Turn Left – The Veteran's House

by Soledad

Summary: What if John didn't meet Mike Stamford in the park on that fateful day. Would his and Sherlock's path ever cross?

Author's notes: Mr Ponsonby's office has been inspired by the solicitor's office from "The Moving Finger" by Dame Agatha Christie. You are welcome to guess the casting choices for the individual characters – beyond the obvious, that is. *g*

Nether Wallop is a really existing place, which served as St Mary Mead in one of the Miss Marple TV-adaptations. There is indeed a law firm in Stockbridge, situated in Jasmine House – I just changed the names for obvious reasons. Most details about the village and Stockbridge are a result of Wikipedia research, although I did take a bit of creative freedom here and there.


Chapter 03

In the end it is Clara again who finds out the address of the house. She is also the one who finds the only estate agent in Nether Wallop, to whom John could turn to have his house sold.

"It is a certain Mr Thomas Ponsonby," she hands John a printout with the man's address and credentials. "He has his office in Stockbridge, at The Courtyard – apparently the only estate agents in the area. You cannot miss it."

John shakes his head in amazement. "You are a miracle worker, do you know it?"

"Not really," she replies, laughing. "He just happens to have had some business with Mr Fortescue a couple of years ago, so the first internal search brought up his name."

"What a coincidence," says John slowly.

He doesn't think it really is one, though, and Clara spots it at once.

"You don't believe in coincidences, do you?"

"Oh, I do," John answers, old Star Trek memories resurfacing as he quotes Deep Space Nine's infamous Cardassian tailor. "Coincidences happen all the time. I just don't trust coincidences. They are… well, too convenient to be trusted."

"And you are grossly paranoid," she counters, laughing.

"That, too," he admits. "Spending years in various war zones can do that to a man. But it isn't always a bad thing, you know. It can help keeping one alive."

"For which we're all grateful," she kisses him on the cheek. "Keep me informed. You're still my favourite brother-in-law."

"I'm your only brother-in-law… also, soon ex," he points out.

"Never!" she assures him. "I may be getting a divorce, but I won't give up an old friend, no matter what."

It is touching, it really is, and John doesn't know what to answer. Sharing his feelings is not something he does, which is why his session with Ella remained so spectacularly useless. Well… aside from her incompetence, that is.

Fortunately for him, her phone rings in that very moment, and she has to run, tossing an air-kiss at him on her way out, for which John is grateful. He doesn't want to lose her as a friend, either.


Two days later John is sitting in Bill Murray's car – a weather-beaten Land Rover that Bill obviously adores and his wife most likely hates –, heading to Stockbridge. Having looked it up on the Internet, he knows that it's a civil parish and conservation area in West-Hampshire, some sixty-five miles from London, and that it's really small, with an area of 1,333 acres and a little less than seven hundred inhabitants.

Not that he really cares. He isn't about to move in, for God's sake. He just wants to find that estate agent and have his house – a house he hasn't even seen yet and frankly, has no real interest in seeing – sold, so that he can remain in London until he figures out what to do with himself.

Bill has also done his homework regarding their route and chose to take the A30 road, which goes through the town and once carried most of the traffic from London to Dorset, South Somerset, Devon and Cornwall in the South West. While it is true that the A303 dual carriageway would provide a flatter, unimpeded route to the north by Andover, Bill prefers a more direct approach. And the Land Rover can easily manage the steeper route.

They could manage the sixty-five-mile distance within the hour if they wanted, but neither of them sees any reason to hurry. John subconsciously wants to put off the moment when he'd have to face any associate of the ill-remembered Mr Fortescue as far as humanly possible, and Bill has always been a cautious driver. So they travel at a leisurely speed, exchanging old stories and whatever news they happen to have about old comrades, and John almost feels like his old self again.

Almost. If it weren't for the cane wedged between him and the car door.

Even so, it isn't midday yet when they arrive in Stockbridge. Bill pulls up the Land Rover at a place called The Courtyard and turns into the parking lot reserved for the clients of Jasmine House. The house is apparently the seat of some big, joint law firm named Parker & Brockman, but the security guard is friendly enough to guide them to the back of the building, where they find the office they're looking for: Ponsonby & Ponsonby, Estate Agents.

