Abbey Strange

“Look honey, it isn’t really any of my business but I’m about to lose a bloody good security manager. I understand that it must be difficult working with your ex, but do I really have to accept his resignation or is there any way the two of you can sort things out? Della sweetheart, I know he hurt you and behaved like an idiot, but if I had a pound for every time my husband hurt me and behaved like an idiot, I’d be a billionaire instead of a plain old millionaire.”

“Gareth’s resigned?”

“Yes hun. Didn’t he tell you?”

“No, we’re not really speaking.”

“If you genuinely want shot of him then fine, I’ll have to let him go. But if you still love him, then perhaps you’ve punished him for long enough and it’s time to give him another chance. Decide Della, because if not he’ll be gone by the end of the month - been offered work in the States minding a Hollywood star. Gareth’s one of the good ones Del - men like that don’t come along often. The great thing about having a wise old crone like me for a manager is that you can learn from my mistakes. Sweetie, I know what it’s like to be left crying over ‘the one that got away’. Between you and me, I know more than ever right now.”

***

Watson sat at his desk flicking through the newspaper. A cold draft blew in through the old windows and he sipped his steaming mug of coffee to take away the chill. The lawyers had plush offices on the upper floors with air con, posh carpets, smart furniture and panoramic city views. He was in the basement of the building, his view out of the window was a brick wall and his carpet was stained and threadbare. A morning glance through the papers brought a brief escape from his general misery, a chance to see other people’s lives and how they were often much worse than his own. Like Tyler Welbourne for example, who now had no life at all.

The wrinkly rock-star had been murdered at his country mansion the previous night. It was front page news, the Welbournes were a high profile couple and the paper devoted pages to the incident. He was a drug-addled old rocker whose band, The Dreadful Death, had enjoyed big success during the 80s and 90s. His wife Karen had been their manager and stood by him despite the affairs, drugs and call-girls. She was now a powerful force in the music industry herself, a shrewd business woman who owed CEX Records and had taken over the management of girl-group The Angels, after the demise of the infamous Todd Carter. This made her Della Breton’s manager and Lestrade’s boss, something which made Watson particularly interested in the case. He was just about to call Holmes and ask if he had seen the news, when Julian Sinclair -Booth, partner in the law firm, walked into his office with a look of intense displeasure flickering across his aristocratic features. Watson closed the paper and braced himself - this wasn’t going to be pleasant.

***

“Gareth, wait,” Della called out, watching the back of her security manager disappear into the conference room. She rushed to catch up and walked in just as he was about to close the door.

“I’m doing a briefing in ten minutes,” he said rather gruffly, taking folders from under his arm and spreading various documents out on the table. He didn’t make eye-contact with her.

“I just wondered if you had heard from Karen. I’ve tried calling but she’s not answering her phone. I just want to know if she’s ok, if I can do anything to help. She’s been so good to me and the girls. The papers say she was hurt too; the robbers tied her to a chair. She saw them kill her husband - God it’s so awful, I can’t imagine how she must be feeling. I know she can be a feisty cow but most of that is just an act.”

Gareth looked up at his ex girlfriend and felt that terrible aching in his heart again which he couldn’t get rid of. He was hoping the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean might help but seeing her standing there in the sweater he bought for her on a romantic break in Milan, running her fingers through her hair in the way she always did when anxious about something, he very much doubted it.

“I haven’t heard from her. I’m going to head out there after this briefing, offer to help liaise with the police. Though I’ve heard she doesn’t want to see anyone - which is understandable I suppose.”

After some uncomfortably intense eye contact, Gareth swiftly returned to laying out his papers.

“We were talking yesterday; she said some odd stuff about crying over ‘the one that got away’ and how she knew how that felt more than ever.”

“Why on earth did that come up in conversation?”

Della turned to look out across the city through the giant windows lining the walls. They were on the top floor of the record company headquarters, in a conference room designed to seriously impress. It was early but the winter sunlight was already intense, reflecting off the many mirrored surfaces punctuating the capital’s skyline.

“We were talking about you,” Della replied quietly. She could see his reflection in the glass; see that he looked up as she spoke the words. She turned to face him and anxiously pushed aside her fringe as it fell over her eyes. “Please don’t go Gareth...”

***

Watson should have gone home, should have travelled straight back to the modern suburban house he shared with his wife and paid for by selling his soul to soulless employment. But now he wouldn’t be able to pay for it, so returning there was the last thing he wanted to do. That and having to face his wife and tell her the news which would confirm her simmering suspicions that he was unreliable and not the sensible, ambitious young doctor she had hoped years ago. He wandered around the city for an hour or so, bought a chocolate muffin and then when it started to rain, found himself in a cab heading to Baker Street.

“You’ve been sacked,” Holmes asserted at first sight of his bedraggled and careworn friend. Watson sat heavily upon the sofa thinking about whether he looked bad enough to be offered a cup of tea.

“How did you know?”

“You’re here in the middle of the day when you would normally be at work, and if I’m not mistaken you’ve got that God-awful paperweight in your pocket which lived on the desk in your office - the one with the miniature Eiffel tower in it which you brought back from honeymoon. And you’ve got a stapler in your hand - why else would any sane person walk around carrying a stapler unless they had just cleared their desk? Was it the Mark Birdwhistle case?”

“Yeah, they found out what I had done. The claim got thrown out of court and the vultures, sorry lawyers, missed out on their percentage of £20,000 worth of compensation. So they threw me out. Sacked me and asked me to leave immediately. Didn’t even have chance to nick any decent stationary. Oh God, my wife’s going to kill me. How will I pay that massive mortgage she insisted we took out so that she could live near her sister in posh-ville?” Watson sank his head in his hands. “No book deal and now no job. Could things get any worse?”

“I’ve had a call from Lestrade. That Randall gang have been identified as the ones behind the Welbourne burglary last night. He wants me to go and take a look. Fancy a trip to Kent to take your mind off things? But please, don’t bring the paperweight. Or the stapler.”

“Lestrade called you? Oh yes, of course, Karen Welbourne’s his boss. That must have felt like old times. And right now, I could really do with a bit of the old times. Ok, I’ll come. A good murder is just what I need to cheer me up.”

