Into the New Millennium: Trailblazing Tales From Analog Science Fiction and Fact, 2000 - 2010 (21 page)

Shad and I exchanged quick panic glances. "Chief constable?" Watson mouthed. Facing Lord Devon, Watson said, "Just a gentle reminder of the time, milord. Could you direct us to the castle's head of security so that we may report our mission accomplished?"

The master of the house laughed, crinkled his eyes, and pointed down an ancestor-imaged hallway generally toward the south. "All of the way down there, doctor, last door on the right. Oh."

We both paused, frozen in mid getaway, giving Lord Devon our full attention. It was that kind of ‘oh.' "Yes, milord?" I said.

"Do you know if there has been any progress made concerning this dreadful jewelry matter?"

"Yes there has, milord," I said. "I am pleased to say it should all be cleared up before the conclusion of the reception."

"Not a theft, was it?" He pronounced "theft" as though its mere thought might endanger the very foundations of Powderham.

"A mere misunderstanding, milord. Nothing more. Please put your mind at ease."

His eyebrows ascended. "Excellent!" He nodded, his face wreathed in very happy smiles. "Jolly good." He looked at Watson, his face growing somewhat more serious. "Excellent actor, Edward Fox." He shook his head gravely. "
Remains of the Day
. Hated that movie as a boy. Don't mind me baring the old soul, do you old fellow, one actor to another?"

"Not at all, milord."

"Your excellent portrayal of Edward Fox reminded me of it. As a boy they told me a thousand times
Remains of the Day
was filmed here. Dreadful film. I even watched it once. Could hardly stay awake. I mean you practically stand up begging Emma Thompson to hop naked in Hopkins's tub, wot? Muss his hair a bit?"

"Quite," said Watson.

Lord Devon looked into a glass and darkly. "Away at school you tell all your chums the bloody thing was filmed at Powderham. They don't care the ruddy film's boring. It's Hollywood. Movies! With
Hannibal the cannibal
. You sit before the tellymax screen all puffed up, the ruddy thing begins. There it goes, sir, with that bloody ride up a hilly lane you never saw before and you pull up to a townhouse with a Georgian roofline decorated with bloody old urns. ‘Where the hell is that?' shouts out Jimmy Brown. ‘That's not Powderham,' says Cyril Danforth. ‘Where's that, Charlie?' yells out Tommy Welles. "Where are the battlements?"

His lordship descended the remains of the stairs, clasped his hands behind his back, shook his head, and made his way toward the wedding party, still shaking his head. "Scarred me for life," he muttered as he turned a corner. "Bloody movies." Shad and I exited on tiptoe in the opposite direction.

"Now, was that a good save or what?" said my partner as we reached Ian Collier's door.

"Save?
Save?
"

He gave me his hurt Watson expression. "Of course, Holmes. Where's the head of security? Mission accomplished?"

"Shad, there is a built-in bumble factor in your Dr. Watson brain! It's the size of a casaba melon!"

"Really, Holmes!"

"You know what they call a firefighter who does a superb job of extinguishing fires he himself has ignited?"

"What?"

"An
arsonist!
" I knocked on the door and entered.

The security officer on duty led us to an office, which led to an outer office and a secretary who led us to an inner office overlooking the deer park and lake. It was a well-lighted room, smallish, and tucked about with family photos, professional photos, and neat shelves of books. Ian Collier himself was older than I remembered, a testimony to the dozen years or more that had passed since I had last seen him. He was a pleasant-looking fellow of about Watson's height, brown hair thinning on top and graying on the sides. He rose slowly behind his desk as we entered. He had a narrow face I hadn't remembered as mournful but which certainly rated such a description a moment before he caught a glimpse of the professional help he was getting from Exeter. The expression then became something between flabbergasted and crestfallen.

"Blood and sand, Jaggs! What's become of you?"

"I haven't time to explain, dear boy," I said briskly. I nodded at Shad. "Former Assistant Chief Constable Ian Collier, this is my partner, Detective Sergeant Guy Shad. Watson, this is Mr. Ian Collier."

"Pleased to meet you, sir," said Watson, extending his hand. They shook. Collier appeared to be waiting for an explanation I really had neither the time nor the heart to provide. Hence, I said, "Shad and I are traveling incognito."

