“Yes I have. I agree: It would take quite a fellow to stick a bracelet full of them up his bum and still play bass guitar for two hours.”
“Jaggers, unless the thief burrowed out underground, the stuff’s still on the grounds.”
“I take it you’ve checked possible underground routes and locations?”
“What do you think? I should make clear, Jaggers, that the castle is not liable for any stolen property. That’s not his lordship’s concern. It’s just that his lordship is related to the bride’s family and is a guest at both wedding and reception, as well.”
“Hence he would prefer not having the screws slamming his fellow guests up against his ornate walls, spreading them out, and patting them down.”
“You are so sensitive, my friend. I knew calling you was the right thing to do.”
“See you in a few, Collier.”
Watson pulled the cruiser up from Heavitree Tower as Collier sent me lists of wedding guests, wedding service and catering staffs, as well as castle staff including full-time and part-time security personnel, along with images.
As we took the Exminster-Dawlish Warren Air Corridor down the west bank of the Exe, Dr. Watson neé Shad turned on the autopilot, leaned back from the controls, and glanced at me. “Powderham. This is the place with the old tortoise who entertains children, Holmes. Timothy something?”
“You are correct, Watson. The first Timmy Tortoise dates back to 1854 and died in the early twenty-first century. The current one is an amdroid bio taken from the original Timmy’s DNA imprinted by—her name escapes me—an actress.”
“Went down there with Nadine, Holmes, and caught the woman’s act just before we were blown up that time out at Hangingstone. Quite depressing.”
“Getting blown up, or the tortoise?”
“Tortoise—What? Oh.” He chuckled. “You will have your joke. Her act was depressing, Holmes, her act. Rather get blown up again than have to sit through her routine again. Dreadful. Hundred-and-fifty-year gig and all the flies she can eat.”
“I suspect the actor imprinted onto the Timmy bio restricts her tortoise fare to lettuce, Watson. Perhaps the odd tomato slice. I hear she does impressions. Is that true?”
“Dear God, Holmes: Turtle standup comedy impressions for seven year olds. No one should miss it. ‘Hey, man, I heard these two bugs talking the other day, y’ know? One says to the other, “Katydid.” Now, get this. The other says, “Katydid.” Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. So the other says, “Katydid.” Now, the second bug comes back real quick with “Katydid, ha, ha, haaa…” Shad looked through his side of the window and back at me. “Dreadful. Well, it’s work I suppose. Clarice Penne’s her name.” He glanced back at me. “Ever see her picture?”
“I can’t say I have, Watson.”
“Hideous looking woman. If she’d let herself go a little she’d be a dead ringer for Alistair Sim. There’ll be a part for her if they ever decide to tell the story of Jack the Ripper’s waning years in a nursing home.”
“Alistair Sim of the Ebenezer Scrooge Sims?”
“The very same. Not a whole lot of really creepy maiden aunt parts available these days. I suppose she figures the shell game is at least show business. Reminds me of that old joke about the fellow in the circus scrubbing the elephant’s bum.” He coughed a Watson cough. “Sorry, Holmes. This wretched acting business: Millions grasping hungrily for a scant dozen brass rings. Had one of those rings once myself.” Silence as he thought for a moment on his famous past, then he shook his head and waved a hand as if dismissing it from his attention. “Sorry. Sorry, Holmes. Can’t imagine what came over me. Got a head full of fuzz lately. Apologies.”
“Think nothing of it, old fellow.” I frowned at him. How much was fuzz and how much was Shad doing his Nigel Bruce’s Watson?
He sat in silence for a long time apparently thinking heavily upon something of great importance to him. At last he asked, “Why else does this Powderham Castle sound familiar to me, Holmes? It’s stuck in my head like Tom Mix and Hannibal Lecter, but I can’t seem to place it.”
“Why, I’m astounded, old fellow. Did your Nigel Bruce Watson getup come with a bumbled brain program?”
“Bumble—No need to be offensive, Holmes. I asked but a simple question.”
“Now, no need for hurt feelings. Late in the twentieth century what famous motion picture was partly filmed at Powderham? Remember?”
“A vid?”
“Think, now.” I raised an eyebrow in his direction. “Come, come Watson. Anthony Hopkins…”
“Motion picture? Hopkins? Wait, wait…”
“Ed—”
“No! Edward Fox! Hop—Remains of the Day. Of course. Emma Thompson, Christopher Reeve, Hugh Grant—Powderham is Darlington?” He looked at me, bushy gray eyebrows arched. “Dear god, I am bumbled! What year?”
“Nineteen ninety-three,” I added with a touch of smugness as I looked over the lists and images supplied by Ian Collier, which also included images of the pets brought by a few of the guests. In a flash I knew who stole the jewelry as well as how it was done. What to do about it, however, was going to take a bit of detail sorting.
