The Adventure of the Dead Wild Bore Read online

  Garden thought quite a lot, actually. Firstly, he didn’t consider that murder was at all a little puzzle and, as for having fallen right into it, he didn’t really know whether he wanted to get involved or not. They had their own business to consider, and investigating this wouldn’t pay any bills.

  Giving himself a mental nudge, however, he remembered that it didn’t matter how well or how badly the business did; Holmes was a millionaire who didn’t need to rely on paltry little cases of divorce or lost doggies and moggies. He could do exactly as he pleased with no financial consequences, and Garden would still receive his monthly salary. Maybe he needed to lighten up a little bit. And Streeter was a nightmare when it came to uncovering the truth; he should carry some sort of written warning about his general incompetence.

  With hardly a breath between Holmes’ input, Garden replied, ‘I couldn’t agree with you more. I presume, with the wine, we’re going to sit up and discuss the matter.’

  ‘Hardly sit up, old chap. It’s only half past eight, but I feel we should look at the thing from an investigative point of view before we watch that film. After all, we were the ones who found the body. We owe the slandering scoundrel something, even if it’s only justice. And, in fact, he was libellous as well, but let’s put that to one side in the interests of finding out who did him to death.’

  Only Holmes could use a phrase like ‘did him to death’ in all seriousness, and Garden tried to arrange his thoughts. ‘Could it have been one of the staff?’ he asked, going for the obvious, as the meeting had not yet convened.

  ‘Unlikely,’ relied Holmes. ‘I think it’s much more possible it was one of the members of the Quaker Street Irregulars.’ He began to tick off the points on the fingers of his right hand. ‘One: nobody outside the club really knew about the meetings.’ The forefinger of his left hand held down the forefinger of his right hand, but then he fell silent.

  ‘Two?’ prompted Garden.

  ‘Do you know, for the life of me, I can’t think of any other reason. We don’t really know anything about him, other than that he had that bee in his bum – excuse my language – about the relationship between Holmes and Watson, and that he’d written that dashed shameful story which he tried to read to us at the last meeting, before he was shouted down and left in a huff.’

  ‘But you were going to get him black-balled?’

  ‘Too right, I was. I wasn’t going to let him get away with a thing like that, and I’m sure all the other members would have been in agreement.’ Holmes’ fine moustache was bristling with indignation, as he remembered last month’s meeting.

  Garden clapped his hands together loudly, prompting a sudden clatter from the cat flap in the kitchen. ‘That’s it! There’s your motive. If hardly anybody knew about the club and its meetings, the only people that would have been positive that he would be going there were members of the Quaker Street Irregulars.’

  ‘But their families would have known where they were, and their friends,’ countered Holmes.

  ‘And do you think many of those really cared? I don’t wish to belittle your creation, but it was only a dozen men getting together once a month to waffle on about Conan Doyle’s books. Please don’t take this personally, but it’s not as if it were a government think-tank or anything, is it?’

  Although Holmes’ face fell, he took it on the chin and had to, however reluctantly, agree that the Irregulars were, in the great scheme of things, pretty small potatoes.

  ‘What do we actually know about the murderer?’ asked Garden, and as Holmes had nothing forthcoming, began to tick points off on his own fingers. ‘One, he had access to violin strings – nothing to say these were recently purchased, but the presence of one makes me think this was a pre-meditated act. Nobody but a professional strings player would walk about with something like that in his pocket without evil intent, and you didn’t mention that any of them played in an orchestra.

  ‘Two, we can take it as read, I think, that it was a member of your little society or club, or whatever it is.’ He moved down a second finger, then went on, ‘Thirdly, as there was the title page of his short story manuscript shoved into the waistcoat of his suit, that whoever killed him has, or had, the manuscript itself.’

  ‘And fourthly?’ asked Holmes, watching Garden’s smallest right finger slowly descend towards its neighbour.

  ‘There isn’t a fourthly. That only went down because it wanted to follow the third finger, and there was nothing I could do to stop it,’ replied a now slightly embarrassed Garden. Maybe that action would have been easier if he’d been a pianist, or something else that encouraged him to use his fingers independently.

