Physically, he was slim and on the tallish side, with wavy brown hair and a predilection to brightly coloured clothing, mostly due to his experience with women’s clothes. Although he always dressed smartly, now he dressed brightly as well, and had been delighted when the office premises they’d leased proved to have a small flat above it, where he now lived a fairly contented existence, especially as Joanne had made her debut public appearance during their first case together.
The business had been trading for months now – not always busily, but steadily – but today was a Sunday, and they didn’t open on Sundays as a matter of principle. Not only did they not expect anyone to be able to get away from family on that particular day of the week to consult them in confidence, but Holmes dictated that they have one day a week free just to pursue other interests. Wednesdays was half-day closing in the sleepy town of Hamsley Black Cross, so they took it in turns to man the office on this afternoon.
The only thing the younger man had difficulty in coming to terms with in his new life as a private investigator was his mother, but for different reasons to those from which his negative attitude had arisen in the past. He had considered her a dragon when he first met Holmes, and was simply terrified of her. It was only on taking Holmes to his old family home to give him courage to tell his mother the truth about his cross-dressing that had opened his eyes to who she really was – a warm and completely understanding woman, although he still found the truth hard to believe, and his previous impression of her almost impossible to erase from his memory.
Holmes had merely seen an attractive and fashionably dressed woman of about fifty, who seemed to have lovely manners, and who seemed to harbour no malice or resentment towards her son at all. Garden realised that the only reason he had felt why he did was because his mother was so busy, and their timetables rarely coincided. He had taken the fact that they had communicated mainly in e-mails, notes, and texts for something far more sinister, and believed his mother hated him.
He had been horrified when Holmes had engaged her as their receptionist in the office, but was gradually coming round to the idea of seeing so much of her, although he still found their relationship difficult.
Privately flattered that Holmes should invite him to the meeting in his local pub – it was another little entrée into the man’s private world, although he had been there once before in very different circumstances – he felt rather bewildered that his partner should want to spend some of his precious free time with him.
His flat was now decorated to his rainbow-bright taste, and he walked through the plethora of brightly coloured pictures, ornaments, and throws into his bedroom to select something to wear suitable for the occasion.
Flopping down on to his cerise and lilac striped bedcover, he surveyed the contents of his male wardrobe, suppressing the thought that it might be a bit of a wag to turn up as Joanne. Deciding, however, that this would not be taken in good part, he decided that he really ought to wear quite dull clothing, almost akin to that which he used to wear in the office. After all, they were going to Holmes’ local, and he didn’t want to embarrass the poor man, and make him a figure of fun right on his own doorstep.
By the time he left the flat, he was clad in a pair of dove-grey trousers and a lemon shirt, with a bottle green tie – didn’t want to show the old boy up – with a natty navy overcoat over the top. In Quaker Street he parked neatly behind Holmes’ car and rang the doorbell.
It took some time for his summons to be answered, and when it was, it was by a very flustered Holmes. ‘Come away in, old chap. I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a tizzy, and I’m not quite ready. Thing is, I was just getting changed when I heard this awful noise, and when I went into the sitting room, I found poor old Colin had been rather ill in my slippers. Been eating mice again by the looks of it, and he knows they don’t agree with him.’
Garden was of the opinion that Colin had done this on purpose, either because he wasn’t getting as much attention as he thought he deserved, or, more likely because he knew Garden was coming round. He wouldn’t put it past the sneaky feline to be aware that he was on his way over.
Following Holmes into the main living room, he became aware of the sound of the washing machine chugging rhythmically from the kitchen, and the cat sitting on one of the sofas, glaring balefully at him. It looked like it was still war between them. He took a tentative seat on the free sofa, all the while with one eye cocked for any movement from his nemesis, and asked, ‘So, what exactly do you do at these meetings, and who goes?’
‘Oh, it’s just a bunch of local aficionados. We meet once a month and discuss our favourite stories, and also give our opinions of various film versions that have been made of the great detective’s exploits. Sometimes one of us reads a little essay written as a fictional exploit that never graced Watson’s pen.’
‘How long do these meetings last?’
‘A couple of hours. We’ve always got plenty to discuss, as we include television series in our debates, and the pub provides refreshments for us. Have you eaten?’
‘Actually, no,’ replied Garden, suddenly concerned for his stomach.
‘That’s the ticket. There are always plates of hearty sandwiches, and soft drinks if someone is driving. If you fancy something a bit harder, we have a waitress take our orders. I shall pay tonight’s subscription for both of us. We usually pay a fiver a head to cover the food and squash.’ Holmes beamed at Garden and rubbed his hands together in anticipation of sharing one of his pastimes with his new friend.
‘That’s very civil of you, Holmes, but I can pay my own way,’ he retorted.
‘Wouldn’t hear of it, John H. Wouldn’t hear of it. Now, I’ll just slip my coat on’ – he smirked as he removed his very Holmesian new garment from its hook – ‘I’ve taken the liberty of booking us a taxi as it’s so inclement out, and I believe I’ve just heard it pull up outside.’
Holmes had stopped making mention of the fact that the local police inspector had pulled a fast one on them a few weeks before, but Garden knew that it still rankled, and was careful never to bring up the subject of them being duped by this individual – Streeter, by name.
