sherlock beynon and lady gemma's priceless collection

8/2/2019 Sherlock Beynon and Lady Gemma's Priceless Collection

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Sherlock Beynon andLady Gemmas Priceless Collection

by

Matt Phillips

Copyright 2012 by Matt PhillipsScribd Edition

The Author asserts the moral right to a lay-in

on Sundays.

Except in Antarctica this story can be distributed in any

cover you like. Without a cover even. InAntartica,

well, thats complicated...

Published by Gorilla Books Ltd


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All similarities to persons living or dead are entirely on purpose.

That said, while the characters are drawn in part from life, they are

all jumbled up with scandalously imitated fictional characters.

Therefore they are not an accurate rendering of the individuals at

all. So much so that any similarities are probably coincidental.

Probably.


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To Neil and Gemma

I hope this short piece of fiction will bring you joy (or at least a

chuckle or two), as you embark upon the exciting new chapter in

your lives. It details the little known story of how you both met.


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Sherlock Beynon andLady Gemmas Priceless Collection

The man is a clockmaker, said Sherlock

Beynon, seated on his blue and yellow bean bag next

to the fire place in his lodgings in Bhaker Street. I

swear the fellow is a clockmaker, there can be no

doubt!

I had considerable doubt. Yet over the many

years of our acquaintance I had grown accustomed

to Beynons uncanny skills of logic, his leaps of

judgement that were rapid enough to seem like

intuition but were in fact the result of deep and

considered thought. His penetrating eyes glitteredwith the joy of triumph as he clamped his favourite

pipe between his teeth. The tobacco glowed red and

lustrous as he took a deep breath into his lungs,

before he spat the pipe onto the floor and collapsed

into an uncontrollable fit of coughing.Blasted stuff, I keep forgetting that I do not like

to actually inhale the noxious fumes! spluttered

Beynon, as I hastily stamped out the burning embers

that were melting a hole in our imitation Iranian rug


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from Argos. The threat of pyrrhic inferno abated I

returned the pipe to Beynon. He accepted it

gratefully, his eyes somewhat watery but by no means

dimmed.

You see Watson, continued Beynon, waving the

now extinguished pipe under my nose, a pipe really

is the most excellent aid to in-depth thought, and the

effect on increasing a mans standing in societycannot be underestimated.

Again I was hard pressed to agree. I could not

abide the smell of Beynons pipe, and was of the

opinion that it did nothing to increase his gravitas. It

was true that, within our own social fraternity, therewere certain expectations. That these should be

fulfilled was of course imperative, and that meant

Beynon carrying the pipe. Indeed, this also included

him occasionally lighting the thing, although I wished

he would remember not to inhale. It was a truth

unimpeachably acknowledged that to smoke but not

inhale was by far the safest option.

It was the need to keep up appearances that

explained my own somewhat unorthodox

appearance. It was a little after two oclock on

Saturday afternoon and I was dressed in a long white

coat. A row of pens marched in proud formation

across my breast pocket and a stethoscope was hung

in a devil-may-care fashion around my neck. Tucked


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into my pocket were three lollipops (a green, a red

and a blue) and a small pack of sticking plasters.

Propped against my knee was a wooden clipboard,

and nestled into my back pocket was a black and

white photocopy of my first aid certificate (gained

when I was at high school). I had long since lost the

original. It was my sincere hope that the combined

effect of these items would lend gravity to the maximthat perception is reality. In any event, it was the

best I could do in lieu of seven years of medical

training.

As I was saying Watson, the man was a

clockmaker, and with that certainty I put the case torest. Already the events are growing dim in my mind

as it clears itself for our next challenge.

I wondered a little at Beynons liberal use of the

word case. In this instance I could find no sound

basis on which to doubt his assertion that the man

was a clockmaker. I was unlikely to find any in the

future either, as it seemed certain we would never

meet the man again. Or indeed meet him for the

first time, since the gentleman in question was not an

acquaintance of Beynon or I.

I had first spied the clockmaker - if indeed that

was what he was - walking down the street, limping a

little and carrying a large leather box. He had paused

several times, stopping to scratch his scalp which was


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covered in a voluminous woollen hat. The

enormous hat, combined with the mans striking

height and grace of movement (if one ignored the

limp), gave the impression of a stately white heron,

with a tea cosy on it. All this may have passed

without comment if but for one singular feature.

The mans right boot, for indeed he was wearing

yellow Wellington boots, was leaving a trail of redfootprints down Bhaker Street and, presumably,

would continue to do so when he reached McLeod

Road (for that is the direction in which he trod).

Remarking upon this I had beckoned Beynon over to

the window.What do you think this fellow is about? I had

enquired of the greatest deductive mind in Europe.

Beynon had paused for a second, his eyes going

flat in an expression of intense mental exertion that I

was well accustomed to. His hand rose up to his

impressive mane of hair which he ruffled in a

thoughtful way. His Tafro suitably re-arranged he

removed the pipe (which at that time was unlit) from

between his teeth and declaimed That man is a

clockmaker. With that he had collapsed back into

the misshapen bean bag, leaving me watching the

cosy covered heron man making his way around the

corner, the leather box balanced awkwardly upon

one hip.


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It had become my habit to document the many

adventures that Sherlock Beynon and I shared. I had

a journal devoted to our escapades, which at the time

of these events ran to a full seven and a half pages. I

had yet to complete my record of the case of the

missing Tesco trolley, which I fully anticipated would

put the length of my journal into double figures.

Notwithstanding my dedication to documenting ouractivities, I did not think the case of the man passing

on the street who may or may not be a clockmaker

was likely to feature in my journal. At that time I

could not have anticipated what was about to happen

next, and how that weekend Beynon and I would beinvolved in a case that would push the boundaries of

even his mental capacity, and have us both in fear for

our lives.

I was just musing that, given the propensity for

clocks and watches to be made overseas, and the

modern proclivity to have all manner of goods made

by machines, it was likely that there were less than

twenty men in the whole of London that could claim

the title of clockmaker. That we had seen one, shod

in yellow wellys and a tea cosy, heaving a heavy

leather box down Bhaker Street seemed far-fetched.

As if sensing my growing doubt Beynon shifted in

his bean bag, his words cutting across my thoughts.


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Ah, I fear these long summer days have put us in

quite a malaise my dear Watson. I fear that I may

have to take refuge in my music. Panic gripped me.

Where his powers of deductive genius could not be

doubted, the same accolade could not be bestowed

on his musical prowess. His latest obsession was the

most troubling. Where he had been making progress

with the violin I feared that his foray into the urbanjungle that is beat-boxing was doomed to failure. I

could see him limbering up his fingers and sitting up

somewhat straighter in the bean bag. This was my

signal to leave. It was either that I would be asked to

join in, and I was under no illusion as to my abilitiesas a gangsta rapper. Our natural talents aside, I

couldnt escape the feeling that Beynon had missed

the essence of the genre. The first time he had

sprung the beat-boxing breakdown on me he had

required me to rap out his lyrics while he huffed and

puffed into his hands. I turned away from the

window and had just opened my mouth, a pathetic

excuse poised upon my lips.

Now Watson, I know you struggled before but

that is no reason to abandon a new pursuit. You

seemed to think that my lyrics werent in keeping

with the essence, the soul, the raison dtre of rap, so

I have prepared a new song for you. With that he

handed over a crisp sheet of paper, his own precise


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and inimitable script printed boldly upon the page. I

read the first two lines.

When the mofos in the hood tool up to come and get me,I make some bran muffins and invite them all around for tea

I couldnt read on.

I know what you are thinking Watson, but I

assure you that it is all my own work. I have tried tocapture both sides of society on the same coin, if you

will. The raging anger and resentment of the

repressed underclass and the propensity of people to

bake. Both tied up in a neat bow, no mere song but

a social commentary on the way we live today and,

indeed, a musical recipe book for high fibre low fat

cooking. Beynon paused for a second, a thoughtful

look upon his face.

But, I fear, all of this will have to wait. For there

is the bell, and if I am not very much mistaken a

young lady has arrived to enquire after our services.

