Mrs. Carver spun.

  “Oh, izzat so?” she said, a glint of anger in her eye. “And what, pray tell, did you hear?”

  “I was told there was a bit of an altercation over the matter of a dog and a goose,” Holmes noted mildly.

  The Carvers exchanged a glance, then both of them unexpectedly burst out laughing fit to explode. Their laughter was prolonged and contagious, and Holmes sat silently, the corners of his mouth twitching ever so slightly with his own suppressed mirth, until the couple could regain control of themselves.

  “Oh, gracious! Oy…Oy know just…th’ little incident ye’re referrin’ to, Mr. Holmes,” Carver finally gasped between guffaws. “Was about three, maybe four year back, Oy reckon. Not too long. Yeah, James was hot over it, an’ Oy didn’t blame him a whit. First that damn dog ran his prize goose to death, then started in chasin’ ‘is cows. Pore cows, they ‘uz smarter than the goose, though. They took ta hidin’ anywheres they could find a spot, as soon as they saw th’ dog comin’. Barn, shed, cave, what have ye. Oy was upset too, but not at James. Y’see, Oy was at my wits’ end what to do with that dog, an’ Oy told James so.”

  “How so, Mr. Carver?” Holmes wondered. “What was the problem with the dog?”

  “Not to put a fine point on it, he was stupider ‘n a bag o’ spanners, Mr. Holmes,” Carver shook his head. “If a dafter dog ever walked the earth, Oy don’t wanna know about it. Now, mebbe it was my trainin’ techniques, Oy dunno. But that was the only dog Oy never could turn inter a good huntin’ dog. ‘E just wanted t’ play, ta chase everythin’ in sight, and most often did. But he had a sweet personality, and was just as lovin’ as that ‘un in your arms is.” He shook his head again, then laughed. “We took to callin’ him Peter, ‘cause that means ‘rock,’ ye know. No offense to the saint at th’ Pearly Gates, ‘cause we had a completely diff’rent kinda rock in mind.” He tapped his temple with a grin, and Holmes let out a laugh.

  * * *

  “Ha! And so it was incorrigible Peter who wreaked havoc upon Mr. McFarlane’s livestock?” Holmes asked, as Mrs. Carver brought the teapot and poured for both men. She put in milk and sugar for her own husband automatically, and at a preoccupied finger gesture from Holmes, added milk to the detective’s cup. Holmes put young Brendan down on the floor before picking up his tea and sipping, and Brendan promptly settled down on the investigator’s shoes. Holmes nodded his thanks to Mrs. Carver, and she smiled, as much at the sight of the dog snuggled on the dapper detective’s feet as at the detective’s thanks.

  “It were,” Carver grinned, stirring his tea before sipping it. “Oy apologised twelve ways from Sunday to James, an’ he weren’t mad at me over it. He were just mad that ‘is Christmas goose up an’ died well afore Christmas. But Oy told him, says Oy, ‘James, you tell me what Oy’m gonna do. Lit’le Pete isn’t no good as a huntin’ dog; who’s gonna buy the wee fella? But ‘e’s so sweet natured, Oy can’t bring myself ta go puttin’ him down.’ And James, he had to admit Oy had a point.”

  “So how did you solve the problem?” Holmes asked, picking up his teacup again and sipping from it absently.

  “A just Providence solved it for me,” Carver grinned again. “Oy s’pose it were a reward f’r bein’ merciful to th’ wee pup. Oy’ve got a pretty good reputation as a breeder, an’ a gennelman came down from someplace up north…where was he from, Hazel luv?”

  “Someplace outside o’ Sheffield, wasn’t he, Jonny?” Mrs. Carver suggested.

  * * *

  “That was it!” Carver’s face lit up. “Anyway, he weren’t lookin’ for a huntin’ dog. He wanted a playmate for his boy, an’ he had a considerable estate for ‘em to run and play. The boy an’ the dog took to each other like bread an’ jam. An’ as luck would have it, the little boy’s name was Peter, too!”

  “You’re joking!” Holmes said in surprise, allowing Carver to draw him into the story.

  “Nope,” Carver chuckled. “That little ‘un was pleased as punch that ‘is new puppy had th’ same name as him. Said it was proof the pup was his. ‘Twas a match made in Heaven, as th’ sayin’ is. Just goes to show, the good Lord got someone waitin’ for ever’body, ye know?”

  A sapphire gaze, possessed of intelligence and wit, flashed across Holmes’ mind’s eye.

  “Indeed I do know, Mr. Carver,” he replied with a slight smil
e. “So the tale of your altercation with Mr. McFarlane is not so much one of hostility as of mutual frustration?”

  Carver hesitated briefly, working his way through Holmes’ vocabulary. “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Holmes, Oy weren’t educated in no fancy schools. But if Oy unnerstand you aright, you’ve hit the nail on the head. You’re sayin’ we was heated ‘cause the dog was balkin’ us, not ‘cause we was mad at each other, right?”

