“I can imagine,” Holmes nodded sympathetically. Just then, Holmes’ trousers pocket jangled. “Speaking of cell phones,” he noted with amusement. “Pardon me one moment, Mr. Carver.”
“Surely,” Carver nodded, backing away to give Holmes privacy.
* * *
Holmes extracted the phone and hit the answer button. “Hello, Skye.”
“Hi, hon,” her voice answered from the instrument. “Got some news for you.”
“Oh? I am intrigued. What might it be?”
“Merriwether confirmed the radiation exposure, which was pretty severe, occurred well before McFarlane died,” Skye informed her husband. “By several days, close to a week. You might wanna ask somebody if McFarlane claimed to have seen the thing more than once—although to me, that begs the question of it scaring him to death. If he’d seen it before, why would it scare him so badly the second time? Not to be crass or unsympathetic, but you’d kinda expect him to keel over on the first go, if he was gonna.”
“True,” Holmes agreed, waving Carver over. “Yes, I had already gathered a day or so before, he was possessed of the burns, though I had not realised it was that long. And you have an excellent point, my dear. Nevertheless, wait one moment. I have Mr. Carver here, and he and Mr. McFarlane were ‘best friends,’ I understand. If anyone will know, it will be he.”
Carver approached the detective, and Holmes asked, “Mr. Carver, did Mr. McFarlane claim to have seen the UFO before that last, fatal night? Or do you know?”
“Nah,” came the immediate and positive answer from the dog breeder. “Him an’ me, we talked ‘bout it a couple times. We remembered th’ big Bedlam about it th’ first go-round, some decades back, see. He thought it were a big joke, both then AND now. Sev’ral times ‘e remarked how he’d love ta be seein’ of it, ‘cause he’d be ready ta do somethin’ ta prove it uz th’ right goods or an airy-fairy hoax, or a…one a’ them natcherl fee-nom-ee-nons. Nah, he hain’t seen it afore that…that last night.”
“Hm. It also sounds as if he was not the type of man to be easily frightened by such an object.”
“He weren’t,” Carver vowed. “’At’s why me an’ th’ missus wants t’ see you dig ta th’ bottom o’ this. Somethin’s not quite straight ‘bout it all, an’ we want James done right by.”
Holmes returned his attention to the cell phone. “Did you get that, Skye?”
“Sure did, sweetheart. And took notes besides.”
“There’s my girl,” Holmes noted fondly. “Excellent. We are at McFarlane’s farm, and Mr. Carver is showing me the site where he found his friend. Once we have completed a thorough examination of the site, I shall return Mr. Carver to his homestead and betake me home myself. Along the way home, I shall call and provide you with a few more names and numbers to verify.”
“Sounds good, hon,” Skye agreed. “I’ll see if I can’t have a bit more info, as well as some food, waiting for you when you get here.”
“You are a gem, my dear. I shall see you shortly.”
And he closed the cell phone, turning back to Carver. “Now, sir, where were we…?”
* * *
Skye stared thoughtfully at her cell phone for several moments as the fax down the hall announced the coroner’s report with a loud bleat.
“This is getting more and more interesting. Okay, now for the local constabulary, as Sherlock would say.”
Several minutes later, having dropped certain key words which Ryker instructed her to use, she had still more information, and the promise of a fax which arrived almost before she could put down the cell phone. Skye rose, headed down the hall, and pulled both faxes off the machine.
“‘“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Alice,’” Skye quoted, scanning through the contents of both documents. “A man who was dying twice over, and he was one of only three men who were eyewitnesses to the UFO appearance that night. And the other two…” she consulted the second fax, “one Louis Micheaud, and one John Grainger, aren’t from around here and were apparently just passing through, ‘cause nobody’s heard from them before or since. So all the reported eyewitnesses to the thing’s appearance for that night are either dead, or disappeared.”
Skye took a deep breath, shook her head, and laid the faxes neatly on the desk for Holmes to peruse when he got home.
Then she returned to the sitting room to relax in the old rocker and ponder.