I had found after a number of years that it was

best not to doubt Beynon when he was in this mood.

The fact that the doorbell had not worked for thepast three months would matter little to him when he

thought he had heard it ring. The marvel I would

normally feel at his deductive powers was in this

instance lessened, as I could also tell it was a young

lady who had come calling, as she stood in the


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doorway to our parlour. Making my own leap of

logic I deduced from this that Beynon had left the

door open when he came back with the milk that

morning, and the young lady, bored from repeatedly

depressing the non-functioning door bell, had

bravely mounted the stairs into our lair.

Ah, said Beynon, rising from the bean bag with

animal grace. Do come in dear lady. Come, andwarm yourself by the fire. The fact that it was thirty

degrees in the shade and the fire had not been lit in

all my time at Bhaker Street did nothing to erode the

graciousness of his greeting. The young lady politely

inclined her head and made her way to the armchairBeynon had indicated.

In all my time with the great Sherlock Beynon I

have never seen him react so forcefully to another.

A man of powerful mental faculty, he seemed at

times to eschew emotion, devoting his energies to

the mysteries in which we inured ourselves. On this

occasion however I could clearly see that he was

quite taken with our visitor at first sight. His

piercing eyes seemed to drink in every part of her,

and he seemed more than usually alert. I could easily

tell what had inspired his interest, for the young lady

was indeed beautiful, with long dark hair and graceful

carriage. As our guest settled herself into the large

arm chair Beynon paced slowly back and forth about


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the room. I made to leave but with a wave of his

hand Beynon indicated I should stay.

You are most welcome to our lodgings. Would

you like some tea or something to eat, perhaps I

should call Mrs. Hudson for some refreshments?

The lady politely declined, which was an intense

relief. Mrs Hudson owned the terraced house in

which we sat. It had been converted into an upstairsand downstairs flat, and while we sat in the small

parlour of the upstairs level Mrs Hudson resided on

the ground floor. She had explained, on countless

occasions and in varying tones of frustration, that

fetching food and drink were not part of her role as alandlady. Why Beynon persisted in asking her for

such things was beyond me, but it is not for me to

question the foibles of genius.

The lady introduced herself as Lady Gemma of

Morgan, and while she was cool and composed it

was clear to us both that she had recently suffered a

serious shock. Beynon offered her a hobnob biscuit

from the small stash he stored underneath the bean

bag and, despite her earlier refusal of refreshments,

Lady Gemma accepted a biscuit with gratitude and

nibbled daintily on its edge. Beynon settled himself

on the beanbag and leaned back into the polyester

stuffed fabric. Steepling his fingers in front of him

he closed his eyes. To any other it would appear that


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he was taking a short nap, so relaxed was his repose,

but I was well acquainted with the various poses of

his intense intellectual faculty.

You may begin when you are ready my Lady.

Pray leave nothing out, however inconsequential.

Rest assured if I can help you I shall.

The lady hesitated, for a second casting a glance

in my direction. Again I made a move to leave butonce more Beynon forestalled me.

This is my fine colleague, friend and associate

Doctor Watson. He has been an invaluable aid to

me on many a case, and you will not find a finer

fellow in all of London. I assure you that anythingyou can say to me you can say to him.

Seemingly satisfied with this Lady Gemma began

her tale.

I am grateful to find you in, and do hope in

earnest that you can help me. Her voice was

melodious and warm, and I fancied I could spy a

small smile on Beynons normally impassive features.

I was referred to you by a close friend of mine

that works in the Belvedere Tesco Express on

Picardy Street, she continued. He was amazed at

how quickly you located the missing trolley, and

spoke most eloquently of your investigative

prowess. Beynon waved away the compliment but I

could tell he was pleased.


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The day started out in a fashion that led me to

suspect nothing out of the ordinary. I awoke early to

the sweet sound of birdsong and the gentle clatter of

my rubbish bin being overturned by a rabid urban

fox. As the pneumatic drill at number thirty four

started up I stretched and enjoyed the heady languor

of laying abed on a sunny Saturday. It was a quarter

to six in the morning. I fancied that the combinednoise of light industrial machinery and animal

combat (a badger had stumbled into the garden and

was fighting the fox to finish of the remains of last

nights Chicken Jalfrezi), would make further sleep

an impossibility. So I rose from bed and decided ona refreshing walk around Plumstead Gardens.

Ah! interrupted Beynon, one eye open. But

you never made it to Plumstead Gardens, did you?

Indeed no, how on earth did you know that?

asked Lady Gemma.

It was the smallest thing. As you entered I

caught the scent of roses, which put me in mind of

the rose garden at St Nicholas Gardens. As there are

no roses in Plumstead Gardens I am left to assume

that you made a change of plans, one that I would

imagine was precipitated by the small tear in your

coat sleeve.

Lady Gemma looked at Beynon as if he had read

her mind, but quickly regained her composure.


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Please, do not let me interrupt your account,

said Beynon. I promise to hold my counsel until the

end this time. Pray continue from the beginning.

Lady Gemma finished the last remaining crumb

of hobnob and returned to her tale.

I live alone. My house is a simple yet elegant

place. It has uncommonly good views and excellent

light throughout most of the day. I have lived therefor nearly two years this coming September, and I

have never had cause to feel unsafe there. Until this

very day. When I returned home from my walk

there was little on the approach to the house to

arouse my suspicion. I made a pot of tea and, whilethe tea was brewing, I returned outside with a shovel

to lift a fox corpse (evidently the loser from that

mornings Jalfrezi battle) and place it in my wheelie

bin. When I had completed the disposal of the dead

animal I was pleased to find the tea had steeped to

perfection, and I enjoyed my mid-morning tea

together with a slice of homemade cheesecake while

gazing out of the window. It was only when I

returned to the task that I had begun the night

before that I discovered something unspeakable had

happened.

Beynons eyes were closed above his steepled

fingers, his pose so still he might have been asleep,

although I knew he was bending every shred of his


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mighty intellect to Lady Gemmas account. Lady

Gemma herself seemed in no way put off by

Beynons expression.

To illustrate the gravity of my discovery I must

first provide a little background into the work in

which I am currently employed. I say employed,

while in reality I derive no income from it, my noble

birth meaning I have no such requirement for paidwork. Rather it is a hobby that I take rather

seriously.

You gentleman are familiar with the Sunday night

disco at the Kings Arms? Beynon and I nodded

enthusiastically, though in reality I had never heardof a disco at the Kings Arms. Nor indeed had I ever

been to the Kings Arms, and I felt more than a shred

of suspicion that Beynon was in a similar position.

Nevertheless our eager agreement achieved its aim

and Lady Gemma continued with her monologue of

exposition.

I have for sometime been campaigning for the

Kings Arms to devote a disco night to an eighties

theme. As you will both be aware, the publican - a

Mr George Smythe - is something of an Acid House

fanatic. There are rumours that his passion for the

style dates back to his days as a high school music

supply teacher, when he moonlighted at the clubs

under the Alias of DJ Diggy Diggy Dog. A musical


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career that ended, somewhat suspiciously, at exactly

the same time as the attempted drive-by shooting of

Sir Mix-It-Up-Right-Stylie Michaels. As you will

recall the affair had all the trappings of an American

gangsta rap turf war, the obvious omission being a

gun. Eye witnesses reported a car being driven

slowly past Sir Mix-It-Up-Right-Stylie with a

gentleman matching the description of DJ DiggyDiggy Dog hanging out of the window and

screaming obscenities and shouting bang-bang. In

any event I digress onto matters that have little

bearing on my case.

As I said, my campaign for an eighties night at theKings Arms has been a lengthy one, and has included

a good deal of buttering up of folk and, on one

occasion, the threat to firebomb someones house.

The main opponent to my eighties night was the

Kings Arms resident DJ, Alan, who hates

archetypical eighties music with every fibre of his

being. He has said in the past that he will hear

eighties music in the Kings Arms over his rotting

corpse, and he will fight to the last breath to avoid

his beloved speakers being sullied by such aural tripe.

An eloquent man who holds strong to his principles

- I feel I could come to like DJ Alan, were it not for

his hatred of all eighties music, and his well known


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reputation for violent crime and persistent parking

offenses.