***

The last time Hopkins had seen Lestrade, he was jumping around a nightclub like a lunatic. It was quite hard for the young officer to take him seriously. But he knew better than to dismiss any input from Sherlock Holmes. And admittedly, Lestrade did cut a rather commanding figure in his expensive suit, taking Holmes around the house with the full but rather reluctant blessing of Karen Welbourne, who insisted that she just wanted to put the whole episode behind her and resist any further interference. Lestrade convinced her that it was worth letting Holmes take a look; the Randalls may have left clues or something the police could use to help track their whereabouts. Privately, he explained to his old comrade about the strange comments Karen had made to Della and that something about them had made all his old instincts stand to attention.

The Welbournes had bought the house ten years ago, a beautiful country estate perfect for a faded rock star to race around the grounds in, wearing his designer tweeds and sitting behind the wheel of a four-by-four pretending to be lord of the manor. It was a converted Abbey, named Abbey Grange at the time of purchase. The Welbournes set about adapting it to their Gothic tastes and re-named it Abbey Strange.

Watson didn’t know whether to laugh or shudder at the coffins, giant crucifixes, crosses and skulls which were all part of the macabre decor. If he had come here for a little cheering up, this place was anything but cheery. And of course, there was nothing cheery about visiting the scene of a murder. But, watching Holmes do his stuff and being allowed to assist in this process was one of the things Watson found truly enjoyable in life. That and writing about it. Though he now feared that most of the accounts he had written since moving in to 221b, would never see the light of day. He felt that this wasn’t just an injustice against his own talents, but even more so against the extraordinary abilities, and indeed personality, of his friend. And he knew that Holmes liked to be appreciated, even though he acted as if the opinions of others didn’t matter to him at all.

DI Hopkins read the expression on Watson’s face as he lifted a skull from the mantle shelf. It had diamond eyes and was covered in gold leaf.

“I know what you’re thinking, strange by name and strange by nature this house. But even though it all looks a bit odd, this stuff is expensive. They spent a few hundred thou turning a perfectly decent country pile into Gothic hell,” he stated, taking hold of the scull.

“Expensive,” murmured Holmes, looking at the grim object with curiosity. “That’s an excellent point inspector, shame you don’t see its significance.”

Hopkins ignored the remonstration and started to outline the case.

“Burglary is a family business for the Randalls - a father and two sons who specialise in doing over properties of the rich and famous. They did a job at Sydenham a fortnight ago - footballer’s mansion while he was aboard playing in an international match. Surprised they’d do another house so soon and so nearby but they’ll get life for this one - for knocking in Welbourne’s head with his own poker. Its murder Mr Holmes, and anything you can give us to help locate them would be gratefully received.”

“Karen Welbourne is in her bedroom Holmes,” added Lestrade, “she’s pretty shaken up as you can imagine but she’s happy to see you.”

“Then that’s where we’ll start,” Holmes asserted.

***

Despite looking pale and shaky, it was clear that Karen Welbourne was a strong and commanding character. A handsome woman in her late fifties, her beautiful features were indicative of the fierceness and kindness which made up her formidable personality. She was sitting by the elegant sash-windows on a velvet sofa shaped like a giant pair of red lips. She looked every inch the typical rock star’s wife. But there was intelligence behind her heavily made up eyes - and a deep sadness too. A well-groomed young man hovered diligently at her side, handing her a glass of water.

“Gareth, I know you are only trying to help sweetie,” Karen said softly, “but I have told everything to the police and I’m not sure what else I can add for Mr Holmes’ benefit.”

Watson noticed that Karen’s hand was shaking as she held the glass of water. She handed it back to the immaculately suited, pretty young man. “This is my PA,” she added, “this is Craig Burrows.” Craig smiled at the group then started to press damp cotton wool pads against a large purple swelling over Karen’s right eye. She winced slightly and sat back against the sofa. “Have you been able to clear the dining room yet inspector? I just can’t bare sitting here knowing that he’s still down there, I understand that it’s a murder investigation and these things have to be done, God knows I’ve watched enough episodes of CSI, but please...”

Holmes sat beside her on the lips. “The sooner I hear your account of events, the sooner I can go into the dining room and see things for myself. Please, I know it must seem tedious to have to repeat yourself but I am here to help.”

For someone who was generally pretty rubbish at interacting with others, Holmes could always find exactly the right things to say, and the way to say them, when the moment required. Karen reached for the water again and as she did so, the sleeve of her black dress slipped up her arm.

“You have injuries on your arm,” Holmes observed, pointing to two bright red spots.

“It’s nothing” she hastily replied, pulling back down her sleeve, “not connected to last night.”

After a long sip of water, she composed herself enough to begin her account.

“As you know, I am Karen Welborne. I own CEX records and manage various high-profile acts, one of which is my husband Tyler...” she paused and looked down briefly at her feet, “was my husband Tyler.”

Her PA laid a comforting hand on her shoulder and she squeezed it gently before continuing with her narrative.

“There’s no point trying to pretend that we had a great marriage. You only have to read the papers or talk to anyone who knew us to find out the truth. In the old days, when we were first married it wasn’t so bad, but with fame came the drugs and they changed everything. Then, when my husband’s star started to fade and my success continued to grow, he resented me terribly. But I’m digressing, this isn’t Oprah.

Last night, my husband went to bed early due to having a heavy session with some old pals the night before. He went up about eleven. All the household staff were in bed except Craig, who sleeps in a room directly above mine. He usually stays up until I am asleep in case I need him for anything - he’s so dedicated, I’m truly blessed to have him. He’s worked with me for five years now.

I walked around the house to check all was ok before going to bed and ended up in the dining room. I felt a draft and noticed that the French window was open. I pulled back the curtain to close it and there was an old man standing there, frightened me to pieces. I flicked the light switch and then saw that two other men were entering behind him. I tried to step back but he caught me by the wrist, then the throat. I opened my mouth to scream but he punched me above the eye and pushed me to the ground. I think I fainted because the next thing I remember I was tied to a chair. They had cut down the bell-rope and used that to bind me, it was so tight I couldn’t move and they’d stuffed material into my mouth so that I couldn’t scream.

That’s when Ty entered the room. I suppose he must have heard something that alerted him. He rushed at the burglars carrying a baseball bat but the old man, the first one I saw, picked up the poker from by the fire and struck him with it really hard. Tyler fell straight to the floor, didn’t make a sound and didn’t move. Just lay there. I fainted again; I was just so overwhelmed by what was happening. When I came-to, they had taken the silver crosses off the altar, it’s just a drinks cabinet really, and had the audacity to stand there drinking a glass each of my wine.

