The Barker Street Regulars

by Susan Conant

  Chapter Twenty-five

  HIS MOST PROMINENT FACIAL feature is an exceptionally bulbous forehead.

  The statement transformed my vision of Hugh and Robert. They seemed suddenly frail, elderly, and hopelessly innocent, as vulnerable as a poor, sick cat tied in a pillowcase weighted with a large stone. I had spotted the binoculars from the street. Anyone else might do the same.

  “You are,” I asked them, “strictly limiting yourselves to observing what goes on?”

  Has there been a male yet who wants to be a man of inaction? My remark had an unintended consequence. Hugh and Robert, instead of assuring me that they were doing nothing except monitoring comings and goings, thanked me for reminding them of the need to return to their duties. Then they politely showed me to the door. Patting his pocket, Hugh informed me that he had his revolver. Robert, he said, was also prepared to defend himself. Like Holmes, Robert preferred to arm himself with a stick. I felt anything but reassured. In parting, I did, however, extract the promise that Hugh and Robert would desert their post for long enough to visit Althea the next morning. Reluctant though I was to burden a ninety-year-old woman with worries about matters she could do nothing to control, I counted on Althea’s intelligence and common sense and on her influence with her old friends. She, at least, understood the Great Game as a strictly literary pastime. To Robert and Hugh, she was the woman. With luck, their Irene Adler would divert them with some purely Sherlockian puzzle or send them safely back to another dog show to collect yet more harmless tufts of show coat.

  I now realize that in counting on Althea’s intelligence and influence I made a serious miscalculation. She proved herself as sharp as I’d expected. I now see, however, that far from persuading Hugh and Robert to diverge from the hot and dangerous trail they were on, she set me on the same hazardous track. If I’d been clever, or maybe just irresponsible, I’d have taken care to arrive at Althea’s room at the Gateway ahead of Hugh and Robert. As it was, Rowdy and I got to the Gateway that Friday morning at our usual time, ten-thirty, the earliest hour at which visitors were welcome, and we fulfilled our obligations to the people awaiting the regular visit of their therapy dog. More than ever, I felt caught between the desire to give each person ample time with Rowdy and the sense that we needed to press on. Ordinarily, what hurried me was my empathy for the remaining people who looked forward to Rowdy’s weekly visit. Today, in my impatience to get to Althea’s room, I hustled Rowdy from person to person.

  By the time we finally entered Althea’s room, the three Sherlockians were deeply involved in a collaborative analysis of the evidence. Pausing briefly just inside the room, I felt my view of the three undergo yet another transformation. Through my newly Holmesian eyes, I’d previously seen Hugh and Robert as cooperative actors who shared the roles of Holmes and Watson in a long-running performance of the Great Game. In appearance, the tall, distinguished, keen-eyed Robert was a natural for the part of the Great Detective; Hugh made a rather short and hefty Holmes. It was Hugh, however, who’d have conducted the stinky chemical experiments that had absorbed Holmes, Hugh whose laptop computer was the present-day version of the albums in which Holmes had stored and catalogued his files. Or did the laptop also cast Hugh in the role of Watson? The computer was, after all, the ultimate recorder. And it was Robert who armed himself with the Master’s favorite weapon. Hugh, like Watson, favored a revolver. As for Althea, I’d accepted Hugh and Robert’s plain assertion that for both of them, Althea Battlefield was Irene Adler. She was the woman. And who was I? At most, I was the anonymous Reader. In the world of Sherlock Holmes, I was no one at all.

  Now, pausing before entering the drama, I sensed a reassignment of the immortal roles. Ignoring Althea’s near blindness, Hugh and Robert were presenting her with photographs. Hugh stood on one side of her, Robert on the other.

  “Is this woman attractive?” Althea asked.

  “Moderately,” Robert replied grudgingly.

  “Moderately,” Hugh agreed, stroking his pale mustache.

  “A man,” said Althea, “visits an attractive woman. What further explanation is required?”

  “The man,” said Hugh in ominous tones, “is the owner of a large dog.”

  “An inference,” Robert continued, “drawn from the creature’s response when we approach the vehicle in which it is incarcerated. The vehicle is a windowless van of sorts.”

  “A panel truck,” Hugh said. “The cargo area at the rear has no windows.”

  “Just so,” Robert agreed.