Fortunately I found support in the form of

Suresh, the owner of Sureshs Corner Store and

DVD and CD emporium. He carries a lot of sway in

the Kings Arms, and together we lobbied the Pub

Council. Finally victory was ours, Mr George

Smythe grudgingly relented and the eighties nightwas due to take place tomorrow evening, at seven

oclock. I personally led the advertising campaign,

she said proudly, unrolling a sheet of A3 paper she

produced from her bag. The poster was simple and

to the point. The words 80s night. Be There, ordont, its your choice after all were picked out in

bright red letters, just above Music from Lady

Beynons Priceless Collection and the address of

the Kings Arms and tomorrows date.

We had already sold no fewer than eight tickets.

Of course it now seems unlikely it will happen, and

after all my hard work. Lately I have spent all of my

time on the project. I had wanted to take a trip to

Oxford Road I understand that a-ha are doing a

book signing there. I would dearly like to have gone,

but there has not been enough time. For a moment

Lady Gemmas eyes welled up, and Beynon leant

forward with a handkerchief at the ready. Lady


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Gemma however waved him away, swallowing her

distress. She was clearly a woman of hidden iron.

As I said gentlemen, I had finished my tea and

cheesecake and was rolling up my sleeves to return to

work. I made my way to the sitting room and

noticed something was wrongthey had all gone!

Beynon and I gasped in shock. To this day I am

not sure why.I had been sorting and cataloguing my eighties

music collection for tomorrow evening. The wealth

of this musical repository is vast, and includes

countless vinyl recordings, cassettes and a large

number of CDs (produced after the eighties ofcourse). As DJ Alan had refused to play this

evening, and in any event as he had no eighties music

in his collection, I had volunteered my catalogue.

Suresh had also offered his somewhat meagre supply

of eighties tracks, but as he was offering them on a

commercial basis and intended to charge the Kings

Arms 12.50 for the evening my offer to supply a

superior range for free was accepted.

While my whole catalogue is unsurpassed the true

jewel in this musical crown is my vinyl collection, the

finest collection of eighties vinyl in all the land.

These precious recordings are afforded their own

leather case and are my most prized possession. At


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least they were until this morning, when I swallowed

the last of my tea and noticed they had vanished!

Beynon and I gasped again, but as this new

information was nothing more than an elucidation

on the original revelation there was little to justify

our exclamation.

An abomination! was Beynons declaration.

Indeed, replied Lady Gemma. It is certainly atragedy. I personally know of no less than six people

who were looking forward to this evening. The last

words came with something of a choke and Beynon

leapt valiantly to fill the pause.

This has clearly been a most distressing crime.There is little I can do to assuage the trauma you

have experienced Lady Gemma, but I assure you that

I will level all of my considerable talents firmly

against this mystery. If your precious collection of

vinyl can be recovered then I am the man to do it!

he declared. Lady Gemma looked brighter at this

gusto.

Now, I must inspect the scene of the crime at

once, no delay. I trust that would be acceptable?

Good! Watson, go to the street and hail us a

carriage!

With there being little passing traffic on Bhaker

Street, and indeed no carriages for the last sixty years

at least, I decided to take a loose interpretation of


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Beynons instructions and instead telephoned for a

taxi. It was to be there in five minutes. Forty two

minutes later Beynon, Lady Gemma and I stepped

into a grubby white Ford Escort and were whisked

the eight hundred metres to 68 Rochdale Road.

My friends genius is not something I can

overstate, and I have often marvelled at his keen eyeand ability to immediately see the hidden in any

situation. I felt sure he would uncover clues at the

scene of the crime that would open this closed

mystery before us like a fragrant lotus blossom

uncurling its delicate petals to the rising sun. We hadnot even entered the house and his detective instincts

were thrumming.

Is everything out here as you left it? he asked of

Lady Gemma.

I believe so, she replied.You are quite sure? he queried.

Yes, I believe I am.

Its just, there are two details right here, small

details perhaps, that I thought may have warranted a

place in your account.

Such as? asked Lady Gemma, arching her

eyebrow in what might be the beginning on

annoyance.


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Well, the first minor detail would be the fact that

your front door has been smashed from its hinges. I

can see from here where it lays prone in your

hallway, torn completely from the frame with what

can only have been an exceptional amount of force.

Ah, indeed, what keen senses you have, Lady

Gemma complimented. Now that you mention it, I

do not recall using my keys to re-enter the house,and other than thinking it a blessed convenience

when I arrived home, and when I came back out to

dispose of the dead fox, I thought no more of it.

Do not worry yourself my Lady, it is the job of

the trained investigator to notice such things. Thesecond oddity I can spy is the expensive pair of

mens boots, black leather, one that looks chewed

and the other smeared with blood and orange hair,

that lie just to the side of your shattered portal. As

you mentioned living alone, I would conclude the

boots are not yours nor of anyone you know?

Beynon was once again correct, and was again

complimented on his observation skills.

Entering the house we passed over the splintered

mess of the front door. I entered last, and was about

to remark that it was nothing short of a miracle that

Lady Gemma had avoided injury on the mass of

broken glass and timber when Beynon gave an

exclamation from the front room.


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Aha, another clue methinks! When I got to the

front room he had already produced his large reading

magnifier (purchased three months previously from

Pound Stretcher) and was scouring the carpet. It was

easy to see what had attracted his interest. A large

wet red stain was spread across the floor around the

coffee table. My initial thought was that it was a

large puddle of blood, but the bright hue and thepresence of a paint tin, toppled on its side in the

centre of the pool, soon told a different story.

Look Watson, whoever was here must have had

some trouble, they tracked it everywhere! He was

right, livid red footprints marched every which wayin the room before heading through to the kitchen

and disappearing through the back door.

What have you found? asked Lady Gemma,

who had paused in the hallway to deposit her shoes

in a cupboard under the stairs. Her eyes took in the

enormous quantity of red paint sprayed around the

room. It looked as if someone had staged a small

scale Tomatina in her living room, the carpet alone

resembling the canvass for an artistic poltergeist

going through a red period.

Lady Gemma surveyed the room. Hmmm? she

said, in an expectant tone. It would seem she had

not yet noticed the cause of our excitement. Beynon

was unperturbed.


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There is a quantity of paint in this room that I

warrant is not in the location in which you left it.

Vis-a-vis my working hypothesis is that you left the

paint in the tin. Its relocation to the vast majority of

surfaces within the room leads me to conclude not

only that someone other than yourself has been in

this room, but that we stand a chance of catching the

perpetrator of this grave crime with red paint daubedin some manner on their limbs. Beynon paused for

us both to appreciate the wonder of his deductive

reasoning. For my part I felt a tiny tug of relief, as

since entering the room I felt sure we wouldnt

escape without some terrible pun being made.No doubt this was the paint you were using in

the advertising material for the eighties night,

supplied Beynon, gesturing at the overturned tin.

Oh, my. You are certainly good at finding these

tiny clues that I seem to have missed, said Lady

Gemma.

Not at all madam, said Beynon, puffing up with

pride. You will also note that none of the

footprints are barefoot. This means we are either

dealing with multiple burglars or that our single

perpetrator has secured alternative footwear since de-

shoeing outside your front door. May I take a look

at your shoe cupboard?


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Lady Gemmas shoe cupboard was neat and

orderly, twin racks holding a modest but fashionable

array of footwear. There was a single gap among the

ordered ranks of loafers, boots, slippers and kitten

heels. A gap just big enough for a missing pair of

footwear. Just to the side of this gap was a dark

brown stain in the shape of a footprint.

More paint? I asked.Not this time Watson. This time it really is

blood, said Beynon. Lady Gemma, are there items

missing from this rack? Something that should

occupy that space perhaps? Beynon indicated the

empty space on the rack as Lady Gemma peered pasthis shoulder.

My goodness, how right you are. It would seem

I have misplaced my Wellington boots.

Not misplaced Lady Gemma, I am certain that

they have been stolen, along with your priceless

album collection, and if I am not mistaken a tea cosy

from the third drawer down in the kitchen.