* * *
“…And here are your tracks coming back,” Holmes observed, as Brendan frisked about his feet. “And this must be the constable…”
“Yes, sir. He parked next me lorry, an’ climbed the fence jus’ loyke we did.”
“And there, the ambulance attendants. The marks of the body are fairly plain, even several days later,” Holmes noted, studying the ground intently.
“Maybe to you, sir.” Carver’s eyebrows rose in amazement. “Oy heard as how you was named for the famous detective, and it looks to me loyke you was well named.”
Holmes glanced up, surprised, then chuckled. “Thank you, Mr. Carv—” he began.
Brendan let out a howl to wake the dead and scampered off, nose to the ground. Holmes spun on his heel.
“Halloa! What have we here? Young Brendan is on the trail of something!”
He hurried to the area where the little spaniel was nosing along and dropped to his knees, pulling out his magnifying glass to study the ground.
“Capital, little pup! You will indeed have a fine career as a tracker and hunter! For here is the mark of McFarlane’s boot, and here…”
Holmes paused, and scrutinized the ground more carefully; then he looked up. His face was grave as he told Carver, “And here are the footprints of the men who escorted him to his death.”
* * *
“…And so you have two men forcing McFarlane into the field?” Skye verified, as she listened to her husband’s tale from the rocking chair, shortly after he arrived home.
“It was unmistakable, Skye,” a solemn Holmes declared. He had taken the couch, stretching his length along it, crossing his legs, and folding his arms behind his head. “I am shocked the local constabulary missed it. McFarlane’s prints were there, but they were awkward, almost drunken; in places they dragged, and nowhere were they as deep as they should have been, for a man of his size. Whereas the other footprints were decidedly deeper, and always crisp.”
“So he was being half-carried. And like I told you, Dr. Merriwether confirms the Carvers’ story that McFarlane had to have gotten his burns well before death. The development of his radiation symptoms parallels that of living tissue.”
“But Dr. Victor said nothing of the burns, either in his report, or in person. Even if they were from a normal source, it would be expected he should note them as pre-existing, so as to avoid confusion by the investigators and the coroner.”
“Exactly. Oh, and my phone call with the vet corroborates the Carvers’ story and Mr. Carver’s alibi. And he didn’t see any UFO either. So they’re in the clear, good solid witnesses. And one of those men carrying McFarlane was NOT the nephew. My calls indicate he was firmly ensconced in front of his desk the entire day before, worked a lot of overtime that night with several co-workers, and was at his desk early the morning the body was discovered, again working with colleagues. Something about a final report going out. So there’s no way he could have gotten down from Scotland, popped his uncle, and gotten back to the office on time, let alone early. Solid alibi there.”
“I see,” Holmes mused. “That does not surprise me. Mr. Carver appears to be an excellent judge of character, and he seemed impressed by the nephew.”
“Yeah,” Skye agreed. “That’s the report I got from his boss, too, not to mention that the nephew was awfully polite and understanding on the phone. Boss said he nearly broke down when he got Mr. Carver’s call about his uncle. Now, what about the UFO? I checked with the local police this morning about the reports of the thing, and it seems the only eyewitness reports for that night were f
rom two non-locals, visitors to the area. The reports were phoned in from two different hotel lobbies. Nobody’s seen or heard from them since, so I’d say they were probably tourists, Sherlock. In other words, we have no known eyewitnesses we can reach to interview. Is it possible the Carvers and the vet simply couldn’t see the thing from their vantage point? I mean, were they behind a hill, was there a stand of trees, anything of that sort?”
“No,” Holmes said decisively. “I surveyed the terrain quite carefully. There was nothing of a height, in the direction of McFarlane’s farm, sufficient to block the sight of a flying craft. At least, one close enough to have frightened McFarlane literally to death.”
“Hm,” Skye muttered. “I think I’d like to take a look at the lay of the land. I wonder if we can get Ryker to give us a ‘copter ride or something…”
“I believe there is a chalk hill to the northwest called Uffhill, really almost a small ridge,” Holmes noted from his memorization of the area maps. “There is bottom-land near its foot as I recall, so it should command a reasonable view of the area, since the local terrain is largely flat. It may be we can climb to its top and get a view of the land from a more familiar perspective than the air.”
