The Address is 221B Baker Street - June
This chapter comes to you courtesy of quarryquest, who wanted a bit of a romp through Kew Gardens with some specific elements thrown in. A couple of moments come with illustration in the form of pictures taken at the Garden by our intrepid locationeer. The filming did take place as described though I believe it actually occurred in June of last year so it’s been a bit time travelled into the future here - or perhaps I am simply predicting the sequel. :-) The intro/teaser for Sir David Attenborough’s Kingdom of Plants which filmed at Kew can be seen here:I highly recommend it, it is deeply beautiful.
*****
The case Mycroft had brought them in May had proved itself both engrossing and entertaining. Throwing together a ring of diamond smugglers, Sherlock undercover as a deep-sea diver, John undercover as a holiday-maker with an adrenaline addiction, a troop of trained seals, and a half dozen pogo sticks will generally drive all the boring right out of a situation. It was well into June by the time they’d finished with it.
What was less amusing (well, no, actually it was quite amusing except in Sherlock’s view) was the case which Mycroft somehow managed to tack onto the end of the deep-sea-diving diamond smugglers. Sherlock, flushed with the success of closing the case, had intended to sweep in and out of his brother’s office with the greatest of flair. Unfortunately, it hadn’t exactly worked out that way.
John immediately recognised they were in trouble because Mycroft’s eyes lit up with what, in another individual, would have been termed ‘unholy glee’. Here of course it was simply a minute change in expression, but John was well-versed in the nuances of Mycroft by this point.
“Sherlock -,” he had begun warningly, intending to cut this short and deal with the fall-out of a stroppy Sherlock denied his gloat rather than the fall-out of a full-blown Holmes brothers ‘happening’.
“Do come in,” Mycroft had finished for him, firmly shutting the metaphorical window of John’s escape.
Oblivious to this interplay Holmes Minor swept across the room dramatically. “No need to thank me. It was nothing.”
“Oh really? My sources told me you were nearly consumed by a whale and John was forced to break into the Embassy -,” he paused mid-sentence, allowing the glare to fully form on his brother’s face. “whilst clothed in a parrot-patterned Hawaiian shirt,” he finished smugly.
“Yeah,” put in John, his tone Saharan in nature, “It’s hard to say which presented the greater challenge, the out-of-date security system or the lack of a skin-tight cat suit to highlight my arse as I cart-wheeled through the gaps in the laser beams.”
Sherlock snorted. “How could you be so remiss in your choice of wardrobe, John?” he chided. “When one is called upon to serve Queen and Country one must be ready for all eventualities including that of showing off one’s shapely arse.”
“Mm. We’ll hit Savile Row at the weekend, then, shall we?”
“Feel free to charge the purchase to the Crown,” smarmed Mycroft.
Sherlock’s eyes lit up and John firmly stated, “Don’t even think about it. I am not dealing with that audit.”
There was a discreet knock on the open office door and Not Anthea stepped inside. “Mr Wiggins, Sir.”
“Yes, please bring him in.”
“We’ll just be going then. Come on, Sherlock.” John spun on his heel and strode towards the door but his retreat was once again cut off, this time by Not Anthea’s return with a small, nervous-looking man who was presumably Mr Wiggins.
“Actually, I believe the two of you might be of some small service in this matter as well.” He paused, metaphorically pulling back the hammer. “Unless, of course, you could do with a bit of a siesta between cases?”
Predictably, Sherlock bristled; John sighed.
“Nonsense. I’ll have it solved within twenty-four hours.”
Mycroft smirked. “Oh, I don’t think you will, brother dear. It’s quite the problem.”
John nearly groaned aloud. He would never understand why there were some moments when Sherlock let Mycroft push him into things like this. Surely he could see that this was leading nowhere good; even John could see that.
But instead of making a graceful exit as clearly would have been wise, he snapped, “Twelve hours or I’ll accept the knighthood.” The next instant Sherlock had focussed the full intensity of his deductive gaze upon the person of Mr Wiggins. The man began quaking in response. “Give me all the facts,” he demanded, “Leave nothing out, but be as quick as you can.”
Mr Wiggins paled and John was afraid he was going to faint, but instead he managed to blurt out, “Someone is trying to murder Tubby!”
Sherlock blinked at Mr Wiggins. He then glanced uncertainly at John who had his arms crossed over his chest and was shaking his head. “I saw it coming a mile off.”
Tubby, it turned out, was one of the Asian Water Dragons who resided in the Princess of Wales conservatory in Kew Gardens. Apparently the reptiles were excellent at controlling parasites and had been recruited for this skill. Mr Wiggins, the dragons’ primary caretaker, had been bringing his case to Mycroft because he was on the Board of Trustees. Mycroft had seen a golden opportunity to off-load the man when John and Sherlock had turned up at just the right moment. He had, ever so graciously, assured Sherlock that he need not feel bound by his vow. Mycroft had no investment whatsoever in how long it took to solve the case of alleged attempted lizardicide.