My goodness Beynon, however do you deduce

that? I exclaimed.

All in good time Watson. I take it these boots

were your size, a ladys five?

A lesser lady would have bridled at such an

impertinent question, but Lady Gemma sailed


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through any possible offence with an easy manner of

sophistication.

Indeed they were Mr Beynon.

Excellent. Now I fear we must be off. Time

may now play a paramount part in our enquiries.

Lady Gemma, it has been a pleasure making your

acquaintance. Rest assured I will do anything in my

power to return your lost items. I will contact you bytelegram later today.

Lady Gemma looked a trifle confused until I

mouthed email at her over Beynons shoulder.

My thanks to you Mr Beynon, I am already

calmerI feel certain you will succeed. But are yousure you must leave straight away? Could you not at

least stay for some tea and a slice of homemade

cheesecake? Beynon had his hands held aloft, ready

to refuse the call to stay, but on the mention of

cheesecake his expression changed.

Well, there is no point heading out in this

terrible weather on an empty stomach, he said, his

hands dropping to his side. I peered idly out of the

window. The day remained fine and warm, but

before I could mention this fact Beynon had

followed Lady Gemma into the kitchen.

Forty five minutes and two slices (each) of

cheesecake later Beynon and I were hurrying into


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Town. The bright summers day washed around us

like a perfectly chilled fine wine. Birds sung sweetly

as they darted from tree to tree, passers-by nodded in

friendly greeting (or at least mild confusion at my

unusual garb), and homeless vagrants lay contentedly

in the warm sun, their hands grasping paper wrapped

bottles of imperfectly chilled cheap wine.

Beynon and I walked in silence. My friends browwas furrowed and a look of intense concentration

marked his features. At least I attributed the

expression to concentration. On reflection the vast

quantity of cheesecake that we had just consumed

made it possible that it was indigestion. Not beingmuch of a talker, I had always found it easy to enjoy

the companionable silences I shared with Beynon, be

them the product of a profound conundrum or

excessive desert consumption. I also know how

much he valued silence when he was digesting the

minutia of a tantalising case. Such a power of

concentration. I had often thought that in the field

of criminology Wales had suffered a cruel and

profound loss when Beynon had moved to London.

Indeed too in the field of recipe-based-rap, although

I was inclined to believe Beynons musical

endeavours were less a work of unappreciated genius

and more a crime against humanity, and that it was


29/67

an irrelevance which country he practiced in, save the

fact one hoped it was as far away as possible.

I felt sure I had divined our destination, and was

also wrapped up in my own thoughts. I had for

some time been pondering the purchase of a mid-calf

white coat. The full length variety that I currently

wore was devilishly hot in summer, a problem only

compounded when it was layered over trousers. Ihad on one occasion - a trip to the supermarket as it

happens - opted to wear a pair of shorts under the

great white coat. While I was decently dressed by

most modern standards, the sight of my bare legs

rearing up back and forth from beneath the full-length coat gave me the overall appearance of a

flasher, and after the third young lady that I passed

had activated her rape alarm I decided that trousers

were really the only option. Roused from my

thoughts I noticed that Beynon was no longer by my

side, but had stopped to stare in the window of the

book shop. His eyes were fixed on something and a

slow smile bloomed across his face. Returning to

where he stood I too gazed through the shop-front

glass but could see nothing to excite his interest, save

the standard promotional photos and an advert for a

book signing.

Come Watson! said Beynon, a spring now in his

step as he turned away from the window. You have


30/67

studied my methods for some time now. Tell me

what suspects do we have thus far for this hideous

crime?

I had expected this question at some point. I was

indeed a student of Beynons craft, and while I could

not match his natural genius I had made a point of

honing my own deductive skills.

I believe we have three suspects at this stage, allbased on the presence of a motive.

Excellent! Good, good, pray continue,

encouraged Beynon, as if he had not been the one to

interrupt in the first place.

The motives I have are, as you have taught me,the two oldest in all of criminology. The first is

money, and the second passion. Beynons eyes

shone with a twinkle as he nodded his head for me

to go on.

First we have passion. DJ Alan, the Kings

Arms resident DJ, has vowed to stop eighties music

being played at the pub at all costs. Stealing the jewel

in the crown of Lady Gemmas collection would stop

the event in its tracks. As a man of great passion,

and a local with a known history of violent crime and

persistent parking offences, he has both a motive and

demonstrated capability.


31/67

Good work. Man is an emotional creature, and

passion is a compelling motive. Well done Watson.

And for money?

For money we have two suspects: The Kings

Arms publican himself, George Smythe, and local

entrepreneur Suresh. We know that George Smythe

was opposed to the eighties night in the first place,

and we also know that the likely turnout for anyeighties theme will be low. Lady Gemma herself was

pleased at having ticket sales of eight, so it seems

inevitable that the event will be an unprofitable one

for the Kings Arms. If George Smythe were to stop

the eighties night he could return to his Acid Housetheme, guaranteeing a more standard level for the

weekends takings. His suspected involvement in a

drive-by verbal abusing some years ago shows that

he also has the capability for acts of daring.

Finally there is Suresh, local businessman

extraordinaire, who campaigned for the eighties night

with the hope of making 12.50 profit on the rental

of his music collection. With his prime competitor

out of the way, if the eighties night is to continue he

stands to make a tidy, if tiny, profit.

Good work Watson, you have clearly been

paying attention. And here we are now at our first

stop.


32/67

We stood outside Sureshs Corner Store and CD

and DVD Emporium. It was a fairly standard high

street convenience store, one that could have happily

stood in any town in Britain. The bright orange sign

that ran the length of the building proudly carried the

shops name picked out in tall black letters, together

with the slightly ambiguous strap line Local and

Stuff.It was widely reported that one could purchase

anything at Sureshs, not matter what it was. Beynon

had scoffed at this statement and, one evening last

winter, had drunkenly declared to the packed crowd

at the Cock and Bull that he would expose Sureshfor the fraud he was. He decided to put Sureshs

claim to the test by ordering an alligator egg and

promising to pay any cost, whatever it may be!

It had turned out the cost was 16.99.

Inside the shop the temperature increased by a

good ten degrees. The large open fronted freezers

that marched down the walls slowly chugged out

warm air. In their desperation to keep their contents

chilled they gradually poured out more and more

heat from their side vents, an escalating spiral that

produced temperatures only found in the Gobi

desert and British corner shops in the middle of

summer.


33/67

Sureshs strikingly attractive daughter, Mary, was

stationed behind the counter, not a bead of sweat

showing on her fresh face.

Come Watson, hissed Beynon in a whisper, we

must browse for a while to avoid suspicion. While

we wandered among the dried cat food and paper

plates it occurred to me that it was rare for anyone to

browse in a corner shop. The targeted shopping thatthe corner shop user was performing didnt generally

lend itself to a gentle perusal of the shelves. As such

our browsing was in itself suspicious. As we

sauntered into the aisle holding the allied products of

deodorant, ice-cream topping and motor oil Imentioned this concern to Beynon.

Indeed, good thinking my man, he hissed. It

does not appear Suresh is here take this to

purchase and question the young retailer as to his

whereabouts! Fumbling on the shelf without

looking he pressed a tube into my hands. With that

he shoved me in the back towards the till and strode

from the shop.

Hello James, said Mary, smiling at me and

causing my sweat, which was already coursing down

my back, to double its flow rate.

Hhhello, I stammered in reply, placing the tube

on the counter and fumbling in my pocket for my

wallet. I was trembling slightly beneath Marys cool


34/67

gaze. I could hear the end of my stethoscope rattling

lightly against the buttons on my white coat. Just

then I glanced down at the item I was buying.

It was thrush medication.

In social agony the blush spread across my face

from ear to ear. It was too late to back out now, the

item was on the counter. It was purely ridiculousI

didnt even own a bird! What if she asked me whatwas wrong with my pet? With the grace of an angel

Mary ignored the incongruity of my purchase and

calmly scanned the barcode.

That will be 6.99. Would you like an STD?