“Yeah, but I think maybe we need to have a talk with Dr. Victor again, too. I’d like to know why he left out such an important matter as the beta burns, and what his own diagnosis was.”
“Agreed, but it may be wiser that we do NOT let HIM know that WE know what they are. Something raises my hackles on the matter…” He thought for several moments. “I suspect I shall need my pipe tonight.”
“I thought you would,” Skye nodded sagely. “The package from Billy arrived today.”
“What package?” Holmes’ head shot up, surprised.
“I had Ryker contact Billy to send over a good solid month’s supply of tobacco for you, from the trading post, just in case,” she informed him smugly, with a grin. “With regular shipments after that, if necessary. And you better not go through this whole lot in a week’s time.”
“Thank you, my dear.” Holmes laughed. “In that case, may I propose we take the most excellent lunch you have prepared, post-haste, and then I shall call Victor and arrange a rendezvous? Say, a late tea-time. Perhaps meeting in a casual setting, such as a pub, will make him more effusive.”
“Sounds good. I need to pick up a few things for dinner anyway. Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready to go.”
“Splendid. And then, tomorrow or the next day, we can climb the hill, and you can obtain your view.”
“Perfect,” Skye grinned.
And I, she thought to herself, hiding the mischievous glint in her eye with an effort, shall see about placing a little call to a certain dog breeder while I’m in town…
* * *
Holmes sat with Dr. Victor in the local pub, The Saxon Lyre, in a window booth. During the drive, Skye had determined to shop for several items besides groceries while they were in town, leaving Holmes to converse with the physician man to man. The couple had decided Victor might open up a bit if Holmes plied him with a few ales in the comfort of the pub. Unfortunately this proved only partially true, for although he volunteered little regarding McFarlane’s death other than what was in his medical report, Holmes did find the man had a liking for the more fleshly comforts, including food and drink.
So it was no surprise when, after tucking a couple of the house’s best ales under his belt, the doctor indeed became more effusive, though not at all in the way Holmes had hoped: He began remarking discreetly on the passersby, noting especially the young women.
“You will excuse it, I hope, Mr. Holmes,” he chattered cheerfully. “I am, after all, a bachelor. And I know you yourself are married.” He gestured to Holmes’ left hand, where the white gold band of Holmes’ wedding ring gleamed softly in the sunlight from the window.
“Indeed,” Holmes agreed calmly, hiding his jaded amusement. “It is understandable, I assume.”
“Now that little redhead is a delight,” the doctor murmured, watching a young woman wander by across the street. “Possibly a bit young for me—I’m thirty-one, you know—and I should think she’s only in her early twenties, if that. Still, one can look, don’t you agree?”
“I suppose,” Holmes shrugged. “I have not had occasion to consider the matter.”
“The missus keep you on a tight leash, eh?” Victor sympathized rather crassly. “Ball and chain, as they say. Well, she’s not around right now, mate, so look to your heart’s content, I say! I certainly won’t tell,” he grinned good-humoredly. “I—good Lord!” His eyes fixed themselves on something outside the window.
“What?” Holmes wondered, mildly surprised at the outburst.
“Look at that blonde!” Victor exclaimed, pointing. “She’s stunning! I think I’m in love.”
A curious Holmes leaned forward and peered through the window in the direction of Victor’s finger.
* * *
“Ah, yes. Yes, she is certainly a strikingly beautiful woman.” A slight smile crossed Holmes’ face, and the grey eyes glittered. He remained leaning forward, watching intently as the object of their observation made her way down the sidewalk on the far side of the street. He shot a quick glance at the other man, whose face wore a distinctly amorous expression, before returning his attention to the woman in the street. “Yes, I think I should be able to watch her for quite some time…”
“Oh, hell yes!” Victor agreed ardently. “Voluptuous is the only word for her. And she moves like a goddess.”