Sherlock had stormed out, swearing he would meet the self-imposed deadline then muttered to himself all the way down in the lift. John, who was trying very hard indeed to contain his giggles, could make out: ‘Get it over with!’ and ‘Lizards!’ and ‘Machiavellian octopus!’ and ‘Not a bloody zoo-keeper!’
Mr Wiggins was cowering in the corner, eyeing his newly-appointed saviour warily. John tried to aim an encouraging smile at him, but the incipient giggles were a real hindrance to this effort. Captain Watson reminded himself that the man was a client and did his best to put on a serious face as he assured him, “It will be fine. Sherlock will absolutely get to the bottom of -,” and he paused. Your case? Did it even qualify as a case? The problem? Was there actually a problem? “this,” he finished finally. “He’ll definitely suss out what’s going on. He’s very good at what he does,” he tacked on truthfully.
Sherlock glared at him as if he’d said exactly the opposite, and John gave a ‘Well, what am I supposed to say? The man thinks someone is trying to kill his pet lizard.’ shrug. Sherlock rolled his eyes in response.
Once they were in the car Sherlock ordered, “Explain.”
Mr Wiggins started, twiddled his hands nervously, then the words came spilling out of him. “A week ago I found Tubby up a tree - outside the conservatory! The dragons are meant to stay inside for their own safety and Tubby has no reason to try to escape. Someone,” he insisted firmly, “took him outside.”
Sherlock closed his eyes and grimaced as if in pain. “Go on.”
The litany of wrongs done to Tubby over the course of the week went on. He’d been found closed inside a refrigerator - especially dangerous because of his cold-blooded nature. One of the gardeners had called to Mr Wiggins’ attention a subtle rearrangement of the paraphernalia adorning the desk on which the dragon habitually perched during his visits to the human denizens of the conservatory - he solemnly vowed there had been a crude snare fashioned out of dental floss and a series of paper clips. Sherlock and John managed not to giggle - mostly.
By the time they arrived at Kew Sherlock seemed resigned. He instructed John to talk to as many of the employees as he could to get an overview of the latest gossip.
“And what are you going to do?”
“Make the acquaintance of Tubby,” came the scathing reply.
John giggled; Sherlock glared at him.
“Right. Going now.”
Sherlock turned to Mr Wiggins and instructed witheringly, “Take me to your lizard.”
The smaller man set off at a trot and led the way into the conservatory building which housed Kew’s tropical plants. They found the harassed party lounging by the side of a large pool which was home to a variety of water lilies. As they approached, a young woman rose from a seat nearby and met them a few meters from the dragon. “He’s been fine, Mr Wiggins. Nothing strange has happened since you left. He’s just been posing for pictures.”
Mr Wiggins patted her on the shoulder. “That’s fine Sharon. Thank you. You can go back to work now, I’ll take over.”
Sherlock studied the reptile sceptically. He wasn’t at all certain what he was meant to deduce about the creature, but he had to dig up something to satisfy this odd little man and subsequently reduce Mycroft to a non-entity once more. The dragon cocked its head to the side and seemed to regard him with one round, protruding eye.
Feeling ridiculous, Sherlock nonetheless decided he’d best stick to what he knew worked. “Does he have any enemies?”
He was absolutely astonished when the animal’s caretaker nodded emphatically. “Yes. Of course he does.” Anxiously, Mr Wiggins led him down one of the paths. When they arrived at a particular bush the man gingerly shifted some of its branches and peered into it. “No, not here. He’ll be on one of the heating ducts then.” He walked a bit further, Sherlock trailing after him. “That’s Stubby,” he finally declared, pointing at another dragon which looked quite similar to the client. Its tongue was protruding just slightly from its mouth. “He and Tubby don’t get on. Sometimes Tubby will come over into his territory and they’ll tussle with each other.” He then confided, “Tubby bit off and ate one of Stubby’s toes.”
“Oh I see,” Sherlock said, mock seriously, “so we’re dealing with an act of revenge. That explains so much.”
Mr Wiggins turned and regarded Stubby dubiously. “Do you really think -,” he began, but the detective cut him off sharply.
“Do I actually believe that one lizard took out a hit on another in revenge for an act of violence which resulted in a missing digit? No, because I’m not an idiot. Show me the refrigerator you found him closed into.”
*****
John had had a bit of a flirt over a cup of tea in the café and learned that the person he wanted to speak with was a woman named Madge. She was apparently the person who knew every last little detail about what went on within the microcosm of Kew.
