“They went to one of the local veterinarians and asked,” he told them, obviously sick at heart. “I didn’t think about that. Their story was that they wanted to put down a sick animal. It was Dr. Mark Peterson,” he added, trying to help. “He can tell you more.”
“Speaker mode, if you please.” Holmes pointed imperatively at the telephone.
Dr. Victor submissively moved to the phone and dialed a number, hitting the speaker button.
“Dr. Peterson’s office,” a female voice answered.
“Is Dr. Peterson in, please?” Holmes inquired.
“May I say who is calling?”
“This is Special Investigator Holmes. I am looking into the death associated with the local UFO sightings. I should like to ask Dr. Peterson some medical questions, as I believe one or more of our murder suspects may have consulted him to obtain information to aid them in dispatching their victim.”
“Oh! Right away, sir!”
There was a pause; then a male voice came on the line. “Dr. Peterson here. Is this Mr. Holmes?”
“It is,” Holmes replied in a businesslike tone.
“What’s…all this about a…a murder?” Peterson wondered, voice betraying more than a hint of nervousness.
“Dr. Peterson, first of all, I wish you to understand that you are under no suspicion,” Holmes noted more casually. “I merely wish to ask you some questions, and have you answer to the best of your ability. I have reason to believe two men approached you some time back—shortly before the death of Mr. McFarlane, supposedly of fright from a UFO sighting—and obtained not only information upon putting down an ill animal, but possibly pharmaceuticals and paraphernalia.”
“Very well,” Peterson answered a bit uncertainly. “Yes, I distinctly remember the two men who came in. It was unusual for several reasons, because they weren’t any of my regular patients, and weren’t even British. One was French, and the other sounded American. Short, dark featured; and tall, medium complected, respectively.”
“That’s them,” Victor whispered, looking as if he might be sick.
“What are the other unusual circumstances, Doctor?” Holmes queried.
“Well,” Peterson responded, not having heard Victor’s remark, “most of the people around here that are my patients—clients, rather, I suppose—are farmers. Either they put their animals down with a gun, quick and simple; or they call me in to do it for them, if it’s a large animal; or they bring a small animal to me. It’s not very often I get someone coming in, asking how to do it themselves.”
“I see,” Holmes said, nodding to himself. “Pray, continue your most interesting narrative.”
“They said they had an ill pet—it had cancer—and wanted to put it down,” the veterinarian continued. “They also said they’d been told potassium chloride would do it, but didn’t know how. I told them it would, if they injected it intravenously, because it would induce a heart attack, but there were a lot more humane ways of euthanising a pet. I told them if they’d give me the pet’s weight and come back the next day, I’d have a euthanasia kit ready for them. They told me it was a large dog, a male German mastiff, around seventy kilos, and I gave them the dosage for several different drugs, including the potassium compound. And I had the kit ready for them, the next day, with a humane euthanising agent. But they never came back.”
“I see,” Holmes nodded to himself, steepling his fingers. “And did you give them any equipment?”
“No sir. I gave them nothing but information and options. But it wouldn’t be hard to get what’s needed from a local chemist.”
“And were they charged?”
“A nominal fee for a consultation, but they paid in quid. So I’m afraid I don’t have any paper trail you can track.”
“Do you, perchance, still have the money? We might be able to obtain fingerprints,” Holmes considered.
“No, sir. I’m afraid it’s already long since been taken to the bank with the rest of our deposits. I’m sorry. It’s not unusual for my fees to be paid in money, rather than cheque or card, so it didn’t raise any red flags here at the office.”
“I see. Thank you very much, doctor. You have been an immense help,” Holmes said. “We may need a formal statement from you later.”
“Anything I can do,” Dr. Peterson agreed, and they ended the conversation.
* * *
“I’m on it. We’ll see what we can dig up on any chemists’ purchases,” Ryker offered, scribbling in a notepad, which went into his uniform pocket.
“Good,” Holmes agreed. “Meanwhile, we must look at rescuing Dr. Victor’s sister. Doctor, have you anything you can offer us as a clue as to where she might be?”
