The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  And in point of fact I did, by my deliberately admiring response, pay out the rope by which he hanged himself on the subject. After all, it is sometimes important to know just how much the constituents of an investigation know about the investigators. Still, I could have overlooked the matter, in the circumstances.

  But no, he needs must compound the error, and that with calculated deliberation.

  For Skye informs me, while I had stepped out, he chose to “make a pass” at her in despite of knowing she was my wife. I realised something was afoot as soon as I returned from the pub’s washroom, for I know Skye entirely too well not to recognise when something is amiss. I should have been able to tell this by the look in her eyes even had she not been telegraphing the matter to me.

  For my wife and I have our little codes, developed in recent months; our means of communicating with each other even in the midst of a crowd. Eye blinks, a certain tilt of the head, even if necessary embedding every fourth word in our conversation, all tell the tale from one to the other. And so I knew the full account upon my return, before five minutes was up.

  It seems that somehow Victor is aware of my age—most likely due to some casual gossip regarding my recent birthday—but not Skye’s. It is true neither of us particularly appears our age, and he took her for over ten years younger than her actual chronology. He then proceeded to play upon the supposed difference, remarking upon how unpleasant it must be for someone as youthful as she to be tied to a…how did she say he put it…“an antiquated old fart” such as myself. If looks could kill, I should likely have to protect my dear Skye from the authorities about now.

  In any event, it seems she managed to preserve her aplomb for the sake of the case, and discreetly set Dr. Victor straight on the matter of her age and our union, instead of following her wont and lambasting him over the head with her pint. Though the latter might have been more diverting! I gathered from some of her comments that she was still in process of enlightening him even after my return; his expression upon her casual emphasis of our newlywed status was such as caused me to avoid a monumental snort of amusement by the narrowest of margins.

  Given this information, when Skye displayed uncharacteristically blatant affection toward me during our tea, I neither withdrew nor put an end to it, as I might otherwise have done in such a public place. Instead I allowed her to act the role of the bride duly smitten with her new husband, opposite my discreetly amorous groom. And she played it well and to the hilt. Watching Skye flirt is most enchanting and not a little entertaining. I suppose had she been flirting with another man I might have found it less entertaining; but still. Had she sat any closer she would have been in my lap! Her fingers laced with mine, not so subtle nudges, frequent kisses to cheeks and lips, feeding me my share of the fish and chips with her fingers. And ye gods! The giggling! Had we been in privacy I should have objected to none of it, of course—save the giggling. Fortunately, my Skye does not normally giggle in THAT manner. To keep up the portrayal I needs must respond, of course, which was not especially difficult. And I trust I held up my end sufficiently to make Dr. Victor aware he need not bother pursuing my wife.

  He does not yet seem to be aware she is a consulting detective in her own right, let alone my co-investigator; rather he apparently believes she is simply “along for the ride,” as Skye puts it. And neither Skye nor myself saw reason to disabuse him. One never knows when such underestimation will be useful.

  The more I see of Dr. Nathan Victor, the more convinced I am he wants watching.

  * * *

  The next day, which turned out to be blustery, cold and damp, the pair of sleuths headed out in their rental car. Holmes drove, knowing exactly where he wanted to go after his extensive study of the local maps. They headed for the main road, traveling it for several miles before turning onto a country lane. A couple of miles driving down its twists and turns brought them to the base of a large, rolling knoll, an outlying eastern spur of what had eroded westward into the Newmarket Ridge. Holmes pulled into a turnaround and parked.

  “Here we are,” he noted, climbing out of the car and assisting Skye out as well. “This should give us a reasonable view of the area. It will be windier on top, so wrap yourself well in your scarf. Where are your gloves?”

  “Oh, drat!” Skye exclaimed in dismay. “I left ‘em back at the house, lying on the table!”

  “Ah, no matter. You have coat pockets, well enough,” Holmes observed, shrugging. “That should suffice. And if your hands still grow cold, let me know and I shall loan you mine. They will be too large, but will still serve the purpose.” He surveyed the hill with a practiced eye, then pointed toward a relatively gentle slope. “The easiest way up should be over here. The opposite side is quite steep, according to the topographic maps.”

