“The Order of St. Trinians,” Shad interrupted. “That theater group does scripts based on the Ronald Searle cartoons!”
“Indeed, old fellow, indeed. Madeleine Wallingford is paying off the stasis estate agent and collecting the suit for Trinians new star performer as we speak. You know, possibly going without a proper hat has chilled your brain, depriving its cells of much needed oxygen, increasing your brain-bumble factor.” I reached back and took a round box from the hands of the large walking mech. “In return for our services, I received this from my friend Ian Collier.” I handed it to my partner.
“I didn’t know we were allowed to accept gifts, Holmes.”
“Nothing of value. This is just an old hand-me-down of Ian’s grandfather’s. It ought to keep your brain toasty.”
He lifted the lid from the box, placed it aside, opened the tissue paper, and took the gray homburg from it. “Why … why this is quite thoughtful, Holmes.” He placed it on his head with both hands and faced me. “How do I look?”
“Very handsome, Watson. Distinguished. The very picture of Dr. John H. Watson.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“Why not?”
His face grew long and troubled. “Now, this makes me feel terrible.”
“How so, Watson?”
“Well, I’ve noticed, Holmes, that you seem to be enjoying our Holmes and Watson thing quite a bit more than I have.”
“I’d noticed it myself. Now that I reflect upon it, I haven’t felt this perceptive in decades. I feel as though I could untie the Gordian Knot one-handed, blindfolded, and play multiple games of championship chess with my toes at the same time.”
“Feeling rather sharp, eh, Holmes?”
“As a tack, dear fellow. Why?”
“I have a confession to make. You know how I dislike reading instructions of any kind.”
“Quite. As I recall DS Guy Shad’s famous dictum: ‘If the damned program or machine isn’t intuitive to operate, it’s crap.’”
Watson chuckled. “Yes. Very amusing.”
“Come, Watson. What about it?” I prompted.
“Brochure came with my Watson suit, you know, from Celebrity Look-alikes.” He reached into his side coat pocket with his left hand and pulled out a leaflet folded into thirds. “You were correct, Holmes, about what you called my bumble factor. There’s one built in. Slows things down and fuzzes up thoughts while mixing them in with the vocabulary, vocal mannerisms, and so on of the Nigel Bruce Watson.” He waved the leaflet idly in my direction. “Something else, too.”
“What’s that?”
“Bit of a cost-cutting measure, I fear. Makes sense if you look at it from their end. Celebrity Look-alikes, that is. You see?”
“I’m afraid I don’t see. What are you talking about, Watson? What cost-cutting measure?”
“Oh. Well, usually both suits are rented at the same time: Holmes and Watson. You see? Symbiotic relationship.”
“Ye-e-es,” I answered warily.
“They had to have the Nigel Bruce as Watson suits made, you see. For the Basil Rathbone as Holmes suits, though, they simply used the same model fallen officer replacement suit that you have yourself.”
“That makes perfectly good sense. Why reinvent the wheel?”
“Exactly, Holmes. So you understand.”
“Understand what?”
“When my Watson suit came in close enough proximity to your model suit, my Nigel Bruce-Dr. Watson bio program asked permission to insert a wireless patch through your bio receiver. You must have seen it. You agreed to the terms.”
“Ever since I went wireless I must get a half dozen of those things a day. I never read them—who has the time? What—well, what does it do?”
Watson yawned, tipped the homburg over his eyes, and slid down in his seat. “Only some mannerisms, vocabulary choices, thought pattern adjustments. According to the brochure it should sharpen up your thinking a bit. Seems to have done just that. Gordian Knot and all. We can uninstall it, I suppose.”
“Why would I want to?”
“Perhaps I should. Don’t quite seem to understand what’s going on.”
I picked up the brochure and gave it a quick scan. It had an address that would be useful in finding out if it would be possible to dial back Watson’s bumble factor. Something else, too, that might be a problem:
* * *
The Holmes and Watson duo are only for entertainment, guys! Silly us! So if you run into real emergency situations while occupying these bios, programming automatically calls the chaps who are the real professionals. For anything less than emergencies, programming restricts your problem solving strategies to those not involving arrests or otherwise burdening the police. Have fun! And please solve crime responsibly.
* * *
That opened all kinds of possibilities. A few dozen Holmes and Watson duos on the streets could put the constabulary out of business for good.
“Speaking of bumble,” said Watson, “I used to have a bumble dessert thing when I was with New England Wildlife. Quite tasty. Bumble brain pie.”
“Doesn’t sound very appetizing, old fellow.”
“What? Sorry.” He chuckled. “Misspoke there. Bumble brain pie. Silly of me. Actually it was called bum berry pie.”
“Bum berry pie? Are you certain?”
“Yes. Raspberries, blueberries, blackberries. Delicious. A Maine favorite. Woman in Farmington used to make it up special for the officers in my station.”
“Terribly sorry, Watson. Bum berry pie sounds even less appetizing than bumble brain pie.”
“Bumble berry pie, Holmes,” corrected Watson. “Whatever are you going on about? I said bumble berry pie. Keep going on about bum berry pie and you’ll make people wonder from where you got this great reputation.” He chuckled again and yawned. “Bum berry pie. You amaze me, Holmes. You absolutely amaze me. Oh, about the dog—”
“Frankie Statten was caught going equipped, hence the equipment is forfeit.”
“I see that. But since—how was that again?”
“Since we are all agreed that the jewelry was misplaced and not stolen, there was no crime. Hence, no need to produce anything back at the office.”
Watson grunted something.
As the late afternoon countryside sped beneath us, I looked back over my thoughts of the past few days, thrilling at always having an answer almost as soon as a question arose. Such as, if I am heading east toward Exeter late in the afternoon, why is the setting sun not at my back but is, instead, perpendicular to the vector of motion and warming my left cheek? I looked at the GPS.
“Watson, you have us heading north toward Exmoor. Watson?”
I caught the sound of the old fellow gently snoring, took over the cruiser’s controls, and entered the correct heading, wondering if the patch I had automatically accepted into my neural system included the ability to play the violin and an addiction to cocaine. Then I remembered my Holmes was a Basil Rathbone Hollywood Holmes whose strongest addiction was to whatever tobacco was stuffed into that huge meerschaum pipe of his. I needn’t worry about smoking. Neither my lungs, my wife, nor the clean air regulations at Heavitree Tower could tolerate any of that nonsense.
My partner was having a bit of bother about the Labradoodle. To wit: had we stolen it? I suppose a case could be made for it, and I would be happy to meet Frankie Statten in court any time he wished to settle the matter at law. Once I was on the proper heading for Exeter, I settled in and contemplated blowing bubbles from that meerschaum. It went very well with the image playing before my mind’s eye of Ian Collier, his wife, and two boys at Powderham playing with their old golden retriever in his new Labradoodle suit.
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