It is clearly a small business, compared with the law firm occupying the front of the house. The outer office is about the size of John's bed-sit, and yet this has to serve as the working place of three people. Near the front door, the only source of natural illumination, an elderly man is sitting on a stool, writing slowly and laboriously. He looks like an escapee from some Dickens novel, with his bent back, mottled black jacket, shiny oversleeves and small, round eyeglasses that seem in danger to lose their precarious balance on the tip of his long, pointy noise.

On the other side of the tiny office a vivacious redhead in her late thirties is typing away on her computer with impressive speed. Her thick, untamed mane is twisted into a haphazard knot on the back of her head and she's wearing those fashionable half-glasses one only wears for reading or writing. There's also a small, cheeky-looking boy of about ten, playing some video game on his phone – John can't even guess whom he might belong to.

The old man doesn't seem to notice the arrival of the potential clients, and the boy doesn't seem to care. The redhead, however, rises from behind her desk with a delighted grin and comes forth to greet them.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?"

She's a head taller than John (which still isn't very much) and even an inch or two taller than Bill, with a simple, open face and a voice that appears unnecessarily loud in the small room; but perhaps she's used to speaking loudly because the old man is deaf. John likes her at once; she reminds him of some of the no-nonsense nurses he used to work with.

"We'd like to consult Mr Ponsonby about selling a house if he's available," he replies. "Can you ask him if he has time for us, Miss…?"

"Noble. Donna Noble," she introduces herself. "I'm Mr Ponsonby's secretary. And yes, he does have time right now. Come with me, please."

She doesn't bother to ask her boss in the first place; she clearly has him firmly under her thumb. John and Bill exchange identical grins and follow her into Mr Ponsonby's inner office, which has the agreeable mustiness of a long-established firm. Vast numbers of deed boxes, labelled with names John has never heard of but that sound venerable somehow, give the required atmosphere of decorous county families and legitimate, well-founded business.

"Clients for you, Mr Ponsonby," Miss Noble announces; she hasn't even bothered to ask their names before ushering them in. "I'll bring tea in a moment," and with that, she turns on her heels and leaves them alone.

Mr Thomas Ponsonby stands out of the subdued, traditional surroundings of his own office like a sore thumb. He's a thin, somewhat agitated man in his mid-forties, with a hollow, animated face and what John mentally calls sentient hair. His pinstriped brown suit and his horn-rimmed glasses both seem a size or two too large on him, and he appears unable to sit still any longer than two minutes, tops.

"Forgive the manners of my secretary, gentlemen," he says. "My aunt has selected her to take care of my daily affairs and I'm afraid she takes her task a bit too seriously. In fact, she seems to believe that she's my minder," he jumps to his feet and proffers a large, fine-boned hand to shake. "Thomas Ponsonby, at your service. How can I be of assistance?"

"Dr John Watson, ex-Army surgeon," John shakes the proffered hand. "This is an old comrade of mine, Sergeant Bill Murray. Not the actor," he adds reflexively; an old inside joke between the two of them.

He might be imagining things, of course, but it seems to him as if something – some sort of recognition – flickers across the solicitor's face upon hearing his name. He glances at Bill who gives a tiny, barely perceivable nod. So he hasn't imagined it. Bill is an observant man, and if he's spotted it, too, there had to be something, although John can't imagine for the life of him why Mr Ponsonby would know his name.

It's unlikely that he'll figure it out right here, right now, though, so he cuts directly to the core of the problem.

"I need help to get a house sold," he explains. "It is in Nether Wallop and I've inherited it from a distant uncle, a Mr Nathan Garbler, four years ago."

"I see," the estate agent's eyes appear to narrow in suspicion. "May I ask how did you find my name, of all people?"

"I didn't," John replies truthfully. "My sister-in-law, however, works for the Fortescue Bank; she recommended you as one of their clients. In fact, she said you were their only client from this area."

"I see," Mr Ponsonby says again, and John has the vague impression that the man is not happy about being recommended, which is odd. As a rule, estate agents are more than happy to pick up new clients. "May I ask which house are we speaking about?"

"I'm told it's called The Veteran's House," John suppresses a bitter grin over the irony of that fact, "and it can be supposedly found at 9 Little Ryder Lane."

To his surprise the estate agent begins to laugh hysterically.

"Goodness, you really want to sell the haunted house? Have you ever seen it, doctor?"