"I shouldn't wonder," he responded. He gestured at two red leather–covered captains chairs facing his desk. "Please. Be seated. Can I offer you some tea?"

"Thank you. That would be most welcome," I said, lowering myself into the chair to Shad's left. As we waited for Ian's secretary to bring tea and biscuits, Powderham Castle's head of security briefed us on the missing jewelry. I noticed while he was talking, family photo images randomly appeared in a screen on the shelf behind Ian's head. Wife and two young sons perhaps ten and seven respectively. There was a single still of a golden retriever hanging on the wall opposite the desk. It looked as though it had been taken on a sunny day in a field of wildflowers. The tea was poured and I took my cup. Excellent blend, by the way.

"We need several things," I said to Ian. "First, as discreetly as possible, have several of your security personnel go to the reception, locate, and extricate Miss Betsy Blythe."

"The blind woman with the seeing-eye dog?"

I smiled. "She is not blind, and that dog is a Labradoodle bio with a human imprint. As soon as possible after grabbing them—"

"You said
extricate
them."

"With prejudice. Once you have them, separate them. Make certain you get both woman and dog and that they cannot communicate. I doubt that they'll be rigged with wireless, but be prepared for it just in case they are."

"Very well."

"Next, I need to interview Clarice Penne."

His eyebrows went up. "You mean Timmy the Tortoise?"

"Yes. I need to do so in private, with Betsy Blythe, and without the dog."

Collier was looking confused. So was Watson.

"Come now, gentlemen. Surely you can arrange a meeting. It must be near a place where we can have unobserved access to the ABCD cruiser."

Collier leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. "There's a place just beyond the rose garden where you can have that meeting," he said. "At the east edge of the garden where it drops down to the dressage lawn there's a wall. It would conceal your cruiser."

"Excellent."

"Am I permitted to know what's going on?" he asked.

"I'm sorry, old fellow. It's like rescuing the troops from Dunkirk. If it had to be written up in triplicate and approved in advance, no one ever would have had the courage to take the responsibility."

Collier looked at Watson, who chuckled. "Holmes really knows how to lead a charge, doesn't he?" said my partner.

"Now that you mention it, the phrase ‘the brave Six Hundred' does come to mind rather easily right now." Ian Collier shifted his gaze back to me. "I'm not going to find out you two have escaped from some asylum am I?"

"No. I don't believe you will ever find out." I touched my fingertips together and looked over them, my eyebrows arched, my eyes widened, but not crossed.

He leaned back in his chair, raised a hand in dismissal, and dropped it to the arm of his chair. "I can arrange for you, your cruiser, Betsy Blythe, and Timmy the Tortoise to meet privately off the edge of the rose garden. Anything else?"

"When you took that imprint of your dog, Ian."

The change of subject caught him off stride. Once his double take was done, he leaned back in his chair. "When I was forced to retire?" he asked, his face reddening.

"Yes. Do you still have that chip?"

He frowned. "Yes. It's here in my office."

"Excellent. We'll need that."

"Is that quite all?" he asked.

"No, not quite." I rubbed my chin. "We'll need a dungeon, a butcher's apron, some tomato juice, a rusty knife, and two of your most thuggish-looking cops. They must be reliable chaps, not squeamish, men who can keep their mouths shut. If the chief constable, the earl, or Superintendent Matheson get wind of any of this, the lot of us will be balls-up and most likely never play the violin again."

As gentle breezes touched the treetops, the warm spring air was filled with the heady scent of roses. A marquee for children's entertainments had already been erected at the edge of the lawn below the rose garden. Inside the marquee were a few chairs, Betsy Blythe, Ian Collier, Clarice Penne as Timmy the Tortoise, Shad as Bruce as Watson, and myself somewhat in charge. The ABCD cruiser was parked out of sight of the castle next to the rose garden wall stairs. Collier and Watson stood guard by the stairs while I sat on the chair facing Betsy Blythe to my right and the tortoise to my left. Miss Penne, of course, as a thorn-thighed tortoise, had her head stuck out of a shell about the size of a smallish elongated dinner plate with warmer. Miss Blythe was somewhat more attractive being a shapely human female bio wearing a pale blue cocktail dress with white half-heels. She was in her mid twenties, brown hair with reddish highlights, a relaxed cupid's bow mouth, a bit of an upturned nose, and lovely hazel eyes once I removed her heavy sunglasses.

