“Doppler shift,” Skye had declared, and Sherlock had nodded assent. “It was passing by.”
So Sherlock avoided the docks proper and concentrated on the area around a rail spur down the river from the principal docks. After deliberately driving around randomly enough to be noticed by the locals, he pulled over at a fishmonger’s shop, parked, and went inside.
“’Ello there,” he remarked cheerfully to the clerk. “I ‘uz wonderin’ if ya might be able ta he’p me.”
“Of course, sir,” the friendly young clerk replied. “What may I do for you?”
“I live a good piece nor’west o’ here,” Sherlock answered, “an’ my sister, she jus’ moved back inta England wi’ ‘er ‘usband from France. ‘E an’ ‘is partner ‘ave an import business, an’ she writ t’ tell me they were livin’ ‘ere, or had a shop ‘ere, or summat.” Sherlock winked drolly. “Sis never was real clear in ‘er explanations. Ta beat it all, ‘z if that weren’t bad ‘nuff, the postal got th’ letter rained on ‘r sumpin, an’ th’ bloody address is right unreadable. I knows they’s around ‘ere summat, but I ain’t got a notion where, eezackly.”
“My mother is exactly like that.” The young clerk chuckled. “I learned years ago to get directions from my father whenever possible, if I didn’t want to waste a tank of petrol. Have you a name?”
“Well, I think they ‘uz usin’ th’ import company name, an’ I’ll be bound iffen I c’n recall it,” Sherlock rubbed his unshaven chin. “But she’s a bonny little tow-head of thirty-one,” here he extracted the photo Victor had provided from his wallet, “’bout five an’ a half feet tall, wi’ hazel eyes. ‘Er ‘usband’s a Frenchman, some shorter’n me, real dark complected, an’ ‘is partner is a tall American chappie. Mary’s a stay at home type, so’s ya might not see much o’ her. But that husban’ o’ hers an ‘is partner are real balls o’ fire.”
The clerk examined the picture intently, thinking deeply, then shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know the lot,” he said apologetically. “I wish I could help.”
“Thankee anyways,” Sherlock said, nodding his head politely. “I reckon as how I’ll jus’ try some ‘a th’ other shops. Mebbe somebody’s aroun’ what knows ‘em.”
He was about to leave the shop when an elderly lady grasped him by the arm and pulled him behind a display of fish fryers.
“I seed yer sister’s pichure. I know the couple ye’re talkin’ of,” she declared, “an’ if ye’re a good brother, ye’ll be a’ takin’ ‘er outta there.”
“Whazzat?” Sherlock said, pretending surprise and hiding his jubilation. “How do ya know ‘em?”
“They moved in down th’ street from me, few weeks back,” the old woman explained. “Mebbe ‘round the first o’ th’ year, mebbe a bit afore. An’ I’ll be bound she’s bein’ mistreated by that husband o’ hers an’ ‘is partner, or my name ain’t Martha Southern. An’ my name mos’ certainly is Martha Southern, as anybody ‘roun’ these parts ‘ll tell ye,” she added, “so’s ye c’n put y’r hat on’t.” She jerked on his arm with a withered, claw-like hand. “Wait ‘ere whiles I git me dinner, an’ ye c’n drive me home an’ I’ll show ye.”
* * *
Ten minutes later they were en route to Martha Southern’s cottage. It backed upon the railroad, and some fifty yards of riverbank lay between the tracks and the River Deben.
Perfect, thought Sherlock. It fits known conditions to a tee.
“’Ere’s me ‘ouse,” Martha said, pointing to a small but neat whitewashed cottage with cheery yellow trim. “Make a casual-like glance three ‘ouses ta th’ left, an’ that’s where y’r sister lives.”
Sherlock glanced in the direction indicated without seeming to do so, and espied a cottage similar to the others on the street, saving that it was more unkempt. Whereas the others had tidy little lawns, pristine whitewashes, and painted trim, the house in question was faded and peeling and had large patches of mildew on the walls, with a scraggly yard filled with little but dead weeds.
* * *
“Don’t look like such as a decent man ‘d bring ‘is beloved wife to, do it? Now, c’mon in, an’ make haste abou’ it,” Martha declared, “an’ I’ll tell ye what I’ve ‘eard. I c’n even tell ye th’ comin’s an’ goin’s o’ th’ place, so’s ye c’n git ‘er out.”