My heart froze. It was true that I didnt get outthat much lately, and that when I did get out I was

thoroughly absorbed in missing shopping trolleys or

lost cats. Between that and my work I had devoted

little time to socialising, and no time at all to pursuit

of the fairer sex. My most significant female

relationship was with Mrs Hudson, whom I saw

weekly when I helped her to empty her bins. Had I

really been out of the dating game that long? Is this

how it worked nowadays? I had heard that young

people were brazen, shameless and to the point.

Was this how one propositioned someone in the

modern age? I had been silent too long. My open

mouth had gone dry and I could see the beginning of

concern in Marys eyes.


35/67

Err, an STD? I managed.

Yeah, you know. Its Dads new idea: Sureshs

Ticket of Dreams. Its sort of like a local lottery.

Mary pointed at a poster pinned to the front of the

till. The poster had the words Sureshs Ticket of

Dreams printed in black letters just above a yellow

star with only 1 blazoned across it.

Its only a quid, Mary continued, and you gointo the draw to win free milk for the month. Its

like the lottery, only smaller, with a slightly worse

chance ofwinning.

The realisation that Mary was not propositioning

me for casual sex hit like a double blow. First wasthe intense relief that society had not crumbled to

such a nadir. This was swiftly followed by the

crushing disappointment that Mary was not

propositioning me for casual sex. Close on the heels

of this feeling was a subsequent realisation.

So, the dream is a months supply of milk? Is

that many peoples dream?

Mary sniffed. Dunno, but thats what it is.

I politely declined the offer of an STD, and

produced a ten pound note from my wallet for the

thrush medication.

Speaking of your Dad, I began, oozing the

practiced nonchalance of the accomplished spy,

whereabouts is he at the moment?


36/67

The young woman handed me my change from a

small paper cup she had propped on the counter, the

sophisticated electronic cash register taking no part

in the transaction. The ten pound note disappeared

into her back pocket, my eyes momentarily glued to

its trajectory.

Es gone to the 7F Store, needs some new

shoes, Mary replied. Shoes indeed, this would be ofinterest to Beynon!

Say, do you want to grab a bit to eat with me

later? asked Mary, her tone so similar to when she

had offered me an STD that I flushed bright red

again instantly. With a small chocking noise I ranfrom the shop.

Beynon was loitering across the road, his casual

and aimless demeanour disguising the brilliant and

ever active mind that I knew was buzzing within his

refined cranium. I had long supposed that it was the

sheer effervescent activity within his mind that

generated the visceral energy that seemed to imbue

his hair.

Why the haste Watson, has some unspeakable

deed befallen you? I lapsed to a normal pace as I

approached him and shook my head, not yet trusting

my voice to words. With a herculean act of mental

control I regained my composure.


37/67

Nothing Beynon, but what is interesting is that

Suresh is buying new shoes even as we speak!

Beynons eyebrows quirked up towards his hair.

Is he indeed. And where can he be found?

Mary, err his daughter, said he was at the 7F

Store, I replied.

Of course he is, I should have known it. We are

in luck Watson, for the 7F Store is on the way to theKings Arms. Let us go!

The 7F Store was in the opposite direction to the

Kings Arms, but it was a point I would not parley

with Beynon. Once before I had taken exception to

his directions and had been subjected to a three hourlecture on howeverywherewas on the way to somewhere,

and that I really shouldnt be so literal about

geography. Life was the journey, and it took us

where it will. At the time we had been headed for

the airport, and in fact arrived at a meat packing

works. This meant we missed our flights to Corfu,

and therefore our weeks holiday, and as a result I

was singularly unprepared for a lecture on

geographical philosophy. It was not the only time

Beynon and I had come to blows but it was by far

the worst. To date.

The 7F Store was a thing of local legend, although

7F Store was not its name. The trading name of the

establishment was simply The Shoe Shoppe, the


38/67

proprietor one Harold Frankinson. It provided

quality footwear to the discerning gentleman of

unusual proportions. It catered exclusively to men

with shoe sizes well outside the normal range, and so

had become known locally as Frankinsons

Footwear Factory For Freakishly Footed Fellas. The

unspeakable mouthful this moniker presented had

resulted in the economical abbreviation to the 7FStore.

As we approached the 7F its door opened, the

bell hung above the door giving a cheery jingle as the

customer exited. Hastily Beynon pulled me into the

narrow alleyway that ran along the side of the store.Quiet Watson, much can be gained by the

unobserved observer!

Suresh stepped out on to the street, stooping a

little to avoid his head on the lintel of the door. He

was an immense man built on an exotically

economical scale. His height must have nudged

seven foot, but there was scarcely anything of him to

speak of. He was whip thin, the analogy in this case

being more than usually appropriate, as when he

turned sideways he became quite hard to see. The

wiry beanpole of a man stepped clear of the entrance

to the 7F and it became immediately obvious why he

needed to shop there. In reflection of the elongation

of his body two enormous feet surged out from the


39/67

bottom of his spindly legs. It put one in mind of the

clowns at the circus, so enormous were his shoes. It

looked as if he had accidently placed his feet into two

canoes and, failing to experience any undue

discomfort, had decided to go about his business. I

wondered if there was even a shoe size that could

describe such gargantuan galoshes. They had to be

custom made, and as an example of the products ofthe 7F Store I suspect there were no finer examples.

With a curious gait Suresh walked straight past

Beynon and I, no doubt on his way back to Sureshs

Corner Store and CD and DVD Emporium. We

both held our breath as he passed but he seemed notto notice us, the vast feet flapping past with the noise

of an angry seagull horde. I couldnt fathom how I

had failed to notice this physiological phenomenon

before, until it occurred to me that I had only ever

encountered Suresh at the corner store, where he was

invariably stationed behind the counter, his feet

obscured from view. Indeed, it occurred to me that I

had never seen anything of him from about mid-

thigh downwards. Until this point, from all my

encounters with the man, it was entirely possible that

he ended just above the knee. Even his height had

remained shrouded. He always loomed above the

customers, but I had always assumed this was an

artefact of a raised platform behind the counter, not


40/67

the effect of an elongated spine. My goodness, what

if Mary was also a giant!

Beynon tapped my arm, rousing me from my

thoughts.

Hes out of earshot now Watson. Goodness,

quite a sight eh? Now, onward to the Kings Arms.

With that Beynon strode out of the alley and back

the way we had come.But wait, dont you want to interview Suresh? I

asked.

No need Watson. I can say with certainty that

he is not our man.

I shook my head in wonder. I knew that Beynonwould not reveal his thoughts until he was good and

ready, but I did not see how he could already have

established Sureshs innocence. But I also knew

better than to doubt the master detective. A small

knowing smile was on his lips and he moved with the

characteristic vigour that imbued him when he was

on the scent.

Before long we stood before the crumbling facade

of the Kings Arms. It was a sorry site of faded

grandeur. It had once no doubt been one of the

proudest examples of sixties brutalism, its poured

concrete walls surging upwards towards the sky, a

sky that would so often reflect the buildings glory

with a leaden concrete grey of its own. It had since


41/67

been re-clad in a faugh brick cladding, a project that

the council had declared was to disguise the

abomination that is the Kings Arms, one of the

greatest eyesores in Abbey Wood, nay the civilised

world. I could see that Beynon shared my feelings

in equal measure.

It does look a lot better now, doesnt it? he

declared as we pushed our way through the heavyimitation oak door, 39.99 from IKEA, and into the

airlock.

The inside of the Kings Arms looked as if it had

not changed since it was built. It was the kind of

pub that was channelling the cosy yet a little hostilevibe that only the great British pub could

accomplish. It suggested that this was a nice and

friendly place where you could sit in comfort and

enjoy a quiet drink.

Just not for you.

The interior design effect was much like being

trapped within a tree. Dark wood panelling lined the

walls and ceiling, a polished wooden floor

completing the effect. A brass foot rail, gleaming in

the dim light, wrapped its way around the dark wood

bar. A dark wood glass holder hung down from

above the wooden bar top, its strategic height

meaning it was nearly impossible to stand with a

straight back and read the items written on the


42/67

blackboard behind the bar. This seemingly random

feature was another line in the Kings Arms defence

against strangers. The details of the board never

changed, and if you had to read them you were

clearly one of The Others, and therefore a sore back

and a crick in your neck from reading the specials

was the least of your concerns.