I have already described them quite clearly to the police but I know you are going to ask me so I’ll do it again. One man was elderly with a beard, he’s the one who struck Ty, the other two were young, clean-shaven. They all looked to be related, father and sons. After they checked that I was still securely tied up, they left through the French window and closed it behind them.

It took me fifteen minutes of struggling to get my mouth free. Then I was able to scream for help and Craig came running into the room. That’s when the police were called. Please Mr Holmes, I really don’t want to go over this again. There’s nothing more I can say. I just want to be on my own, please respect that. Please.”

“Of course, and thank you for being so candid.” Holmes stood up from the lips and turned his attentions to Craig. “Before I see the dining room, I would very much like to hear your account of things.”

Watson thought that Craig appeared nervous at this suggestion but he composed himself very quickly.

“Well it’s just awful Mr Holmes,” he said in a rather feminine voice. “This poor woman has endured years of ill treatment at the hands of that drugged up old has-been,”

“Craig!” Karen remonstrated.

“No Karen, I’m sorry but it has to be said. He was a piece of work and this strong, intelligent woman had to put up with his childish impossible behaviour. And now she’s had to witness his death as well. It breaks my heart. I saw the men myself, three of them down by the road. I was looking out of my bedroom window and they were visible in the moonlight. I thought nothing of it at the time and shall never forgive myself for that. An hour or so later, I heard Karen scream and ran down to help her. There she was tied up, Tyler’s blood on her dress. It was terrible to see her like that. Anyway, I really think you should all leave her in peace now, why should she have to keep re-living this over and over?”

He laid a protective arm on Karen’s shoulder.

“I think it’s time to see the dining room,” Holmes said, striding from the room in his usual purposeful way when on the hunt for answers. Though Watson had to admit, this case did seem pretty clear-cut to his inferior mind. The description Karen gave fit perfectly with that of the Randall gang and the robbery was just their style, picking on the homes of the rich and famous. The way Watson saw it, this wasn’t exactly a whodunit, more of a manhunt to track down the illusive gang.

As they walked through the house towards the dining room, Watson could see the irritation on Holmes’ face. A gang of burglars held no particular interest to a specialist such as himself, and to be called out in response to such a commonplace, albeit unfortunate crime was frankly rather dull. Gareth Lestrade knew Holmes well enough to understand this and pulled him aside before they entered the scene of the crime. He lowered his voice as they stood in an alcove fashioned to look like a crypt.

“I know what you’re thinking - there’s nothing here for you, it’s just a burglary gone horribly wrong. Look, I know you never held my instincts in particulary high regard, but I was a copper for over twenty years so I must have got something right. All my instincts are telling me something is wrong with this picture. I know Karen Welbourne pretty well, she’s tough and feisty - this image that her and Craig are portraying of a vulnerable, fainting woman just doesn’t quite ring true for me. She’s trained in self defence too, I know because I recommended somewhere she could learn. The only person she’s weak with is her husband - it’s no secret he’s been physically abusive to her. But she doesn’t take crap from anyone else, that’s for sure. And then there’s what she said to Della yesterday. I can’t help thinking it might be linked.”

“Not to mention the fact that you can’t actually see the road from Craig’s bedroom window, not if his room is directly above hers. I couldn’t see the road from her window in broad daylight, let alone moonlight.”

“Please Holmes, stick around and do your thing - I feel I owe it to Karen to get to the bottom of this. She’s been good to me and Della.”

***

The dining room of Abbey Strange was decorated in keeping with the Welbourne’s macabre tastes. The usual mix of crosses and skulls were scattered about the room, the walls were black and the ceiling a shocking pink. Giant candelabra adorned the huge black dining table and the chairs had bright pink cushions. The focal point of the room was an ornate fireplace with an oak mantelpiece. Above it was a stuffed deer’s head with gold antlers and two light sabres either side. One of the dining chairs was in front of the fireplace, a thick red cord still intertwined through the back of it.

The eclectic decor wasn’t enough to distract from the grim sight of Tyler Welbourne’s body, lying on his back with his face turned upwards. His arms were up above his head, the baseball bat still lying in his hand. His face bore an aggressive expression and was weathered by years of hard living - or rather hard partying. His head had suffered a terrible injury and the poker which had caused it still lay beside him. It had been bent into a curve by the ferocity of the blow. Holmes examined it carefully.

“Must have been pretty strong, this old Randall,” Holmes remarked, looking at the bend in the poker.

“Yeah, bit of a rough sort,” replied Hopkins. “We thought the Randalls had escaped to America but obviously they couldn’t resist the temptation of one more job. I am surprised though, that they’d take the risk of turning up here without their faces covered and then just leave, knowing that Mrs W would be able to give a good description of them.”

“I agree. I too am surprised that they didn’t silence her.”

That’s a first, thought Hopkins, unaccustomed as he was to Holmes ever agreeing with him.

“Maybe they didn’t realise she had regained consciousness?” suggested Watson, eager to contribute something.

“He was quite a character,” murmured Hopkins, ignoring Watson’s efforts and looking down at the body of Tyler Welbourne. “Great showman but had a really nasty streak, especially when he’d been using. Even set fire to his wife’s Chihuahua once. I don’t like those pointless little dogs, but dosing one in petrol and setting it alight takes a pretty twisted mind. Then there was the time he attacked that Craig, her PA. Came at him with a baseball bat - probably the one that’s in his hand now. Craig only stayed out of loyalty to Karen, wouldn’t even press charges because he didn’t want to make things worse for her. It was the drugs that did it. Apparently he was quite affable when not under the influence but years of snorting your millions up your nose is bound to take its toll on your mental health.”

Holmes began carefully examining the knots in the rope still attached to the chair. He looked up to where the bell-rope had been cut from.

“Surely when they pulled on the rope to sever it, a bell would have rung out somewhere in the house? The kitchen maybe?”

“No, it wasn’t attached to anything. Just for decoration like all the other odd things in this house,” replied Hopkins.

“But the burglar wouldn’t have known that.”

“No, not unless he knew the house well. I’ve been thinking the very same thing.”

“There is hope for you yet Hopkins,” smiled Holmes with a curious mix of warmth and sarcasm.

“And for all this effort, they didn’t take much - just the silver crosses off that alter and a few other ornaments. Hardly worth a man’s life. Perhaps they were unsettled by the murder and just wanted a quick getaway?”

