So far, the italics aficionados are winning in the polls, so I will continue in that vein. Accordingly, all of ACD's lines (some of them slightly modernized) are in italics. Thanks again to Ennui Enigma for being lovely.
000
If they slept in next morning, it was not to be wondered at considering they had not properly gone to bed until nearly dawn. As they yawned over breakfast, John frowned into his coffee and fretted Mary nearly out of her mind with his sighing.
"I don't know if you've realized this," he told them facetiously, "but I'm rubbish at lying." Mary smiled fondly at him. John was talented at questioning witnesses and soothing victims of crimes, easily winning the confidence of strangers with his sympathetic warmth. But guile was not his area.
Sherlock snorted derisively and opened his mouth to make a snarky reply, but was arrested by the sight of Mary's right index finger pointing at him. She knew he had never managed to muster the courage to disobey that gesture.
"Of course you are, Captain," Mary assured her husband cheerfully. "Your honest nature is one of your most endearing qualities. It's the chief reason I married you—you have an integrity most men lack. And it's the quality Sherlock values most in your character whether he is willing to admit it or not."
"How then do you two expect me to seriously chat up the local women for information?" John demanded bleakly.
"This was never a problem before you met Mary," Sherlock complained unhelpfully. "Then you were honestly interested in every female you met." John glared at him and Mary shot the detective a deadly glance that shut him up again.
"You don't have to feign interest, Captain. Just smile that wonderful smile of yours and be your usual friendly self, and believe me, the ladies will all queue up to have a chance to speak to you," she encouraged him. "That sort of aloof, disinterested air will make them all the more eager to earn your attention with helpful information. "
"I agree," Sherlock chimed in, "But Mary, on the other hand, is a consummate actress and will have every man in the neighbourhood as a personal slave in a matter of hours," Sherlock observed, looking strangely pleased at the thought.
"I'll try not to let any of them follow me home," Mary said demurely.
John put on his most long-suffering look. "All right, let's get this over with, then," he told her. "But do be careful about which kinds of slaves you bring back with you—if they can't do laundry or wash windows, we're not interested." He began to pull on his shoulder holster and go through his usual weapons checks before putting on his jacket.
Mary pocketed her switchblade and a can of mace. "And what will you be doing while we're out gathering facts for you?" she asked the detective.
"Contemplating colour," he replied thoughtfully. "I believe you are right, Mary. His application of colour in inappropriate places is telling. Very telling."
000
It did not take much effort on their part for John and Mary to gather up the information they were seeking. They split up and canvassed the neighborhood; and, in reality, it was both inconvenient and unnecessary to divide their witnesses by gender. Mary went door to door chatting with those who lived nearest the Amberleys while John went to likely places of business. Everywhere they went, they found that their eccentric client was a popular figure of gossip and few were reticent in giving an opinion about him.
Meeting for a late lunch at the Blue Anchor pub, the couple compared notes and found the locals to have all drawn the same conclusions as themselves. Notably, every woman interviewed described Amberley as "creepy" and every man denounced him as a "wanker".
"He don't look a girl in the eye when he talks to you," one postal clerk complained. "He focusses on your third button down."
Both sexes agreed that he was a miser, a "cheap bastard", and a poor tipper. No one was ignorant of the vast amounts of cash he kept in his strong-room nor of the harsh and abusive way he treated his wife. The affair between Mrs Amberley and Dr Ernest was common knowledge. It also seemed to be generally known that most of the miser's money was invested safely in stocks—the loss of the admittedly large amount of cash taken from the vault, while inconvenient, would not be felt by the old man in any permanent way.
"I'd say, whatever amount of money she took off him, it were too little to pay her back for these two years she spent with him," one shop clerk declared heatedly, and this sentiment seemed to unanimous throughout the area
"All just as expected," Sherlock agreed when they called to bring him up to date on their investigation. "And yet!—and yet!"
"Where lies the difficulty?" John wanted to know.
