“Dear me,” he said. “You gave me quite a start, Holmes. Had a shockingly similar experience with Nadine not long ago,” he said.
“Really.”
“I should say so. They had the bloody thing at the Exeter Picture House. Special treat. I’d never seen it before. The Whales of August. Ought to require theaters to post well-being warnings before showing the blithering health hazard.”
“Were you convinced you were running a risk, doctor?”
“Holmes, it was like watching quartz crystals grow in real time.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t find the action quite that compelling.”
Nigel chuckled a Watson chuckle. “You know, Nadine quite likes that movie, Holmes. What do you make of that?”
“Nadine’s a cat. The Whales of August does bear a striking similarity to watching a mouse hole for three hours. Val is rather fond of The Whales of August, too, you know.”
“Really. Well, perhaps it is a feline thing.”
I thought for a moment. “Not exactly. You see, Val wasn’t a cat when we saw it.”
“But she became a cat, Holmes. Everything was there but the fur and whiskers, you see?”
“Perhaps. Yes, I’ll grant you that, Watson. Well done.” I glanced over at Shad and he was doing a very good self-satisfied Watson chuckle having gotten-one-up on Sherlock Holmes. Detective Superintendent Matheson’s face came into my thoughts for some reason. “Two things before we get back to division, old fellow.”
“What’s that, Holmes?”
“One, when we get in the building, you must stop calling me Holmes. Two, I see that deerstalker cap you have in your pocket.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t want to see it on my hat rack.”
“What? Wha—What makes you think I wasn’t going to wear it myself, Ho—Jaggs?” he asked, feigning injured innocence.
There was only one phrase that seemed to fit. “Elementary, my dear Shad. Elementary.”
Time passed as it has a wont to do, and Bing Ehrenberg eventually rang me to say that he believed the best thing for Lolita Doll was to get her out of a computer and into a human bio, into some therapy, and into some vocational rehabilitation. I discussed the matter for all of eleven seconds with a county crown prosecutor’s assistant who had less than no interest in the case, and the fellow proceeded to discharge it, including the eleven months she had remaining on her previous sentence. Lolita had done four years in solitary for attempted burglary and was now free. I suppose Justice does have to lift that hanky once in awhile and have herself a peek.
Shad and I, on the other hand, went out on a deranged squirrel call in front of Debenhams and there witnessed a three vehicle pile-up as two ground electrics slammed into a lorry, whose driver stopped in the middle of his lane of traffic because he was stunned at seeing the real Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Chief Constable Raymond Crowe, who had yet to be found out for crimes of his own, buzzed D. Supt. Matheson about getting Shad back into his feathers. At the very least, Matheson was to keep us off the streets. The squirrel withdrew the complaint against Debenhams, but insisted upon autographs from Shad and myself. He returned our early efforts pointedly remarking that no one had ever heard of Harrington Jaggers and Guy Shad. After we sent the furry fellow off with the Holmes and Watson inscriptions upon which he insisted, Watson looked at me and said, “Why are you looking so glum? So it wasn’t for your own name. Cheer up. It was your first autograph request.”
“That is true.”
“Consider my plight, Holmes. As the Aflak duck I was asked for countless autographs but couldn’t sign them. Now I can sign them but they don’t want my name.”
“Well, cheer up, Watson,” I said. “At least the squirrel didn’t demand you quack out ‘aflak’ and fall off a cliff. Every cloud has a silver lining.”
“You ever try flying through a cloud that had a silver lining?”
Early one sunny afternoon, a call came into ABCD from Powderham Castle, the home of the Earl of Devon. The castle was located almost directly across the River Exe from Lympstone, between the Village of Powderham and the larger village of Kenton. The call had been placed by the head of security at the castle, a former assistant chief constable of the West Midlands Constabulary named Ian Collier whom I had known many years ago from a case I had worked when I had been with Metro. A quite capable fellow, Collier. I had lost touch with him by the unfortunate expedient of getting killed. I fully expected him to be chief constable by now. Silly me. Instead he was Mr. Collier and running a private security force at a castle that doubled as a mini theme park and convention center with all kinds of events from nature walks and children’s theater to weddings and rock concerts. Collier had called me directly.