“But they had time to stand around drinking a glass of wine...”

Holmes walked over to the drinks cabinet which had three glasses and a wine bottle standing on top of it.

“Have these been touched?”

“No,” replied Hopkins, “all exactly as they left it.”

There were three glasses standing beside each other, each with the dregs of red wine left in the bottom. One contained a few traces of cork. The bottle was beside them two thirds full. Watson noticed a change in Holmes’ expression, a sudden spark of interest. He began examining the cork from the bottle.

“Probably used this to open it,” Hopkins lifted a corkscrew from a draw directly in front of them.

“No, the cork was drawn using something smaller, like the screw on a pocket knife. It was driven in three times before they were able to pull the cork. Look, you can see the indentations it made. The large corkscrew would have drawn it first time. The glasses are more perplexing though, don’t you think Hopkins?”

“Erm, well...”

“Karen Welbourne is certain that she saw all three men drinking?”

“Yeah, quite clear on that point. Pretty annoyed they were using her wine, almost more annoyed about that than the fact they had done in her old man.”

“Well perhaps I am looking too much into things.”

His keen eyes scanned around the room one last time and then Watson saw him visibly extinguish that flame of interest which had been ignited by the glasses, bottle and cork. His expression became completely passive again.

“There is nothing more I can add Hopkins. Good luck with your investigation, sounds like you have matters all sorted out in your own mind. We must return to Baker Street so that Watson can go home and take his terrible paperweight with him. Good afternoon gentleman, happy hunting.”

***

Watson studied his friend’s face very carefully on the train back to London. Holmes had sunk into a deep introspection, his brows drawn low and his fingertips pressed tightly together. Silence was invaluable to him in such moments and Watson respected that. He had his own thoughts to mull over anyway. His wife would be expecting him home from work soon, work he no longer had. Telling her was going to be a nightmare, especially having to tell her that it was his own fault, that he had risked his job on a point of principal. She would never understand such a thing. Not that she didn’t have principals, just that she would never let them get in the way of her lovely house and comfortable life. Watson knew he was in for another night on the sofa.

Suddenly, just as the train was pulling into the next stop along from Marsham, Holmes grabbed Watson by the arm and pulled him up from his seat.

“Come on, I can’t leave the case in this state. For once, I think Lestrade’s instincts are right. But don’t tell him I said that.”

“We’re getting off?”

“Yes, come on man! We need to go straight back to that dreadful house.”

“Yeah, it doesn’t say much about the Welbourne’s sense of taste,” said Watson as they bustled briskly along the aisle to the doors.

“This from the man with an Eiffel tower paperweight?” added Holmes, raising an eyebrow.

***

In a cab heading back to Abbey Strange, Watson was keen to know Holmes’ thoughts. He was also thinking about how much worse his wife would react now that he was going to be late for dinner on top of sacked and hopeless.

“It’s the wine glasses”, Holmes suddenly said. “Let me explain, perhaps talking it through might help.”

“I’m all ears,” replied Watson, happy to have a distraction from his own thoughts.

“Karen Welbourne gave a very clear account of things and on the surface of it, everything she said was completely plausible and beyond suspicion. However, there are aspects of her statement which make me question its integrity. Take the Randalls for example. They stole a substantial amount from that footballer’s house at Sydenham, it was a very professional, well executed job. They had no need to do another so soon and so nearby. Nor would they make the mistake of letting someone see their faces or attempting a burglary at 11pm - these things normally happen in the early hours. And if you want to stop a woman from screaming, striking her is the worst thing you can do. They hardly took anything from the Welbournes. Remember that skull we were shown with diamond eyes? How easy would it have been to grab that? Along with at least twenty other small but valuable items I noticed in the dining room. Craig lied about seeing them from his window - why would he do that? Why murder Tyler Welbourne when the Randalls could have easily overpowered him and tied him to a chair too?”

“And the wine glasses?”

“We have been told that the three men drank wine which came from the same bottle, correct?”

“Yes, they opened it and poured out three glasses.”

“So, why did only one of them have bits of cork in the bottom? I checked in the bottle, the wine had many bits of cork floating around in it. All three glasses should have contained cork.”

“So, what are you saying exactly?”

“That only two glasses were used and the dregs of those two were poured into a third to make it look like three people had been drinking - that’s why only one glass contained all the cork. If I am correct then Karen Welbourne and her PA have both deliberately lied to us and to find the truth we must dismiss everything they told us and begin our own investigation without their help. And that’s what we are about to do,” Holmes said somewhat triumphantly as the cab started to pull up the long drive towards Abbey Strange.

The house was deserted except for the staff. Hopkins and his team had returned to Scotland Yard and Lestrade had persuaded Karen to stay with friends and escape the press-pack baying at the gate. The staff were surprised to see Holmes and Watson return but didn’t understand what they had been doing there in the first place. They clearly weren’t police, weren’t press or friends of the family, and one of them had a stapler sticking out of his back pocket. But then the Welbourne entourage were so used to the family mixing with oddballs that they hardly noticed these things anymore.

When Holmes asked to be allowed to examine the dining room, nobody questioned his request and he was shown straight through. Once inside, he closed the door, an excited expression lighting up his face. He was now happily on the scent and enthusiastically set about a thorough investigation of the room. Watson sat quietly in a chair and studied his performance, watching as his friend lay upon his belly to examine the floor, dashed around looking at the rope, the windows, the chairs, the curtains, the carpet. The body had been removed but nothing else in the room had been touched or changed. Holmes found the bell-rope particularly diverting and climbed up with the help of a shelf to take a closer look. By stretching, his hand could just about reach the end of the rope where it had been cut. Suddenly, after a little cry of satisfaction, Holmes jumped down and turned his attention to the chair into which Karen Welbourne had been bound.

“Mrs Welbourne claimed she was tied into this chair when her husband was hit with the poker, correct?”

“Yeah, that’s what she said.”

“Right, so explain how his blood is on the seat of the chair then? Couldn’t have got there if she was sitting on it. And if I’m right about the glasses, only two people were drinking - one of them at least two inches taller than me, very agile and probably carrying a pocket knife with a corkscrew attached. He knew the ways of the house and was very strong. Old man Randall looking less and less like the murderer, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what to think - why would Mrs Webourne lie?”

