The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  And now there is a…counterfeit tree…in the midst of the den, halfway betwixt the fireplace and entertainment centre, tastefully decorated to within an inch of its faux life; and almost every room has some holiday touch to it, saving only the baths. I perforce drew the line at that. Evergreen—especially holly—in a small room in which one typically is partially or completely unclothed, is simply not to be tolerated.

  So Skye is happy, and I must admit the house is quite festive now. She tells me when the power is back on, the tree will be lit electrically, and as it is “artificial,” with no candles, there is no risk of fire. I suppose this is a good thing. I plainly recall the myriad fires throughout London each year at the holiday season, due to the practice of lit candles placed upon decorated, cut trees. I do find the ambiance of the fragrance lacking, though I have little doubt this will be remedied later, when the garlands arrive.

  This business of keeping my own journal, in lieu of my Boswell, is growing upon me; I find it an excellent technique for clarifying one’s thoughts. Here I have written nearly five pages and have yet to mention the reason for which the journal was acquired. So let me touch upon the subject before ending for the time.

  Since Skye calculated the probabilities of our being separated by another continuum’s tesseract, I find I still have the occasional “Watson dream.” But they seem to be more muted in nature now; less a desperate search on the part of my old friend than a kind of perambulation, and he no longer metamorphoses into Skye in the end. As a result my nights are uninterrupted. This is far more to my liking, and I am certain Skye appreciates the lack of disturbance as well.

  I have hopes the matter is resolved.

  * * *

  The blizzard ended the next day, and the day after, the utilities were restored, though the weather remained cold. They spent the day shoveling out, until by sunset the path to the barn and the driveway to the road were reasonably clear. That night, Holmes experienced his first modern Christmas tree, and the next morning, after judiciously trimming the shrubs and trees around the house and ranch, Skye bedecked door and window and mantel with fresh pine, juniper and holly, thereby satisfying Holmes’ one remaining aesthetic complaint.

  After that, matters proceeded rapidly toward Christmas and the special event the couple had set for two days prior. Several brightly wrapped packages appeared under the tree; some addressed to Skye, some to Holmes. Skye asked Holmes what he intended to wear for their wedding, and he shrugged.

  “I had thought to ask you what was appropriate. Obviously conventions have changed since Queen Victoria’s reign.”

  “Well, since it’s just us, we can do whatever we like. But I did think I’d run down to the Springs and get myself a pretty dress to wear.”

  “What length? Evening, or cocktail?” Holmes raised an eyebrow.

  * * *

  Skye hid her delighted surprise at his awareness of the matter. “Um, well, it won’t be a regular wedding dress, but usually wedding dresses are full length. I thought I’d follow tradition in that respect, at least.”

  “Then I shall get out the tuxedo I acquired in Washington this August past.” Holmes nodded comprehension.

  “Okay, that’ll work,” Skye piped.

  * * *

  It came down to the afternoon of the 23rd. “Billy” Williams, his girlfriend and co-agent Tina, and Nate and Caitlin Hughes arrived right after lunch; by three, the bridal party repaired to the bedroom wing of the house to get ready. Caitlin attended Skye in the master bedroom, while Billy joined Holmes in the guest bedroom which Holmes had once called his own as they prepared for the quiet little ceremony.

  Nate Hughes cheerfully functioned as doorman when the pastor, a good friend of Skye’s, arrived about four in the afternoon, in plenty of time for the actual ceremony, which was planned for five. A few minutes later, another light knock sounded on the side door, and Hughes hurried down the south hall to open it. On the other side stood General and Mrs. Morris, with the general attired in full mess dress uniform and his wife in a lovely amethyst cocktail dress. Hughes grinned, putting a finger to his lips before ushering them into the den and seating them on the couch.

  Moments later, a second knock on the side door heralded Colonel Jones, also attired in full formal uniform; and close behind him was Agent Smith in a dark suit. Tina let them in with a delighted smirk, while Nate Hughes arranged the armchairs in the den and brought in the kitchen chairs to provide additional seating. The pastor simply watched in silent amusement.