Unfortunately, it seemed she had a penchant for walking round with her radio turned off. Consequently, John found himself in search of a ‘fluffy ginger with grey roots’ who was ‘about my mum’s age’ and ‘wearing wellies with yellow ducks printed on them’.
The most direction he’d been able to tease out beyond the physical description was that she was meant to be working somewhere in the Redwood Grove, and she might possibly have gone to speak with colleagues at the Stable Yard. To get to the latter he should follow the signs for the Compost Heap, ‘It’s very big, you can’t miss it.’. There weren’t really very many situations in which he expected to be advised to seek out a large pile of compost; it was not, however, the strangest thing he’d encountered while on a case.
After about twenty minutes of grid searching the woods, he heaved a sigh and then spotted the loo up ahead. Well that was timely at least, he reflected, and took the opportunity to nip in and deal with the consequences of that extra cup of tea.
He was washing his hands when the little room suddenly went dark and there was a loud, piercing cry from outside and - he got the impression - above him. Hands still wet, his gun was already drawn. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, quickly and automatically clearing the room much more thoroughly than he had done upon entering it.
He then realised that no one had turned out the lights on him, instead something outside was now covering the window and keeping the sunlight from illuminating the space. The strident call came again and he was able to place it as animal rather than human and confirm his impression it was originating from somewhere above his head. He lowered his gun but kept it out as he slowly and warily moved outside. Once he had crossed the threshold and cleared the area to either side he moved forward and spun round, his gaze instinctively scanning up.
There was a bloody peacock perched on the roof of the loo. Its long, shimmering, multi-hued tail trailing down the side of the building was what had so suddenly blocked the window.
John raised an eyebrow at the bird and put his gun away. “Pardon me, but are you trying to murder Tubby?” he inquired of the bird, which answered with another long, piercing caw. “All right, relax. Just thought I’d check,” he told it and shook his head. The animals in this place were completely mad.
*****
John did, eventually, find Madge. Over yet another cup of tea they giggled about Mr Wiggins and she filled him in on everything of note which had taken place over the last month or so. When they had finished, John thanked her sincerely, gave her a courtly bow, and stopped just short of kissing her fingertips. This caused her to blush a bit and laugh. “Come along, then. I’ll walk you back to your friend. Going through the Palm House will be shorter. You mightn’t be allowed in today, but as I’m staff it will be fine if I take you through.”
John raised a curious eyebrow. “Oh? What’s going on today?”
“There’s a film crew, but you wouldn’t be interested in them as it’s their first day here. None of them can have been trying to assassinate Tubby,” she added with a grin.
There proved to be quite the fuss of people and wires and equipment outside the building they were cutting through. Madge cheerfully ploughed through it all as she led the way inside, smiling and waving as she went. Once they were inside she slowed a bit and pointed out a few specific plants and proceeded to rattle off extensive background information for each of them. John nodded along while more actively taking note of the activity buzzing all around them. There were lights set up and lots of people milling about. Half of them were glued to a mobile and the other half were as intensely focussed on some piece of camera equipment.
As they weaved through all this activity, there was a flash of blue which caught John’s eye and once he had registered who was wearing the shirt responsible, he stopped short. Madge kept on a few steps before registering his defection, but then backtracked.
“That’s David Attenborough,” he informed her with a touch of awe in his voice, indicating the elderly gentleman sitting on a bench, regarding the screen of his mobile intently.
Madge chuckled. “Yes, he’s here filming for Sky. He’s quite friendly, I’ll introduce you.” She propelled John the short way before he had registered the words. “Sir David,” she said, and the subject of her hail looked up from his phone. “Hello again, you remember me, I’m certain.”
He smiled and responded, “Yes of course. Hello, Madge.”
“I thought you might like to meet another of our visitors. This is John Watson. He’s here with his friend investigating an attempt on the life of one of our Water Dragons.”
Sir David rose and shook John’s hand. “My goodness, I had no idea there was so much intrigue behind the scenes here at Kew.”
His gaze met by eyes which sparkled merrily, John grinned. “I’m told,” he replied, “that the dragons are vital in the effort to keep parasites in check.”
“Dragons and pesky parasites, what could be more worthy of our attention?” returned Attenborough. “I shall make it a point to badger someone into educating me further. Are you the John Watson then?”
John blinked. “Sorry, do you actually know who I am?”
“I am an avid fan, in fact. I shall look forward to reading all about the Adventure of the Dastardly Dragon Assassin.”
John grinned like a fool the rest of the walk, because Sir David Attenborough was a fan of his blog, and didn’t that just beat all.