“Well Watson that is what we must find out. This case will be perfect for your files - an excellent example of how the science of deduction can blow apart even the most plausible of statements. How foolish I was not to see the complexities of the situation straight away.”

“Shame no one is ever going to read it though.”

“Oh Watson for God’s sake, stop feeling so bloody sorry for yourself and start using your imagination.”

Watson was quite taken aback by this unexpectedly emotional outburst and didn’t know how to respond - partly because he knew Holmes was right, he was turning into a bit of a whiner but didn’t know what to do about it. He’d always had a tendency to wallow when things didn’t go his way. It was another thing his wife found annoying about him; he wasn’t ‘proactive’ enough.

“Alright, sorry but I did get sacked this morning Holmes, I’m not exactly having the best of days. And surely you are at least a bit disappointed that no one is going to be able to read about your unique skills? I know you didn’t have a good word to say about my last book but it brought you extra business, press coverage and fan-mail. I know you liked the fan-mail Holmes, don’t try to deny it. I know you keep it in a bin bag under your bed.”

“Yes, I do. And even though I think your accounts lack any real methodical analysis and focus too much on the irrelevant sentimental padding you insist on throwing in, the public obviously enjoyed them. It wasn’t just my fan-mail, it was yours too. All the letters include addresses. That bin bag has a couple of hundred at least. How about you stop moaning about agents and publishers, and sort out the situation yourself.”

“I don’t follow...”

“No you don’t because you don’t ever see the significance in details. Addresses Watson! Think man! Addresses of fans. Why do you need an agent and a publisher when you can access readers directly? To use an awful cliché, isn’t it time to think outside the box?”

***

Watson sat on the train alone travelling back to the capital. Holmes had gone off to continue his investigations and Watson decided it was time to go home and face the music.

Holmes had planted the seed of an idea in his careworn brain - could self-publishing really be an option? As he looked out of the window watching the green fields of English countryside give way to the outskirts of London, he had to admit that it was now his only option. But what if his wife was right about him, what if he wasn’t proactive enough? Surely you had to be beyond proactive to publish, sell and distribute your own book? But before he could give the idea any further serious thought, he had to go home to tell his wife that he had lost his job - a job he hated and only took to make her happy. Now, he was about to make her very unhappy indeed.

***

Gareth was surprised when he answered his mobile and heard the familiar voice of Sherlock Holmes. Holmes never called, ever. Gareth couldn’t even figure out how he had got the number but he didn’t mind. Holmes was a link to a past which he was now stretching away from but didn’t want to forget. He was perplexed when Holmes started to question him about the Welbourne’s private yacht, something which he’d had the pleasure of staying on only a few months ago. He answered all the questions without really understanding their significance and promised to look into all the other information Holmes needed. He ended the call and smiled to himself, thinking how much his life had changed in the past few years, since the days he was at Scotland Yard with a cheating wife and a career going nowhere. Now he was happier than he had ever been and knew that the best was yet to come. He had a lot to thank Watson and his book for. He decided it was time to give him a call and tell him his good news.

***

Holmes was surprised to hear the intercom buzzing at 1am. He was still up, sitting in his usual chair looking through harbour reports. Minutes later, John Watson was sitting opposite him on the sofa with a holdall at his feet. Holmes pressed together his fingertips and looked steadily at his friend, then at the bag.

“She threw you out?”

“For once Holmes, you’re wrong. I walked out. I’ve left her. That’s it, no more marriage. No more trying to please someone who I’ll never really make happy. It’s Lestrade’s fault...” Watson paused, waiting for a response which never came. “So, go on, tell me how you know it’s Lestrade’s fault by the mud on my shoes or the way I’ve parted my hair.”

Still no response. Though his level of empathy often left much to be desired, Holmes could sense his friend’s pain and knew this wasn’t a time for showing off his skills. He simply, calmly asked, “Why is it Lestrade’s fault?” and sat back in his chair listening as Watson unburdened himself.

“Because he proposed to Della and she said yes - phoned earlier to tell me the good news. I asked him, - ‘why bother?’ They were living together anyway and seemed perfectly happy, and he’s been down the marriage route once before and look how that turned out. And do you know what he said? He said he can’t live without her and she feels the same. He sounded elated. Suddenly I thought about how well my wife and I could live without each other. How we’d both be better off. Not only is she stifling my dreams, I’m stifling hers - her dreams of a better house, the car she’s always wanted, the type of husband. Do you know what I remember most about the day I got engaged? We went out with some friends on the night for a Chinese and I had a shrimp wanton for the first time - it was amazing. So the thing I always remember about that day is a shrimp wanton. Says it all really. I asked her to marry me because it seemed like the right thing to do, not because I couldn’t live without her.”

His eyes clouded momentarily with sadness before managing a weak, not-altogether-convincing smile - “So, I was wondering, if you’re not using my old room for anything, is there any chance I could move back in?”

“There’s a harpoon in there.”

“I can live with that. As long as you don’t try and stab me with it like you did that hat-pin once.”

“That was a vital part of a murder investigation.”

“It hurt!”

“There’s a mannequin in there too. And a dead rat but I’m done with that now.”

“Right, ok, well that’s fine. I can live with that too - I suppose. Can’t help out with the rent just yet as I’m now unemployed but I’ll get some locum work and I can always make myself useful to you.”

“You can take the mannequin back to the department store for me. I don’t want them to know I’m investigating them or that I was the one who stole it. Just pretend to be one of those sex fetishists with a thing about dummies. Confess all, cry a bit, they won’t call the police. If they do I’ll get Gregson to sort it out - oh actually I can’t...”

“Why, what’s happened to Gregson?”

“He’s been sacked. Mr Kumari made a formal complaint and there was no one else to blame this time.”

“Blimey. It’s all change.”

Silence settled between the two old friends.

“So, can I move back in?” Watson eventually asked.

“Welcome home John. Now, make yourself useful and put the kettle on.”

“Some things never change,” muttered Watson, with a smile.

***

Watson slept surprisingly well considering he was sharing the room with a mannequin, a harpoon and a false leg which fell out of the wardrobe at 4am and frightened him half to death. Despite all this, it was good to be back. He felt sad and rather guilty about the break-up of his marriage but knew he was right to walk away - for both their sakes. It was almost a relief now that the end had finally come. So after falling into a very deep sleep, it was a bit of a shock to be woken at 7am by Holmes impatiently prodding him in the shoulder with one of his long, bony fingers.

