THEY WERE UP AND OUT IN plenty of time for Soames to set things to rights the next morning, Skye assuring Holmes that Ryker would pick up their overnight kits and return them to the hotel. A beaming Soames met them downstairs, and Skye thanked him sincerely for the opportunity to stay in the flat.
“Indeed,” Holmes agreed quietly, the grey eyes shining with unspoken gratitude.
“No, no,” Soames murmured with a happy smile. “I’m the one who should be thanking you—both of you. This is a dream, to actually meet the real Sherlock Holmes. I can’t believe it’s truly happening. Thank you so much.”
Holmes’ cheeks grew dusky, and his eyes sparkled. He took the proffered hand and shook it firmly; then the couple bundled up in their coats and departed the museum.
* * *
Eschewing breakfast, they spent the morning rambling through Regents Park while Holmes pointed out the walking paths he and Watson once frequented, then he took Skye by the hand.
“Skye, would you object to accompanying me on what may end up being a wild goose chase and a fool’s errand?” he asked in doubt.
“No, not at all. What did you have in mind?”
“First I should like to run down Baker Street to one of the shops, and acquire a sketch pad and some tinted pencils, to begin with. Then…and here is where the fool’s errand may enter play…I should like to try to find Watson’s old homes in Paddington and Kensington. I am curious to discover whether those houses exist, or not.”
“Are you sure it won’t just hurt you, instead of merely satisfying your curiosity?”
“No,” Holmes uncharacteristically confessed, “but…it is something I find I must know. And we may as well do it now and get it over with, for good or ill.”
“Lead on, then.”
* * *
In short order the art supplies were procured and an early lunch tucked away before the pair made their way on foot to Paddington. A left, a right, and another left off the main road, and they stood in front of the very first street address Watson could claim as his own after his marriage. Holmes gazed pensively on the house for quite some time. Skye studied his face for several moments.
“Yes and no, huh?” she observed.
“Indeed. It is, and yet is not, the house in the which Watson dwelt as a newlywed with his own bride. At least externally it is correct in most details, but…you see the wing to the left?” Holmes gestured at the structure in question. “It is a single storey, yet in Watson’s day and my continuum, it was possessed of two storeys, with his consulting rooms downstairs and study upstairs.”
“But this house doesn’t show evidence of such a major structural renovation as that would have been, to remove an entire story from the wing.”
“Exactly.” Holmes sighed. “Well, let us on to Kensington and see what may be seen.”
They cut across Kensington Gardens hard by the palace and waved to the Duchess as they went by, seeing her strolling in the snowy lawn as they took the Broad Walk through the gardens to Kensington Road.
Some half an hour later they stood before the correct address. “Not even close,” Holmes decreed, and turned away.
They walked the length of Hyde Park and arrived back at their hotel in time for early tea.
* * *
Holmes spent the rest of the afternoon sketching at the desk in their suite’s sitting room. As dinnertime neared, he showed Skye the results.
“This is what my old lodgings looked like, Skye, as nearly as I can make them,” he noted, laying out for her several pages of tinted drawings in the sketchbook. “Here is the outside of the building…” he held up a page displaying a multi-story terrace-style house fronted in what appeared to be limestone, well maintained and handsome, not unlike the exterior of the building in which they had spent the previous night. “And these next are the rooms within. The sitting-room, my bedroom, Watson’s bedroom, and the bath,” he pointed out, leafing through the pages of the sketchbook. “Here is even Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen downstairs. You can see that the museum is not so very far off in its appearance, though some of the furniture was upholstered differently, and the colours on the walls are at variance.”
“Wow,” Skye said in sincere amazement, pondering the detailed color depictions. “Those are incredible. I want to take these home and frame them, if you don’t mind, honey. Um, Sherlock, don’t take this the wrong way—I don’t want to belittle your work at all, but it’s almost dinnertime, and I’m starved. Would you mind running and getting ready for dinner, so we can go upstairs to the restaurant and eat? I made reservations earlier. We only foraged yesterday and today, but I want you to have one really nice meal for your birthday, and we’ll get a good view of the city up there. But let’s bring this, because I want to have time to look at it and do it justice.” She patted the sketchbook.
“Very well,” he agreed, rising and turning toward the bedroom.
Five minutes later they were headed up in the lift for the restaurant on the top floor of the hotel, the sketchbook tucked firmly under Holmes’ arm.
* * *
Of course it was a surprise party. A private room with panoramic windows had been set aside, and Ryker’s unit, as well as the Director General, her assistant, and one or two of the other high level Secret Service officials, eagerly awaited.
Holmes flushed with a combination of annoyance and secret pleasure: Annoyance that he’d been too absorbed in his sketches to notice the signs, and pleasure that the little group—and especially his wife—cared enough to celebrate his special day. Though I should not admit it for the world, he thought firmly.
He had to privately acknowledge, however: the decorations were something of a mystery to him. Black balloons, black streamers, and a banner reading, “Over The Hill,” he noted, bemused. Not to mention the sign saying, “Lordy, Lordy, Holmes is forty.” By Jove, it looks like some sort of bizarre funeral. Skye looks rather taken aback at the decorations, as well. I shall therefore assume Ryker & Co. are responsible.
“Well, I must say you managed to pull off a surprise party rather better than Watson did, my dear Skye,” the detective finally commented with fond humor. “Still, I am not certain this is a good thing. You have shown a distinct talent for deception in recent days. Can I trust you?” He let his grey eyes crinkle in an almost-smile.