"In my imagination, perhaps," Sherlock admitted. "But we shall see. Go to Amberley's house and ask to look at that garish garage. I'd like to know what kind of automobile warrants such accommodations when his wife was required to live in a run-down, deteriorating pile."
"That's terribly caring of you, Sweetheart," Mary told him cheerfully. "I don't believe you for a moment!"
But when they arrived at Mr Amberley's home, the old fellow had a very worried and puzzled look upon his austere face.
"I've had a text, Dr Watson. I can make nothing of it." He handed his mobile to John, who read the message aloud to Mary.
"Come at once without fail. Can give you information as to your recent loss. Rev. J. C. Elman, The Vicarage" An address in Essex followed. John immediately called Sherlock to relay this newest development in the case.
"Little Purlington is in Essex, I believe, is not far from Frinton. Well, of course you will start at once. This is evidently from a responsible person, the vicar of the place. Look up the trains, John. You and Mary had best go with him. He may need help or advice. Clearly we have come to a crisis in this affair."
Mr Amberley was by no means eager to start. "It's perfectly absurd!" he said. "What can this man possibly know of what has occurred? It is a waste of time and money."
"He wouldn't have texted you if he did not know something," Mary reasoned. "After all, how would he even know your number if he were not involved in some way."
"It would make the worst possible impression, on both the police and upon myself, Mr Amberley," Sherlock intoned sternly, "if when so obvious a clue arose you should refuse to follow it up. We should feel that you were not really in earnest in this investigation."
Their client seemed horrified at this suggestion. "Why, of course, I shall go if you look at it in that way. On the face of it, it seems absurd to suppose that this person knows anything, but if you think . . . ."
"I do think," said Sherlock with emphasis.
"Well, there's no need to take the train," Mr Amberley sighed, resigned to his fate. "We'll take my car." He led the couple to his garishly painted garage, where two cars were housed. "Actually, we'll take my wife's car. It is more fuel efficient."
Mrs Amberley's automobile, while not new, was a BMW, only a few years old and in fairly good shape. "She had this when we married," their client muttered morosely. "I would never have wasted my money on such extravagance. She's the one who insisted this garage be built to accommodate it," he told them, apparently forgetting that he had just praised the car's economy. He sighed greatly. "Putting my strong-room above it made it worth the cost to me, though. I'd never have justified the expense otherwise."
Mr Amberley's own vehicle, also parked neatly in the garage, was a Volvo of a make from the early 1990's, its paint faded and scratched, one fender dented and rusty. John was just as happy not to trust their lives to the poor old car.
"Perhaps you'll join me in the front seat, Mrs Watson," their host suggested, apparently addressing the third button of her blouse. He unlocked the BMW and prepared to climb into the driver's seat.
John briefly considered punching the man in the nose to teach him some manners, but then saw Mary's hand go into her pocket and grasp her canister of mace. A scenario passed through his mind involving the lecherous Mr Amberley pawing at his wife's thigh as they drove through busy streets and being blinded by Mary's mace for his trouble, running them off the road and killing them all.
"I think I'll sit in the back, Mr Amberley," she smiled; but her smile was cool and did not reach her eyes. "You and John should have a lot to talk about—he loves old movies." She ensconced herself firmly in the rear seat and pulled out her mobile.
John hardly knew whether to be relieved that Mary had removed herself from harassment's reach or to be annoyed that she so willingly threw him to the lions. Then he remembered how vindictive his wife felt towards their client and thought it best she keep her distance from him.
"Nearly two hours there and two hours back," she was musing, looking at the map pulled up on her phone. "Let's stop and have tea somewhere in Chelmsford, shall we?"
Meantime, Sherlock had sent John a text. "Whatever you do, see that he really does go. Should he bolt, call me immediately."
'What are you up to, Sherlock?' John wondered. For himself, he did not believe in this Rev. J. C. Elman of Little Purlington. He settled himself in his seat for a very long, uncomfortable drive.