Garden was glad of not having to drive, because the mist had become a fog in Farlington Market – probably more of a smog, he thought, as there were quite a few industrial units on the periphery of the town – and he wasn’t the most confident or gifted of drivers. He got around alright in his rather elderly Fiat Panda, but it wasn’t his preferred mode of transport, being stuck behind a steering wheel and responsible not only for his own life, but possibly for someone else’s as well.
Within ten minutes, they were dropped outside a corner building, the windows of which glowed murkily through the fog, and Holmes opened the door of the pub, releasing the sounds of quite a crowd of people letting off steam prior to returning to the daily grind of work in the morning. ‘How many people normally attend these meetings?’ Garden asked with some trepidation.
‘Oh, only about a dozen of us. We’re in the meeting room upstairs, so we won’t be bothered by this rowdy lot,’ replied Holmes, waving cheerily at a couple of acquaintances. This was a part of the pub that Garden had not visited on his previous call there for a work dinner.
He led Garden through a door into a small snug from which two other doors led, one to the ladies’ – the gents’ being entered from the public bar or by an odd little outside door – and the other on to a narrow and quite steep staircase leading to the first floor. ‘Up we go, then,’ announced Holmes, his good cheer sounding in the tone of his voice, and Garden followed him upwards.
At the top of the stairs, a swing door led into a small meeting room measuring about fifteen feet by fifteen, in the middle of which stood a long table surrounded by chairs. On the tabletop were plates of doorstep sandwiches which purported to be either ham and mustard or cheese and pickle, and several jugs holding a choice of either orange or lemon squash.
They were five minutes late, due to Ho
lmes having had to clear up Colin’s mess before he booked the cab, and five or six people were already sitting round the table chatting quietly. They had just taken seats at the far side of the table when another four entered, passing on apologies from Dave Warwick, whose wife had gone into labour a couple of hours ago.
‘That’ll be his fifth, won’t it?’ asked a red-headed man from the end of the table nearest the window, and there was a small titter of laughter accompanied by a few lewd comments on the man’s fertility.
A small, elderly, white-haired man at the other end of the table called the meeting to order, and they were off. As this month’s subject was given as the portrayal of the immortal detective on television, Garden suddenly flushed. There were no women present, and he had a vision of how daft he would have looked if he’d come as Joanne. Now, what did he know about Holmes on television?
Trying his best to remember who was who, Garden merely listened as they set off on the most recent portrayal of their hero as a modern young man, working with computers and smartphones – a phenomenon that he had greatly enjoyed, but which seemed to be frowned upon by these enthusiasts, with the exception of one man, whom Garden learnt was Peter Lampard, and he had seriously enjoyed these excursions into the twenty-first century and all its technological gadgets. One fellow present seemed insistent on getting over his own take on things, however, much to the disapproval of the other men.
As the discussion launched itself, Holmes muttered the names of the speakers to Garden to help him with identification of the members. They entered the subject in hand with a discussion of the most recent portrayal of ‘the master’ as a young gentleman in modern times, with an ex-army man from Afghanistan as his side-kick.
There was a fair amount of disapproval at this updating of the classic stories, but one member in particular struggled to insert his opinion, over-riding the contributions of other members in order to put forward his own viewpoint, even quenching Lampard’s obvious enthusiasm for this series.
‘I think it’s very telling that Holmes and Watson were taken to be in a gay relationship in several episodes,’ said the man identified to Garden as Cyril Antony, a big man with a very pompous and overbearing nature, who was determined to be heard.
Other members, amongst them Stephen Crompton, the white-haired man who was the chair of the meeting, tried to shout him down, but he persisted on this theme.
‘It was obvious they had a close relationship,’ he boomed, ignoring protests to the contrary. ‘They had rooms together, they worked together, and Watson returned to live with Holmes after he married. I am of the opinion that the plot for the film Brokeback Mountain was based on their physical but compelling gay relationship.’
‘What absolute tosh and rubbish,’ shouted Ludovic Connor, a bank clerk. ‘Theirs was a simple friendship. How could you possibly think anything different?’
‘What a sewer of a mind you must have, Cyril, to even suggest such a thing,’ contributed Aaron Dibley, identified to Garden as a probation officer. ‘Take that back.’
‘You filthy swine. How dare you even suggest such a thing?’ shouted Peter Lampard, a gas fitter, who was particularly hurt at this attitude because of a secret in his own life.
‘Getting a bit heated,’ muttered Holmes behind his hand to his partner. ‘Don’t get involved. They can be like wild dogs when someone gets under their skin.’
‘Not only do I believe this to be the case, but I back it up by the extremely camp acting of the principal actor in the previous series made for television. Sometimes he actually resembled Kenneth Williams in his indignation and superiority.’
Cries of ‘Shame! Shame!’ greeted this accusation, but he rode roughshod over them all.
‘I should now like to read you a short story I have penned to seek your opinion,’ yelled Antony above the furore. ‘Its title is “A Study in Cerise”, and I lay it before you all now for your opinions.’