  Ignoring his partner’s apology, Holmes’ face was working, as he was given furiously to think. ‘Do you think that means that the manuscript was on Antony when he arrived for the meeting – that he’d had the audacity to bring it back with him to another meeting – or that whoever killed him had already stolen it, and had taken it along to make a point?’ he asked. ‘Did you see a briefcase when we took a quick look?’

  ‘Can’t say that I did,’ replied Garden, his eyes closed in an effort to recall the details of the scene. ‘But the murderer could have taken the rest of it away still inside the briefcase.’

  ‘Good point, old boy. Good point,’ Holmes encouraged him with a broad grin. That meant the wine was starting to do its work.

  ‘I was going to stay here, originally, because you had a DVD of a Holmes film I haven’t seen,’ Garden prompted him.

  ‘Another good point, John H. I’ll just slip it into the machine, and we shall let things simmer in our brains until after it’s over. Like doing a crossword: if you put it down, when you go back to it, your brain’s worked out some of the clues that seemed impenetrable before. I’ll just open us another bottle, to let it breathe a while, before we need it,’ he finished, and trotted off briskly out of the room, enthusiasm for another little tipple in every quick step.

  By the time the film was over neither of their brains had done much unravelling, due to the amount of alcohol seeping into them. Holmes attempted to put the DVD away in its case, but finally had to give up; his hands would not cooperate with his eyes, and he was fumbling around like a blind man. He was, however, in the mood for a little light conversation, and put one forefinger to his forehead, to indicate deep thought.

  ‘I was just thinking,’ he began, ‘That meeting last month, if Dave Warwick’s wife hadn’t gone into labour, with you there last month, we would have been thirteen for supper – The Last Supper! Don’t you think that’s ironic, as one of us turned out to be a killer, and did away with one of the other members?’

  Holmes found that his glass was still nearly full, a fact that his brain had mislaid in its state of developing muddle, and he drained it in one, as Garden replied, ‘That’s a bit of a stretch of the imagination, isn’t it? Dave Warwick wasn’t there, and we don’t know for sure that it was one of the Irregulars who killed Antony. We’ve only been surmising. There’s no proof.’

  ‘Of course we do,’ replied Holmes, feeling his head begin to spin with this latest onslaught of alcohol on his bloodstream. ‘Who else could it ’ave been, Garding?’

  He was definitely deteriorating if he couldn’t even get his partner’s name right, thought Garden, and wondered how messily the evening would end. They should never have watched that film or opened that second bottle of wine.

  ‘I-I-I think I’ve had a good idea, Gra-Gad-Garden,’ he slurred. ‘I’m goin’ to ring good old Greg an’ ask him to give me the s, the s, the s-p.’

  ‘Don’t you think you might be a little tiddly to hold a conversation?’ asked Garden, whose glass had not been so frequently refilled, sitting as it had at a bit of a distance from his partner’s and the bottle.

  ‘Jober as a sudge, me, John H. Now, where’s his number? Ah, yes. Now, what time is it?’

  ‘It’s 11.15; a bit on the late side, don’t you think?’

  ‘Rubbish! Never known old Greg
go to bed before midnight. He’ll be up having a nighty-night nightcap, don’t yer know,’ replied Holmes rather slushily. His diction had suffered considerably under the influence of the better part of two bottles of wine.

  Fortunately for all concerned, his part in the telephone conversation was brief. He managed to announce himself to Greg Wordsworth, but Wordsworth seemed to want to do all the talking, and all that Holmes had to do was agree now and then, and nod or shake his head sagely, an action that did nothing to underline his agreement, as it was just an ordinary telephone he was using.

  Making rather an elaborate business of placing the handset back where it belonged, Holmes swung quite recklessly in Garden’s direction, swaying alarmingly on his feet as he did so, and said, ‘There’s been a bit of bad luck for Greg, but it does clari-clafiry-clarify things for us.’ He stopped and shook his head from side to side, as if trying to reorder his thoughts.