“Come on!” he implored, “there’s work to be done Watson. Karen Welbourne has returned home and we must go there at once to unravel this little mystery she so confidently fabricated.”

“Can I have breakfast first?”

“No. I’ve called a cab, it will be here in five minutes.” And with that he bounced out of the bedroom, as eager and energetic as he always was when in pursuit of the truth. Watson rubbed his tired eyes and tried to muster the same enthusiasm whilst trying to ignore his rumbling belly.

***

Wrapped up tightly in overcoats and scarves to protect against the bitter cold of what was proving to be a very harsh British winter, Holmes and Watson rushed up the stone steps leading to the grand front door of Abbey Strange. Holmes hammered the cast-iron knocker loudly against the door and Craig the PA promptly answered.

“Ah, just the person,” exclaimed Holmes, pushing past him into the spacious entrance hall. “It’s time you encouraged your boss to tell me the truth, for her own sake.”

“Karen Welbourne is not a liar Mr Holmes and has told you nothing but the truth. How dare you come here and say things like that.”

“I know she is a wronged woman. I understand. She clearly endured years of mistreatment.”

At this point, Karen herself appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

“What’s going on Craig? Why are you here again Mr Holmes? I have nothing more to say to you or to anyone.”

“On the contrary Mrs Welbourne, there is much to say and I urge you to say it. Please tell me your story, I come as a friend who can help. I saw the cigarette burns on your arm which you tried to hide when we first met. It is evident to me that you have been very badly treated and I will consider all of this if you would just tell me the truth.”

Karen’s eyes swam with tears briefly before her usual steely resolve kicked back in.

“I have told you exactly what happened Mr Holmes. Now, with respect, get out of my house.”

***

Clearly frustrated that his usual persuasive manner had failed, Holmes walked so quickly away from the house that Watson struggled to keep up. He stopped suddenly beside the large pond on the front lawn. The biting cold had caused the water to freeze except for a small hole where a single swan was graciously floating. Watson caught up panting slightly and worried about how unfit a desk-job had made him. It was a blessed relief to think that he would never again have to work in no-win-no-fee hell.

Holmes watched the swan for a few moments then took out his phone. He dashed off a text and Watson noticed that the recipient was Hopkins.

“Come on,” he finally said, rubbing his hands together against the cold. “Fancy a trip to the marina?”

***

Chatham Marina looked beautiful as the winter sunshine broke through the clouds. Elegant boats gleamed in its brightness and bobbed gently in the calm waters. It reminded Watson of a holiday he had taken with his wife at Brixham. They had sat on the harbour wall eating fish and chips straight from the bag. He felt a horrible pang of sadness and distracted himself by taking in his surroundings. Small rusting vessels were slotted in beside gorgeous big yachts. Oh how the other half live he thought to himself, wondering how some people managed to achieve that lifestyle while others chipped away at the coalface all their lives and had little to show for it. Oh God, I’m turning into a bitter person as well as a moaning one. ‘Self publish and be dammed’ might be just what I need to kick myself up the ass.

“Are you talking to me or to yourself?” Holmes asked quizzically.

“Oh sorry, did I say that out loud?”

“That’s the one,”

“Sorry?”

“The Welbourne’s yacht. It’s over there, look - Satan’s Lot. Lestrade informs me that the captain will be on board.”

Watson looked up in wonder as they approached the magnificent vessel. To his surprise, it wasn’t the pimped-up motorised super-yacht he was expecting. Instead Satan’s Lot was a beautiful sailing yacht with magnificently polished timbers and pristine white sails stowed away while she was at rest.

“Wow, it’s surprisingly tasteful,” he exclaimed.

Holmes, bold as ever, unhooked the chain across the gangplank and started to walk up to the deck. Watson hesitantly followed. A terribly handsome man suddenly appeared on the deck. Mid fifties with silver hair, deep brown eyes, golden tan and physique a man half his age would envy - Captain Jack Croker was the most attractive man Watson had ever seen. He was wearing his uniform of white trousers and a fitted white t-shirt with the boat’s emblem upon it - a devil’s pitchfork.

“Can I help you gentleman?” he asked in a deep voice befitting his old-fashioned movie star looks. He was very tall, even taller than Holmes and not many men could claim that.

“Captain Croker I presume?” Holmes asked.

“Yes. Who am I addressing please? Are you aware that you have just come aboard a private yacht without invitation?”

“I am a friend of Karen Welbourne and act in her best interests as well as your own. Gareth Lestrade told me where to find you and this boat. The very boat you took over three months ago when the Welbournes’ holidayed in Corsica. I hear that you start a new commission tomorrow. Thinking of moving on Mr Croker?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny what you speak of; confidentiality is the cornerstone of my reputation.”

“And what a reputation it is Captain. I have heard not one single word against you in all of my investigations. In fact, everyone who has had dealings with you since you took the captaincy of this vessel tell of a hard working man of the highest integrity. If you would only confide in me, I will promise to take all this into consideration and urge the police to do the same. I do have some influence in that area.”

Captain Croker looked around him anxiously and wrung his hands, but otherwise stayed completely calm.

“I do not know what you are talking about, nor do I wish to. Now please, I shall be speaking with the police myself if you do not leave this boat which is private property.”

“I give you one more chance Captain Croker...”

“What is your name?”

“I am Sherlock Holmes and I know everything about the death of Tyler Welbourne.”

There was a tense pause as the Captain studied the unyielding features of the world’s only consulting detective.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, “I can’t help you. Do what you must do.” Then he retreated back inside the boat and out of sight.

“With regret Watson, we must go to Scotland Yard at once. Fortunately I told the cab to wait.”

***

Watson sat beside his friend in the back of the cab as it weaved through the streets finally nearing Scotland Yard. Holmes had been a silent companion on the journey and Watson’s questions about Captain Croker and his significance to the investigation had gone unanswered. Holmes had slipped into a deep introspection and had a look of focused concentration upon his face. As they were on the final approach to their destination, Holmes suddenly asked the driver to pull over.

“It’s no good. I’ve gone over and over it in my mind and can’t see how any benefit can come from this course of action. Watson, do you trust my judgement? My own sense of justice?”

“Without question.”

“Then let’s go back to Baker Street. I need some time to think this over and you need to take back that mannequin.”

“I’m not doing it - I’m not pretending to be a pervert. I know I said I’d help with your work but there are limits Holmes.”