Earlier in the day a large wedding had been held at Powderham in the castle’s ornate music room. The reception luncheon, curiously enough, was held in the selfsame music room, while the music, with its concomitant dancing was taking place in the castle’s huge dining room. Conversing, apologizing, promising, drinking, changing, pilfering jewelry, and recovering from various excesses were spread among the other rooms that had been made available to the wedding party.
The father of the groom, a Mr. Edsel Meyer, first reported one of the guests missing her jewelry, a rather expensive triple strand of matched natural pearls. Later, other guests reported missing jewelry until even the bride, the former June Grimpion and grandniece of Lord Devon, reported missing an emerald-cut diamond bracelet. The total promised to be a respectable haul. Ian Collier stated quite bluntly that he wanted that which could be done in an unofficial capacity to be carried out in exactly that manner.
When I reported to the superintendent, Matheson, who was a John Dillinger look-alike bio, wondered why Collier had called Artificial Beings Crimes.
“Possibly he suspected AB involvement,” I offered as a plausible but completely untrue explanation.
“Perhaps you should knock this over to the constabulary, Jaggers,” Matheson said as he contemplated his graphic of the Biograph Theater in Chicago, on the liquid crystal wall opposite his desk. He shifted his gaze toward me. “At least until we know for certain an artificial being is involved. Things are so touchy with Middlemoor lately I’m afraid the chief constable only needs one more little excuse to go off on the lot of us. Met Parker in the lobby downstairs yesterday and I swore the chief was going to rip a patch out of Parker the size of a throw rug. This office can’t afford to put that gorilla back into therapy.”
I glanced at Dr. Watson as he stood there fumbling with his deerstalker, and said, “Actually, sir, we were specifically requested by Powderham Castle. Hence, I’m certain there must be an AB involvement.”
“Lord Devon specifically asked for us?” I could see the stars glittering in the superintendent’s eyes.
“I took the call myself,” which was not a lie. “In addition, sir, it would be an opportunity to get Dr. Watson and myself away from the tower for the afternoon, what with the inspection of the Exeter Station by the chief constable rumored to be occurring at almost any moment—”
“Omigod!” He placed both hands flat on his desktop. “Ah, I see. I see. Godspeed, Inspector Jaggers, and convey my respects to his lordship.”
“I will, sir. Come Watson.”
“What? Oh? Game’s afoot, eh?”
“Don’t you two play at that Holmes and Watson nonsense out at Powderham, Jaggers? Shad? You hear me? Shad? Shad?” Matheson cautioned as his door closed behind us.
As the doors to the elevator hardened and the car ascended, Watson said, “What was that fellow blathering on about, Holmes—all that playing at Powderham rubbish?”
“I haven’t the slightest, Watson.”
Up on the roof, we settled into the cruiser. As Watson drew us out of our slot and headed the vehicle toward the target, I rang up Collier and let him know we were on our way. “The security is excellent at Powderham, Jaggs, but not oppressive,” he said. “Permanent security staff is long term, all retired police officers. We mostly stay outside the castle on the grounds. No guards inside. For big weddings like this one we make up extra security staff with local off-duty police, all good cops. Couldn’t fault one of them.”
“Cameras?” I asked.
“A few remote recording cameras on the grounds—nothing manned. Again, nothing inside the castle. Lord and Lady Devon let parts of the estate for weddings, corporate functions, and other events—in that respect Powderham is very much a business. However, the castle is also their home. The more valuable artworks and sculptures have motion detectors, sensitivity sensors, alarms and such. Anything thatisn’t bolted down has ID nanodots concealed on or in it—no way to getthem out of the castle.”
“What about nanodot codes on the guests’ jewelry?”
“About three quarters of the missing pieces have them. Nothing’s come up at the gates, and no one’s left by air. No guests have left yet and no castle staff.”
“Who has left?”
“The first shifts of caterers, florists, technical and lighting crew, photographers, a quick raid by a discreet liveried dustbin brigade, and the Lord Bishop of Exeter. We checked in, beneath, above, through, and around everything that could block a signal.”
“Years ago, Collier, I had a case in which a well-endowed woman concealed a nanodot encoded diamond ring between her breasts and got it through the screens. There was a sufficient enclosure of flesh to absorb the dot’s signal.”
“There is sufficient jewelry already reported missing to pack an overnight bag, Jaggers. In my entire life I’ve never seen anyone that well endowed outside a perv graphic.”
“Ah, sweet bird of youth.”