*****
A still-thoroughly-chuffed John found Sherlock engaged in a staring contest with their client. The lizard was definitely standing up better to this than any of their human clients had ever done. This could be attributed to either the fact that Tubby presumably did not understand the insults which had likely been hurled at him, or that Sherlock could only stare at one of the lizard’s eyes at a time.
“The introduction went well then yeah?”
“I’m attempting to cobble together some plausible fairy tale to explain the suspicious events. At the moment I am considering revising my earlier denial that the solution involves a lizard hiring a hit man.”
John paused a beat in thought. “Not a hit lizard?”
“Wouldn’t be able to open the refrigerator.”
“Right. Of course.” Beat. “Pistol would have been right out as well.”
Sherlock’s eyes shifted to the left and up to meet John’s.
The right corner of John’s mouth was quirked upwards.
The image of a diminutive lizard attempting to shoot a handgun hung in the air between them.
They both burst into giggles and proceeded to fall about laughing. Several visitors to the conservatory eyed them sideways then deliberately moved away from the two grown men doubled over and howling with laughter in a public venue.
“This is, without a doubt, the best case we’ve ever had. We should take all of Mycroft’s cases from now on. They’re all bound to be as madly entertaining as this.” John wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.
“We are never again even entertaining the notion of taking one of Mycroft’s cases. Did you learn anything at all interesting?”
“I learned all sorts of interesting things, but the only one which possibly involves a crime is the fact that when Charles and Camilla stopped by last week she left one brooch lighter.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows went up in that way which meant, ‘interesting’. “Someone nicked a piece of Royal jewellery?”
“They had security in to search everyone as they left the grounds. When they didn’t find it on anyone they passed it off as having been lost because she said the clasp had been dodgy for a while. The staff have all been walking round looking down ever since hoping to find it.”
Sherlock turned a thoughtful gaze back on Tubby.
John waited, knowing that if anyone could connect a missing piece of jewellery with alleged repeated attempts to kill one of the Garden’s mascots, it was Sherlock Bloody Holmes.
Suddenly his eyes went wide. “Oh, of course!” he exclaimed and jumped to his feet. “He couldn’t take it out without camouflaging it somehow. That’s actually quite clever.”
“What is?”
“Our perpetrator fed the brooch to Tubby. He’s now trying to kill the animal and smuggle the jewellery out in the dead body.”
John blinked. “Because taking him out alive isn’t possible.”
“Not when there is a strange little man monitoring the animal’s every move, no.” Sherlock was pacing now, his hands clasped behind his back and his gaze blank. “It was likely a crime of opportunity - no real way to predict what jewellery she’d have chosen - it has to be someone who would have access to the body - in fact -,” his eyes snapped back into focus and he smiled widely. “It would be the person who would ultimately be assigned the responsibility of disposing of the body.”
John checked his watch. “Case solved in approximately three hours and twenty-five minutes. No real danger of the unbearable boredom of a knighthood falling upon your shoulders this time.”
“Let’s go.” Sherlock was already texting smugly. “Fat as butter,” he muttered before emphatically pressing the send button.
“Hang on.” John turned and regarded Tubby seriously. “How do we get the brooch back?”
Sherlock snorted. “You’re the doctor, John. I would think that would be obvious. Either someone follows him round waiting for the inevitable or they put him in a cage until -,”
“Sherlock, there is no way that animal poops out a piece of jewellery larger than a stick pin. They’re going to have to open up the poor little chap.”
“Not our concern.” Sherlock informed him then added cheekily, “You should offer to assist. I’m sure it would add to the blog entry immeasurably.”
“Ha bloody ha, you unfeeling git.” Sherlock was walking now, his gaze glued to the screen of his phone, so John fell into step to avoid being left behind. “You’ve left your client facing major surgery. I’ll have to write this one up as a failure,” he informed him in a tone of mock regret.
Sherlock actually squeaked in indignation. “You’ll do nothing of the kind! I solved it brilliantly.”
John shook his head mournfully. “Try telling that to Tubby. I think you’ll find he would disagree.”
Sherlock turned his head to glare at his friend and deliver a scathing retort, but John was so obviously trying not to smile he realised he was being teased. The corners of his own mouth twitched in response. “I’ll add grapes to next week’s order.”
“Least you can do.” And then John burst out laughing. He actually stopped walking and doubled over again. Amused, Sherlock stopped as well and just enjoyed watching John being happy. After a moment his friend came up for air and said through lingering giggles, “I’m sorry, I’ve just realised - someone was actually trying to murder Tubby. We were so convinced it was all in his head!”
Sherlock raised a brow archly. “Were you?”
“Oh no, don’t even try pretending you believed Wiggins for one second,” John scolded.