“I don’t know,” Victor moaned, terrified and grieving. “I know you probably don’t think highly of me, Mr. Holmes, but I assure you, I AM a good doctor, and I DO love my sister. I didn’t know what to do. They said…they said if I told anyone, they’d kill her outright.”
“Do you know what they are after?” Holmes queried.
“No.”
“…Where they are headquartered?”
“No. They either come by my home, or contact me by phone.” The physician shook his head. “And they know exactly when to do which.” He shivered, paling further.
Sherlock sighed in frustration.
“By PHODE,” a hoarse, nasal voice floated out of the back of the house.
“Ah, of course,” Sherlock sat up straight. “Do you have caller ID?”
“Yes, on both cell and office phone,” Victor admitted. “But the ID is blocked. That’s how I know it’s them—they’re the only ones around here who block their ID.” He shivered violently, paling.
“Hm. Were any of these calls with your sister, to ascertain her health?”
“Yes, there were two. I demanded to speak with her, and they put her on.”
“Were there any unusual sounds in the background, whenever these phone calls were made?”
“Um…” Victor racked his brains, nearly ready to literally pull out his hair. Suddenly he sat bolt upright, staring at the detective. “Now you mention it, I do remember a prolonged rumble once, which put me in mind of a train crossing. And twice I heard the distant sound of…” he shrugged, “I took it to be a boat whistle.”
“But not a ship’s horn?” Sherlock pressed.
“No,” Victor shook his head definitively. “Too high pitched. And not loud enough, either.”
“Very good, Doctor Victor. I shall want a good description or possibly a photograph of your sister, and any other such information you think may be useful in her identification. Be patient, and trust me. Ryker, do you take him back to his office.”
“What?!” Victor exclaimed, terrified. “Back to my office?! They’ll kill Mary, then come after me!”
“On the contrary,” Sherlock pointed out, “if you disappear now, they will most certainly know you have betrayed them, and your sister’s life will not be worth a moment’s purchase. But if you return and go about your business as normal—albeit with clandestine security,” he glanced hard at Ryker, who nodded understanding, “it will give me time to scout your sister’s whereabouts and perchance effect her liberty.”
“At which time, we can whisk you both out of here and into hiding,” Ryker added. “I promise you, you’ll be safe, Dr. Victor.”
The physician looked back and forth between the two men, then nodded.
“All right,” he agreed. “I can see that. Let’s do it.”
The unit slipped out of Gibson House and returned Victor to his office, while Sherlock extracted his pipe and prepared for a prolonged smoke.
Skye, who had been listening in the bedroom, settled down for a nap.
* * *
Holmes pulled out maps of the area and surveyed them, then headed for the bedroom.
“Skye,” he wondered softly, seeing her resting, “would I upset any apple carts were I to use the computer in the study?”
“Do,” a drowsy Skye m
urmured. “Dod buch od de ‘buter. Beed doig id all od baber add d’ blackboard. Whadcha doid’?”
“I intend to perform a search for a location where one might hear trains—possibly at a crossing—and boats at the same time. I have some preliminary areas ascertained, based on paper maps, but I need finer detail.”
“Lookid’ f’r Bicdor’s sisder?”
“Yes.”
“’Kay. Dad’s good. I feel bad for ‘eb. I could dell Bicdor was scared widless, all de way id here.”
“Indeed. He was patently terrified, both for his sister and for his own life. And justly so, by the sound of it. May I take it you are not quite as antagonistic against Dr. Victor as you had been?”
Skye considered that. “Do, I dod dink so. Sdress cad dake sdrage forbs.”
“Indeed it can. From bizarre dreams to unwanted advances, one may assume from the experiences of recent months.”
“Yub.”
“So, I shall endeavour to locate his sister, using your computer to ascertain possible locales.”
“Souds good.”
“And you?”
“I’b godda jus’ sdooze.”
“As you should, my dear.” Sherlock nodded, pleased. “I suppose I should request Dr. Wilder come watch over you, once I set out in search of the Victor woman.”