Throughout the pub private booths were createdthrough the strategic placement of yet more wooden

panelling, simultaneously creating cubby holes of

comfort for the regulars and decreasing the available

seating for those not brave enough to enter the dim

recesses. So private and secluded were these alcovesthat it was rumoured that old Jack Delaney had died

in one on a Saturday night in the summer of 1974

and had not been discovered until the autumn. The

autumn of 1982 that is. It was said that the smell of

his decaying corpse had briefly battled with the fetid

odours from the Kings Arms kitchen but had quickly

declared a truce, recognising a war it could not hope

to win.

As it was a Saturday the Kings Arms was serving

cooked breakfasts all day, a meal that was proving

very popular with the assorted locals and those

wishing to commit suicide through cardiac disease.

It was clear that the kitchen must once again be

doing a brisk trade. You could cut the atmosphere in


43/67

the pub with a knife, so thick was the airborne

shimmer of grease. In fact, it seemed likely that you

could not only cut the air with a knife but proceed to

spread it on bread.

The airborne grease combined with heavy smoke

to give the inside of the Kings Arms an appearance

akin to heat haze. In strict compliance with the law

the Kings Arms was a smoke free environment,where no one was permitted to smoke. In order to

comply with the letter of the law but maintain the

atmosphere its locals demanded, the Kings Arms had

been hermetically sealed at midnight on 30 June

2007. The air inside the pub had therefore beenunchanged for years, a luxury maintained through the

airlocks on every entrance to the establishment, a

minor inconvenience that the locals tolerated to keep

things just the way they liked.

As we approached the bar the landlord, George

Smythe, eyed us with suspicion. We were known as

locals of the Cock and Bull, a pub notable for its

superior supply of oxygen and cheaper beer prices

(largely as a result of not having to maintain space-

grade airlocks). Therefore while we were not The

Enemy (a title attributed to tee-totallers and those

that didnt consider darts to be a sport), we were not

exactly welcome.


44/67

George Smythe was himself an interesting

character, one we knew more by reputation than

acquaintance. He was a very small man, five foot at

the most, and gaunt in the extreme. Where Suresh

was thin in what appeared a normal way (at least for

him), there was no escaping the impression that

George Smythe was wasting away. His back was

crooked and bent, compounding the impression ofsmall stature, and his short arms looked feeble and

weak. His voice was dry and rasping, like metal

pulled across a stone.

Whatll it be gentlemen, he asked, eyeing my

coat and stethoscope with that looked like a sneer.Two orange juices if you please, said Beynon,

his turn of phrase leaving Smythe in a momentary

pocket of perplexion as to whether this was a request

or a question. With agonising slowness the landlord

shuffled down the bar to the small fridge. Lifting out

a carton of juice with apparent effort he placed it

gingerly on the bar top. Pulling two glasses down

from the glass rack, one at a time, he grasped the

carton in two hands and slowly poured out two

glasses of juice.

Thats eight quid, he rasped.

Daylight robbery! exclaimed Beynon, his

eyebrows quirking in surprise. Smythe gave a

gravelly, mirthless laugh.


45/67

Seals on the side airlock need replacing. Those

bastards at NASA charge a fortune. You think Im

made of money? he grumbled. With a grimace

Beynon dug a ten pound note from his wallet and

slid it across the counter. Smythe rang up no sale

on the till and handed Beynon his change.

As we sipped our extortionate juice another man

sidled up to the counter. He was dressed virtually inrags, so poor was his attire. His coat was tattered

and torn and great rents could be seen in his jeans.

His hair was a ragged mess and I caught a whiff of an

unpleasant odour battling valiantly to overcome the

stale smoke-filled grease-laden air that had deadenedmy sense of smell.

Alright Alan? said Smythe.

The figure identified as Alan gave a grunt and

heaved itself onto a stool. So, this was DJ Alan. We

had two of the suspects right here together!

Pint please George, said the dishevelled mess.

Smythe looked embarrassed and shifted his feet

behind the counter.

Now Alan, you know youve maxed out your

slate, and its not like youre even playing this

weekend. I cant extend you any more credit. Im

sorry, but you know how it is, Ive got an airlock

payment coming up next month.


46/67

The dishevelled mess gave another grunt and was

about to rise from his perch when Beynon spoke up

over his orange juice.

I would be happy to stand the round good

fellow. I would hate to sit and drink at the bar on

my own. The presence of both myself and Smythe

at the bar made this a somewhat incongruous

comment, but the prospect of a beer and anadditional sale respectively caused Alan and Smythe

to pay it no attention.

Smythe pulled the pint, extorted a ridiculous sum

from my friend and slid the glass across the wooden

bar top to DJ Alan, who grunted his thanks.So, you are not playing tomorrow night as usual?

I had been quite looking forward to your Acid House

stylings, said Beynon.

DJ Alan shifted on his stool and shot Smythe a

murderous look, before turning to face his beer

benefactor.

Nar, tis some gawd-awful chisy nunsense

instud, he drawled. It was a most fascinating accent

that I found impossible to place. It was almost as if

it had been decided that his dialogue should be

unique but without due thought being given to how

it would actually sound.

Indeed, said Beynon in the tone of a man who

is not one hundred percent sure what he has heard.


47/67

Yar. I swore twould niver hapin, but den dis

fule here gonan caved. He nodded at Smythe

behind the bar.

Now, now. You know I was left with little

choice. Its not like I want it to happen either,

protested Smythe.

Yar? Well yun niver dud nuthin, nither! said

Alan, before taking a swig of his pint.And what did you expect me to do exactly?

Alan paused while he drained his pint to the last

drop, caught my and Beynons eye with a yellowy

stare before turning back to Smythe.

Wull know wut yur capible uf, DJ Diggy! hespat.

Smythes faced flushed red with anger.

That was a long time ago, a long time! he

growled, before collapsing into a fit of wheezing and

coughing. It was a full three minutes before the

coughing fit finished, leaving Smythe panting and

leaning weakly against the bar.

Well, I must say I have enjoyed this conversation

in your charming establishment, said Beynon, rising

from the stool. But I fear my colleague and I must

be off as we have urgent business to attend to. He

swept an elaborate bow and turned heel towards the

airlock, leaving both DJ Alan and George Smythe

looking a little confused.


48/67

But we hardly questioned them at all! I said as

we waited for the outer door of the airlock to open.

Indeed we did not, said Beynon, heaving open

the door and stepping out into the sunlight. The

abrupt increase in oxygen saturation of the air briefly

caused yellow and purple lights to dance in front of

my eyes. But there was no need to ask anything

more.He had a twinkle in his eye and a firm set about

his mouth. I knew he would tell me no more until

he was ready. Over the years I had come to accept

this fact and shouldered it with the best grace I could

muster.And now Watson, after our hard days work I

suggest we retire to 22 (upper flat) Bhaker street and

prepare our evening repast. I think todays events

have gone very well indeed, and I feel so inclined to

treat you to my world famous chilli.

This was good news indeed. I have sampled no

better chilli than that made by Sherlock Beynon. I

secretly harbour the wish to one day visit Mexico,

solely so I can travel the country sampling the cuisine

and declaring that none noneof it is better than

that prepared by my friend.

The preparation of the chilli necessitated a trip to

Belvedere Tesco, where we received our customary

one and half percent discount on account of having


49/67

solved the missing trolley mystery. I had recorded

this trip for ingredients in exacting detail as I thought

it would have a bearing on the case. As I have since

discovered it was in no way relevant I have removed

it from this account.

We lay in our chairs (which in Beynons case was

a bean bag) stuffed to the gills with chilli. I fearedthat I was in mortal peril, and that any moment

would explode. In a feeble attempt to stave off such

a gory end I was taking the shallowest breaths I

could without passing out.

I say, this is a most singular caper! said Beynon.The case of the lost eighties records? I asked.