“You know better than that, Holmes,” Ryker grinned. “The way The Boss looks at you, do you really have to ask? She’d sooner throw herself before a tube train, I think.”
Everyone laughed, and Skye blushed crimson. But Holmes caught the look in her eye just before she dropped her gaze demurely, and his breath caught in glad understanding. He is right, the detective realized. She really would prefer to die than break faith with me.
“Look, Ryker, this is what Sherlock did this afternoon,” Skye said in what her husband had come to recognize as one of her classic diversions, as she slipped the sketchbook from Holmes’ grasp. Holmes loosened his fingers to allow her to take the pad, willing to permit it and knowing the others would be interested in seeing. “After spending last night at the museum, he sat down and sketched out exactly what his flat really looked like, inside and out.”
Skye opened the sketchpad and Ryker and the others clustered around in fascination.
“Damn,” Ryker said, impressed, “I didn’t know he could draw, too.”
“It stands to reason,” the Director General observed. “His great-uncle WAS a famous artist, after all.”
“Well, that’s true,” Ryker admitted.
“It isn’t much different from the museum, is it?” Wang noted, studying the drawings.
“No, it is not,” Holmes agreed. “Some of the details are different, however. Colours, fabrics, and whatnot.”
“Can I have a copy of the set?” Stevens asked tentatively.
“Me, too,” Wang nodded.
“Make it three,” Ryker grinned.
“I want a set,” Miss Brooks piped up.
“Copies all around,” the director chuckled. “And don’t forget Williams’ unit, or he’ll never forgive me.”
Holmes blinked, then stared at the group.
“But…why would any of you want a copy?” he wondered. “It is—was—my home, and only has personal significance to me.”
“Sherlock, I’d be willing to bet a really big chunk of change most of these folks first got interested in investigation, intelligence, and counter-intelligence through Watson’s stories of your adventures.” Skye laid a hand on his forearm.
“And you’d be right,” the director confirmed. “The number of times that crops up in application interviews is amazing.”
“So,” Skye continued, “what does that make you, in their eyes?”
“A hero,” Ryker answered her. “A real, flesh and blood hero and inspiration. That gives it personal significance to every last blessed one of us.”
Holmes fell silent, dumbstruck. Finally he offered, “Admiration is one thing, but I do not wish to be put upon a pedestal. I am only human, after all, and it is a considerable distance to fall.”
“That, Sir Sherlock,” the director remarked, “is exactly why they—oh hell, I might as well admit it—why WE love you so much. You ARE human. You’re no longer merely words upon a page, but a living, breathing, feeling person—someone we may one day earn the right to call friend.”
“Some of us already do,” Ryker murmured proudly.
And suddenly the detective understood what Skye had been trying to tell him the previous day. I have made a difference in this world, he realized in wonder. For over a hundred years, I have had a presence here. Without ever having lived here until recent months, I have affected lives, I have been a force for good, at least as much as ever I was in my own world. And all because of Watson’s stories. When I meet the dear old chap at the Pearly Gates, I shall owe him a profuse, and profound, apology.
“Very well, then,” he agreed. “Is there a particular way you should like to have prints made?”
“If you’ll let me borrow this, I’ll take them to the graphics department first thing tomorrow morning and have a limited run made,” Ryker offered, patting the sketchbook almost reverently. “Go ahead and sign them, then we’ll have the prints numbered. I’ll make sure to run an extra set for Soames, too; I’m sure he’d love to have them, even if only as a go-by in maintaining the museum display. I ought to be able to get them back to you tomorrow.”
“Don’t forget the Queen,” the Director suggested. “I’m certain she’d be delighted in a set.” Skye’s eyes widened. So did Holmes’; then he shook his head, still bemused by the whole thing.
“All right,” Holmes finally acquiesced. He signed all of the drawings in the corner—W. S. S. Holmes—then handed the sketchbook to Ryker, who put it carefully with his uniform jacket.
Then the lot sat down to a congenial and delicious prime rib dinner, which was finished off with a trifle—Holmes’ favorite dessert—and a simple white birthday cake.
Holmes could not have imagined a more special celebration.
* * *
Late that night, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes lay quietly in bed. The hotel suite was dark, and the pair cuddled close, content simply to be together. After some time, Skye’s voice vibrated softly through the darkness.
“Sherlock?”
“Yes, Skye?”
“Can I ask you some questions?”
“Always.”
“Even personal stuff?”
“Anything. As you already know, I may not be able to answer every one of them, but for you, and no other, I will certainly try.”
“Okay, then. Um, why are you so independent?”
“Am I?” he wondered. “It seems to me that I have not been so since I first encountered Watson, so many years ago. And certainly not since coming here. But perhaps I am more independent than the average person, at that. Why, I cannot say for sure. Most of it is likely a natural bent, for Mycroft was of a similar mind. Some was due to my upbringing,” he decided. “Father desired us to be strong and able to stand upon our own two good legs. It is because of him I have the pugilistic and martial skills I possess.”
“I bet your mom was responsible for the violin, though, wasn’t she?” Skye surmised, temporarily diverted from her initial inquiry.
“She was,” he confessed, the grin audible even in the dark. “But Mother and Father both encouraged the development of our intellects. Though to complete answering your original question, it was my difference from other children, and later, young men, that finished the matter, I suspect. My interests, skills, and abilities frankly set me apart, whether I would or no.”
“Did you want to fit in?”