"A shame to hide those beautiful eyes, Miss Blythe."

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't know who you are. I'm blind, you see."

"Actually, I do see, Lolita, and so do you."

"My name's Betsy—"

"It's Lolita Doll, and you are no more sightless than am I. We are pressed for time, my dear. Therefore, may we dispense with the denials, explanations, excuses, and so on?"

"My dog—"

"We have Frank Statten in detention and caught red-handed—or red-pawed—with the goods. Because you tipped us off, we are inclined to be lenient."

She stood up and glared down at me. "Lolita Doll rats out
nobody
, copper!"

I held up a hand. "Please. Calm yourself. You all but sent engraved invitations. Now, take your seat."

She slowly sat down on her chair, still glaring at me, then looking down ashamed. "You helped me a lot, Inspector Jaggers. That's the truth. You and the parrot. Don't know what I would've done if I hadn't fallen into your hands. That Dr. Ehrenberg helped me, too. But how'd you know I had a partner in that Wallingford job? And how'd you know to come here to catch us?"

"Unintentionally, perhaps, but you told me both times, my dear. The parakeet was certainly too small either to hide or carry much in the way of swag. About all it could do was map out the security systems and get the codes when they were entered. You had to have a partner. Add to that you worked at Songbirds and we already knew Frankie Statten owned the shop, and there you were. Then when I heard a large jewel heist had gone down at Powderham and saw Betsy Blythe had brought a large dog, well, it was obvious that Lolita Doll and Frankie Statten were at it again."

"Sorry?" She was frowning at me.

"Betsy Blythe," I repeated. "Blythe from the Blythe doll created in 1972 by the American Kenner toy company and Betsy from the Betsy Wetsy created in 1934 by Ideal." I held out my hands. "‘It's me, Doll.' Perfectly obvious."

"Remarkable," she said.

"At times I astound even myself. What were you trying to do, Lolita?"

She looked up at me, her eyes filled with tears. "See, all the ladies had these little changing cubicles set up in the room off the First Library where they could change before the reception and dance. Can't thunder rock wearin' all that ice. Mr. Collier there had folks they could leave valuables with, but most guests didn't bother. Frank was right about that. But a signal's supposed to go off when we returns to the shop. That's when we was all supposed to get nicked. I suppose this is all right for what it is, but it's only going to be attempted, isn't it? I wanted the whole book."

"I thought you wanted some place safe, Lolita, to be taken care of, to be happy and loved. You're not going to get that locked up in the nick."

"Half a loaf," she offered lamely.

"Is half a loaf short," I completed.

"It'd be almost worth it to think on Frank being miserable for a tenner."

"Listen, Lolita. I believe I have the answer to all your problems and mine." I held out a hand toward the tortoise. "Do you know Clarice Penne?"

She looked at the tortoise and back at me. "Oh, sure. I mean I seen her here in the garden maybe a hundred times tellin' stories to the children, the tykes pettin' her shell and all. Every chance I get I come down here. I told Dr. Ehrenberg about it. So beautiful here."

"How would you like to tell stories to children, Lolita? You're good with lies and know the very best stories. How would you like Clarice's job?"

"Now you hold on just a minute there, Sherlock," said the tortoise. "This is
my
gig and for as long as I want it. I got a contract."

I reached over, picked up the tortoise, and whispered at Clarice as I faced her about. "If you pee on me, love, I will put you on your back for the remainder of the meeting and leave you that way." I aimed her snapping end at Lolita. "Clarice, look at Lolita, hush for a moment and consider: How would you like to have that face, that voice, that age, those legs, and that body as you reinvent yourself and relaunch your theatrical career? You'd still have all your current financial assets, belongings, degrees, whatever."

The tortoise was dead silent, but I could almost see the smoke coming off the top of its wrinkled head. Finally the tortoise glanced back at me. "Who the hell are you, mate?"

"Forgive me, Miss Penne. I am D.I. Harrington Jaggers, Devon ABCD."

The tortoise moved its head until it was once again looking at Lolita. Clarice said, "Would you consider it, girl, even for a serious second?"

"Oh yes! In a heartbeat!" she answered. "You have the most wonderful job in the world! Please!"