  Together they turned toward the ascent.

  * * *

  At the top of the knoll known to the locals as Uffhill, Holmes strode forward, intent on the somewhat higher vantage the rise gave them, as he surveyed the surrounding lands. Beneath them, the land fell away into a bottomland; a stream ran through it and while the western side of the hill was gentle of slope, directly in front of Holmes the hill dropped away sharply, badly eroded by heavy rains the previous autumn. Almost due east lay the apparently abandoned military base of RAF Woodbridge with its huge airstrip. Rendlesham Forest stretched out to the north and east, wrapping around the old base and retreating into the eastern distance. Over the treetops to the north could barely be seen the sister base of RAF Bentwaters, also apparently abandoned.

  “Not a bad view,” Holmes decided, gazing over the cold, sunlit vista. “I have only to locate the McFarlane farm and the Carver place, and you shall be apprised of the relation.”

  “Careful, honey,” Skye murmured behind him. “There’s a sharp drop-off about a meter in front of you. Looks like part of the hill washed away.”

  * * *

  “I see it,” Holmes noted abstractedly, his gaze still fixed on the view. “I plan to draw no closer. I can see everything I need to see from her—”

  Unexpectedly the ground beneath his feet gave way, and with a sharp exclamation, Holmes plunged down, disappearing from Skye’s sight.

  Letting out a shriek of horrified dismay, Skye lunged forward, landing on her belly on the ground. She wormed her way over to the edge of the escarpment, trying to blend haste with caution, and peered over.

  The hill on which they stood was comprised mostly of chalk, some thirty-five feet high. But the very top, at least in this area, consisted principally of unconsolidated sand and gravel beneath a thick layer of sod. The heavy rains several months before had eroded this layer into an extreme undercut only visible from a perspective such as Skye now had, wholly insufficient to support anything larger than a medium sized dog. When Holmes’ full weight had come to bear, the entire lip of the bluff had collapsed, crumbling away. Looking down, Skye saw her husband lying on his back near the base of the rock, arms and legs splayed awkwardly.

  “Sherlock! Sweetheart, are you okay?”

  No answer. Holmes lay, silent and still.

  Skye pulled well back from the edge before sitting up and scrabbling desperately in her pockets. Pulling out her cell phone, she quickly hit the speed dial for Captain Ryker.

  “Oh, dear God!” she exclaimed frantically as soon as the agent answered. “Braeden, I need your help! I don’t know what the equivalent is to 911 over here! Sherlock’s fallen off the bank, and he’s not moving…”

  * * *

  Soft fingers on my throat, Holmes thought vaguely as he returned to consciousness. Probably the one place that does not hurt, at the moment. What…? Oh yes, the ground gave way.

  A whiff of a familiar scent drifted across the detective’s nostrils. He recognized it immediately, even in his groggy condition. Skye. He opened his mouth to greet his wife, but all that came out was a groan.

  “Sherlock?” he heard her anxious voice. “Honey, can you hear me?”

  “M
mh,” he managed to acknowledge.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “‘Course,” he slurred in mild annoyance. “Shoul’ think know m’ own wife.”

  “Good,” her voice came again as he dragged himself to full consciousness. “You fell probably a good twenty feet or so, maybe more. Fortunately it wasn’t straight down. Looks like you sorta slid most of the way. I think you hit your head on the way down, though, because you’ve been unconscious for a couple of minutes now. I’ve called for help. I want you to lie still until we make sure you’re okay. I don’t want to add to any head or spine trauma you might have.”

  He drew a deep breath and opened his eyes, preparatory to an acerbic remark regarding the necessity of enforced inactivity. Then Holmes got a good look at Skye’s pale face, and the lines of worry etched around her eyes. Looking past her, he saw the top of the hill, and tried to estimate the height from which he had fallen. She has a decided point, he realized. And she was an emergency responder, once upon a time. She knows what she is doing. He instantly aborted what he had been about to say, responding with a simple, “Very well, my dear.”