  “What Robert is trying to say,” Hugh said, “is that we attempted to observe the dog on two occasions, last night and the night before, but each time, the dog created a ruckus that would have drawn attention to our presence.”

  “How disappointing,” Althea commented. “How ordinary! The incurious incident of the dog in the nighttime.”

  The story was “Silver Blaze.” There, the dog did nothing in the night-time—and “That,” as Holmes remarks, “was the curious incident.” When someone approached, why did the dog do nothing? Because the intruder was no stranger to the dog. And Nicole Brown Simpson’s Akita? Ponder it. “Silver Blaze”?

  “The depth and volume of the dog’s barking,” Robert reported, “were sufficient to establish the size of the animal.”

  “Data,” Hugh said, “consistent with evidence collected at the scene of the murder concerning a tall white male dog with exceptionally large feet.”

  As Hugh and Robert took turns presenting information to Althea, I continued to ask myself who was who in this Holmesian scenario. Speaking almost with one voice, Hugh and Robert were two halves of Holmes: Robert, the contemplative thinker; Hugh, the scientific analyst. I thought of Rex Stout’s lighthearted essay. If Watson was a woman, had Althea now become Watson? Clearly not. It was she who was being presented with the evidence, she who was apparently expected to make something of it. Ah hah! Hugh and Robert, the men of action, collected the evidence and were now reporting to Althea, who never left the Gateway. Mycroft Holmes! Sherlock’s brother, need I inform you? Yes, Mycroft, who, according to Holmes himself, possessed better powers of observation than Sherlock, but lacked ambition and energy, and only in times of crisis left his lodgings in Pall Mall for anywhere other than the Diogenes Club, where every member was forbidden to take any notice whatsoever of any other member. So, Althea was now Mycroft: the great brain lodged in a largely immobile body. The Gateway was her club. The murder victim was, of course, the unfortunate Jonathan Hubbell. The client, albeit an unwitting one, was Ceci. I felt a strange satisfaction in having squeezed the present situation into the Holmesian mold.

  Again, who was I? In real life I was the professional writer in the group. In unconscious imitation of Watson, I asked, “Are we intruding?”

  “Of course not!” Althea assured me. “You and your colleague”—she smiled—“are more than welcome.”

  Althea used words carefully. “Colleague?” I smiled. “Isn’t that Holmes’s word for Watson?”

  “Indeed,” said Althea, accepting Rowdy’s paw. “My friend and colleague,” she informed Rowdy. Shifting her gaze from Rowdy to me, she said, “We could use your expertise. Would a puzzle interest you?”

  “If it’s a question about the Sacred Writings,” I said, “I’ll have to pass. I’m not in your Red-headed League.”

  Althea was delighted. “A dog puzzle,” she said. “A game.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Gigantic paw prints,” Althea said, “which I am told that you observed for yourself. The evidence of the sundial, so to speak: a tall dog, probably a large male dog. White hair and white hair only. Let us put that description together with a protective dog, at any rate, protective of the vehicle in which he rides. A dog that gives a deep, loud bark when strangers approach his territory.” To Hugh and Robert, she said, “Now, the two of you say not one word! What I’m after here is an expert opinion independent of the conclusions you have drawn from your data. Holly?”

 
; “I can’t give you a definite answer,” I said. “But—”

  “Holly, for heaven’s sake, stop hedging!” Althea ordered.

  “Okay,” I conceded. “There are three likely breeds. One: komondor. Hungarian sheepdog. Guard dog. Big and white, with a corded coat.” In response to expressions of bafflement, I elaborated, “The hair forms long, uh, ringlets, I guess you’d say. So the dog looks as if his coat is made of hundreds of thin ropes. Second, kuvasz. Big white dog. Also developed in Hungary. Guard of the nobility. More popular than the komondor, but still pretty unusual. But I think it’s neither of those breeds. Among other things—”

  “Holly!” Althea chastised.

  “Okay! Great Pyrenees,” I said. “On raw probabilities, a giant white dog is more likely to be Great Pyrenees than a komondor or a kuvasz because there are more of them. There are about as many Pyrs as there are malamutes.”

  “Forty-fourth,” Robert said.

  “What?” I asked.