“Passionately, at first,” the detective admitted. “For a child—especially so active a boy as I was—playmates are all-important. I had few. I did not excel at team sports such as cricket or rugby. I was far too gangling a youth for the latter especially, as I discovered at the cost of the only broken bone I have ever suffered.”
“What was it?”
“Arm. Left radius, to be specific. So that put paid to the matter fairly rapidly. When I was old enough, I joined the local hunt, which proved more congenial to my innate abilities and natural bent. That is where I first developed my intimate knowledge of horses, as well as such a solid seat.”
“In more ways than one,” Skye’s devilish grin could be heard in her voice. There was the soft spatting sound of bare skin being patted in the dark.
“Mph! Stop that!” Holmes chuckled; then, knowing what she was about to say, added, “For now.”
“Oh. Later?”
“‘Later’ is acceptable,” he responded, amused. “At any rate, my participation in the hunt lasted for a few years, until I decided small wild things were becoming too scarce in the English countryside to be chasing them haphazardly through fields and woods, only to end their lives at the snapping teeth of a pack of hounds. By that time, I was ready to begin university anyway, and this matter of my independence was firmly cemented a few years later by the actions of ‘our dear Lily.’”
“Oh, yeah,” Skye muttered darkly, as if pronouncing imprecations. “Her.”
Holmes chuckled, openly amused and secretly pleased by the evidence of Skye’s jealousy and protectiveness.
“Why did you wish to know, my dear?”
He heard the sheets rustle, and felt her shoulders shrug in his arms.
“Just trying to figure something out.”
“And what would that be?”
There was a long silence.
“Skye?” he prompted after a moment.
“Well,” Skye finally murmured in a small, hesitant voice, and Holmes paid close attention, immediately comprehending something important was about to be confessed. “I know you…you want me.”
“I should think it obvious.”
“And I know you…love me.”
“Without question.”
“But Sherlock…” he felt her swallow hard, “do you…”
She broke off, and there was a pause.
“Do I what, Skye?” he urged gently, suspecting what was coming.
“Do you NEED me?” she blurted.
“As breath,” he responded instantly, without hesitation.
“Really?” It was a childlike whisper.
“Really,” he averred. “Skye, you are a brilliant hyperspatial dynamicist. But do you fully understand the dynamics of our relationship? Do you comprehend, for instance, that in my own reality I had an entire retinue of persons upon which to rely—Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft; Lestrade, Gregson, and the rest of Scotland Yard; Billy, Wiggins and the Irregulars? But all of that was ripped away when I came here. No, it is NOT your fault, and I’ll hear none of it,” he put a silencing finger to her lips as soon as he heard her intake of breath. “It was far preferable to having my brains dashed out upon the rocks near Meiringen. My entire point, my dear, is simply this: I went from a complete…‘support network,’ I believe you would term it, to essentially nothing, in a matter of seconds.”
“But you have a support group,” Skye pointed out. “And it stretches across two continents.”
“I do now. I did not at first,” Holmes reminded her. “For some considerable time after I arrived in this universe, there really was but one person in my support group, and she comprised the whole of my world, the one being I knew beyond all doubt I could trust. You.”
“So…all this is about being grateful?”
He chuckled.
“You, of all people, know me well enough to appreciate that no amount of gratitude would induce me to propose marriage if both my heart and mind were not in accord regarding its desirability, my dear.” He paused long enough to press his lips to her cheek. “No, Skye, listen carefully now, for I shall only say this once. You are my mainstay, my anchour, and the one fixed point of reference I have in this world. I should say that was needful, wouldn’t you?”
Skye said nothing for long moments, but he felt her ribcage flutter convulsively several times as a shudder wracked her body; momentarily she struggled for breath, and a sobbing gasp escaped her.
“Skye?” he whispered, worried. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she breathed, turning into him and burying her face in his chest. “Yes, I’m feeling wonderful.”
“I should have to agree,” he noted mischievously, pulling his overwhelmed wife close.
* * *
The next morning saw Brooks ushering them into the office of the Director General of Her Majesty’s Secret Service with a fawning courtesy bordering on obsequiousness—directed principally, Skye noted, at her husband. She shrugged, not sure whether to be amused or offended. Poor Sherlock, hero worship strikes again. Skye was relieved when the Director dismissed her assistant.
Characteristically, Holmes took no notice of Brooks. But he was amused—and gratified—to note the prints of his sketches already hung on the wall of the office, tastefully matted and framed. The director welcomed them cordially, and they sat down across the desk from her.
“Did you have a good birthday?” she asked Holmes with a smile.
“Capital,” Holmes chuckled. “Your aid to my wife in the setting up was most appreciated—by both of us.”
“Ah, I’ve been caught!” the director laughed. “Well, it isn’t every day I have the opportunity to do something for a living legend. I’m glad you enjoyed it. I know you’re here on holiday, and I hate to interrupt it, but I should like to request your assistance in this matter we’ve mentioned. It is in all probability a hoax, but if anyone can ascertain that, it’s likely to be the two of you.”
“So the UFO sightings are still ongoing?” Skye wondered.
“They are,” the director nodded, “and getting more frequent. Ryker, as your liaison while in the UK, is getting together a dossier on the matter, and should be here momentarily. He also has your sketchbook,” she added to Holmes. “He’s kept it in his classified document safe, like the treasure it is. He’ll return it when he arrives.”
The door opened on the tail end of the director’s comment, and Ryker noted, “He’s arrived,” as he entered. He had several items in his arms, including an accordion folder and Holmes’ sketchpad.