  Leading him to a sofa, Garden asked what Greg had said. ‘Said … ’e said …’ Holmes cleared his throat enthusiastically and tried again. ‘He said,’ he repeated, slowly and carefully, ‘that the’es fire-escade – a fire-escape – leadin’ from that meetin’ room, and tha’ Street-eet-eeter had found it locked. ’E’s gonna get done for that. Poor old Greg.’

  Noticing tears of pity well up in Holmes’ eyes, Garden gently assisted him to his feet and led him to his bedroom, where he helped him undress and get into his pyjamas. Carefully, he slid the older man under the enormously fluffy duvet – one modern idea that Holmes had grasped enthusiastically, not being a fan of bed-making – and tiptoed out of the room.

  He then padded to the kitchen, found a packet of dried cat food, and filled up the plastic bowl on the floor, refilled the water container, checked that the back door was locked, then made his way to his own room. He undressed in the light coming through from the hall, placed his clothes, fairly neatly folded, on a leather armchair against the wall, and, having forgotten to bring a pair of pyjamas with him and wearing only his shirt, slid, with a sigh of relief, under his own enormous duvet. Which, uncharacteristically, bit him on the right buttock.

  With a yell of surprise and pain, he sprang upright, throwing back the puffed up cover, thus letting out a lot of the heat the electric blanket had built up over the evening, and exposing what had been a very soundly asleep and contented Colin.

  The cat made a lightning swiping motion with his right front paw, drawing four lines of blood from the back of Garden’s left leg, shot straight up into the air, and literally flew out of the door.

  Garden got out of bed, walked slightly unsteadily towards the door, and slammed it with a growl of fury at being ‘got’ again by this sneaky and devious animal who obviously hated him. By the time he got back into bed, most of the warmth had left it, and he shivered, curled into a foetal position, until the blanket managed to engender a little warmth back into the mattress and the forlorn figure lying on it.

  The next morning, when Garden awoke, he could hear Holmes already up and pottering around in the kitchen, clattering pots and pans and running water. He must have made a remarkable recovery, thought the younger man, as his stomach gave a lurch, and a wave of nausea washed over him. He did not have a strong head for alcohol, and had drunk more than he usually did.

  Having disdainfully pulled on yesterday’s clothes, he followed the noise and found his friend preparing a fried breakfast, a large cafetière already on the table, and two places set. ‘How come you’re so chirpy this morning?’ asked Garden, running his fingers through his rumpled hair and yawning.

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea, but I slept like the dead, and woke up very refreshed and ready to go on this case of ours,’ he replied, putting a couple more rashers of bacon in the pan. ‘One egg or two?’

  Garden nearly gagged, but took sufficient control of himself to ask, ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Don’t worry about the time. I’ve phoned Shirley and told her she can manage for today. We don’t get a lot of new business through the door what with the Saturday shopping crowd, so I’ve told her that if she needs us, she can always ring. We’ll be here, solving the mystery of the … of the … of the what?’

  ‘Dead wild bore,’ suggested Garden. ‘He was a helluva bore, he was absolutely furious at the last meeting when the others wouldn’t give his short story a hearing, and he was as dead as a dodo when we came across him yesterday evening.’

  ‘Well done, old chap,’ Holmes congratulated him, starting to serve an amazing fry-up. ‘There you go, egg, tomato, sausage, bacon, fried bread, baked beans, mushrooms, and black pudding – that’ll put hairs on your chest. Just let me pour you a cup of coffee. Get that lot down you and you’ll be ready for anything, John H.’

  After a few solid swallows of coffee and his first forkful of bacon and egg, Garden found that he already felt better, and tucked in with a will. As he chewed, Holmes said, ‘I’ve just remembered something that poor old Greg said on the phone last night.’

  Classing this as nothing short of a miracle, Garden replied, ‘Go on.’

  ‘Greg asked all his staff if anyone had been up to the meeting room since his wife had cleaned it, and they all said they hadn’t. He said he definitely didn’t go up there, so it looks a bit as if we’re looking for the invisible man. There’s no access to the snug from outside, and the fire-door at the top of the fire escape was locked, so how did whoever did for Antony get up there without being seen? This is a problem worthy of old Sherlock himself, don’t you think?’