  “Precisely correct.”

  “Then you’d be right. We was in agreement somethin’ had ta be done about little Peter, we jus’ neither of us knew what. James, he put up with it as best he could, an’ him and me, we put up some mesh on the wood fences ta keep Pete outta his property. Couple months later, the gennelman showed up an’ bought Pete, an’ Oy split the money with James ta make up f’r the goose.”

  “Very considerate of you,” Holmes decided. He hesitated, then continued softly, “There are a few other things which I need to ask of you, Mr. Carver, but I fear they may upset you.”

  Carver drew a deep breath and shot an uncertain glance at his wife. Hazel Carver returned the look calmly, and it seemed to strengthen the dog breeder.

  “Oy’ll be all royght, Mr. Holmes. Ask whatever you need to know, an’ Oy’ll do my best. Only be patient with me, if you would.”

  “Of course,” Holmes murmured sympathetically. “First of all, can you tell me who stands to benefit by Mr. McFarlane’s death? Who would inherit his estate?”

  The Carvers glanced at each other and pulled faces.

  “Well, Oy reckon it’d be his nephew Walter, up in Scotland. That’d be the next o’ kin, ‘cordin’ to th’ will James worked up with ‘is solicitor. James an’ Maggie didn’ have no childr’n.”

  “Weren’t f’r lack o’ tryin’, neither,” Mrs. Carver interjected. “They loved the little ‘uns.”

  “I see. And have you met this nephew?”

  “Oy have,” Carver avowed. “Right nice young man, fair doted on his Uncle James. Oy hadda call ‘im up in Glasgow an’ tell ‘im, an’ ‘e jus’ about burst inta tears.”

  “I see. Do you have his telephone number?”

  “Oy c’n get it for ya, sir,” Mrs. Carver said, bustling into the next room before returning with a scrap of paper. “That first ‘un’s ‘is work number, an’ the second’s his home number. He don’t have no mobile.”

  “Excellent. And at which of these numbers did you reach him?”

  “Woulda been th’ work number,” Carver averred. “Oy ‘member it only too clear. Was well after office hours started by th’ time Oy got around to it, so’s Oy knew he’d ‘a been there. An’ ‘e was, shore.”

  “The two of you are a tremendous help in my investigation, Mr. and Mrs. Carver. I thank you. Now for the hard question, I am afraid. Can you tell me what you had been doing, right before you found your friend?”

  “Oy took th’ vet home, an’ was comin’ home myself,” Carver said immediately, understanding. “An’ ye c’n call ‘im an’ ask—Dr. Wilson Bennett. He’d been here all the night, workin’ with me an’ the missus over the dogs.”

  “I see,” Holmes nodded, mentally noting the veterinarian’s name. “And did you notice anything unusual about your friend, in the days before he died? Any anxiety, nervousness, perhaps? Any physical abnormalities, or evidence of heart problems, for instance? Chest pain?”

  “Aside from that nasty burn o’ his, an’ a touch o’ th’ belly flu, no,” Carver decided after a moment’s thought. He turned to his wife. “What ‘bout you, pet?”

  “No, Jon, Oy don’t recollect anythin’ unusual,” Mrs. Carver responded, considering. “‘Cept that burn, loyke ya said. An’ he did have a spell o’ vomitin’ around two days before, ‘cause he called over for my special remedy. Jonny brung it to him.”

  Holmes hid his excitement. Skye was correct, he realized. McFarlane did obtain the exposure prior to the UFO encounter. The burn, the nausea, the vomiting…all symptoms.

  Aloud he said, “What can you tell me about it? The burn?”

  “Not much,” Carver shrugged, grimacing. “About two days before he died, he showed up on our doorstep wi’ that bad sunburn, but ‘e wouldn’ say how ‘e got it. ‘E’d been havin’ some trouble wif ‘is cattle off an’ on for the last few years, sores formin’ on ‘em, some pretty bad, bad enough some of ‘em was uppin’ an’ dyin’, an’ he was determined ta find out what was causin’ ‘em. Oy recall he said he’d found it, then ‘e pointed ta his face an’ hands an’ grinned, rueful-like. Oy had ta admit ta the missus after, that ‘is burn looked an awful lot loyke th’ sores on ‘is cattle. But ‘e wouldn’ say no more, savin’ that ‘e ‘ad just seen Dr. Victor for th’ burns that very mornin’ as was, an’ he was gonna try ta find out who ta report the thing to, over in Woodbridge. Later that night ‘uz when he had ‘iz bout wif ‘is gut. We figgered as how he’d got burned bad enough ta have some side effects. Fever an’ the loyke, we made it.”

  Holmes raised an eyebrow. So Victor knew of the burns, he thought. And said nothing. This may warrant another interview with the man. And now for the crux of that particular matter…

  “I should like to know if you saw this…UFO…that was reported, the night your friend died,” Holmes pressed.