“Here we are.” He handed the pad to Holmes and the accordion folder to Chadwick-Holmes. “Have a go at that.”
Holmes placed the sketchbook on the end of the director’s desk and leaned over to watch as Skye opened the accordion folder.
“No security markings,” he observed, as she extracted the contents.
“No,” Ryker agreed. “The material in that folder isn’t classified. It’s just basic reports of the sightings. The only classified info is in regard to the base itself, and it’s something we can tell you, sitting here.”
“Ah,” Holmes nodded.
“Which do we need to know first?” Skye wondered.
Ryker glanced at his organisation’s leader, who shrugged.
“I suppose we may as well start with the classified information,” she decided. “Who knows? It may raise a red flag for you that we haven’t seen yet. Keep in mind you are under no obligation to do this; we only thought it might be good to have your eyes upon the matter in addition to our own.”
“Uh, boss, that’s no longer quite true,” Ryker said wryly, handing her the last remaining folder in his hand. “Have a gander at that first.”
The Director General took the folder, flipped it open; began to scan the report inside. Her eyes grew wide, and she paled slightly.
“I see,” she murmured, seeming stunned. “That clinches the matter, then. We require your help.”
Holmes and his wife glanced at each other, perturbed.
“What’s wrong?” Skye asked.
“Most everything,” the director noted morosely. “It seems there was a death in the civilian population outside the base last night, which is being blamed on a UFO. A significant segment of the local populace is up in arms, claiming the base is not abandoned, but active, and the UFO is in reality an RAF experimental aircraft. They’re blaming the government for the death, and calling for a high level, independent inquiry. Which latter is, of course, where the two of you come in.”
* * *
An hour later they had all the details in hand.
Bentwaters, as Billy had already explained, was still an active base, though its activities had been taken, literally, underground. It was heavily involved in the research and development of advanced aircraft, and even some spacecraft design. This included, but did not seem limited to, stealth technology, nuclear propulsion, electronic fly by wire avionics development, and unorthodox and potentially unstable aerodynamic shapes.
The historical UFO sightings in the region dated back several decades, when the base had been openly active; but there had been a lull in activity until some four months ago, when virtually the entire island nation had been buzzed by an unidentified bogey. The initial sightings in the recent series had been mostly by radar, specifically at the Fylingdales base, but these had gone on to include many ground-based visual sightings as well.
The government’s fear was that the objects might be spy craft of some enemy nation-state, though as yet the technology seemed untraceable to any other country. Other options for explanation being considered included a hoax, the usual bog gas, a collection of several innocuous natural phenomena, and lastly, extraterrestrial technology. Skye shrewdly eyed the director.
“And whatever it is causing these sightings, the British government has nothing to do with it?” she asked bluntly.
“Nothing whatsoever,” the director answered sincerely.
“Nor with the death of this civilian?” Holmes added sharply.
“Absolutely not,” the woman replied confidently.
Skye and Holmes exchanged glances; Holmes nodded and turned his attention back to the two members of the Secret Service.
“And what do the two of you consider it to be?” Holmes asked.
“I am maintaining an open mind,” the director stated, then admitted, “though I lean toward hoax as an explanation, personally. But regardless of the source of the objects, the attention it is drawing to RAF Bentwaters is putting the underground base—and especially its programs—at significant risk. The general public are already entirely too close to the truth for comfort, based on this latest report.”
“And you, Ryker?” Holmes pressed. “What is your opinion of the identity of this object?”
The operative drew a deep, slow breath, considering, and obviously uncomfortable with the question. Finally he leaned over Skye’s shoulder and flipped through the documentation in her lap.
“The easiest way for me to answer is to make sure you have a look at this.”
“What are they?” Holmes wondered, gazing at the diagrams and statistics under Ryker’s finger.
“Flight profiles,” he replied succinctly.
“Ohmigosh,” Skye gasped when she saw the flight profiles of the objects. “This…this isn’t possible!”
“Not by any technology we have, no,” Ryker noted grimly. “Supersonic right angles and sharp reverse manoeuvres at those speeds do tend to shear apart anything we know how to build. And I use ‘we’ corporately, as in ‘human race,’ not just ‘Brits.’”
“My dear Skye, are you amenable to postponing the rest of our holiday while we look into this little matter?” Holmes glanced at his wife.
“I think you could talk me into it, Sherlock.” The sapphire eyes gazing back at him gleamed with fascinated curiosity.
“I suspected as much. There are some logistics to consider…”
“Already on that, Sir Sherlock,” the director noted. “Williams and his team will continue tending your ranch as long as you need to be away; he stationed a couple of his people in the bunkhouse, so they’re available around the clock. He sends word everything is fine, by the way—cat, horses, and bees, all making the winter in good shape. Barn, outbuildings, and house are weathering the snows well, and periodically his men dig things out after the latest snowfall—including, I was told to inform you, the deck.
“Meanwhile,” she continued, “we have a nice little cottage all ready for the two of you just outside Woodbridge in Suffolk, off the road to a little village called Tangham. Ryker can take you there as soon as you like, or we can provide a vehicle for your convenience. You’ll have all the support you require, and we’ll set up any background story you recommend.”
“Then,” Holmes decided, “I believe you have two independent investigators available immediately.”
* * *
Two days later the couple was comfortably settled in Suffolk, in a quaint, cozy little cottage known as Gibson House, roughly halfway between the town of Woodbridge and the supposedly abandoned base. Little in the way of a cover other than their standard story had been issued; on the other hand, their arrival had not been publicized except to note that special independent investigators had been dispatched to the area to begin looking into the matter.