“An’ ‘ow’d ye be knowin’ that?” Sherlock wondered, helping the elderly woman carry her groceries toward her dwelling. So anxious was the old lady to remain unseen with this stranger to the neighborhood, she fairly scuttled for the front door. She also refused to answer until they stood inside, behind that same closed door.
“I’m an ol’ widder woman,” she explained then, with a grin and a twinkle in her eye, “an’ I ain’t got so much t’ keep me time anymore. So I watch me neighbors. Busybody, some says what knows I does. But I don’ meddle none, I just watch, leastwise ‘til now. An’ that lot,” she nodded down the street, sadness filling her to overflowing, “makes f’r…interestin’ watchin’, b’lieve me. Comin’s an’ goin’s at all hours, argymints an’ raised voices…” The woman broke off for a moment, sobering further, “…and a woman cryin’ in the night.” She shook her head. “This is a quiet lit’le neighborhood, sir. Real quiet at night, special. So’s a woman sobbin’ ‘er ‘eart out in th’ wee sma’s…”
She met Sherlock’s pained grey eyes.
“I ain’t th’ onliest one what’s ‘eard it, neither. Y’ c’n ask ‘most ennybody ‘long the lane. You need t’ git y’r sister out’n there.”
* * *
Sherlock pretended to look perplexed.
“How’m I gonna do that? I ain’t keenest ‘bout goin’ up ‘gainst Jacques an’ ‘is partner both. Jacques is hot-tempered enuff as ‘tis. An’ me wif,” he glanced around, then lowered his voice, “no weapons t’ hand.”
“He’p me put away me things, an’ I c’n tell ye egg-zackly how,” the old woman nodded knowingly.
* * *
Half an hour later a highly satisfied Sherlock left the Southern cottage with a complete plan of action, as described by a highly astute Martha. Once well out of the area, he pulled out his cell phone and called Ryker, explaining it to him. They agreed the plan was a good one, and would be executed the very next day.
Sherlock pulled into a hotel Ryker had recommended, and got a room for the night. He carried an overnight bag inside the room, emerging as a dapper, clean shaven, casually handsome man in jeans, cowboy boots, and a woolen turtleneck sweater—in other words, his usual self—some half an hour later. A short drive to a nearby shopping mall, and he was standing in front of a lingerie store.
Sherlock wandered past the store three times before gathering himself and plunging into the store, the color in his cheeks heightened. But the manager, an older woman, spotted him and read the signs, waving off the younger store clerks, and took him in hand herself. Soon Sherlock was striding out of the store with a pink and white wrapped and beribboned package, and a satisfied gleam in the grey eyes.
He spent the rest of the evening wandering around the mall, window shopping.
* * *
The next morning around half past eight, Ryker and three of his unit members met Holmes along the railroad tracks, two blocks up the river from the house where the Victor woman was being held. The small group was hidden among several parked boxcars.
“Local law enforcement already knows,” Ryker murmured in response to Sherlock’s glance. “Everything’s on the up-and-up. There’ll be no interference.”
“Excellent,” Sherlock murmured. “Did you discuss the situation with the British Medical Association?”
“I did that, too. AND the General Medical Council. Both agreed to be lenient with Victor, under the circumstances. But the GMC says he’ll be on probation for a year. No limitations on practice, though, given the fact that he was trying his damnedest to walk a fine line of ‘do no harm’ to his sister, or anyone else.”
“Did you bring up Skye’s case?”
“I mentioned it briefly. And also indicated there was a slip-up on the American end, in that she didn’t get the inoculation. Had she had that, the committee’s consensus was that she might not have even gotten sick, or at the worst, might have had a right good case of the sniffles.” He shook his head. “Victor really was just obeying his blackmailers and trying to delay the investigation, and even that was a gamble.”
“Right. Very good, then.”
“I see ‘em leaving, sir,” Wang, staring through binoculars, reported. “Down the lane…onto the cross street…” He shifted position to peer around the corner of the boxcar. “Main street now…they’re gone.”
“Now we wait a good ten minutes,” Ryker noted, glancing at his watch.