“I never theorise before I have all the facts, John,” came the airy reply as Sherlock turned with a flounce and strode on toward the gate.
An efficient army-taught jog had his partner at his side again within a handful of strides. “You are completely insufferable, you poncy git. Oh, and by the way, Sir David Attenborough is a fan of my blog.”
Click to view*****
The case Mycroft had brought them in May had proved itself both engrossing and entertaining. Throwing together a ring of diamond smugglers, Sherlock undercover as a deep-sea diver, John undercover as a holiday-maker with an adrenaline addiction, a troop of trained seals, and a half dozen pogo sticks will generally drive all the boring right out of a situation. It was well into June by the time they’d finished with it.
What was less amusing (well, no, actually it was quite amusing except in Sherlock’s view) was the case which Mycroft somehow managed to tack onto the end of the deep-sea-diving diamond smugglers. Sherlock, flushed with the success of closing the case, had intended to sweep in and out of his brother’s office with the greatest of flair. Unfortunately, it hadn’t exactly worked out that way.
John immediately recognised they were in trouble because Mycroft’s eyes lit up with what, in another individual, would have been termed ‘unholy glee’. Here of course it was simply a minute change in expression, but John was well-versed in the nuances of Mycroft by this point.
“Sherlock -,” he had begun warningly, intending to cut this short and deal with the fall-out of a stroppy Sherlock denied his gloat rather than the fall-out of a full-blown Holmes brothers ‘happening’.
“Do come in,” Mycroft had finished for him, firmly shutting the metaphorical window of John’s escape.
Oblivious to this interplay Holmes Minor swept across the room dramatically. “No need to thank me. It was nothing.”
“Oh really? My sources told me you were nearly consumed by a whale and John was forced to break into the Embassy -,” he paused mid-sentence, allowing the glare to fully form on his brother’s face. “whilst clothed in a parrot-patterned Hawaiian shirt,” he finished smugly.
“Yeah,” put in John, his tone Saharan in nature, “It’s hard to say which presented the greater challenge, the out-of-date security system or the lack of a skin-tight cat suit to highlight my arse as I cart-wheeled through the gaps in the laser beams.”
Sherlock snorted. “How could you be so remiss in your choice of wardrobe, John?” he chided. “When one is called upon to serve Queen and Country one must be ready for all eventualities including that of showing off one’s shapely arse.”
“Mm. We’ll hit Savile Row at the weekend, then, shall we?”
“Feel free to charge the purchase to the Crown,” smarmed Mycroft.
Sherlock’s eyes lit up and John firmly stated, “Don’t even think about it. I am not dealing with that audit.”
There was a discreet knock on the open office door and Not Anthea stepped inside. “Mr Wiggins, Sir.”
“Yes, please bring him in.”
“We’ll just be going then. Come on, Sherlock.” John spun on his heel and strode towards the door but his retreat was once again cut off, this time by Not Anthea’s return with a small, nervous-looking man who was presumably Mr Wiggins.
“Actually, I believe the two of you might be of some small service in this matter as well.” He paused, metaphorically pulling back the hammer. “Unless, of course, you could do with a bit of a siesta between cases?”
Predictably, Sherlock bristled; John sighed.
“Nonsense. I’ll have it solved within twenty-four hours.”
Mycroft smirked. “Oh, I don’t think you will, brother dear. It’s quite the problem.”
John nearly groaned aloud. He would never understand why there were some moments when Sherlock let Mycroft push him into things like this. Surely he could see that this was leading nowhere good; even John could see that.
But instead of making a graceful exit as clearly would have been wise, he snapped, “Twelve hours or I’ll accept the knighthood.” The next instant Sherlock had focussed the full intensity of his deductive gaze upon the person of Mr Wiggins. The man began quaking in response. “Give me all the facts,” he demanded, “Leave nothing out, but be as quick as you can.”
Mr Wiggins paled and John was afraid he was going to faint, but instead he managed to blurt out, “Someone is trying to murder Tubby!”
Sherlock blinked at Mr Wiggins. He then glanced uncertainly at John who had his arms crossed over his chest and was shaking his head. “I saw it coming a mile off.”
Tubby, it turned out, was one of the Asian Water Dragons who resided in the Princess of Wales conservatory in Kew Gardens. Apparently the reptiles were excellent at controlling parasites and had been recruited for this skill. Mr Wiggins, the dragons’ primary caretaker, had been bringing his case to Mycroft because he was on the Board of Trustees. Mycroft had seen a golden opportunity to off-load the man when John and Sherlock had turned up at just the right moment. He had, ever so graciously, assured Sherlock that he need not feel bound by his vow. Mycroft had no investment whatsoever in how long it took to solve the case of alleged attempted lizardicide.