Gibson House was a delightful old stone dwelling which dated back to the early 1900’s, though it had been kept current in terms of amenities and services. Mr. Gibson had been a college professor, and had, according to Ryker, kept the family homestead up to date. When his son, a member of MI6, had died in the line of duty, Professor Gibson had willed the home to Her Majesty’s Secret Service as a safehouse and getaway cottage in his son’s memory. It was currently used largely as an innocuous getaway, so no significant security was in place.
It was accessed down a country lane, with a gravel drive neatly cordoning the front of the property into two parts: the lawn, in front of the house proper, containing a couple of ancient and venerable trees; and a vegetable garden to the right, dormant at this time of year. In the rear of the house was an extensive and typically English floral and herb garden. Gravel walking paths ran through it. A low stone wall surrounded the entire property, and it was fronted and screened from the road with a row of tall arborvitae.
A garage had been added to one end of the house, and this opened into a mudroom, thence into the hallway. The single bedroom opened off the hallway to the immediate right. The bedroom was cozy and old fashioned, with a wardrobe instead of a closet, a large chest of drawers, and a mirrored dresser. The bed was standard sized, with two nightstands flanking it. The whole was decorated in a medium shade of blue with cream accents.
Across the hall from the bedroom was the study. Its walls were lined with dark oak bookshelves, save for one area reserved for an old style slate chalkboard; a fireplace was embedded in the outer wall, around which clustered a small sofa, tea table, and two wing chairs. An oak desk and ergonomic desk chair stood near the blackboard, and a cordless phone unit sat unobtrusively on its corner.
The bathroom was next the bedroom, and between the bedroom and the sitting room. It was largely white and chrome, containing a built-in ceramic tub with shower, a toilet, a sink and vanity combination with mirror, and a substantial shelving unit, which housed all the bath toweling, as well as room for personal products.
A small linen closet opened off the hall and took up part of the bathroom’s space; it contained all the bed linens, blankets, spare pillows, and another shelf of bath towels.
The hallway dead-ended in the sitting room. The sitting room was the main room of the house, with a small foyer leading to the front door. It, too, had a fireplace, but a full sized sofa, several comfortable armchairs, end tables with lamps, a coffee table, and one dilapidated old wooden spindle rocking chair flanked this fireplace. Another cordless phone rested on one of the end tables. More bookcases stood in various corners, these in a cherrywood dark with age. Correspondingly, the room was decorated in deep reds with sage green accents.
Most of the house, save the mudroom, bedroom and bath, was floored with hardwood; but the bedroom was carpeted, and the mudroom and bathroom had stone tile flooring. Throw rugs were scattered attractively about, providing protection as well as decoration.
Opening off the other end of the sitting room, and comprising the last room in the house, was the kitchen. It was not over-large, Holmes noted, but it had a sink, a refrigerator, a range, and a microwave, as well as a small dining table and chairs, and cabinets—already stocked, he observed—sufficient for a week’s foodstuffs. It was floored in vinyl for ease of cleaning, though Holmes suspected it had once been hardwood as well. A door opened to the garden in the rear, so the herbs there could be easily reached. This will do nicely, he decided.
They brought with them few items of equipment, save their lenses, a small forensics kit, their special cell phones with cipher capability provided by the Secret Service at the beginning of their collaboration months earlier, and the entire accordion folder Ryker had provided, to include the medical report on the death. The dead man was one James McFarlane, a farmer in the region. Initial reports from his personal physician indicated he had died of a previously unknown heart condition. Evident fear from the UFO sighting had apparently triggered a massive coronary; the man had been found dead in his fields the next morning.
Holmes had promptly requested of Ryker the opportunity to examine the body; this was scheduled for the third day after their arrival, at the coroner’s office in Woodbridge. Their liaison also set up an appointment the day before that in Sutton with McFarlane’s personal physician, who had made the first post-mortem examination. After some discussion between themselves, Skye decided to stay at the cottage and try to organize the facts of the case while Holmes visited the attending physician. This had the dual advantages of allowing them to equitably distribute their attentions as well as permitting for a certain amount of discretion, as to any outsider it would simply appear they were a new couple in the area, the wife moving in while the husband set up logistical matters.
So Holmes took the car and headed off to the appointment Ryker had clandestinely set up with one Dr. Nathan Victor, while Skye took the accordion folder and spread its contents out on the desk in the cottage’s study.
* * *
“So, Mr. Holmes, you must admit, this makes for an interesting situation,” Dr. Nathan Victor said in his office, a wry grin on his face. “Of all things, I’d never have expected to have Sherlock Holmes in my office, investigating a death. Your parents certainly must have had a devilishly lively sense of humour.”
“They did,” Holmes agreed with a comradely chuckle. “My wife occasionally receives some…grief…about it from time to time. And the looks I get! You’d think I was the real thing, sprung to life from the pages of Conan Doyle’s stories!”
“I should think so,” Victor laughed. “I have to admit to a double-take when I saw your name on the appointment book. Your business card must have to have the whole story printed on the back.”
“No, not as yet,” Holmes grinned, “but I am considering it. Now, if you don’t mind, we really should get down to business. I’m sure you are a very busy man, and I myself have much to do to get the investigation organised and under way.”
“I expect so, outside investigator and all. I’m afraid I won’t be able to help too much, though. I assume you’ve already read my attending report?”
“I have. In some detail.”