"No," John admits with a frown. "I was on my third tour in Afghanistan when my uncle died and didn't return to England until a couple of months ago. Why? What is wrong with the house?"

"Nothing; only that it's barely a house at all," Mr Ponsonby replies with a snort. "More like a ruin. It was already in a sorry shape when Mr Garbler received it fifteen or so years ago, and he didn't do much renovating during the eleven years he occupied it. He was more interested in stuffing the house full of so-called treasures and artwork than in making sure the roof wouldn't fall over his head."

"Perhaps John can finance a renovation by selling all that stuff," suggest Bill helpfully.

The solicitor raises an eyebrow in amusement.

"If all that junk has any worth at all," he replies, clearly not believing that.

Bill frowns at him, not liking his attitude a bit. He's always been very protective towards his Captain, and he has the nagging feeling that this bloke is trying to cheat John out of what's rightfully his.

"It would be worth a look anyway," he says, more sharply than intended. "Can you tell us who has the keys of the house?"

"The only part that could be secured is the ground floor; our local policeman, Sergeant Bradstreet has the keys," Mr Ponsonby replies with obvious reluctance. "I must warn you, though: some unsavoury tramps have taken up residence in the garden shed, and for some reason Bradstreet tolerates them."

He clearly disagrees with the policeman in that point.

"Well, they don't bother anyone there, I reckon, and at least they have a roof above their head," says John philosophically; a need he can fully understand. "That doesn't make a house haunted, though."

"No," the estate agent agrees. "It's considered haunted because the same tramps like to tell stories about a zombie living in the attic."

John and Bill are speechless for a moment.

"A zombie," John finally says. "In the attic. Doing what?"

"Repairing parts of the house," Mr Ponsonby snorts again. "At least the tramps swear that they can hear the knocking of his hammer in certain nights. They sometimes even get a glimpse of him, deathly pale, wearing a red baseball cap of all things, moving around in the attic."

"After a certain level of delirium one can see the oddest things," Bill says dryly. As an Army nurse he's seen enough patients hallucinating to know that.

The estate agent nods in agreement. "Exactly. Bradstreet has searched the house repeatedly but never found anything. Nonetheless, no-one in Nether Wallop would willingly enter The Veteran's House, doctor, so your chances to have it sold are very poor."

"I'd like to make my own impression," John says stubbornly, and the estate agent shrugs.

"It's up to you, of course. I'm sure Bradstreet will be happy to show you around. He's very taken with straightforward military types like yourselves."

It's said in a manner just this side of an insult but John doesn't care. He wouldn't trust this man with his dog (if he had one), let alone with his house, regardless of the shape it is in; there won't be any business connection between them, that much is certain. He thanks the man for the information and leaves the office, with Bill in tow.

They nearly run over Miss Noble, carrying a tray with the tea paraphernalia.

"Oh," she says, clearly disappointed. "You're leaving already? I was just about to serve tea."

"Ta, Miss Noble, but I don't think your boss and I are about to do business with each other," John replies. "Thank you for the effort, though."

She shakes her head in exasperation. "He was rude again, wasn't he? I don't know what to do with him and his manners!"

"It wasn't so bad," John says comfortingly. "We just had a disagreement, is all."


"Disagreement, huh?" Bill snorts as they leave Jasmine House and walk towards his car. "C'mon, Cap, the man clearly didn't want you to go anywhere near that house!"

"No, he didn't," John agrees. "Which is why I'd really like to make a little detour to Nether Wallop and take a look. If you can afford the delay, that is."

"Sure, why not? The missus is away at some big family gathering and won't be home before the day after tomorrow, so I'm on my own. Let me program the GPS, then we can take off like the Enterprise."

John laughs because there are few ties closer than those between two Army comrades who both happen to be devout Trekkies and climbs into the passenger seat next to Bill who frowns at his GPS.

"Nether Wallop," he mutters. "Who comes up with names like that? Does it mean there's an Over Wallop, too?"

"And a Middle Wallop, which happens to be an airfield, which is the home of the Army Air Corps," John tells him.

Bill is duly surprised. "Really? Have you ever been there?"

John shakes his head. "No. Might be worth a visit, though. Perhaps I'll even meet somebody I know from before. But not now. Let's see that infamous haunted house of mine first."