Sherlock had stormed out, swearing he would meet the self-imposed deadline then muttered to himself all the way down in the lift. John, who was trying very hard indeed to contain his giggles, could make out: ‘Get it over with!’ and ‘Lizards!’ and ‘Machiavellian octopus!’ and ‘Not a bloody zoo-keeper!’
Mr Wiggins was cowering in the corner, eyeing his newly-appointed saviour warily. John tried to aim an encouraging smile at him, but the incipient giggles were a real hindrance to this effort. Captain Watson reminded himself that the man was a client and did his best to put on a serious face as he assured him, “It will be fine. Sherlock will absolutely get to the bottom of -,” and he paused. Your case? Did it even qualify as a case? The problem? Was there actually a problem? “this,” he finished finally. “He’ll definitely suss out what’s going on. He’s very good at what he does,” he tacked on truthfully.
Sherlock glared at him as if he’d said exactly the opposite, and John gave a ‘Well, what am I supposed to say? The man thinks someone is trying to kill his pet lizard.’ shrug. Sherlock rolled his eyes in response.
Once they were in the car Sherlock ordered, “Explain.”
Mr Wiggins started, twiddled his hands nervously, then the words came spilling out of him. “A week ago I found Tubby up a tree - outside the conservatory! The dragons are meant to stay inside for their own safety and Tubby has no reason to try to escape. Someone,” he insisted firmly, “took him outside.”
Sherlock closed his eyes and grimaced as if in pain. “Go on.”
The litany of wrongs done to Tubby over the course of the week went on. He’d been found closed inside a refrigerator - especially dangerous because of his cold-blooded nature. One of the gardeners had called to Mr Wiggins’ attention a subtle rearrangement of the paraphernalia adorning the desk on which the dragon habitually perched during his visits to the human denizens of the conservatory - he solemnly vowed there had been a crude snare fashioned out of dental floss and a series of paper clips. Sherlock and John managed not to giggle - mostly.
By the time they arrived at Kew Sherlock seemed resigned. He instructed John to talk to as many of the employees as he could to get an overview of the latest gossip.
“And what are you going to do?”
“Make the acquaintance of Tubby,” came the scathing reply.
John giggled; Sherlock glared at him.
“Right. Going now.”
Sherlock turned to Mr Wiggins and instructed witheringly, “Take me to your lizard.”
The smaller man set off at a trot and led the way into the conservatory building which housed Kew’s tropical plants. They found the harassed party lounging by the side of a large pool which was home to a variety of water lilies. As they approached, a young woman rose from a seat nearby and met them a few meters from the dragon. “He’s been fine, Mr Wiggins. Nothing strange has happened since you left. He’s just been posing for pictures.”
Mr Wiggins patted her on the shoulder. “That’s fine Sharon. Thank you. You can go back to work now, I’ll take over.”
Sherlock studied the reptile sceptically. He wasn’t at all certain what he was meant to deduce about the creature, but he had to dig up something to satisfy this odd little man and subsequently reduce Mycroft to a non-entity once more. The dragon cocked its head to the side and seemed to regard him with one round, protruding eye.
Feeling ridiculous, Sherlock nonetheless decided he’d best stick to what he knew worked. “Does he have any enemies?”
He was absolutely astonished when the animal’s caretaker nodded emphatically. “Yes. Of course he does.” Anxiously, Mr Wiggins led him down one of the paths. When they arrived at a particular bush the man gingerly shifted some of its branches and peered into it. “No, not here. He’ll be on one of the heating ducts then.” He walked a bit further, Sherlock trailing after him. “That’s Stubby,” he finally declared, pointing at another dragon which looked quite similar to the client. Its tongue was protruding just slightly from its mouth. “He and Tubby don’t get on. Sometimes Tubby will come over into his territory and they’ll tussle with each other.” He then confided, “Tubby bit off and ate one of Stubby’s toes.”
“Oh I see,” Sherlock said, mock seriously, “so we’re dealing with an act of revenge. That explains so much.”
Mr Wiggins turned and regarded Stubby dubiously. “Do you really think -,” he began, but the detective cut him off sharply.
“Do I actually believe that one lizard took out a hit on another in revenge for an act of violence which resulted in a missing digit? No, because I’m not an idiot. Show me the refrigerator you found him closed into.”
*****
John had had a bit of a flirt over a cup of tea in the café and learned that the person he wanted to speak with was a woman named Madge. She was apparently the person who knew every last little detail about what went on within the microcosm of Kew.
Unfortunately, it seemed she had a penchant for walking round with her radio turned off. Consequently, John found himself in search of a ‘fluffy ginger with grey roots’ who was ‘about my mum’s age’ and ‘wearing wellies with yellow ducks printed on them’.