“Indeed,” Sherlock confirmed. “It would not do to have them return for some forgotten item and stumble across our rescue attempt.”
At that, Ryker checked his radio, turning on the wireless earpiece.
“Well?” Sherlock demanded.
“The tail is on ‘em,” he answered briefly. “All systems green.”
The ten minutes ticked slowly by. “Aaaand…go,” Ryker said, eyeing his watch.
The group started purposefully down the tracks.
* * *
The back door was locked, of course. But such things were little more than minor nuisances to Sherlock Holmes. He extracted latex gloves and his lock-pick kit from a pocket, knelt before the door, and silently and swiftly unlatched the door. Holding his arm back to keep the others behind him, he scanned the doorframe, searching for possible traps or security that could notify the kidnappers.
“It is safe,” he decided, and pushed the door open, stepping forward. “But touch nothing.” Ryker and his men were right behind, the rear guard holding their weapons at the ready.
“Miss Victor?” Sherlock called softly. “Miss Mary Victor? We are friends of your brother, Dr. Nathan Victor, and we are here to rescue you.”
“I’m Captain Braeden Ryker, of Her Majesty’s Secret Service,” Ryker announced in a similar tone, “and this is Detective Holmes. We’re here to reunite you and your brother, then take you to a safe house.”
“Nathan told me to tell you, ‘Tweedledum says hello,’” Holmes added.
A closet door burst open, and a woman of about five and a half feet, with medium blonde hair and hazel eyes, tumbled into Sherlock’s arms, sobbing nearly hysterically. A startled and decidedly taken aback Sherlock very swiftly handed her off to Ryker, trying not to show his discomfort.
“Oh, thank God! Thank God!” the woman cried. “I thought Nathan and I were both dead!”
They spirited her out of the house, locking the door behind them so her kidnappers would be baffled as to her means of escape.
* * *
Ryker led them to a safehouse on the opposite side of Woodbridge, then made a phone call. “The crow has Tweedledee,” he murmured into the phone. “Time to shake the rattle and roll.” Then he hung up.
“Your brother will be here shortly, Miss Victor,” Sherlock said gently, easing her into an overstuffed armchair. “In the meanwhile, do you require medical assistance?”
“No—no, I’m fine,” Mary Victor said faintly. “Well, I’m not fine, but well enough, given the circumstances, I suppose. A few bruises where they gripped my arms too hard, and I could use a bit more to eat than cold cereal and milk…”
Ryker made a couple of finger gestures to his men. Murphy, the unit’s emergency medical technician, immediately bent over the woman, examining her for injury and taking her vital signs. Wang headed for the safe house’s kitchen and fired up the stove.
After several minutes, Murphy looked up at Ryker.
“It’s as she said, Captain. She’s got finger-mark bruises on her arms, particularly in the wrist and upper arm areas, but nothing further that I can see. Enid might see more.”
“I’ll have her examine the lady when we leave with Dr. Victor,” Ryker agreed. “Or perhaps Dr. Victor himself would prefer to see to his sister.”
“Miss Victor, if you do not mind my imposing upon you after what has been a most harrowing experience,” Sherlock murmured, crouching beside her chair, “I should like to ask you a few questions.”
“Y-yes,” she said quietly. “I know you need to find these men and arrest them. I’ll tell you all I can. Do you know what they look like?”
“I do. One is short, dark featured, and Gallic. The other is a tall American, with brown hair and blue eyes.”
“Yes. Their real names, as far as I could determine from listening to their conversation, are Fereaud and Cunningham. Honestly, I think they must be madmen.”
“And why is that?”
“Because all they could talk about was some stupid old cave. And whatever was in it.”
Ryker and Holmes exchanged serious looks.
“They seemed to be some sort of scavengers, or maybe salvagers,” Mary Victor explained. “Quite unscrupulous ones, though. They intended to gain control of the cave through whatever means necessary, and then get inside. That’s why they kidnapped me; they wanted to use Nathan’s medical knowledge to get around the land’s owner.”
“I’d say they managed that in spades,” Murphy muttered under his breath. “‘Stiff’ is pretty easy to get around.”
“Oh, NO! Is poor Mr. McFarlane dead?!” Mary exclaimed, distressed.