“There really is nothing more to tell.” Victor shrugged. “Massive coronary, evidently brought on by severe shock and fear; time of death concurrent with a nearby, observed sighting of this UFO. McFarlane was found early the next morning by a passing neighbour, collapsed in one of his fields next the road. He’d been dead for some hours.”
“Who were the witnesses to the UFO sighting?”
“Oh, I couldn’t say,” Victor answered disinterestedly. “I suppose the local constabulary would have the reports. You know, I do recall seeing some unusual atmospheric phaenomenae that night, myself, though. Nothing that really got my attention until after poor McFarlane’s death, just some phosphorescent streaks in the sky, like you sometimes see after a meteor’s passage. It wasn’t until I considered it in retrospect that I realised I’d likely seen the UFO’s ion trail.”
“Did you report it?”
“No, no,” Victor shook his head. “I didn’t actually see the UFO, mind; and what I saw was innocent enough. It may well have been as innocuous as a meteor trail.”
“I take it you are not a believer in the UFO phaenomenon?” Holmes asked, cocking one eyebrow.
“Oh, I don’t know I have an opinion, either way,” Victor offered indifferently. “The term ‘UFO,’ I’ve no objection to; it simply means ‘unidentified flying object.’ The notion that they’re flying saucers from another world? Well, I’m a man of science, certainly, and I would need proof, hard evidence, of something as momentous as all that. But on the other hand, the Drake Equation certainly lays out the concept that there are more species than just we humans floating around the universe. What a pity we’ve no idea the values that should go into that equation. I suppose in the end I’d have to say I think there are other beings out there, but I’m skeptical about their visiting us.”
“Well, that is certainly a very sound and rational way of thinking about it,” Holmes agreed. “Given that, what do you think is the true explanation for this phaenomenon that seems to be popping up all around here in recent weeks?”
“Oh…I shouldn’t like to speculate,” Victor shook his head, the physician obviously awkward and uneasy with the question. “Could be anything, could be several things. I’m inclined towards natural causes, myself. Meteors, clouds in the jet stream reflecting the moonlight, any of dozens of things.”
“And did you know McFarlane well? That is to say, was he a fanciful or superstitious man, excitable and prone to alarm or apprehension?” Holmes reverted back to his original line of inquiry.
“He was a patient of mine, yes. I suppose I knew him fairly well. For my part, I considered him a friend. What a shame we hadn’t any prior indication of his cardiovascular condition; I might have been able to treat him, to prevent his death…” He went off into a regretful reverie for a few moments before returning to the subject. “He could be a bit superstitious, yes, as any rural, relatively uneducated man can be on occasion. Excitable? I suppose so. I’ve seen him hot over the odd incident, such as when the neighbour’s dog chased one of his geese to death. And it didn’t help a bit when that same dog started running his cows. He had Celtic blood, of course, and red hair on his mum’s side, if that means anything. I’m not sure it does, personally, but plenty of folk around here hold by those things denoting a fiery temperament.”
“I see,” Holmes noted. “Could you tell me the name of the neighbour with the dog?”
“Certainly,” Victor agreed readily. “Jonathan Carver. About a half mile down the lane past McFarlane’s place. A friendly enough chap, but don’t criticise his dogs. He raises prize winning spaniels.”
“Very good. I’ll be sure to take that into consideration. Well, I suppose I should not use up any more of your time, doctor. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
“Not a problem, Mr. Holmes,” Victor grinned. “Something to tell the youngsters, if I ever have any—how I met Sherlock Holmes in the course of an investigation.”
Holmes maintained a calm demeanor and said, “I would appreciate it if you did not speak of it at the moment, however. The situation is delicate, and I should not wish to alarm the locals overmuch.”
“Of course, of course, Mr. Holmes. Very thoughtful of you, but you should know the locals already know you’re in the area. I’m sure you’re aware how gossip flies through places such as this, and with a name like yours, it wasn’t hard to figure out who the investigator might be. In the two days you’ve been here, I’ve already heard you’re staying in the old Gibson cottage, you’re definitely married, and the women of the locality are very disappointed by that little fact. You see, most of the single, and half of the married, women in the area think you’re positively ‘dreamy,’ and the other half think your government liaison is.”
Holmes felt the heat rising in his face.
“And my wife?” he queried in mild annoyance. “Are half the men in the area coveting her, as well?”
“That I couldn’t say,” Victor grinned at the other man’s discomfiture. “To my knowledge, nobody’s actually seen her yet; it’s reported she stays in the house most of the time, much to the gossip-mongers’ chagrin. But I’ll be happy to let you know if I hear anything.”
“Ah, well, I’m sure I shall hear of it myself, soon enough,” Holmes sighed. “I shall keep in touch, Dr. Victor.”
And with that, the detective departed.
* * *
“Not especially helpful, then?” Skye decided from her seat in one of the wing chairs in the study, upon hearing an abridged version of the tale, minus the local gossip.
“No,” Holmes noted succinctly, with evident disgust. “Victor spoke much, and said little.” His head thudded against the back of the other wing chair in annoyance.
“Sounds like someone else I know,” Skye tossed off nonchalantly, then shot her husband a pert grin.
“Oh, do you think so?” Holmes replied innocently, hiding his own grin. “Anyone I might know?”
“Possibly,” Skye observed laconically, in her best imitation of Holmes’ own style.
“Really, my dear, you are a quick study!” Holmes laughed aloud. “Perfection! Even I recognise myself in your responses. You are quite the impressionist.”
“I have a good teacher,” she chuckled. “So what are you going to do now?”