  “We consulted the registration statistics of the American Kennel Club,” Robert explained. “The Great Pyrenees ranks forty-fourth in popularity, whereas the kuvasz is one hundred and fourth, and the komondor one hundred and twenty-first. As you undoubtedly know.”

  “The three coats are fairly distinctive,” I said. “You must have gotten samples at the show. The sample from a Great Pyrenees was the best match for the hair you found in Ceci’s yard. Right?”

  The two men still flanked Althea. Rowdy had sunk to the floor and lay at her feet. Althea’s expression was gentle. Robert’s, however, was now inexplicably hostile or suspicious. Hugh, in contrast, seemed to be gloating. I felt mystified.

  The task of challenging me fell to Hugh, who now held the sheaf of photographs. With no warning, he suddenly thrust one at me. “The time has come!” he announced melodramatically. “We know that this man, the owner of the presumed Great Pyrenees, is, as you admitted to us yesterday, a friend of yours.”

  I tried to cut in. “My friend—”

  Hugh went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “We know that this same man, the driver of a dark panel truck, regularly visits the psychic, Irene Wheeler. You, too, have called on her. We further know that you, while accusing others of efforts to dupe the innocent Mrs. Love, have gone out of your way to ingratiate yourself with her as well as …” He glanced briefly at Althea.

  Robert took up the task. Pointing to the picture Hugh had thrust at me, he said severely, “We demand to know the precise nature of your relationship with this individual.”

  The photograph had obviously been taken from the Holmesians’ aerie opposite Irene Wheeler’s house. It showed the dark panel truck. Opening the driver’s side door was the man with the bulbous forehead.

  “My relationship with this man,” I growled, “is that he tried to drown my cat.”

  Conflict is of immense interest to dogs. Rowdy, suddenly alert, rose to his feet and shook himself all over. I expected him to move neatly to my side. Instead, after conducting what looked like a swift survey, he planted himself next to Althea, raised a paw, and rested it on the arm of her wheelchair.

  Ignoring Rowdy’s implicit comment on the situation, I battled on. “My relationship with this man is that two days ago, on Wednesday evening, when I spotted him on upper Mass. Ave., he recognized me. And the second he did, he bolted. He knocked some innocent person to the sidewalk, and then he threw the shopping bags he was carrying at someone else who was chasing him. And he got away. My relationship with him is that I went back and looked at the shopping bags. They contained two dozen bottles of women’s hair coloring. Black hair dye. And that is a full account of the precise nature of my relationship with this fiend, whose name I do not even know!”

  Althea brought the dispute to an end. She spoke with tremendous dignity. At first, I thought she was addressing me. “My home,” she said in low, patrician tones, “now consists of half a shared room, a bed, a night-stand, a handful of books and objects, these few chairs for guests, and the wheelchair in which I spend my days. It is my home nonetheless.” She raised a long, big-boned arm in what looked like a gesture of blessing. Her arm descended. With her huge hand, she covered Rowdy’s paw. “Thank you,” she said to Rowdy. “Thank you for remembering.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  IF MY LATE MOTHER happened to tune into the episode while on a break from her labors as Head Trainer at the Celestial School of Dog Obedience, she must have felt proud of Rowdy. Robert, Hugh, and I, in contrast, would arrive at the pearly gates of my martinet mother’s obedience ring to find ourselves pre-registered for an ultra-sub-novice class in the rudiments of civilized conduct. I could hear her. Truly, I could. You got into a shouting match? She, of course, was not shouting. She was whispering in tones of horrified incredulity. A scrap? With two elderly men? While making a therapy dog visit? To a ninety-year-old woman in a nursing home? Young lady! You may have been raised at a kennel, but your were not raised in one. Or am I mistaken about that? Do correct me if I am wrong, but …

  “Althea,” I said, “I am terribly sorry.” She looked so thoroughly the retired schoolmistress that I had visions of being required to stay for an hour’s detention at the Gateway.

  Before I could continue to grovel, Robert drowned out whatever apology Hugh was uttering by saying, “Unpardonable of all of us.”

  “You are forgiven,” said Althea, “provided that the three of you come to your senses, sit down, and reason this entire matter out. Holly, it is perfectly all right to sit on the bed.” To Hugh and Robert, who still flanked her, she said, “I do not require an armed guard. Please sit!”