  Garden halted, fork halfway to his mouth, and sat there like a statue, his face screwed up in deep thought. ‘Someone else must have gone up there,’ he stated. ‘Did they actually see Antony go up?’

  ‘A couple of them said good evening to him. He didn’t like to stay out of the limelight and would obviously advertise his presence.’

  ‘But they didn’t see anyone else?’

  ‘No,’ replied Holmes, chewing on a particularly succulent mouthful of sausage doused liberally in brown sauce.

  ‘So, who took up the jugs of squash and the plates of sandwiches, then? I can just picture them on the table when we went up there. And there were ice-cubes still in those jugs. I remember them distinctly,’ replied Garden, with a smile.

  ‘By Gad, you’re right. So can I, now I think of it. But how did they manage it, eh?’

  Garden closed his eyes and seemed to go into a trance for a few minutes, then he shot up from his chair with a cry of ‘Eureka!’

  ‘What the heck is it, Garden, old chap?’ asked Holmes, his eyes shining.

  ‘Who never gets noticed going to a front door? The postman. Who never gets noticed going to a hospital bed? A nurse. Who never gets noticed walking around with a large tray? A waiter or member of staff!’

  Holmes’ face fell. ‘But they all say that none of them went up there.’

  ‘No, I’m sure they didn’t, but that doesn’t stop an outsider from slipping into the black and white they wear for work, and taking charge, maybe, of their refreshments, which may have been left unattended for a moment,’ declared Garden, with a note of triumph in his voice.

  Holmes, most unexpectedly, got up from the table and did a little dance round the kitchen, with as much energy as his portly body would allow, then he stopped and glared at Garden. ‘If I’m Holmes, then you’re supposed to be Watson, and Watson wasn’t very bright. But I think you’ve solved the mystery of how someone got upstairs without being noticed.’

  ‘He could slip back downstairs again, time his moment and, go into the gents, from which he could emerge in his everyday clothes, and no one would be any the wiser. All he would have to do would be to dispose of the black and white he wore.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ said Holmes, once more looking thoughtful. ‘If he only accessorised his black and white, say with a bright tie and jacket – and I’ve just remembered that all the staff except for Greg and Tilly have to wear baseball caps, all he’d need to do was stash his unneeded items of clothing, and
“borrow” a baseball cap.’

  ‘And he could come straight out of the gents’ and order a drink with no suspicion whatsoever falling on him,’ finished Garden, following his partner’s expression of victory, and doing a little war dance up and down the hall. Unfortunately, halfway through this little celebratory dance, Colin shot out of his master’s bedroom, and Garden landed unceremoniously on his knees, before he could return to his unfinished breakfast. Colin howled as if he had been shot, at being thus disturbed in his flight to his litter tray, shot off down the hall, through the apartment, and disappeared through the cat-flap as if the Hound of the Baskervilles was after him.

  ‘Get out, you little beast!’ shouted Holmes, so flushed with success that he didn’t even have time to defend his adored baby Colin.

  Garden got up and dusted himself down. ‘So, where does that leave us, then? I’d say that it was probably one of the Irregulars who saw Antony off. Did they go into the pub before the meeting started, in mufti, or did they not arrive until after the body was discovered? Can you think of anyone you saw while we were eating, just before we went up?’ he asked.

  ‘Leave that one with me and I’ll give it some thought,’ replied Holmes. ‘What else do we know?’

  ‘That the murderer either stole that disgraceful short story from the dead man and shoved the title page into his waistcoat, or he’d already got his hands on it, and brought along the title page to make a point. Whichever way it was, it means the story was taken from Antony, because he never let it out of his sight, and it could be anywhere by now. Do you have a record of all their addresses?’ asked Garden, but Holmes’ answer was cut off by the ringing of the doorbell.

  Holmes opened the door to find Detective Inspector Streeter and his sidekick, Detective Sergeant Port, standing on the doorstep, a uniformed constable at the foot of the small flight of steps that led up to the ground floor apartment. Holmes made a face like someone sucking a lemon, and invited them in. ‘What can we do for you?’ he asked, adjusting his expression to one more akin to that of someone welcoming guests.