“Yes, ma’am,” Ryker confirmed, shooting a cautionary look at Murphy, who grasped what had happened and became anxious. “I’m afraid so.”
Murphy unassumingly reached for her wrist, checking her pulse. He looked up at Sherlock and Ryker and shook his head. “Agitated,” he mouthed. “Sorry.”
“Nathan didn’t do it, did he? Please, tell me Nathan didn’t do it!” Miss Victor cried, almost in tears.
“No, madam, your brother flatly refused,” Sherlock soothed her. “He would not do the deed himself, even at the risk of both your lives. He did tell them a chemical that could be used, in order to save your life, but not how to use it. Unfortunately, they concocted a story and got that information elsewhere.”
“He didn’t do it. Oh, thank God,” she breathed fervently. “Nathan’s a good man. He has his faults—he tends to be a hedonist, and it’s worse when he’s stressed—but he’s a good man at heart, I swear he is.”
“Agreed, Miss Victor,” Sherlock affirmed. “You have both been living in fear of your lives for quite some time, but that fear has ended at last, and you are both safe. Now, can you tell us what your captors wanted with the cave?”
“Yes. They seemed to think the government had hidden something valuable in there.”
“What did they intend to do with the contents?” Ryker joined the inquiry.
“They had three options, as far as I could determine.” Miss Victor shrugged. “One was to keep it for themselves; another was to ransom it back to the government; and the third was to auction at least part of it off to the highest bidder on the black market.”
Another grave glance passed between Holmes and Ryker.
“Did they give any indication as to what they believed to be within the cave?” Sherlock asked.
“Yes,” Miss Victor stated unequivocally. “Gold. Nazi gold.”
“What?!” Holmes and Ryker both exclaimed, startled.
* * *
By lunchtime, Mary Victor and her twin brother, Nathan Victor, had been ecstatically reunited in the safe house. Dr. Victor and Dr. Wilder collaborated in an examination of Mary, and both confirmed Murphy’s conclusion: No serious injury. Nathan joined Mary in her second proper meal of the day, then Ryker’s unit whisked them away to safety; Fereaud and Cunningham had lost their plainclothes police tail.
“What will the locals do for a physician?” Sherlock asked Ryker after the others had left. “Did you install a Service physician as a substitute?”
“No,” Ryker grinned, “Dr. Watson agreed to come out of retirement, until you catch the ‘blackguards,’ I believe he put it. Then the Vic
tors can return, and he’ll go back to his retirement.”
“Ha!” Sherlock exclaimed, delighted. “That could not be more like Watson.”
“Oh, and he said this morning to tell you the Boss is doing much better,” Ryker added, “and that the Boss, he, and…Bess…slept well all night, and he already has the…curry simmering?”
“Capital,” Sherlock declared, mischievously neglecting to enlighten Ryker. “Shall we depart, then? I believe it is a holiday of sorts, and I do have a wife awaiting.”
“Yeah,” Ryker agreed, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “Enid is planning a nice dinner at her flat tonight. Er, not her home flat; the one she’s using while we’re here.”
“Ah,” Sherlock said knowingly, only the twinkle in his eyes betraying his amused comprehension. “Well, I suppose it is good to know that the head of the modern Baker Street Irregulars has his own divertissements.”
Ryker flushed, but grinned broadly.
They slipped out of the safe house, and went their separate ways.
Chapter 5—Interludes
WATSON AND SKYE WERE BOTH WAITING in the sitting room, she reclining on the sofa, he in the armchair, when Sherlock arrived at Gibson House. The smell of curry was in the air, and Skye was showered and wrapped in her robe, a hint of red lace peeking out between the robe’s hem and her shearling house shoes.
“How did it go?” the two asked in unison. Skye’s voice had no hint of congestion.
“Quite well,” Sherlock announced, setting a shopping bag down at the end of the sofa. “We easily extracted Miss Victor, and she and her brother had a most touching reunion.” He turned to Skye. “Per her testimony, I think we may indeed chalk up certain…indiscretions…to stress, as you suspected. Miss Victor swears she believed both she and her brother would die before these two men would release them. Dr. Victor has been living in fear since at least the first of the year, if not before.”
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 108