“Quite shapely,” Holmes agreed, almost fervently. “Graceful and tall. She carries herself like a queen. With a face like an angel. Her hair is—”
“A crown,” Victor enthused. “A shining halo.”
“Indeed. Altogether lovely,” Holmes murmured softly, obviously taken. “Such a woman with whom a man might gladly spend his life. And I do believe she is headed this way.”
“Damn, I believe you’re right,” Victor exclaimed, growing excited. “Wait here, Mr. Holmes. I’ll meet her at the door of the pub and see if she won’t join us.”
“As you like,” Holmes assented.
Victor bounced up from his seat in the booth and hurried to the front of the pub, returning mere moments later with the woman in question.
* * *
“Here she is, Mr. Holmes. I introduced myself, explained how we had been admiring her from the window, and suggested we might enjoy her company.”
“Indeed. Capital. Barkeep, a Guinness for the lady,” Holmes ordered, raising his hand to get the bartender’s attention.
“Thank you,” the blonde smiled.
Victor gestured the woman into his side of the booth, but to his obvious disappointment she slid in beside Holmes instead. With some surprise, Holmes felt a small hand slide familiarly across his thigh, then try to tuck itself between his legs—all hidden beneath the tablecloth. For a brief instant he permitted it. Then he caught the hand in his, wrapping the fingers of his left hand firmly around hers before bringing it to the tabletop and holding it imprisoned. His wedding ring was plainly visible, glimmering in the light from the window.
Nevertheless, despite this obvious restraint of her blatantly provocative behavior, the attractive blonde leaned up to kiss the detective on the cheek, as Victor goggled his stunned disgruntlement.
“How was your afternoon, honey?” she asked Holmes.
“Quite pleasant, actually, my dear. The pub fare is more than acceptable. It is getting on; would you like some tea? Oh, and please let me introduce my acquaintance. Dr. Nathan Victor, I should like you to meet my wife, Skye Holmes.”
“Your…wife?” Victor said faintly. “Ah…ah, yes, pleased to meet you, Mrs. Holmes. Uh, please forgive any…untoward remarks…” he finished lamely.
* * *
“Not to worry, Dr. Victor.” Skye hid her grin. “And yes, Sherlock, I’d love some tea. I got all the errands run, and the packages are in the trunk of the car, but now I’m starve
d.”
“You’re from the States,” Victor observed as the bartender brought Skye’s Guinness and Holmes ordered a large fish and chips for himself and his wife, anticipating sharing the meal.
“Yes, I am,” Skye smiled, sipping her stout. “The accent is a dead giveaway, huh?”
“Rather,” Victor chuckled. “That and the Yank terminology. If you don’t mind my asking, how did the two of you meet?”
“We met on business,” Skye said succinctly, answering without saying much. “Sherlock was in the States, and we sort of…”
“Ran into each other,” Holmes finished for her. “Skye helped me out of…”
“A tight spot,” Skye chuckled. The couple exchanged a brief, bland glance, but their eyes crinkled at each other. “You might say we…hit it off…right away.”
“And there was no going back after that,” Holmes added smoothly.
“Before we knew it, we were spending all our time together,” Skye noted.
“Well, the two of you certainly seem…in harmony,” Victor decided awkwardly. “How long have you two been together?”
“Oh, Skye can tell you all about it. Would you excuse me a moment? Let me out, my dear, if you would be so kind,” Holmes addressed his wife.
Skye slid out of the booth and stood. Holmes edged past her, headed for the men’s room, and she grinned. Too much ale? she thought mischievously to herself as she resumed her seat.
Victor shot a glance toward the men’s room door, and a sly smile spread across his face.
* * *
January 11
Dr. Nathan Victor is quite a little enigma—and a cad, a rogue, and a bounder into the bargain. And I am most fortunate in my choice of mate. Bad enough I should be forced to endure his ogling of my wife while she crossed the street in front of The Saxon Lyre pub in Sutton, not to mention his infatuated blather regarding her appearance. That might be ignored, even taken as a sort of sidewise compliment in his ignorance of the identity of the lady.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 91