“Having trouble finding the culprit, Holmes?”
I nodded toward his screen. “Have a go at it, Watson. While you’re busy at that, I need to check some details.”
On my screen I checked my details. My suspicion turned out to be correct. Assistant Chief Constable Ian Collier had been allowed to take immediate retirement from the force sixteen months ago for unspecified reasons. Using some computer tricks Shad taught me early in our relationship, I managed to find out those unspecified reasons involved specific unauthorized use of police equipment. It was all in the notes. I triggered the special links, entered a private code or two, and found the answers I needed. How mundane the scandalous tale once unfolded.
When the Collier family dog, a golden retriever named Laddie, was dying, ACC Collier had had a patrol cruiser with him at his home. In the grip of despair, he and his two young sons put Laddie into the cruiser to rush him to the vet. Laddie, however, died along the way. Ian probably hadn’t even thought about it. The equipment was there, so were his sons, and so was the need. He harvested Laddie’s engrams onto a chip—police cruiser, police reader, police chip. What to do with the harvested engrams after that got lost in the dust when the cruiser’s automatic after-action report was picked up by a hostile media. It was then reviewed by a cautious deputy chief constable, judged by a frightened board, defended by an indifferent Association of Chief Police Officers, and resulted in forced retirement. Birmingham and West Midlands found itself with one less good cop. Then it was job-hunting time, new digs, new schools, new church, new friends, same family minus a dog, a home, and maybe part of a dad.
For every detail sorted, a new one needing a sort popped up. I rang a number. Bing Ehrenberg was in and available. I sent him what I had along with my best guesses regarding who and what to do. He agreed with me, which settled a couple of details. He asked a few questions. I answered them. Bing was happy to hear I was enjoying my work again. I told him I had been blown up and was working for John Dillinger. He asked about Val. I told him she was now a cat. Asked about my job. Told him I was now Sherlock Holmes. Asked about my new partner. I told Bing my partner used to be a duck and would be again. He wanted to know how I felt about that and I told him we got along rather well—even better after he was killed and came back as Dr. Watson. Asked me if I thought Norfolk would take the MCCA Knockout Trophy and I told him that would happen when Inland Revenue ran out of taxpayers. He told me I seemed to be doing much better. Patience of a saint, Dr. Ehrenberg.
Watson sat back, looked at me, and said, “The butler did it.”
I glanced at him. “Astonishing. What ever led you to that conclusion?”
“Great heavens, man! It’s right there under your nose. Look! The bounder’s name is Moriarty! James Moriarty!”
I looked back at the list on my screen. “So it is.” I frowned as I considered a detail that was becoming increasingly troublesome to put aside: The Moriarty business was only the latest symptom. It was just the sort of joke Shad might have made had Shad been in his feathers and in Watson’s place at that point in time. It was also what the current Watson might have said had he been smoking proscribed substances or experimenting with having his brain perforated and filled with kitty litter. It wasn’t just concern for my friend’s sanity. Was it really safe letting him drive? I was wondering a bit about my own mental state, as well. I was rather getting into the Basil Rathbone Sherlock Holmes character. It seemed to me I was enjoying it a good bit more than Watson—Shad, that is.
The air corridor followed the Exeter Canal as it hugged the west bank of the Exe as far south as Turf where the canal ended. The river made a gentle bend to the east, and the corridor continued south over the farmland canals and greenery near the hamlet of Exwell Barton. Directly before us, rising from the greensward like some sort of medieval stone rocket gantry at the top of a gentle hill was Powderham Castle estate’s triple-towered stone Belvedere. Vacationers waved from the crenellated battlements and Watson waved back. Beyond and below the towers, set among the trees in a deer park by a small lake, was the castle. Looking beyond the castle site was the wide avenue of the river, then Exmouth just below the curve of the ocean’s blue horizon. White sprinkles of gulls flitted among the blues, greens, reds, and yellows of the sails and pennants flying on the sailboats filling the Exe. Watson pointed toward the boats. “Looks more fun than selling kitty litter, eh Holmes?”
“It appears so, Watson. Do you sail?”
“Sail? Heavens, no. Do you?”
“I’m ashamed to say I’ve never set foot on a sailboat. I suppose some day off we could take a lesson. Want to give it a try?”
Watson settled deeply into his couch and concentrated on the Sky Rover’s instruments. “River looks very deep there, Holmes. Probably quite cold, too.”
“Nonsense, old fellow. You’d take to it like a duck to water.”
“Very amusing. Those things don’t look safe.”
“Sailing is like working around bombs, Watson: It pays to know what you are doing.”
“I suppose we know where you and I come down on working around bombs, Holmes: A bit here, a bit there—”
“—A bit there, a bit here—”