“Probably seek out the coroner in Woodbridge tomorrow per schedule. Then go see McFarlane’s neighbour the day after. I should do it today, but it is rather late in the day for calling unannounced upon the rural folk. How is the organisation coming along?”
“All done,” Skye gestured to the new filing cabinet MI5 had provided, sitting in the corner. “Ready to be reviewed in detail. Alphabetical, as you prefer.”
“Capital! In that case, would you care for a drive, before the sun sinks too low? I thought we could survey the area and get the lay of the land.”
“I thought you’d never ask. Let me grab my coat and hat and I’ll be ready to go.”
“Don’t forget your scarf—er, muffler,” Holmes suggested, mentally noting it would help hide her face as he followed her to the mudroom. “The wind is damp and raw.”
“Got it,” Skye said, bundling herself efficiently as Holmes reached for his own outerwear.
They headed out for a long, rambling drive, to get a feel for the overall locations of towns and villages.
* * *
The Holmeses and their British liaison stood in the medical examiner’s office bright and early the next morning, discussing the details of the case with the coroner, one Dr. James Robert Merriwether. “It’s an interesting situation, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, Captain Ryker,” the coroner observed. “Looks straightforward on the surface, but the deeper I dig, the more my hackles rise.”
“How so?” Holmes wondered courteously.
“Well, there’s that odd sunburn of his, for one,” Dr. Merriwether pointed out. “A farmer like McFarlane, they’re brown as nuts, from being outdoors all the time. Skin cancers, I’m used to seeing on such men. Sunburns, especially of this degree? Well, those are pretty rare.”
“Hm,” Skye murmured, putting her finger to her lips in a considering manner. The azure eyes grew distant. Her husband and their liaison both shot her curious glances.
“Does that ring a bell, my dear wife?” Holmes wondered softly.
“It might,” she decided, rousing herself from contemplation. “Did you take photos of the burns?” she addressed the coroner.
“I did,” Merriwether confirmed, “but the body is still here, undergoing examination. I’ve already cut on it, I’m afraid. But if you can stomach it, you’re welcome to examine the burns directly.”
Skye looked momentarily uncomfortable before her expression firmed. “Yes, I can stomach it.”
“Good girl,” Holmes breathed proudly, only loud enough for his wife to hear, before speaking up. “Yes, doctor, we should like to examine the body in a bit. But for now, pray continue with your very interesting narrative.”
“Well, the most unusual thing about the whole affair is that I can’t find any evidence of any pre-existing heart tissue damage or severe arteriosclerosis, let alone atherosclerosis, in the body. The man was as healthy as you might expect for a man in his early forties, active, possessed of a relatively wholesome lifestyle, and it makes no sense, at least to me. In other words, the cardiac markers are positive for sustained ventricular tachycardia, and the autopsy results indicate corresponding death by hypoxia—but I can’t find the reason for it. Normally there’s evidence of a prior heart attack, but not here. Fear is, I guess, as good a reason as any. The problem with that is, fear would release large quantities of epinephrine, and that’s one of the usual treatments for cardiac arrhythmias and arrest.”
“That is odd,” Holmes muttered. “I take it you are still looking for the root cause.”
“We are,” Merriwether confirmed. “Captain Ryker here, and his superiors, indicate it’s absolutely essential.”
“It is, indeed. Would you please keep us apprised of your findings?”
“Gladly,” Merriwether nodded, handing them a folder. “Here are my conclusions to date, and I’ll contact Captain Ryker whenever I have further data and have him bring it to you.”
“Actually, we’re putting in a fax at Gibson House,” Ryker informed them. “It might even be in by the time we get back. You can send the information directly to the Holmeses. I’ll make sure you have all the pertinent phone numbers before we leave, Dr. Merriwether.”
“Splendid,” Holmes noted, accepting the folder and handing it to Ryker temporarily. “And now, if you would be so kind as to allow us to examine the body?”
“This way,” Merriwether offered, leading the way deeper into the forensics lab.
* * *
Sherlock Holmes watched his wife carefully, if clandestinely, for some minutes as she studied the body of James McFarlane. As the autopsy had already been performed, he was concerned she would, with her personal history and relative lack of experience as an investigator, become distressed or even ill by the sight. But her jaw was set, and the blue eyes were hard, almost steely, as she minutely scrutinized the body. After several moments, he nodded to himself, pleased; Skye was handling the situation well, her mind obviously fixed upon some predetermined intent. Merriwether and Ryker stood back, out of the way, as the couple examined the corpse.
McFarlane’s face was contorted and set by rigor, in a grimace of what might be construed as fear, though Holmes was of the private opinion it could as well be severe pain. The skin of the torso and legs was pale, but the face and neck, as well as the hands, forearms, and upper arms to the edge of what would have been short sleeves, displayed nasty burns, actually blistered in a few areas.
“His arms have several bruises,” Holmes noted, lifting the sheet and scanning the nude remains.
“No more so than normal for a farmer, Mr. Holmes,” Merriwether shrugged. “I’ve taken note of them for my report, of course, but I don’t see anything unusual there.”
“You’re right, Dr. Merriwether,” Skye observed, “he does have very nasty burns. May I ask if anyone knows what on earth he was doing in short sleeves in the middle of winter, outside?”
“Well, he wasn’t found in short sleeves,” Merriwether admitted. “He was found in a woollen sweater and a barn jacket.”