  “Now that’s th’ most peculiar part o’ th’ whole story, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Carver interjected. “Me an’ Jonny was both outside an’ about that night, ‘most all night—‘twas the night one o’ our top bitches whelped, an’ she was in difficulties, an’ we had to have the vet—an’ we ‘uz no end surprised when we heard about the flyin’ saucers th’ next day. See, we didn’t see nothin’. Not one blessed thing.”

  “It’s just as my Hazel says,” Carver averred. “’Tisn’t more ‘n a kilometre, as the crow flies, from our house to James’, an’ less than that t’ where Oy found ‘im, mebbe a half-kilometre. And us outside, pretty much all night long. Oy just can’t imagine how anythin’ that coulda scared James to death loyke that, wouldn’ta got our attention.”

  “Let alone not be seen a-tall,” Mrs. Carver added.

  “Very well.” Holmes nodded thoughtfully. “Then I have one last request of you good people. I would like you to show me where you found Mr. McFarlane, and to describe to me what you saw when you found him—how he was lying, anything unusual you noticed, and the like.”

  The couple paused and exchanged troubled glances. Some unspoken message passed between them, and suddenly Holmes was powerfully reminded of the way he and Skye could communicate in such fashion, as if their minds temporarily met. Finally Carver nodded and returned his attention to the detective.

  “Oy can do that, Mr. Holmes, but it’ll be hard. Awful hard. But you’re a well spoke, thoughtful man, an’ Oy b’lieve you’re out to make the fairest job o’ investigatin’ as you can, so Oy’ll give it me best.”

  The two men polished off the last of their tea, then rose to go.

  * * *

  Skye sat down in the old rocking chair with the phone book, a notepad and pencil, and her cell phone, and proceeded to look up several numbers. First she placed a call to the coroner, Dr. Merriwether.

  “Hello? Dr. Merriwether? This is Skye Holmes. I had a thought, and I wanted to verify it with you. Yes, sir, it’s about Mr. McFarlane. It has to do with his radiation sickness symptoms relative to time of death. Oh, you noticed that, too? What was your opinion?”

  Skye jotted down the coroner’s comments as she listened, lightly rocking the chair unconsciously. The soft, soothing creak of the old chair punctuated the conversation.

  “Oh, really? That long, huh? Hm; beta AND gamma. Well, that would make sense. And it WAS a fatal dose? The internal organs…yes, I’ve got it down. Oh, that’s sad. So he was dying anyway. I guess the coronary was a better, quicker way to go, then. Yes, sir, that’s about it. Yes, a fax of that data would be terrific. Okay, I’ll watch for it on the machine. Thank you.”

  Skye clicked off the phone with satisfaction.

  “Well,
well,” she said thoughtfully, “he definitely didn’t get the radiation exposure during that UFO encounter, at any rate. I’d better let Sherlock know about this.”

  She hit the speed dial, location one, and waited.

  * * *

  Carver pointed, and Holmes pulled the rental car to the roadside. The two men—accompanied by Brendan, who had set up a hue and cry when it looked like his adored detective was about to go off and leave him—got out and climbed the fence into McFarlane’s pasture. Carver led Holmes to the spot, only some fifteen feet from the road, and in plain sight.

  “Here ‘tis, Mr. Holmes,” he said solemnly, pointing at a small, irregular hillock covered with sere grass. “Right there was where Oy found ‘im. Oy didn’ see ‘im on th’ way out, on account ‘o th’ way th’ hill’s shaped blockin’ ‘im from the road in that direction. But ‘e was in plain sight on th’ drive back. ‘E was on ‘is back, kinda sprawled out, with ‘is left arm flung over ‘is head, ‘is right arm most straight out, an’ ‘is legs sorta akimbo. Loyke as if ‘e’d been lookin’ at th’ road and just…fell over backwards.” Carver illustrated with his own limbs.

  “Stand back, if you please, Mr. Carver,” Holmes held out his hand. “Are you wearing the same shoes you wore then?”

  “Oy am,” Carver noted, then watched in bemusement as Holmes crouched before him and studied the footgear thoroughly.

  “Has it rained since you found your friend?” Holmes added absently, turning his attention to the area where the body had been found.

  “No, sir. Snowed late the week before, Oy think ‘twas, but nothin’ since. Not even a fog. ‘S been dry, real dry. Especially for th’ time o’ year.”

  “Excellent…” Holmes murmured, trailing around the area and occasionally doubling back on his own path. It put Carver in mind of one of his own hunting dogs. “Very good…here is where you first found him…you ran to the car, to call for help…do you own a cell phone?”

  “No, sir. Had to drive to the house to phone, then come back. Oy c’n tell ye, Oy broke th’ local ord’nance on speed. And cared not a whit for it.”