Skye cracked a sleepy blue eye. It had a twinkle in it.
“I god a bedder idea.”
“And that would be?”
“Call Wadsod.”
“Capital notion! I shall do precisely that.” A smile broke across Sherlock’s face.
In short order, Watson had been contacted, had volunteered his assistance before Holmes could even ask, and was en route to Gibson House. Sherlock, meantime, settled down at the computer and began a map search for appropriate locations.
* * *
Within the hour, Dr. Watson was at Gibson House, dutifully and affectionately watching over a sleeping Skye, while Sherlock slouched before the computer in the study, poring over street level maps and performing advanced searches for railroads and boat moorings.
By dinnertime, the sleuth had refined his search to three possible locations. Skye awakened, to be cheerfully greeted by Watson; and the two men repaired to the kitchen to prepare a bite. Dinner was a casual, congenial affair in the bedroom, in order to keep Skye company.
* * *
“Not to mention, I’ve a little herbal tea for you here, my dear,” Watson said kindly, placing a cup of the brew on Skye’s bed tray. “It will help those congested sinuses, while not interfering one whit with your prescription medications.”
“Souds woderful,” Skye said gratefully, picking up the cup and sipping. “Mm. Dasdes good, doo.”
“I thought you’d like it,” Watson grinned, his long years of experience as a physician enabling him to understand her perfectly. “And now I’m quite sure we’d both like to know how your husband’s researches have progressed.”
“Yes, we do,” Skye agreed, turning to look at her spouse.
* * *
“I have three locales which meet the criteria,” Sherlock decided, waving his fork in the air absently. “The first is southern Ipswich. It is fairly riddled with rails, and lies on an inlet of Harwich Harbour.”
“Sounds promising,” Watson decided. “Lots of people in which to lose three persons.”
“True,” Sherlock agreed, “but it is rather far off. I had the distinct impression from Dr. Victor that our suspects were able to keep a much closer eye on him than would be possible if their base were all the way out in Ipswich. Of course, that does not argue that the woman is not in Ipswich, imprisoned, alone. But I think it unlikely, moreso as the woman was available on the spot when Victor demanded to speak with her.”
“Mm,” Skye hummed. Blue eyes grew distant with thought. “Whad aboud de oder doo?”
“The next would be the Port of Felixstowe,” Sherlock ticked off a finger. “This shows a bit more promise, but it is still rather far away, and it is right on the junction of the Channel and the Harbour. It is a major port city. That would argue for ship horns in addition to, perhaps in excess of, boat horns and whistles.”
“Whereas Bictor said he neber heard any indications of shibs,” Skye noted, slightly less nasally than previous.
“Excellent, Watson. Skye already sounds better.”
“And she’ll stay that way. I brought Bess with me.”
“Bess?” Skye wondered, pulling a tissue from the box and wiping her nose.
For answer, Watson extracted the handle of a well maintained revolver from his pocket.
Sherlock grinned knowingly.
* * *
“Cool,” Skye grinned, congestion improving rapidly now. “Thank you, Doctor.” She grabbed a tissue and mopped at her nose, then grabbed another. Skye stared at the tissue box. “I’m gonna go through these like a baby through candy…”
“Come, come, I thought we were past formalities after my last visit,” Watson upbraided her gently. “Call me John, or at least Watson. And I brought several more boxes of tissues; don’t worry. I’ve had plenty of experience with the effects of my herbals.”
“All right…Watson,” Skye’s grin grew wider. “So, Honey, what’s the third location?” She reached for yet another tissue.
“That would be the village of Melton, within Woodbridge itself. It is well on this side of Woodbridge proper, and is now what might be termed a community within the larger municipality. But there is a major rail route through the area, and the River Deben runs through it, which has its outlet on the Channel. Too small for ships, but perfect for fishing boats and the like.”
“Bingo,” Skye nodded. She finally grabbed the entire box of tissues off the nightstand and plopped it on the bed.
“I should say you have it,” Watson concluded.