‘Order, order!’ roared Stephen Crompton, for all the world like the Speaker of the House of Commons. ‘Let Mr Antony have his say before you condemn him.’ He was at least fair, if a little misguided at this juncture.
Cyril Antony ruffled a sheaf of papers which he had extracted from a slim briefcase, and began to read in a high, hectoring voice. ‘Holmes, the greatest consulting detective ever, and his partner, Dr Watson, sat up in their double bed, Holmes with his embroidery, Watson with his more mundane crochet, and mulled over the interesting problem they had been left with earlier in the day.
‘Both of them wore lace caps and bed-jackets against the cold of the season and, as they worked away at their pieces of needlework, Watson risked a fond glance at his beloved …’
The shouting was loud and abusive, and Crompton took some time to call the meeting to order. ‘Gentlemen, let Mr Antony have his say!’
‘Get him out of here!’
‘I want him expelled!’
‘He should be horse-whipped and run out of town!’
‘How dare he dirty the name of the world’s greatest and only consulting detective!’
These and many other comments were made in loud voices, until Mr Crompton suggested that maybe now was not the time to read them the story, and begged Antony to, perhaps, leave it until another time.
Cyril Antony, as could only be expected, took this suggestion and the vociferous reaction badly, as his story was dear to his heart, almost like one of his children, and he had thought long and hard before he wrote it, and thought this alternative explanation to the unlikely friendship should see light of day.
He straightened his sheaf of papers on the table top, returned them to his briefcase, and stormed out of the meeting, slamming the door loudly behind him.
‘Bloody cheek!’
‘Damned upstart!’
‘I’ll smash his face in!’
Such was the mutiny that the chairman now had to quell, that he genuinely regretted his decision to let Antony carry on after the initial outburst of disapproval. Still, as his rather coarse (and now sadly deceased) wife had always said, one couldn’t un-fuck. He’d just have to get this lot calmed down again and get the discussion back on track.
Christopher Cave, a cab driver, proposed that Nigel Bruce was perhaps the best Watson of all time in visual media, and was seconded by Elliot Jordan, a local librarian. Television abandoned, Kevin Wood, a teacher, proposed Basil Rathbone the best Holmes, seconded by Bob Wiltshire, a social worker, and supported by Rupert Mitchell, a local undertaker. The meeting then broke up in a much more harmonious mood.
Afterwards, all the members went downstairs to the bar for a well-earned, in their opinions, alcoholic drink, after the skirmish that a meeting always engendered. Holmes had taken no part in the discussion, and Garden followed him downstairs a bit bemused. ‘What was that all about?’ he asked in hushed tones, when Holmes had ordered a Campari and soda and a pint of bitter.
‘Do you remember me saying that I might set up a Holmes discussion group, if we didn’t set up as detectives?’ asked the older man.
‘I believe I do. But you already belonged to this,’ replied Garden, with a slightly interrogative edge to his voice.
‘I did. And I was instrumental in setting it up. That’s why it’s named the Quaker Street Irregulars: in my honour. A few of us used to bump into each other in here, and the conversation invariably ended up being about Sherlock. But something has gone wrong in the mix, and look at the parlous state things are in now. I’m surprised that the discussion about whose were the best portrayals didn’t descend into anarchy!’
‘What in particular?’ asked Garden.
‘The idea that Holmes and Watson were gay, and the shouting and insults. It just wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be a civilised discussion group, and it has degenerated into something resembling a zoo.’
‘You certainly do need to implement some sort of code of manners, but I think your main problem is that man who tried to read his story.’ Garden broke off with a shudder th
at such a slur should be brought on to their heroes. Being rather ‘different’ himself, he didn’t have a homophobic bone in his body, but Holmes and Watson had definitely never been intended to be thought to have any sort of physical relationship, and he thought that Conan Doyle himself would have found the idea repugnant.
‘He’s had a bee in his bonnet over that particular slant on things since he joined us a few months ago. I can’t remember who brought him along, but he’s been getting more and more of a bore on the subject, and nothing will deflect him.’
‘Perhaps you could remember who proposed him and have a word with them.’
‘I really can’t for the life of me remember, but I suppose I could ring the others and find out who it was. If things go on like this, there won’t be a Quaker Street Irregulars meeting to go to soon. It’ll all implode.’
Garden drained his glass and asked if Holmes would like another. ‘Actually, I feel a bit rattled by tonight’s events. If you don’t mind, I think I’d rather go home. Why don’t you come back with me and we’ll have a nightcap? You can always stay in the spare room if you wish.’
Garden could think of a thousand reasons why he shouldn’t go home with Holmes, one of them being that he was very fond of his own bed, the other nine hundred and ninety-nine being Colin, Holmes’ cat, but he didn’t dare say so, and gave in with a good grace because he didn’t like to see the man so upset. Things had been bad enough after that prank that Streeter had subjected them to, and he would, at the moment, do anything to preserve the uneasy peace that Holmes seemed to possess.
He had been given a little more insight into what made Holmes tick tonight, however, and he smiled at the thought. He was only going to have a cup of coffee and he would be sleeping in his own bed later.
The Bookcase of Sherman Holmes: A Holmes and Garden Anthology Page 13