  Ten minutes later still another soft knock sounded. Captain Braeden Ryker, of the British Security Service, and his entire company of ten entered, closely followed by the additional ten of Williams’ MI5 company. All grinned from ear to ear, dressed to the nines, in either military or civilian clothing appropriate for their status. The large but amazingly quiet group stopped in the kitchen and offloaded several big boxes and packages before slipping into the den, where they smiled and nodded at the other occupants.

  “Damn,” Morris murmured, holding in the laughter with difficulty, “for a private little ceremony, they certainly have a house full.”

  Several stifled snorts greeted this comment.

  “Well, you can’t say Dr. Hughes and Agent Williams don’t know a thing or two about orchestrating an undercover operation,” Agent Smith noted in an amused undertone.

  “You suppose the happy couple have figured it out?” Colonel Jones wondered.

  “Good question,” Smith agreed. “If they have, they’re obviously not going to throw us out. Holmes hasn’t stormed from the bedroom wing yet.”

  * * *

  In point of fact, Skye, on the opposite side of the house from the doors, knew nothing. But Williams, in the spare bedroom with Holmes, both clad in formal eveningwear, was going to tremendous effort to keep the groom occupied and as distracted as possible. He chattered nonstop, telling Holmes in great detail about the latest observations of UFOs around Air Force bases in Great Britain. The detective therefore spent the preparation time focusing on the information Williams was imparting; despite his outward cool, Holmes was finding the momentousness of the coming ceremony somewhat imposing.

  “…And so Fylingdales recorded the incoming bogey on radar, zipping right across the Channel,” Williams declared. “Then Woodbridge and Bentwaters picked it up as it entered the forest. So did Lakenheath and Mildenhall.”

  “But Skye told me that both Woodbridge and Bentwaters had been closed as RAF facilities,” Holmes noted. His ears perked up. Was that the sound of tyres on gravel? I thought the minister had already arrived…

  “Well, yes and no,” Williams grinned cheekily. “They were ostensibly handed over to the Army Air Corps when the Yanks pulled out, but…well, let’s just say that appearances can be deceiving.” He winked. “If you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I see,” Holmes said thoughtfully. There it is again, he observed, listening intently. “So the facilities are indeed active, but clandestinely so,” he continued the conversation.

  “Exactly. And that’s part of the problem. If this keeps up, there’s a fear the information will leak out that they’re still manned. Not to mention worrying that the unidentified objects are actually spy aircraft or some such, specifically targeting the sites.”

  Holmes paused, giving Williams a sharp glance as he heard noises from somewhere outside. There is a game afoot here, and I suspect I know what. “What do you and your organisation desire me to do about it?” he asked then.

  “Dunno yet.” Williams shook his head. “If it keeps up, you may get called in, so I’m to keep you briefed. The Director General is considering bringing you in, but she’s reluctant to do it. After all, as the counterintelligence group, it’s supposed to be our bailiwick, and our people are already working hard on it. But I wouldn’t be surprised if, after the first of the year, you and Dr. Chadwick—er, Dr. Holmes, um…”

  “Dr. Chadwick-Holmes, or simply Mrs. Holmes, so she has informed me.”

  *
* *

  “Right,” Williams grinned, affectionately noting the slight color in the detective’s face at the statement. “Anyway, you might be visiting Great Britain after the first of the year. Coming home, as it were.”

  A soft light illumined grey eyes as Holmes considered the possibility of bringing his bride to the city he had once called home.

  “Keep me apprised of matters, Billy. I shall, of course, assist if required.”

  * * *

  On the other side of the hall, Caitlin adjusted a strand of Skye’s golden hair before she tugged the bridal coronet into place.

  “There,” she said in satisfaction, stepping back and looking at the bride. “You look beautiful, honey. Even Holmes will have to pick his jaw up off the floor.”

  “I’ll be satisfied for being thought pretty.” Skye flushed. “‘Beautiful’ is kind of out of my league.”

  “Bullshit. Besides, I may not be a hotshot detective like you two, but even I can see his eyes light up every time he looks at you.” Caitlin handed the bridal bouquet to the blushing bride. “Here. Oh, perfect! Skye, I’m so glad for you,” she whispered, hugging the woman she considered a sister.