  In response to the familiar word spoken in an authoritative tone, Rowdy squared himself. If Hugh, Robert, and I had been dogs, we, too, would have earned the reinforcement I gave him. “Good dog, Rowdy,” I said, popping him a treat from my pocket.

  “Bad people,” said Althea. “With good intentions. The road to hell is paved with efforts to protect elderly ladies from things that might upset them. As a consequence, a great many elderly ladies die of nothing more complicated than boredom. Now, I take it that this affair began with my sister.”

  “It began, really,” I said, “with the death of Ceci’s last dog, Simon. She couldn’t accept Simon’s death. She was lonely and vulnerable. She began to consult a psychic, a woman named Irene Wheeler. At first, the psychic channeled messages from Simon.”

  “Oh, dear God,” sighed Althea. “How much of Ellis’s money did this psychic get her hands on?”

  “At first, not much,” I replied. “Your sister went to Irene Wheeler’s office in Cambridge. She probably saw her once a week or so. Then Irene Wheeler started going to Ceci’s house in Newton. She built up to what I gather are daily or almost daily visits. My impression is that to keep her customer satisfied, she had to come up with something that went beyond simple messages from the dog. I think she started by cultivating the hope of closer contact with him.”

  Althea shook her head sadly. “My sister has always been such a tightwad.”

  “She got offered something she thought was worth paying for,” I countered. “And the psychic, Irene Wheeler, is …” I broke off. “She seems,” I reluctantly admitted, “to have genuine, uh, telepathic gifts.”

  “Piffle,” said Althea. “Holly, I must ask you to move your account along. Lunch will be served rather soon now.”

  Institutional life, I’d noticed, had a peculiar way of turning people into dogs. Like Rowdy and Kimi, everyone at the Gateway lived for mealtimes. But I complied with Althea’s request by summarizing what I’d worked out. A week ago Monday, I said, Irene had staged the appearance of a spectral dog in Ceci’s yard. I emphasized that there had certainly been a real dog there, a white male of a giant breed.

  “Ah hah!” Althea exclaimed. “‘The Copper Beeches’! But I am leaping to conclusions. Proceed.”

  In “The Copper Beeches,” a young woman, Violet Hunter, is offered a position as a governess and consults the Master for advice about whether
to take the job. What worries Violet Hunter is that to accept the offer, she will be required to cut her long, beautiful hair very short. She must also agree to wear any dress given to her by her prospective employers. She takes the position, cuts her hair, and wears the dresses. As it turns out, what her evil employers really want isn’t a governess, but an unwitting impostor to be used in ridding the household of a devoted and persistent suitor.

  “A white dog,” I said. “A Great Pyrenees. At first, the color was all right, because after all, this was supposed to be a ghostly dog. But Lord Saint Simon was an entirely black Newfoundland. Eventually, he’d have to begin looking like himself. The black hair dye.”

  “Elementary,” said Robert rather snottily.

  Althea ignored him. “Chronology, please? Holly?”

  “Simon first, uh, appeared on the Monday before Jonathan was murdered. Ceci was so utterly convinced that Simon had come back that she couldn’t keep the news to herself. She told me about it when I first met her. She just couldn’t contain herself. Anyway, on Tuesday, Jonathan happened to phone Ceci, and she blurted out the joyous news. I think she made him promise not to tell you.”

  Althea nodded.

  “I think,” I continued, “Jonathan realized she was being conned. And he decided to come to Boston and stop the whole business.”

  “Jonathan was a rational soul. He must have been livid. He’d have had blessed little patience with Ceci’s blather about the reincarnation of a dog. Oh, my, no. No patience whatsoever. No more than I have.”

  “Once he got here, on Saturday, he had his fears confirmed. He was anything but tactful with Irene Wheeler. The two of them met. Ceci told me so. As I work it out, Jonathan arrived on Saturday, heard what Ceci had to say, and went …” I caught myself. “Became very angry. But he didn’t shake Ceci’s faith in Irene Wheeler. So maybe Ceci insisted that he meet the psychic and judge for himself. Or maybe Jonathan insisted. In either case, Irene Wheeler would hardly have refused the request to meet Ceci’s grandnephew. Ceci must be one of her best clients. Irene is sharp. She must have, uh, intuited that this was a major threat. And she probably thought that she could pull it off. I’m almost surprised she didn’t.”