“Not for me. There are no lengths to which I will not go.”

“Take it back yourself then.”

“I’m happy to delegate. You look more like a pervert than me.”

“Thanks. You do say the nicest things. I’m going through a midlife crisis here. I need the support and encouragement of my friends to help me through - not being told I look like a perv.”

They sat in silence for the rest of the journey as the cab changed course and headed for Baker Street. Watson seriously hoped Holmes wasn’t expecting him to pay half the fare.

***

Hopkins was waiting for them, standing on the doorstep huddled into his overcoat. After standing there for ten minutes he had hoped to at least be invited in, at best be given a hot drink and a few biscuits. He received neither. Instead, he stood on the doorstep and told Holmes that his text was correct and the stolen silver had been recovered from the bottom of the duck pond at the front of Abbey Strange. Clearly it had been thrown through the hole in the ice. Hopkins wanted to know why the burglars would throw away their haul.

“The burglars? So, not the Randalls anymore?”

“No Mr Holmes, they were arrested this morning in New York. They were on the other side of the Atlantic when Tyler Welbourne breathed his last. There are other gangs operating in the area so I guess we must investigate all possibilities. Do you think they were hiding the silver and intending to come back? Perhaps they were disturbed and panicked.”

“Perhaps the whole thing was a blind, Hopkins.”

“I just can’t get to grips with it. Any hint you can give me would be gratefully received.”

“I’ve just given you one. Now, if you are too stupid to follow it up then it’s hardly my fault. I will act as I see fit. Goodnight Hopkins, it’s been a long day and Watson is having a midlife crisis. We must be getting on...”

With that, he opened the door, ushered Watson inside then shut it in Hopkins’ face.

“Sometimes you really are quite rude,” Watson exclaimed.

“Sometimes the truth is needed. Sometimes it is best kept hidden. Hopkins is an official person and must always act on the truth. I am able to act on my own judgement.”

***

John Croker turned up at 221b later that night, just as Holmes knew he would. He looked ruggedly handsome, from his stubbly square jaw to his healthy complexion glowing from the cold evening air.

“Captain Croker,” said Holmes, “please take a seat by the electric fire and warm yourself. I knew you would seek me out. Who gave you the address? Was it Lestrade?”

“Yes. And he spoke very highly of your character. I have come here not for my own sake, but for Karen’s and ask that if I tell you all, you will make sure I am the only one to be punished. That is my condition and you must agree to it.”

“You must tell me all anyway because however stupid the Scotland Yarders are, they may work it out in the end. And they will spare no one I can assure you. My position is somewhat more flexible than theirs. Watson, please bring our visitor a drink,”

“Tea?”

“I would suggest something stronger,” replied Holmes as the proud and strong figure of Captain Jack Croker visibly withered under the realisation of his situation.

Croker gratefully accepted the brandy Watson gave him.

“I regret nothing and would do the same again if I had to,” he said with strong conviction. He rubbed his hand across his brow and took more brandy. “I met Karen Welbourne three months ago. The captain of their yacht was retiring and he interviewed me to be his replacement. He knew of my good reputation - I was in the navy for many years and had gone on to captain various boats belonging to the rich and famous. He told me he was happy to give me the position but that I must have a final interview with the owner. Karen took me to lunch, a lovely little cafe overlooking the sea in Ajaccio, Corsica. I thought she was the most beautiful, spirited woman I’d ever seen. I was captivated straight away. You hear of such things and think it will never happen to you, but it did, there and then at that little table with a blue chequered cloth.

I took charge of Satan’s Lot and spent a blissful three weeks sailing the family around the med. Karen and I spent increasing amounts of time together as she avoided that evil brute she was married to. She was intelligent company, smart, funny and kind. Never has a man fallen so hard and so fast as I did for Karen Welbourne. Nothing actually happened between us but she was in no doubt as to my feelings. We spoke of a possible future together, I begged her to leave her unhappy marriage but she said it was hard after being Mrs Tyler Welbourne for so many years. Their lives were so intertwined that she feared losing everything she had worked for all her life. They own businesses together, a property portfolio worth millions and she’s still his manager.

I had no choice other than to accept her decision but it was terrible to see the way he treated her while they were onboard - snorting drugs with his aged rock star friends then being aggressive towards her. It took all my strength and respect for her to resist throwing him overboard. Her assistant Craig was holidaying with them and I took him into my confidence. I told him about my feelings for Karen and that I’d do anything to make her happy again. He cares for her too - not in the same way as me of course but enough to understand how awful the situation is.

After their holiday ended and the Welbourne’s returned to their lives, I brought the boat to Chatham and started to ask around for a new commission. I couldn’t stay working for the family anymore, it was too painful. But Craig came out to see me at the marina a few times. He urged me to talk to her again, persuade her to leave Tyler and start a new life with me.

Well, I managed to secure a new position on a boat leaving for Spain tomorrow. But even though it was my intention, I couldn’t bring myself to leave without saying goodbye to the woman I loved. Craig called me two nights ago, told me Tyler was in bed recovering from a heavy session and that the staff were all asleep. He said that he had left the French window in the dining room open and that Karen would go in there when she did her nightly checks. I could sneak in and speak with her without anyone knowing and causing a scandal. The staff who had been with us on the boat already suspected there was something between us. I think that even Tyler sensed there was a connection.

I live nearby in Sydenham so I raced to the house. I found the French door open just as Craig had told me it would be. As I waited in the darkness I heard Karen’s voice out in the corridor. Then I heard Tyler’s - they were clearly arguing. I waited silently for them to enter the room.”

Croker paused in his narrative to take more brandy as the painful memories played out in his mind’s eye. Looking into the amber depths of the glass he slowly continued.

“Karen turned on the light as they walked in and the argument carried on. I could see that Tyler was drunk and in a rage. I noticed to my horror that he had a baseball bat in his hand. Suddenly he lifted it and swung it at her, striking a blow just above her eye. My poor Karen cried out in pain and I rushed forward to protect her. As soon as he saw me, his rage intensified. He started swinging the bat at me, aiming for my head. I reached for the poker and struck him hard across the back of his head. I didn’t realise my own strength. I was so angry with him for hurting Karen, for making the life of this brilliant, strong woman a misery. I put all of my anger into that blow and I watched as he fell to the floor. He didn’t move or cry out. Karen’s scream had alerted Craig and he rushed into the room.