  “Thanks, Cait,” Skye breathed, returning the hug. “You can’t imagine how happy I am.”

  “Good. Shall I let the men know we’re ready?”

  “Ooo,” Skye drew in a shaky, nervous breath, then grinned, her sapphire eyes glowing with joy. “Yeah, go ahead.”

  * * *

  A knock came on the guest bedroom door as the grandfather clock in the hall struck five o’clock.

  “You guys ready?” Caitlin Hughes’ voice called from the other side.

  Williams glanced at Holmes, who nodded.

  “Yes, Dr. Hughes, we’re ready. Shall we go out?” the agent asked.

  “Yeah, give me about ten seconds to get back into the bedroom and grab my bouquet, and then go,” came the reply.

  “Oh, flowers! Damn, I almost forgot!” Williams exclaimed. He rushed to the dresser and opened the two small floral boxes there, extracting two red rose boutonnieres with their sprigs of holly. He shoved one into his own lapel, then turned to Holmes, carefully tucking the other into the groom’s lapel before smoothing it down. “There ya go, mate. You look spiffy. Your lady will love it. And don’t worry, I’ve got the ring.”

  Holmes smiled vaguely, color rising in the high cheekbones as the grey eyes shone with excitement.

  * * *

  Moments later, Holmes found himself following Williams out of the bedroom and down the hall, following the strains of his own violin playing classic English Christmas carols emanating from the stereo—at Skye’s request, and with her assistance in the recording, Holmes had himself produced the music on his Stradivarius. Five seconds later he entered the den.

  Twenty-seven expectant pairs of eyes met him.

  Holmes never batted an eyelash.

  * * *

  “Damn, he heard us arrive,” Smith observed to General Morris with amusement, as the best man and the groom took their positions to the minister’s right, between the fireplace and the Christmas tree.

  * * *

  I suppose I should not be surprised, Holmes decided with wry humor. When so many undercover operatives and investigators are involved, it stands to reason a quiet matter will come to light. I should have much preferred a more private ceremony, but it seems a bit late for it now. I hope Skye will not be upset by the…additions. He shot a glance at Williams, who stood beside the detective with an expression that was an odd mix of smirking pride and sheepish apology. Aha. So one of the conspirators stands beside me.

  Anna chose that moment to emerge from wherever she’d been ensconced. Holmes spotted the small feline and crouched down, holding out one hand. The little Siamese trotted over to the detective with her tail in the air and touched her nose to his fingertips in approval, then head-butted his hand before moving away and taking up a position on the warm hearth nearby, supervisory to the proceedings. Holmes’ eyes twinkled and he rose to his full height.

  “It would seem EVERYONE is in attendance now,” he murmured with dry humor, and a chuckle went around the room.

  Just then, Caitlin emerged from the north hallway. She was dressed in an emerald-green evening gown, and carried a bouquet of red poinsettias. The plump, pretty redhead beamed as she saw the crowd of guests in the den. Holmes’ lips quirked.

  And there is the other conspirator, he realized, watching Caitlin move past to stand on the other side of the pastor. It seems our trusted witnesses are not so much to be trusted, after all. At least when it comes to the matter of Skye’s and my wedding.

  But every other thought departed the detective’s mind in the next moment, as Skye came through the door from the north wing.

  He noted abstractedly that she paused in shock at the unexpected sight of the room full of beaming guests. But what occupied the grey gaze was not her surprise, but the glowing vision standing before him.

  Her dress was a soft, almost Grecian flow of satin, the palest tint of shell pink preventing it from being pure white. It caught over her shoulders, draped lovingly down her body, gliding sensuously over her curves before pooling at her feet. Pink-clad toes peeped from beneath the hem. Her hands held a bouquet of multicolored poinsettias—white, pink, red—mixed with red roses and sprigs of holly. The loose, golden hair that spilled down her shoulders was crowned with a bridal coronet of holly. Skye’s face shone happily, her cheeks flushed a tender pink, her lips were soft, moist and full.

