When the Collier family dog, a golden retriever named Laddie, was dying, ACC Collier had had a patrol cruiser with him at his home. In the grip of despair, he and his two young sons put Laddie into the cruiser to rush him to the vet. Laddie, however, died along the way. Ian probably hadn’t even thought about it. The equipment was there, so were his sons, and so was the need. He harvested Laddie’s engrams onto a chip—police cruiser, police reader, police chip. What to do with the harvested engrams after that got lost in the dust when the cruiser’s automatic after-action report was picked up by a hostile media. It was then reviewed by a cautious deputy chief constable, judged by a frightened board, defended by an indifferent Association of Chief Police Officers, and resulted in forced retirement. Birmingham and West Midlands found itself with one less good cop. Then it was job-hunting time, new digs, new schools, new church, new friends, same family minus a dog, a home, and maybe part of a dad.
For every detail sorted, a new one needing a sort popped up. I rang a number. Bing Ehrenberg was in and available. I sent him what I had along with my best guesses regarding who and what to do. He agreed with me, which settled a couple of details. He asked a few questions. I answered them. Bing was happy to hear I was enjoying my work again. I told him I had been blown up and was working for John Dillinger. He asked about Val. I told him she was now a cat. Asked about my job. Told him I was now Sherlock Holmes. Asked about my new partner. I told Bing my partner used to be a duck and would be again. He wanted to know how I felt about that and I told him we got along rather well—even better after he was killed and came back as Dr. Watson. Asked me if I thought Norfolk would take the MCCA Knockout Trophy and I told him that would happen when Inland Revenue ran out of taxpayers. He told me I seemed to be doing much better. Patience of a saint, Dr. Ehrenberg.
Watson sat back, looked at me, and said, “The butler did it.”
I glanced at him. “Astonishing. What ever led you to that conclusion?”
“Great heavens, man! It’s right there under your nose. Look! The bounder’s name is Moriarty! James Moriarty!”
I looked back at the list on my screen. “So it is.” I frowned as I considered a detail that was becoming increasingly troublesome to put aside: The Moriarty business was only the latest symptom. It was just the sort of joke Shad might have made had Shad been in his feathers and in Watson’s place at that point in time. It was also what the current Watson might have said had he been smoking proscribed substances or experimenting with having his brain perforated and filled with kitty litter. It wasn’t just concern for my friend’s sanity. Was it really safe letting him drive? I was wondering a bit about my own mental state, as well. I was rather getting into the Basil Rathbone Sherlock Holmes character. It seemed to me I was enjoying it a good bit more than Watson—Shad, that is.
The air corridor followed the Exeter Canal as it hugged the west bank of the Exe as far south as Turf where the canal ended. The river made a gentle bend to the east, and the corridor continued south over the farmland canals and greenery near the hamlet of Exwell Barton. Directly before us, rising from the greensward like some sort of medieval stone rocket gantry at the top of a gentle hill was Powderham Castle estate’s triple-towered stone Belvedere. Vacationers waved from the crenellated battlements and Watson waved back. Beyond and below the towers, set among the trees in a deer park by a small lake, was the castle. Looking beyond the castle site was the wide avenue of the river, then Exmouth just below the curve of the ocean’s blue horizon. White sprinkles of gulls flitted among the blues, greens, reds, and yellows of the sails and pennants flying on the sailboats filling the Exe. Watson pointed toward the boats. “Looks more fun than selling kitty litter, eh Holmes?”
“It appears so, Watson. Do you sail?”
“Sail? Heavens, no. Do you?”
“I’m ashamed to say I’ve never set foot on a sailboat. I suppose some day off we could take a lesson. Want to give it a try?”
Watson settled deeply into his couch and concentrated on the Sky Rover’s instruments. “River looks very deep there, Holmes. Probably quite cold, too.”
“Nonsense, old fellow. You’d take to it like a duck to water.”
“Very amusing. Those things don’t look safe.”
“Sailing is like working around bombs, Watson: It pays to know what you are doing.”
“I suppose we know where you and I come down on working around bombs, Holmes: A bit here, a bit there—”
“—A bit there, a bit here—”
“—A teeny bit way over there—”
“—And a great big gob or two down right here!”
We finally allowed ourselves to have a thorough laugh over that dark episode at Hangingstone Hill that was, after all, over—at least until the next echo.
Powderham Castle stood atop a slight rise in the well-tended and tastefully wooded deer park. We went once around it before touching down. The lake mentioned before stretched gracefully east and west just south of the castle giving that side of the building views of deer drinking from the reflections of ancient trees. The castle itself, although replete with crenelated walls, gates, and towers, looked to be more manor home than fortress. Still, it had seen its battles during the Civil War, fighting on the Royalist side. Norman towers, a mix of brickwork, cut gray stone, sandstone, carved beerstone casements, oak, and ivy made of it an architectural map of the centuries it had withstood since it came into the Courtenay family in the thirteen hundreds.
The Courtenays were not only respected in the west country but well liked. I doubt if there had been anyone living within a hundred kilometers of Powderham who hadn’t, at least once in their lifetimes, visited the castle. Val and I had been there several times on tours and at events: once on a tour of the castle, once on a tour of the gardens, once on a nature walk, once as guests at a wedding, twice we went to catch the fireworks on Guy Fawkes Day. Even Shad and Nadine had been there, as Watson had narrated. A big jewelry heist among the guests at a Powderham paid occasion wouldn’t ruin the Courtenays and probably wouldn’t break any of the guests so robbed. It was not, however, the sort of thing needed right then by Ian Collier and his family. In any event, it was very rude.
Watson put us down in the skydock off Powderham Castle’s North Drive. “Notice something about that castle as we came in, Holmes?”
“Many things, old fellow. Which did you have in mind?”
“Doesn’t look a thing like Darlington in Remains of the Day.”
“Then perhaps we won’t have Hannibal Lecter with which to contend. In any event, here comes the welcoming committee.”
Since we arrived in an ABCD Sky Rover, one of Collier’s off-duty constables advanced upon us from my side. He was a chunky fellow sporting a handsome gray handlebar mustache, a reflective silver and yellow traffic bib over his uniform. Since Shad had on his nineteenth-century Watson getup, complete with genuine houndstooth Sherlock Holmes deerstalker (a size too small) atop his head, a wedding party parking attendant advanced upon his side of the vehicle. This lad was also chunky, apparently from bench-pressing railroad rolling stock. He was wearing a midnight blue tuxedo with a candy-striped tie. Shad opened the windows, I showed my ID to the constable, but before I could ask for Collier’s office, Watson asked of the attendant, “Grimpion-Meyer wedding party, please?”
The guide pointed to a slot, I bit my tongue, put my ID away, and Shad moved the cruiser toward the slot. We both held it in as long as we could, but mere flesh can bear only so much. Just as we locked into the slot we collapsed into each other’s arms choking off cries of, “Grimpion-Meyer!” as best we could. As we exited the cruiser, the parking attendant and the constable seemed to be arguing. Actually, the attendant was upset, and the constable was attempting to calm him.