The three of us stood there like fools simply not knowing what to do. I said that I was happy to call the police and tell them what I had done. I wasn’t ashamed and had no regrets at all. That animal got what he deserved as far as I was concerned and I was happy to have freed her from his terrible ways. But Karen begged me not to make that call. She didn’t want my life to be ruined because of him.

I opened a bottle of wine with the screw attached to my pen knife and urged her to take a drink to steady her nerves. I poured myself a glass too. Craig remained calm and began to form a plan. He knew of the Randalls, as did Karen because they had recently burgled a neighbour. Their descriptions had been printed in the paper. Karen is a very intelligent woman and soon took command of the situation. I got swept along with their ideas eager to help her avoid having her own good name dragged through the mud. I jumped up and cut the bell-rope - she assured me the bell wouldn’t ring as it was just for show. I tied her to a chair and frayed the end of the rope with my knife to make things look authentic. We poured the dregs from our two glasses into a third so that it would look as if three people had been drinking. She suggested some valuables I could take and they agreed to summon help fifteen minutes after I left to give me a clear run. I dropped the silver into the pond then headed quickly back to my own house at Sydenham. I lay in bed that night feeling nothing but relief that I had freed her from a monster. I intended to leave tomorrow for Spain as planned knowing that the woman I loved was safe. That is the truth Mr Holmes. Do with it what you will.”

Holmes sat in silence for some time, smoking thoughtfully on a cigarette. Watson opened the window despite the cold. He had tried many times over the years to cure his friend of his smoking habit but all attempts had failed. This included patches, E-cigarettes and lists of all the shocking medical details about the damage it caused - including photos. All this seemed to do was make him want to smoke more. So, Watson was left with damage-limitation as his only option, mainly stopping him from breaking the law and smoking in confined public places, such as on trains and once in a theatre. Holmes sensed Watson’s disapproval but was clearly consumed by greater thoughts.

“I know you have told the truth Captain Croker,” he finally said, “because you have told us everything I already knew. Who else other than an acrobat or a sailor could have reached the top of that rope? And it had to be someone at least two inches taller than me. The knots which secured Karen Welbourne to the chair had clearly been tied by a sailor. So all I had to do was work out when she may have come into contact with a sailor, someone with a traditional navy background who knew how to tie knots and scale rigging. And as she was shielding the person, it had to be someone she loved. Karen had made comments to Della about ‘the one that got away’. This was my first clue that a lover may have some relevance to the case. When Craig lied about seeing the Randalls from his bedroom window I became convinced that the pair were covering for someone. I made enquiries with Lestrade who told me the Welbournes owned a traditional sailing yacht and had recently hired a new captain - a tall handsome man of impeccable character. The rest was easy to piece together.”

“You have my respect for what you have done Mr Holmes, I only wish that I could have yours for what I have achieved in freeing the world of that dreadful man. I didn’t think the police would ever work this out.”

“And they haven’t. Possibly they won’t. I understand your motives and can see that you acted in defence of yourself and someone you care for. I’m sure that a jury would take all this into account and show leniency. But, because you have captured my sympathy, if you take that commission to Spain tomorrow, I can promise that no one will know the truth for at least twenty-four hours.”

“But then all will come out?”

“For certain Croker, but by then you could be clear away.”

“Well what sort of an option is that? Karen will be made an accomplice, she will be arrested. No, that’s not an option at all - I cannot leave her and Craig to face the music alone for what I have done. I take full responsibility and will happily make a confession to the police as long as I can say it was all my idea and they were innocent of any wrongdoing. I don’t care what happens to me.”

“Congratulations,” said Holmes with a smile, offering out his hand, “you’ve passed the test.”

Croker shook his hand with a puzzled expression on his rugged features.

“I don’t understand?”

“I’ve given the police a pretty big hint and it’s hardly my fault if they are too stupid to follow it up. So, I can feel completely justified in exercising my own judgement here. You are currently our prisoner Captain Croker - I am the judge and Watson can be the jury.”

“I can?” Watson asked in surprise, wafting smoke away from his face.

“I knew you and your morals would come in useful one day Watson. I can think of no better person. So, you’ve heard all the evidence. How do you find this man - guilty or not guilty?”

“Guilty of nothing but falling in love and wanting to...”

“Save the waffle for your books Doctor.”

“Not guilty, your honour.”

“And there you have it Captain Croker. You have been tried and tested in a fair manner and found innocent. I give you my word that unless another person is accused of this crime, the police will not learn of your actions from me. And I think it’s unlikely they will figure it out for themselves. I suggest you take that commission and travel to Spain tomorrow then return in a year and see how things stand between you and Karen Welbourne.”

Holmes opened the living room door.

“You are free to go Captain Jack Croker. I wish you well.”

***

Captain Jack did indeed return to claim the hand of the woman he loved after a year at sea. By which time Lestrade had officially become Mr Della Breton and Gregson, his old rival, had followed him into security work. Only difference was that instead of landing a top job and pop-star wife, Gregson ended up as the security manager of a local supermarket, complete with cheap uniform and rather embarrassing hat.

Things had changed quite dramatically for John Watson too. Now free from ‘no-win-no-fee-hell’ and his dysfunctional marriage, he had taken Holmes’ advice and self-published a collection of their adventures together. He proactively contacted all the people who had sent fan-mail, as well as various online groups interested in crime stories, criminology and forensic research. The response was slow at first so he learnt how to create an e-book making it easier and cheaper for people to access his work.

Gradually, word-of-mouth started to spread and the general public discovered his well-written tales about his unusual and brilliant flat-mate. Download sales grew steadily and the book started cropping up in ‘top-ten’ lists across the internet. Now, instead of a harpoon and a mannequin (which Holmes took back in the end - they believed his story and Watson happily remarked that he obviously looked more like a pervert than he thought - despite having cosmetic fillers in his forehead), Watson’s bedroom at 221b became full of copies of his book waiting to be posted out to fans and followers. Even Defonte crawled back out from under his rock and assumed Watson would jump at the chance to be signed with him again. Instead, he politely declined - which felt so darn good.

In the end, John Watson was grateful to his midlife crisis. It forced him to examine his life and shake things up a bit. He got a new career and a very expensive watch out of it too. But most of all he was grateful to Sherlock Holmes for being annoying, arrogant, vain, brilliant and the best friend he could ever have hoped for.