Bill has no objections, and as he's finished programming his GPS, they're soon on their way. The three point seven-miles distance to Nether Wallop is really a short one, and when they finally reach the village, even John with his exclusively urban interest has to admit that it's one of the prettiest ones he's ever seen. Like something taken from a painting – or an Agatha Christie adaptation.

At the edge of the village they catch up with a pizza delivery boy, also coming from Stockbridge on his light bike. The boy – well, young man of about twenty, whose name is apparently Billy Morgan – guides them to the police station, since that's the place he's heading to himself.

"You can't even get a pizza in Nether Wallop," he explains sourly. "The pub only serves traditional fare and they don't deliver. The whole place was frozen in time in the early twentieth century."

Considering that people are willing to believe in the existence of zombies and haunted houses, that statement is probably accurate.


The police station turns out to be a small office with a single arrest cell on the ground floor of an ordinary-looking house, with the village policeman's home upstairs. Crimes apparently aren't commonplace in Nether Wallop, save for the occasional pub brawl.

Billy knocks on the front door, then opens it without waiting for an answer. They come into a small anteroom, with an open room providing insight into the office and a wooden stairway leading to the upper floor. A girl of roughly Billy's age comes running down the stairs to take the pizzas from him and to pay him.

"Hi, Billy," she says, her voice pleasantly low-pitched and a little amused. "Took you long enough. I hope these aren't cold yet."

"I'm still within the thirty-minute-limit," Billy replies defensively. "Besides, I had to direct these blokes. They came to see your Dad."

"Come with me then," the girl says to John and Bill and leads them to the office, calling back over her shoulder to the pizza boy. "Justin's organising a movie night tomorrow – you game?"

"Sure," Billy checks his watch. "Sorry, gotta dash. Bye, Kate."

"See you tomorrow at Justin's," the girl replies; then she enters the office, places the pizza boxes on the desk and announces, "Visitors for you, Dad!"

The man who rises from behind his desk impresses the hell out of John. The only policeman of Nether Wallop is a plain-clothes detective sergeant, which is unusual but not unheard-of. He's a tall, broad-chested man of wiry strength, with short-cropped, greying dark hair, large ears and a long, straight nose. In his worn-in jeans, dark turtleneck and black leather jacket he's a fairly unassuming sight, but John and Bill are immediately reminded of some of their most hard-nosed drill sergeants. John is sure that not much gets by this man unnoticed. Those cool, observant blue eyes take notice of everything and seem to be able to pierce through bone and marrow.

His daughter has a lot in common with him, John finds. Kate Bradstreet, too, is slim, trim, dark-haired and blue-eyed, and she seems to have the same direct, no-nonsense attitude. Father and daughter obviously have an amiable relationship; John will learn later that Bradstreet had raised her alone from the age of ten.

The policeman shakes hands with them, introduces his daughter – he has a recognisable Northern accent – and offers a slice of pizza and tea, which they thankfully accept, as it's been half a day since they ate anything.

Kate goes to the small kitchen behind the stairs to fetch the tea paraphernalia for the visitors and herself and coffee for her father. Said coffee seems to be strong enough to hold the spoon upright and Bradstreet takes it black, without sugar – which, in John's opinion, is courting chronic insomnia, but the detective sergeant is old enough to know what he's doing.

Kate apparently disagrees, giving her father a glare full of disapproval, and keeps nudging the milk jug and sugar bowl in his direction, which her father keeps ignoring. It seems to be an old argument between the two of them; one she isn't likely to win any time soon.

Bradstreet finishes his coffee in three long, unhurried gulps, and then he turns to John expectantly.

"Well, Dr Watson, let's talk about that house of yours, shall we?"

John and Bill are giving him identical shocked looks, and he grins.

"Don't worry, I'm not some sort of medium; nor am I Hercule Poirot or some other genius detective. Miss Noble gave me a call and announced your visit."

"But – but she wasn't even present when we discussed the house with Mr Ponsonby," John says, confused.

Kate Bradstreet laughs. "Obviously, she was eavesdropping. Everyone here does. There isn't much entertainment in Nether Wallop – or in Stockbridge, for that matter – so gossip will have to do."

"But why would anyone be interested in me wanting to have the house sold?" John still cannot see the point.