The most direction he’d been able to tease out beyond the physical description was that she was meant to be working somewhere in the Redwood Grove, and she might possibly have gone to speak with colleagues at the Stable Yard. To get to the latter he should follow the signs for the Compost Heap, ‘It’s very big, you can’t miss it.’. There weren’t really very many situations in which he expected to be advised to seek out a large pile of compost; it was not, however, the strangest thing he’d encountered while on a case.
After about twenty minutes of grid searching the woods, he heaved a sigh and then spotted the loo up ahead. Well that was timely at least, he reflected, and took the opportunity to nip in and deal with the consequences of that extra cup of tea.
He was washing his hands when the little room suddenly went dark and there was a loud, piercing cry from outside and - he got the impression - above him. Hands still wet, his gun was already drawn. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, quickly and automatically clearing the room much more thoroughly than he had done upon entering it.
He then realised that no one had turned out the lights on him, instead something outside was now covering the window and keeping the sunlight from illuminating the space. The strident call came again and he was able to place it as animal rather than human and confirm his impression it was originating from somewhere above his head. He lowered his gun but kept it out as he slowly and warily moved outside. Once he had crossed the threshold and cleared the area to either side he moved forward and spun round, his gaze instinctively scanning up.
There was a bloody peacock perched on the roof of the loo. Its long, shimmering, multi-hued tail trailing down the side of the building was what had so suddenly blocked the window.
John raised an eyebrow at the bird and put his gun away. “Pardon me, but are you trying to murder Tubby?” he inquired of the bird, which answered with another long, piercing caw. “All right, relax. Just thought I’d check,” he told it and shook his head. The animals in this place were completely mad.
*****
John did, eventually, find Madge. Over yet another cup of tea they giggled about Mr Wiggins and she filled him in on everything of note which had taken place over the last month or so. When they had finished, John thanked her sincerely, gave her a courtly bow, and stopped just short of kissing her fingertips. This caused her to blush a bit and laugh. “Come along, then. I’ll walk you back to your friend. Going through the Palm House will be shorter. You mightn’t be allowed in today, but as I’m staff it will be fine if I take you through.”
John raised a curious eyebrow. “Oh? What’s going on today?”
“There’s a film crew, but you wouldn’t be interested in them as it’s their first day here. None of them can have been trying to assassinate Tubby,” she added with a grin.
There proved to be quite the fuss of people and wires and equipment outside the building they were cutting through. Madge cheerfully ploughed through it all as she led the way inside, smiling and waving as she went. Once they were inside she slowed a bit and pointed out a few specific plants and proceeded to rattle off extensive background information for each of them. John nodded along while more actively taking note of the activity buzzing all around them. There were lights set up and lots of people milling about. Half of them were glued to a mobile and the other half were as intensely focussed on some piece of camera equipment.
As they weaved through all this activity, there was a flash of blue which caught John’s eye and once he had registered who was wearing the shirt responsible, he stopped short. Madge kept on a few steps before registering his defection, but then backtracked.
“That’s David Attenborough,” he informed her with a touch of awe in his voice, indicating the elderly gentleman sitting on a bench, regarding the screen of his mobile intently.
Madge chuckled. “Yes, he’s here filming for Sky. He’s quite friendly, I’ll introduce you.” She propelled John the short way before he had registered the words. “Sir David,” she said, and the subject of her hail looked up from his phone. “Hello again, you remember me, I’m certain.”
He smiled and responded, “Yes of course. Hello, Madge.”
“I thought you might like to meet another of our visitors. This is John Watson. He’s here with his friend investigating an attempt on the life of one of our Water Dragons.”
Sir David rose and shook John’s hand. “My goodness, I had no idea there was so much intrigue behind the scenes here at Kew.”
His gaze met by eyes which sparkled merrily, John grinned. “I’m told,” he replied, “that the dragons are vital in the effort to keep parasites in check.”
“Dragons and pesky parasites, what could be more worthy of our attention?” returned Attenborough. “I shall make it a point to badger someone into educating me further. Are you the John Watson then?”
John blinked. “Sorry, do you actually know who I am?”
“I am an avid fan, in fact. I shall look forward to reading all about the Adventure of the Dastardly Dragon Assassin.”
John grinned like a fool the rest of the walk, because Sir David Attenborough was a fan of his blog, and didn’t that just beat all.
*****
A still-thoroughly-chuffed John found Sherlock engaged in a staring contest with their client. The lizard was definitely standing up better to this than any of their human clients had ever done. This could be attributed to either the fact that Tubby presumably did not understand the insults which had likely been hurled at him, or that Sherlock could only stare at one of the lizard’s eyes at a time.