  But it was her eyes that riveted Holmes’ attention. They glowed a brilliant sapphire, filled with joy. And they were fixed on him.

  * * *

  For Skye was likewise taking in the sight of her groom. Tall, slender, and handsome, impeccable in tuxedo and black tie, every strand of the jet black hair in place, and intense grey eyes shining like molten silver in the soft light from the Christmas tree, the fireplace, and the myriad of candles providing the room’s low illumination.

  * * *

  “Hi,” she murmured, moving to stand beside him and smiling up into his face, as the rest of the world seemed to disappear.

  “Hello,” he replied quietly, looking down into her eyes and losing himself there.

  * * *

  Affectionate grins spread through the assembled guests. The minister smiled, then cleared his throat lightly. At that gentle hint the pair returned to the real world. Holmes took Skye’s right hand in his, placing it on his left forearm, and they both turned to face the minister.

  “Dearly beloved,” the minister intoned the words of the old injunction, “we are gathered here today in the sight of God, to join this man and this woman…”

  * * *

  The ceremony was short and uncomplicated. Rings were duly exchanged and vows softly invoked. Twenty minutes later the newlyweds exchanged a gentle, chaste kiss before being presented to their unexpected guests as husband and wife. The couple’s faces flushed at the boisterous applause; Caitlin was crying openly while laughing happily.

  * * *

  “Congratulations!” Captain Ryker came forward, shaking Holmes’ hand enthusiastically and thereby forming an impromptu receiving line. “I told you we wouldn’t miss it for anything!”

  “All the way from England?” Skye wondered, as the MI5 agent bowed over her hand.

  “Every blessed one of us,” Ryker grinned, stepping back as his team filed past.

  “On our own pence,” Stevens noted cheerfully, grabbing Holmes’ hand and shaking enthusiastically.

  “Her Majesty probably would have sent us, but we decided to come on our own,” Wang added, right behind Stevens. “But she sends her congratulations and good wishes.”

  “And wants to know when you’re coming over,” Hanover finished.

  Agent Smith and Colonel Jones were right behind all the British operatives, and they both clapped Holmes on the back, then flanked Skye.

  “I got this side, Hank,” Smith noted, sidling in close.
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br />   “Okay, I’ve got this one, Adrian. On three?” Jones glanced at his old friend, who nodded.

  “One…two…three!” Smith exclaimed.

  And both men simultaneously kissed the bride, one on each cheek.

  “Oh!” Skye blurted, startled, and the guests all laughed. Holmes found his lips curling despite himself; it was patently obvious the two men had just bestowed a brother-like blessing on his new wife.

  Then it was General Morris’ turn. The big officer and his dainty, elegant wife greeted the couple, congratulating them heartily. Morris harrumphed considerably before his wife poked him.

  “Oh, go ahead, Bill,” she told him with stern affection. “For once quit worrying about the dignity of those stars on your shoulders and let yourself be an old softie.”

  And with that urging, the general unexpectedly enveloped both Holmes and Skye in a fatherly bear hug.

  Holmes’ eyes widened, and he stiffened. But Skye leaned into the hug and murmured, “If I’d known you were going to be here, General, I’d have asked you to walk me into the room.”

  Morris cleared his throat, caught off guard. He released the pair and pulled back before answering gruffly, “And I’d have done it, too, young lady.”

  “Had we expected so many guests, a great number of things would have been planned differently,” Holmes added pointedly, but allowing a twinkle of gratified amusement in his eyes nonetheless. He had not until that evening realized that there were so many who considered the couple as friends, let alone important enough to travel halfway across the world in order to be present at their wedding. “I am afraid we had not planned for refreshment.”

  “That’s okay, we did,” Williams smirked. “If you’re going to make so bold as to crash a wedding, it’s the least you can do. Reception’s in the kitchen, courtesy of, er, the Cimarron Springs Hotel! There’s even a wedding cake, and we brought a magnum of Wycliff!”

  “Oh, my,” Skye murmured, looking up at her new husband.

  Holmes said nothing, merely looked back down at her. The others paused, and the room grew quiet.