"Are you kidding?" Kate grins like a loon. "It's a haunted house - the haunted house, the only one in Tess Valley. I'm sure people are already speculating about how you'll manage to get rid of the Zombie Worker, as they call him – and whether you've got a cat in hell's chance against him or not."

"You must be kidding," John says faintly.

Kate shakes her head.

"You aren't kidding? Do people seriously believe in that shit?"

"Very few really do," Bradstreet intervenes. "It is, however, true, that something odd is going on in that house. And people like to speculate about odd things."

"Define odd," Bill says.

The sergeant shrugs. "Somebody definitely goes around in the upper levels from time to time. The homeless people who use the garden shed to crash have repeatedly alerted me, but whoever it may be, they are very shrewd… and probably know the best hiding places. Whenever I showed up, they were long gone. Perhaps now that the rightful owner has returned, we'll be luckier."

"To be honest, I'm not the least interested in the secret of the house," John says bluntly. "I'd just like to have it sold. I prefer to live in London; and I desperately need the money. My Army pension is not nearly enough for a decent life. Not in London."

"Well, that might be a problem," says Bradstreet thoughtfully.

"Because no-one would be willing to buy a haunted house?" Bill Murray's voice is dripping with sarcasm.

"On the contrary," the policeman replies with a tight smile. "The mystery is the only thing that could possibly make the house interesting for a potential buyer."

"And why is that?" John asks.

The sergeant shrugs again. "Quite frankly, it's a rather ugly house in the first place. And it's in a sorry shape, too, although renovation could upgrade it a bit. Your…. uncle, was it?"

John nods and Bradstreet continues. "Your uncle cared more for his collection than for the house itself – and it shows."

"That's what Mr Ponsonby said, too," John mutters.

That earns him a raised eyebrow from the sergeant.

"Did he? Now that's interesting, don't you think, Kate?"

"Very interesting," his daughter agrees. "Seeing how eager he was to get his hands on the house after Mr Garbler's death. He was positively furious when it came out that the old gentleman had a will and named you as his heir," she looks at John.

"Really?" John is honestly surprised by that. "What on Earth could be so interesting in a half-ruined house?"

"I have no idea," Bradstreet admits. "The ground floor, the only part of the house that Mr Garbler actually occupied, was sealed by the notary after opening the will. Everything of any value has been kept there ever since, until the heir would decide to show up and deal with it – which has just happened, I'd say."

"And you have the keys," John says.

The sergeant nods. "And I have the keys, put away in a place only I know, just in case somebody might get the stupid idea of breaking into the safe in this office."

"Why would anyone do that?" Bill shakes his head.

"Why would anyone want the house so badly?" Bradstreet asks back. "There must be something of great value among all the rubbish old Mr Garbler so loved to collect. In fact, Ponsonby wasn't the only one showing an interest. There's this American calling himself Jungle Jones. Says he's some sort of amateur archaeologist and would just love to study Mr Garbler's collection."

"A treasure hunter?" John asks tentatively.

"Most likely," Bradstreet agrees.

"But that means there has to be a treasure of some sort," Bill points out logically. "If that bloke crossed the ocean for it and all that."

"Exactly," the sergeant says. "Which is why we won't go over to the house tonight. It's getting late, and I don't want you – either of you – to get mugged or killed in the darkness."

John laughs. "We were both combat soldiers, Sergeant!"

"That may be so," Bradstreet replies seriously. "But whoever is after your inheritance, doctor, and it's certainly more than just one person, they're more than willing to fight dirty."

"And you know that – how exactly?" John asks doubtfully.

"Because I'm certain that Mr Garbler's fatal accident four years ago was carefully orchestrated," Bradstreet replies, grim-faced. "I just haven't been able to prove it."

John feels as if suddenly doused with ice cold water… but it doesn't frighten him, On the contrary; he feels invigorated like he hasn't felt for a very long time.

"All right," he says. "Why don't you tell me everything from the beginning?"

"'Cause it's a long story and it's already late," the sergeant replies. "We'll discuss everything in detail tomorrow. You can have our guest room if you don't mind sharing, and in the morning we can go to the house together."

John looks at Bill askance, who nods, and thus it's decided that they'd spend the night with the Nether Wallop police. It's a good thing that they've both packed an overnight bag, just in case.

~TBC~