“There was a little warm snap in this region, a few days before he died,” Ryker explained. “Not much of one—around three or four degrees Celsius—but it’s why they don’t have any snow around here anymore. Warmish air drifting in across the Channel. I have it to understand from neighbours that McFarlane occasionally ignored the matter of a coat, if he expected to be outside only a short time.”
“Another indication of a healthy circulatory system,” Holmes observed.
“Exactly,” Merriwether agreed.
“Still, these burns are odd,” Skye pointed out. “Especially to come in the middle of winter. You just don’t expect that, unless you’re in high mountains with a lot of snow, and even then it takes longer than ‘a short time.’”
“Decidedly so,” Merriwether nodded agreement.
“Do you make anything of it, Skye?” Holmes wondered without looking up, himself examining the facial orifices of the cadaver with his lens.
“I don’t know yet, Sherlock,” she murmured, studying the burned skin of the body in some detail. “I think…” Skye broke off abruptly, lifting the left hand of the corpse with some difficulty, due to the rigor. She bent, putting her face close to the dead hand, and her brows drew together. Holmes’ head shot up, and he glanced across the examination table at his mate.
“You have something?”
“Maybe,” she muttered, staring intently. “Can I see that lens a second?” She put out a hand without ever breaking her concentration or her gaze.
“Certainly.” Holmes placed the optical instrument directly into her hand, and watched as his wife scrutinized the dead man’s wrist and hand with it.
“Hm,” she whispered to herself. “That’s interesting…” Skye pursed her lips and stared into space for several moments, then put down the dead hand and spun to face the medical examiner. “He was wearing something on this wrist.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Merriwether confirmed. “A bracelet.”
“Do you still have it?”
“Yes, it’ll be in the container of the personal effects found on the body,” Merriwether vouched.
Holmes glanced at his wife, then added smoothly for her, “May we see the effects?”
“Just a moment and I’ll get them,” Merriwether agreed promptly. “The two of you, please, continue your examination. I’m most interested in hearing your findings.”
Merriwether scurried off, and Ryker moved close as the two Holmeses resumed their scrutiny.
“You’ve got something,” the operative noted softly.
“Maybe,” Skye murmured under her breath. “I’ll know when I see that bracelet.”
“Now I know how Watson felt when I withheld my ideas until confirmation,” Holmes chuckled. “Obviously Skye has benefit of knowledge which I have not, and I may safely conclude it is knowledge scientific in nature, and discovered more recently than my own time.”
“Bingo on both counts,” Skye grinned. “But you may have read about it, just the same.”
“In that case, enlighten me, my dear,” Holmes murmured.
“Look at this,” Skye held up McFarlane’s wrist. “You can plainly see the outline of the bracelet, where he was burned around it. See the white swath across his wrist and the back of his hand?”
“Indeed,” Holmes nodded, accepting the lens Skye offered and examining the outline of the burn shadow. “As one would expect of a sunburn.”
“Yeah, but something about it looks funny, too,” Ryker noted, leaning over Skye’s shoulder. “It looks all wrong, somehow.”
“Exactly,” Skye agreed. “For one thing, there’s no body hair there.”
“You’re right!” Ryker exclaimed, surprised. “It’s all gone. Almost everywhere on the burned area, looks like.”
Holmes straightened up, narrowed grey eyes staring at his spouse. Abruptly he turned toward the cadaver’s head. Grabbing a small tuft of hair in his fingers, he tugged gently. The lock of hair slid fairly readily out of the scalp.
“Intriguing,” he muttered, brows furrowing.
“Yeah, Sherlock.” Skye nodded her approval, smiling slightly. “You’ve got it figured. Now…pay attention to the intensity of the burn.”
Holmes used the lens to thoroughly inspect the wrist area of the cadaver, then moved to the shirtsleeve area, and finally returned to the wrist.
“Aha. The intensity is irregular—it varies substantially around the perimeter of this bracelet, and only this bracelet. And that is NOT to be expected of a sunburn. Look, Ryker—here is a blister, nearly ulcerated, it is so severe. But over here, the burn is so faint the outline of the bracelet becomes blurred and uncertain. Yet right next to it is another ulcerated blister.” He gestured to various small features on the dead man’s wrist while Ryker peered through the lens at the indicated areas.
“Exactly,” Skye said with satisfaction. “And that’s why I’m interested in seeing that bracelet. If my suspicion is correct, it’s either magnetic, or has a magnetic clasp.”
“Well, now how did you know that?” Merriwether said in puzzlement, coming up behind them with a box. “Here’s McFarlane’s effects, and…” he opened the box and reached inside, “here’s his bracelet. It’s one of those supposed arthritis things, with lots of copper and magnets and stuff.” He offered the object to the female scientist.
Skye took it from him and turned back to the body. Unclasping the bracelet—which did indeed have a magnetic closure, as well as several magnetic beads spaced evenly along its length—she wrapped it carefully around the wrist of the dead man, then began adjusting it to match the burn shadow.
“There,” she noted with satisfaction after several minutes of delicately positioning the piece of jewelry. “Look.”
Holmes bent close with the lens.
“Interesting. Very well done, my dear Skye.”
“Well, look at that,” Ryker said in some surprise. “The burns are stronger in between the beads. Do you suppose the shiny surfaces somehow focused the light?”
“It was focused, but not by the facets on the beads,” Skye said grimly. “And it wasn’t light that created these burns.”
“What do you mean?” Merriwether wondered.
“The magnets in the bracelet focused charged particles onto McFarlane’s skin,” Skye explained. “These are radiation burns.”