No no, not that. This here, he said, holding

something small and green aloft. This caper. Its

the only one left. I thought Id a whole jar left, but it

seems another trip to Tesco is in order before Iprepare our Sunday meal.

I grunted in reply. I would usually eschew the

monosyllabic in preference of the erudite, preferring

the superfluous phrase to the pithy riposte. In this

instance however I was concerned that speech might

rupture my stomach lining.

Although that too is a singular caper. So

Watson, who do you think the villain is in this

intriguing mystery?


50/67

I shifted on the chair. By good fortune the food

within my stomach seemed to achieve a slightly

higher degree of tessellation, providing me with just

enough room to draw a deeper breath.

I must say I am not sure. I still think it could

have been any of them. I was surprised we didnt

investigate further, at the very least with a view to

establishing alibis.I paused. Beynon was just smiling at me,

encouraging me to continue.

On the whole, I would say the most villainous

seemed to be DJ Alan. We know that George

Smythe is not adverse to breaking the law, and themonths-supply-of-milk lottery being run by Suresh

suggests a cruel and devious mind.

I secretly hoped it wasnt Suresh. I didnt want to

see Marys Dad locked away in jail.

I have little data to go on, so must trust my

instincts. I think it was DJ Alan, I declared.

Beynon let loose a peal of amused laughter.

My dear friend, you have studied my ways

intently and yet still you look but do not see. Data

data data. You feel you have none, and yet still bend

your facts to suit theories, rather than theories to suit

facts.

I was a little affronted.


51/67

Well then Beynon, its not good sport to mock a

fellow. Tell me what you have seen that I have

missed.

All in good time good Doctor. All I can tell you

now is that it was in fact none of the gentleman we

met today.

None!

Indeed so. But fear not, I have solved the caseand I know the identity of the culprit. Ponderously

he rose from his bean bag.

And now I must leave to confront our criminal.

But not as Sherlock Beynon I feel. Wobbling

unsteadily, one hand to his stomach, the greatdetective left the room. I divined the meaning of

this comment. Beynon, as well as being an expert

criminologist, was a master of disguise. His

characterisations both amazed and amused me.

No sooner had he left than he returned, clad

exactly as before but with a pair of black rimmed

plastic glasses perched on his nose. There were no

lenses in the frame, and a large pink plastic nose

replete with black plastic moustache dangled from

the nose bridge.

Dear god! I exclaimed.

Fear not Watson, it is I, Sherlock Beynon, not a

mysterious stranger. I will be out most of the

evening so dont wait up. Pray send a telegram to


52/67

Lady Gemma and inform her that her collection will

be returned by sunrise. With that he left.

I saw Beynon only briefly over the next twenty

four hours. I had emailed Lady Gemma as

instructed before watching TV and retiring to bed.

The next morning I was enjoying a light breakfast

when a crash at the door announced my friendsreturn. He strode into the parlour, the impenetrable

plastic disguise still mounted on his visage, the pink

plastic nose a little askew and the moustache smeared

with what looked like lipstick.

Goodness Beynon, have you only just gotback? I asked. But before my friend could reply the

telephone rang. It was Lady Gemma.

My word, I do not how you Gentlemen have

achieved it, but when I woke this morning my record

collection was on the front step, came Lady

Gemmas excited voice. I was as surprised as she,

but hid my emotions well.

Do you know what else? Placed on top of the

box was nothing less than a signed photograph from

Morten Harket!

My evasive reply must have given something

away.


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You know Morten, a-has lead singer? said Lady

Gemma, her tone carrying her consternation at my

lack of cultural education.

Anyway, it is truly marvellous, but now I must

go and prepare. My profound thanks to you both.

There will of course be free tickets for you at

tonights disco. I shall leave instructions at the

door. With that we had said our goodbyes andLady Gemma hung up.

Lady Gemma I presume? said Beynon.

Indeed yes, the collection has been returned!

As I knew it would be. No you must excuse me

Watson, for I have not slept all night. I will lie abedthis sunny Sunday in preparation for what I suspect

will be the finest eighties night in the history of

mankind.

It was indeed a fabulous eighties night. Whetheror not it was the finest in the history of mankind was

something I could not decide, but it was rather fun.

All of our expectations had been exceeded with an

attendance topping a dozen, and the music from

Lady Gemmas priceless collection was the highlight

of the evening. It had also not escaped my notice

the Beynon very much enjoyed himself, especially

when in the company of Lady Gemma. It struck me


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that she also seemed to enjoy their time together, and

I fancied I could see the beginning of a fine romance.

Weary after our evening of frenzied gyration,

Beynon and I were in the parlour in our standard

pose on our chairs (which as usual in Beynons case

was a bean bag).

What an evening, I remarked. Thank

goodness it was able to proceed.Beynon nodded his agreement, the pipe (unlit)

clamped between his teeth.

You have still not told me how you cracked the

case, I prompted. Beynon grinned, but to my relief

it seemed the time had come for him to share histale.

It really was quite primary school, he began,

pausing briefly as if this wasnt exactly what he had

intended to say.

You had remarked that we had not collected

enough data from our suspects to exclude them from

our enquiries. I disagreed. I will now share the key

pieces of information, that were as plain to you as

they were to I, that excluded these three men and led

me to confront the true villain.

First I will vindicate the noble shopkeeper Suresh,

supposed motive: money. You will remember that at

the scene of the crime we discovered some discarded

mens boots?


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I nodded.

And also that Lady Gemma had suffered the

theft of a pair of ladies size five Wellington boots, in

addition to her priceless collection?

I nodded again.

Good. It is therefore not a massive deductive

leap to assume the boots belonged to the perpetrator

of the crime who, having abandoned his shoes at thedoorway, needed a replacement pair. When he opted

for the Wellington boots he gave us a further piece

of information, namely that his feet must be able to

fit a ladies size five shoe. An unusual feat, if you will

excuse the pun, for any man. This piece of evidence,when combined with Sureshs feet of enormous

proportions, was sufficient to put our local grocer

and alligator egg salesman in the clear.

I heaved a small sigh of relief. Marys dad was

not going to jail.

Next we have Mr George Smyth, aka DJ Diggy

Diggy Dog, who we also suspect on the motive of

greed. We know he is acquainted with the gangster

underworld and there can be little doubt he has the

mental metal to commit crime. But you will recall

that the burglar gained entrance to 68 Rochdale Road

through dint of tremendous physical force. The

door was ripped from its hinges, suggesting not only

a well built man but an individual of athletic


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disposition. The man we met yesterday could not

have managed such a task.

I was forced to agree. I too had seen all of this

but had not managed to make the connections that

Beynon found second nature.

And finally we have your prime suspect, DJ

Alan. Suspected of a crime of passion. In this

instance we again look to the discarded shoes to clearour suspect. You will have noted, as did I, that the

boots were a quality leather and expensive design.

The workmanship left nothing to doubt as to the

cost of this footwear. It can also not be disputed

that DJ Alan is a poor and desperate soul, who itwould appear can barely clothe himself and is in debt

to George Smythe. It is impossible that this man

would be the owner of such fine footwear, so again

we must exclude him.

It was all plain as he laid it before me, but I found

it only opened up more questions than it answered.

But Beynon, with that being the case, how on

earth did you deduce the person that did it?

All in good time. It will help you if you

understand the exact sequent of events of the

robbery. I was virtually certain of all that had

occurred when I completed my tour of 68 Rochdale

Road. When I confronted the villain last night he

broke down and confirmed my suspicions.


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It was of course possible to be led astray by one

simple assumption that Lady Gemma had madean

assumption that removed the clue that made

everything else fall into place.

Goodness Beynon, what assumption was this? I

asked.

A simple one, based as it was on the available

facts but without the rigour that must be applied bythe professional investigator. No, the mistake that

Lady Gemma made was to assume that it was the

badger, and not the fox, that consumed her left over

chicken Jalfrezi.

I was underwhelmed by this revelation but waitedpatiently for Beynon to continue.