“The introduction went well then yeah?”
“I’m attempting to cobble together some plausible fairy tale to explain the suspicious events. At the moment I am considering revising my earlier denial that the solution involves a lizard hiring a hit man.”
John paused a beat in thought. “Not a hit lizard?”
“Wouldn’t be able to open the refrigerator.”
“Right. Of course.” Beat. “Pistol would have been right out as well.”
Sherlock’s eyes shifted to the left and up to meet John’s.
The right corner of John’s mouth was quirked upwards.
The image of a diminutive lizard attempting to shoot a handgun hung in the air between them.
They both burst into giggles and proceeded to fall about laughing. Several visitors to the conservatory eyed them sideways then deliberately moved away from the two grown men doubled over and howling with laughter in a public venue.
“This is, without a doubt, the best case we’ve ever had. We should take all of Mycroft’s cases from now on. They’re all bound to be as madly entertaining as this.” John wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.
“We are never again even entertaining the notion of taking one of Mycroft’s cases. Did you learn anything at all interesting?”
“I learned all sorts of interesting things, but the only one which possibly involves a crime is the fact that when Charles and Camilla stopped by last week she left one brooch lighter.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows went up in that way which meant, ‘interesting’. “Someone nicked a piece of Royal jewellery?”
“They had security in to search everyone as they left the grounds. When they didn’t find it on anyone they passed it off as having been lost because she said the clasp had been dodgy for a while. The staff have all been walking round looking down ever since hoping to find it.”
Sherlock turned a thoughtful gaze back on Tubby.
John waited, knowing that if anyone could connect a missing piece of jewellery with alleged repeated attempts to kill one of the Garden’s mascots, it was Sherlock Bloody Holmes.
Suddenly his eyes went wide. “Oh, of course!” he exclaimed and jumped to his feet. “He couldn’t take it out without camouflaging it somehow. That’s actually quite clever.”
“What is?”
“Our perpetrator fed the brooch to Tubby. He’s now trying to kill the animal and smuggle the jewellery out in the dead body.”
John blinked. “Because taking him out alive isn’t possible.”
“Not when there is a strange little man monitoring the animal’s every move, no.” Sherlock was pacing now, his hands clasped behind his back and his gaze blank. “It was likely a crime of opportunity - no real way to predict what jewellery she’d have chosen - it has to be someone who would have access to the body - in fact -,” his eyes snapped back into focus and he smiled widely. “It would be the person who would ultimately be assigned the responsibility of disposing of the body.”
John checked his watch. “Case solved in approximately three hours and twenty-five minutes. No real danger of the unbearable boredom of a knighthood falling upon your shoulders this time.”
“Let’s go.” Sherlock was already texting smugly. “Fat as butter,” he muttered before emphatically pressing the send button.
“Hang on.” John turned and regarded Tubby seriously. “How do we get the brooch back?”
Sherlock snorted. “You’re the doctor, John. I would think that would be obvious. Either someone follows him round waiting for the inevitable or they put him in a cage until -,”
“Sherlock, there is no way that animal poops out a piece of jewellery larger than a stick pin. They’re going to have to open up the poor little chap.”
“Not our concern.” Sherlock informed him then added cheekily, “You should offer to assist. I’m sure it would add to the blog entry immeasurably.”
“Ha bloody ha, you unfeeling git.” Sherlock was walking now, his gaze glued to the screen of his phone, so John fell into step to avoid being left behind. “You’ve left your client facing major surgery. I’ll have to write this one up as a failure,” he informed him in a tone of mock regret.
Sherlock actually squeaked in indignation. “You’ll do nothing of the kind! I solved it brilliantly.”
John shook his head mournfully. “Try telling that to Tubby. I think you’ll find he would disagree.”
Sherlock turned his head to glare at his friend and deliver a scathing retort, but John was so obviously trying not to smile he realised he was being teased. The corners of his own mouth twitched in response. “I’ll add grapes to next week’s order.”
“Least you can do.” And then John burst out laughing. He actually stopped walking and doubled over again. Amused, Sherlock stopped as well and just enjoyed watching John being happy. After a moment his friend came up for air and said through lingering giggles, “I’m sorry, I’ve just realised - someone was actually trying to murder Tubby. We were so convinced it was all in his head!”
Sherlock raised a brow archly. “Were you?”
“Oh no, don’t even try pretending you believed Wiggins for one second,” John scolded.
“I never theorise before I have all the facts, John,” came the airy reply as Sherlock turned with a flounce and strode on toward the gate.
An efficient army-taught jog had his partner at his side again within a handful of strides. “You are completely insufferable, you poncy git. Oh, and by the way, Sir David Attenborough is a fan of my blog.”