  * * *

  Ryker’s unit was stationed at the Secret Service satellite office in Woodbridge in order to provide rapid backup for the couple if needed, so they were there within minutes, complete with the unit surgeon. Utilizing the GPS system in her Service-provided cell phone to locate her, they found Skye kneeling beside her fallen husband, and Holmes conscious, but lying quietly. Ryker stared up at the side of the bluff, surveying the scene of the incident as the unit surgeon, Dr. Enid Wilder, dropped to her knees beside the fallen man.

  “His pulse is a reasonably normal 78, all things considered,” Skye reported to the surgeon, “and I haven’t let him move.”

  “Excellent. Well done, Dr. Chadwick-Holmes.”

  “Holmes took quite a tumble, there,” Ryker observed, spotting the path the detective had taken as he battered down the precipitate slope. “Is the top undercut?”

  “Yeah,” Skye confirmed, rising to make room for Dr. Wilder and coming to stand beside Ryker. “Pretty badly. Sherlock was a good meter or so back from the edge, so we thought he was safe. But the chalk doesn’t go all the way to the top. Right under the sod is a layer of loose sand and gravel that’s all eroded away. Right at the edge—see that lighter color? Where Sherlock broke through?” She pointed at the top of the overhang. “The only thing holding that together was the sod. You can’t tell it from the top at all, and can barely tell it from down here. The colors of the rocks kind of camouflage it. I’m thinking it’s the chalk being deteriorated into soil by erosional forces, so it’s essentially the same color.”

  “I see it. But only where he broke through. You’re right; the rest of it IS sort of naturally camouflaged. The local authorities should know about this. I’ll see about notifying them. Maybe we can get some signs, or maybe even a fence, put up.”

  “I wholeheartedly agree,” Skye said firmly. “I’m lucky I still have a husband in one piece.”

  “Amen to that,” Ryker noted. They stood silently, studying the dangerous slope.

  * * *

  Skye glanced at Dr. Wilder tending her husband, then kicked at the grass with her toe.

  “Um,” she finally began uncertainly, flushing a bit, “I wanted to apologize, Captain, for my familiarity when I called you on the cell. I didn’t mean—”

  “To call me Braeden?” Ryker grinned. “Quite all right, Boss. I’d been meaning to invite both of you to do so, especially given your husband’s declaration of my ‘procurer’ status. Not to mention that Will already has a nickname from you both, so I was getting jealous.” He grinned. “In fact, my good mates call me Brae. Feel free, if you like. Hell’s bells, I’ll answer to ‘Hey you,’ from the two of you.”

  Skye blushed deeper at the man’s obvious admiration and appreciation of the couple, but smiled.

  “Okay, Brae. I might have to get used to it, so be patient. You can call me Skye, if you like.”

  “Oh, I’ll probably stick with calling you ‘Boss,’” Ryker returned her smile. “If you don’t mind, that is. Kind of a longstanding nickname by now, you know.”

  “That’s fine. Knowing Sherlock, though, you’re probably ‘Ryker’ to the end of your days. That IS his nickname for you.”

  “Well, he always called Watson, ‘Watson,’ so I guess I’ll put up with it,” Ryker chuckled.

  By this time, Dr. Wilder had a cervical collar on Holmes, and she and a couple of the other unit members who were medic trained started shifting the injured detective to a backboard. Moments later they were carefully hefting the backboard and gingerly carrying him to the waiting transport.

  Skye hurried to the stretcher’s side, and Ryker brought up the rear as they prepared to head for the hospital in Woodbridge.

  * * *

  A barrage of x-rays and examinations later, the Holmeses found themselves back at their cottage outside Tangham. Holmes had a mild concussion, a wrenched left shoulder, and a nastily bruised right knee, in addition to a number of scrapes and contusions; but he had been fortunate. He had no more severe injuries, and had been sent home to Gibson House with basic instructions on how to minimize inflammation. In a couple of days, Dr. Wilder declared, he would be back to normal.

  Back at the cottage, Skye gave him a prescription strength dose of ibuprofen and insisted he lie down in bed for a little while. His left arm was in a sling in order to immobilize the shoulder, and he hobbled across the sitting room with the aid of an aluminum cane to reduce stress on the knee.