* * *
“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed. “Tomorrow I shall disguise myself and go to Melton and see.” He turned to Skye. “I may be gone a few days. But I shall have my ciphered cell with me, and will attempt to contact you at least once per day.”
“Oh,” Skye said, seeming to wilt slightly.
“What about Valentine’s Day?” Watson protested. “Surely you’ll not leave your lovely wife alone on your first Valentine’s Day as husband and wife?”
“Our first Valentine’s Day ever,” Skye murmured under her breath, eyes downcast. Quickly she hid her face in another tissue.
“Valentine’s Day? When is it?” Sherlock blinked, nonplused.
“February 14th—two days’ time,” Watson pointed out.
“Ah,” Sherlock said, finding himself somewhat at a loss. “Then I shall most certainly be back by then.”
“Okay,” Skye said, discarding her tissue, once more cheerful.
* * *
When the men had retired to the sitting room for a pipe—in Sherlock’s case—and a glass of brandy for both, the sleuth turned to the physician.
“Watson,” he said in a low voice, ensuring it did not carry beyond the room, “I am afraid I require your assistance.”
“Then you have it,” Watson answered simply, to the detective’s gratification. “What do you need?”
Sherlock hesitated briefly.
“What will Skye be expecting for Valentine’s Day?”
Watson’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in understanding.
“Of course. You would never have celebrated it, in your own day. And you’d have no idea how it’s celebrated now, in any case.”
“Precisely,” Sherlock sighed.
“Well, the usual types of things are chocolates and jewellery, as well as a special dinner, candlelight preferred, and that usually at a nice to expensive restaurant. Oh, and an appropriately sentimental greeting card. But knowing your reputation, you’d like it to be unique. Skye will be in no condition for an evening out anyway. So what, in your mind, would be a romantic gift? Whatever that is, that’s what you should get her. And I’ll do any preparation for a spec
ial dinner at home that you’d like, then clear out when you do get home.”
Sherlock drew a deep breath, thinking. Suddenly an image of Skye in her favorite blue nightgown popped into his mind, and he knew what to get.
“I shall handle the gift, if you will set the table for a formal dinner for two—with candlesticks—and perhaps chop some vegetables for a curry.”
“Curry is my speciality,” Watson said, beaming. “My wife always said my curry was better than any restaurant’s. Tell me how spicy, and what meat, and it’ll be simmering when you get home, and the rice steamed.”
“My dear Watson, you are priceless. Chicken, and of moderate heat. All the necessary ingredients should be in the kitchen already.”
“Consider it done, my friend,” Watson returned the detective’s grin. “And I shall spend the night on the sofa with Bess while you are gone. I will not leave your dear wife incapacitated and alone.”
“You are not as young as you once were, Watson. Are you certain a sofa…?”
“I’m a considerable way from the grave yet, young man,” Watson retorted with asperity. “I’ll do well enough.”
“Dear God. How I have missed you,” Holmes murmured, unaware he’d spoken aloud. Watson merely gazed at him for a long moment before recovering his power of speech.
“I have never been…more honoured in my life,” he said quietly.
“Nor I, to have a second chance,” Sherlock added softly.
They sat by the fire for long hours, simply chatting.
* * *
The next morning, Sherlock dressed as a rural resident, in worn jeans, battered work boots, a work shirt, and barn jacket. Eschewing shaving, and pulling a tweed newsboy-style cap on his head, he wrapped a muffler about his neck, clapped Watson on the shoulder, kissed Skye, and headed for Melton in a vehicle procured by Ryker for the purpose.
Sometime later, Sherlock entered Woodbridge’s bedroom community of Melton in a beat-up, nondescript pickup truck and drove around, getting a feel for the overall layout of the streets, especially relative to the railroad and the river.
Further information obtained from Dr. Victor had not only included a description and color photograph of his sister Mary, but also further data regarding the sounds he had heard. Whereas he had reported the rumble of the railroad had been very loud, almost enough to create difficulty in conversing with his sister, the boat whistles had been more distant, and occasionally changed pitch in mid-whistle.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 107