The events unfolded thus. When Lady Gemma

left for her walk in the morning she noted the badger

and fox contesting the rights to her leftover meal. It

was in fact the fox that prevailed, the badger

departing the field of battle. The fox proceeded to

gorge itself on the chicken Jalfrezi and, when sated,

needed a comfy place to sleep. As Lady Gemma had

mentioned, her house receives all day sun and, given

the temperature yesterday, I deduced she would have

left a window open to cool the interior as she took

her walk. The fox hauled its swollen belly through

this window and proceeded to take a nap in Lady

Gemmas house.


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Our villain arrived at 68 Rochdale Road not long

before Lady Gemma arrived home. He rang the bell,

which awakened the fox, but got no reply. It was at

that moment that he made an uncharacteristic snap

decisionthat he would steal what he had come for

and he kicked in the front door. This sudden noise

startled the fox, already grumpy from Jalfrezi induced

indigestion, which launched itself through theshattered doorway and attacked the burglar. The

fox, clearly a fearsome creature to have defeated an

adult badger, locked its jaws on the mans boot. In

desperation the man took off the boot not attached

to the fox and bludgeoned his attacker to death,losing the boot the fox had clamped its jaws to in

the process. You will note, of course, that while one

of the boots had a chewed appearance, the other was

smeared with fox blood and fox hair.

I did indeed remember the boots being as he

described, but I had given little thought to the orange

hair and what it might mean.

Freed from his orange assailant the man fled

through the doorway, no doubt injuring his feet on

the broken glass. His first thought was to protect his

bare feet. Having abandoned his own footwear, and

possibly being in some doubt as to whether the fox

was dead or merely unconscious, he raided Lady

Gemmas shoe cupboard. It is possible that he chose


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the Wellington boots at random, although I think

you will agree there is something irresistible about

yellow PVC.

I made no comment.

Now shod in yellow wellys our man made his

way to the living room where he spied his prize,

neatly contained in the leather box. There he has

slipped and fallen. Quite why I have been unable toaccount for, although I suspect the fox wounds to

some degree. He has fallen head first against the red

paint tin (which Lady Gemma really should had had

a lid on, but thankful for us she did not), which has

spilled onto the back of his head and across thefloor. Scrambling to his feet he has walked through

the paint and secured his prize, before making his

way from the living room. Fearing a reprisal attack

from the fox he has made his way to the rear of the

house through the kitchen. On reaching the rear

door he has caught his reflection in the glass and

noticed his bright red hair. Fearing his appearance

would immediately cause a sensation he has

plundered Lady Gemmas drawers and secured her

tea cosy as a hat. Henceforth he has left 68 Rochdale

Road, climbed up and over the wall and made his

escape.

Goodness Beynon, it is all a clear as day when

you say it. To think what I have seen the same clues


60/67

but could not piece it all together. But what I do not

understand is how you deduced the identity of the

man?

Beynons eyes twinkled and his glee was obvious.

He would no doubt tell me that it was all primary

school, or whatever his phrase of choice was, but it

was clear he was very impressed at his own abilities.

As well he might, for I felt that the entiremetropolitan police force, with its profound

resources at its disposal, would be at a loss to

determine the identity of our villain.

Would it help to know the motive of the crime?

Jealousy! Pure and simple jealousy. The green eyedmonster can be a powerful beast my dear Watson,

and an oft overlooked motivator for crime. Once I

had applied this motive to my deductions the culprit

became clear. Our villain was none other than

Morten Harket himself!

I was stunned. I had only hours earlier learned

who Morten Harket was. As the lead singer from a-

ha his records made up a substantial proportion of

Lady Gemmas collection. Had it not been my good

friend saying it, I would have declared the notion

preposterous.

But why Beynon? Why would an eighties pop

legend steal Lady Gemmas records? I asked.

Beynons grin widened.


61/67

For the very reason I gave. He knew that Lady

Gemmas collection was the very finest in all the

world and he coveted it. I imagine his reasoning ran

thus: he was an eighties star, therefore he should

have the greatest eighties record collection in all the

world. The fame of her collection being what it was

his own record horde, not insignificant in itself, gave

him no pleasure at all. So he decided that he musthave it. I truly believe that he did not intend crime

when he set out that morning. But when Lady

Gemma was not at home for him to bargain with he

decided he would have the records that very day, no

matter how he obtained them. He was trulyremorseful. When I confronted him last night,

incognito, he confessed everything, and committed

to returning the records the very next day.

Well, I am satisfied on the why, but goodness

Beynon, how did you know it was him?

Lady Gemma mentioned he was in town, so I

knew he would at least have the opportunity. As to

the rest, you forget Watson that we had seen Morten

that very day, walking down Bhaker Street, carrying

the records and wearing the boots and cosy, the soles

of the boots still trailing the red paint.

The man we sawfrom the window! I gasped.

The very same. I joined this seemingly

unconnected occurrence to the events at 68


62/67


63/67

Morten Harket, in staunch denial of having nits,

instead attributes the scalp ailment to the effects of

his latest hobby. To undertake this past time he

frequently has to wear lenses and magnifying glasses

strapped to his head, the chaffing effect of which

causes dry skin. It is somewhat inconvenient, but

there is really no way to avoid it. I enjoying restoring

old clocks and watches, and some of the componentsare so small you need the magnification to be able to

see them.

I stopped reading to look up at Beynon, his face

aglow with victory.

You see Watson, the man is a clockmaker!

* * *

It had been exactly three weeks since the events

of Lady Gemmas priceless collection. The time hadpassed without much excitement, and Beynon and I

sat in our cosy parlour, he in his bean bag and I in

my chair. We were both absorbed in our reading,

until suddenly the lights flickered on and off in a very

dramatic way, one moment plunging us into utterdarkness and the next flaring into brilliant

luminescence. After wobbling on and off for some

moments they finally settled, a heavy pause hanging

in the air.


64/67

What the deuce was that? I wondered out loud.

Beynon had an odd look on his face, and it was

some time before he replied in leaden tones.

It was an omen.

For my part I rather fancied it was Mrs Hudsons

pet hamster, which had once again escaped from its

cage and was gnawing on the electrical wiring in a

frenzied suicide attempt. But perchance Beynon wascorrect, for I feel that neither of us could have

anticipated the enormous events that were about to

overtake us. The gravity of the occurrences of next

fortnight would shake our world to the very core and

leave us both with scars we would bear for the restof our lives.

But that is a story for another time.

Want more? Also by Matt Phillips...

The Truth about Sharks and Pigeons

Fans of humour will love this debut novel. Its style

has been compared to Douglas Adams and Tom

Holt, with just a dash of Dr Dolittle...

Its not paranoia, if they really are out to get you...


65/67

Bill Posters is an ordinary kind of guy. Hes put a

great deal of effort into it. So why does he think hes

being stalked by pigeons? Thats not normal, is it?

As if being harassed by winged vermin isnt bad

enough, Bills day is just about to get a whole lot

worse. Hes got twenty four hours to save the world.

Armed with a secret weapon more suited to the

bathroom than the battlefield, Bill is joined by Fern,

chunky knitwear aficionado, and Gregor, Chiles

second most dangerous assassin.

Available in paperback and kindle on Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0063XNVWM

orsearch for sharks and pigeons.

The End of an Era (a short story)

A short story about impending disaster... with a twist.

The end of an era is approaching. Some strive to

deflect the inevitable, others stand united in denial.

Get it (for free!) on kindle:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006U9JFHO or

search for era matt on Amazon.

Mnemosyne
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66/67

A psychological thriller from the author that brought

us Bill Posters and Sherlock Beynon.

I remember the flash. Then nothing.

Dr Collins is an esteemed scientist on the verge of a

world changing breakthrough, but after a terrible

accident can remember nothing, including who he is.

While his colleagues race against time to bring his

memories back something sinister is creeping over

his mind.

What is the presence in the darkness? What happens

to him during the blackouts? And who is sending

him messages, messages that seem to be in his own

handwriting?

His quest for answers will lead him across Europe, to

the edge of madness and a stunning revelation. A

dark secret lies at the centre of the mystery, a secret

that could cloak the world in evil.

Coming soon! connect on FB (details below)

to hear when.

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sherlock beynon and lady gemma's priceless collection

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