  “I am mobile, Skye,” he protested. “I see no reason to lie down. I should much prefer to review the data.”

  “Dr. Wilder said to rest tonight.”

  “And it is still daylight out, therefore it is most assuredly not ‘tonight.’”

  “Sherlock, you have a CONCUSSION. You could get dizzy.”

  Holmes opened his mouth to demur, and Skye raised a quelling hand.

  “Compromise?” she suggested.

  “What do you propose?”

  “Lie down in bed, and I’ll bring the files to you. You can review them in bed. But,” she countered, “if you can’t focus well enough to read, I want you to stop and rest until you can.”

  “That is reasonable. I shall be very surprised if I encounter any difficulty, however.”

  So he made his way to the bedroom, where his first order of business was to change out of his filthy clothing. Once the dirt and chalk besmeared garments were discarded in the laundry hamper, and he was comfortably attired in pyjama pants and dressing gown, the detective intended to ease himself into bed. Skye had long since returned with the files, and promptly laid them on the nightstand before assisting her husband in changing—between his battered knee and his unhappy shoulder, it proved a slow and painful process. At last, with considerable help from his wife, he was more or less contentedly ensconced in bed.

  * * *

  But when he opened the top folder, he frowned. Two images of the words printed there presented themselves to his sight, impossible to separate well enough to read. With a snort of disgust, he flipped the folder closed and discarded it on the nightstand. He flung his good arm across his eyes and leaned back. Skye stood silently, watching him.

  “Do you want me to read them to you?” she offered softly after a few minutes.

  Holmes was silent for a moment. Then he raised his arm and peered at her, scrutinizing her as closely as his impaired vision would allow, noting the residual signs of stress in her face. She was badly frightened, and has yet to settle.

  “Don’t bother, my dear. In truth, I probably already know their contents from memory anyway.” He paused, considering. Then, schooling his face into a weary frown, he suggested, “It might be best if I simply rested, as you say. Are you,” he added innocently, “planning to do anything?”

  “What, you mean right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “I…I dunno,” she admitted uncerta
inly. “I hadn’t really thought about…Do you need me to do something?”

  “It had occurred to me that I might rest better with my wife nearby…perhaps lying beside me…”

  Skye gave him a sidelong look.

  “Uh-huh,” she said in mild disbelief. “Do I really look that shook up?”

  At that, Holmes drew a deep breath, dropped the ploy and answered honestly.

  “I was not lying to you, Skye. You know I should not do that. You do appear…disturbed…and I will be able to rest better if I know you are relaxing, as well. And I know you do that best when we are near.” Without looking, he waved her to his side with his good arm. Skye acquiesced, kicking off her shoes and crawling into bed beside him, snuggling against him. He wrapped his good arm around her.

  “You saw it all, then?” he asked softly. “My unfortunate little accident?”

  “Yeah,” Skye sighed, resting her head on his uninjured shoulder.

  “What, precisely, did you see?”

  “It was like…I dunno, it’s hard to explain. It was instant—you just disappeared—and yet it was in slow motion, too. Or maybe like…like freeze frames. You know—click, an image; click, another image; click, another one. I saw you twist around, lunge backward, try to grab. Saw your hand,” she delicately patted the hand projecting from the sling, “latch onto a fistful of grass, then watched the entire tuft of grass pull out by the roots. And…you were gone.” She shook her head, then sighed again. “I…I really thought I’d lost you.”

  Holmes was silent for several moments, thinking back.

  “I heard your scream, as I fell. I must have struck my head immediately thereafter, however, for I do not recall much beyond that. I do not, for instance, remember reaching the bottom of the cliff. The next I knew, you were kneeling beside me. How did you get down, and how long was I unconscious?”

  “I…” Skye broke off, raising her head and staring at him in evident confusion. “You weren’t out long, just a couple of minutes. I immediately called Brae—Ryker—for help, and when I got to you, the first thing I did was take your pulse, and you were already coming around then. But…but I don’t remember getting down.”