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: The Veteran's House was modelled after the one described in the ACD short story "The Three Garridebs", of course.
Chapter 04
In the next morning they're treated to tea and toast by Kate Bradstreet, who shortly afterwards excuses herself to go to work. She's apparently a part-time legal clerk, although not in the village itself but in Stockbridge (where the majority of Nether Wallop's population seems to work) and has to catch the coach in time if she doesn't want to be late.
"She decided against a used car 'cause she's saving money for law school," explains Bradstreet, ignoring the teapot and brewing himself a mug of industrial strength coffee. "I wish I had the means to pay for her education, but raising her on just one salary was hard enough. I was unable to set any money aside for her future."
"A lot of people put themselves through uni," John comments, tactfully not asking what happened to Kate's mother. "I did. And one values all the more what one had to work for, instead of being given it on a platter."
"Perhaps," allows the sergeant. "But I'd be happier if she didn't have to make the daily trip to Stockbridge and back; especially in winter when she either leaves when it's still dark or comes home when it's already dark. She may be of legal age, but she still is and will always be my little girl."
To that John has nothing to say, and they eat their breakfast in companionable silence. After breakfast, Bradstreet deals with some paperwork from the previous days while his guests finish their morning rituals, and then they're ready to see the house.
"It isn't very far," the sergeant says. "There aren't any great distances in Nether Wallop. But we can take my car if you aren't up to a walk," he adds with a side glance at John's leg.
John shakes his head. "Nah, no need for that. The dratted limp is mostly psychosomatic; ignoring it is the only way to deal with it. What can you tell me about the house?"
"It is one of the oldest ones in the village," explains Bradstreet, expertly guiding them along picturesque little lanes lined with thatched cottages, surrounded by well-tended gardens. "Early Georgian, I think. Originally, it belonged to a certain Colonel Hamilton who'd served in India for some twenty years or so. That's where the name comes from. After the colonel's death his nephew, a Mr Alexander Hamilton Ponsonby, inherited the house, together with the Indian treasures supposedly hidden in it."
"Ponsonby?" echoes Bill. "Was he related to the unsympathetic bloke John met in Stockbridge?"
Bradstreet nods. "His uncle, actually. The older Mr Ponsonby was a very successful local businessman who made his money in property. He had no children of his own, so he left the business to the son of his younger brother."
"But not the house?" John asks in surprise.
"Not this house," Bradstreet corrects. "He never actually lived there, you see. He had another house, a much better and more comfortable one, where his widow still lives, together with the nephew. This house stood empty and sealed for many years; until Mr Ponsonby senior sold it – rather cheaply, I'd say – to Mr Nathan Garbler, an old school friend of his, who had just retired from his job as a librarian in Andover and sought a place for his collection."
"What collection?" John remembers having heard about that already.
The sergeant shrugs. "All sorts of stuff: paintings, statuettes, archaeological artefacts, ceremonial masks from all around the world, stuffed animals and only God knows what else. The man had an unusually broad scale of interests and considered himself an amateur researcher. Whether he truly had any idea of the value of the things he collected I cannot say."
"Do you think the collection is worthless, then?" Bill tries to clarify.
Bradstreet shrugs again. "I honestly don't know. The ground floor, where it's stored, has been sealed after Mr Garbler's death, as I've already told you, and no experts have ever examined it. But I find it a tad suspicious that this Mr 'Jungle' Jones is showing such a strong interest for it."
Bill frowns. "And no-one has thought of taking a closer look at the old man's stuff?"
"We couldn't," the policeman replies. "All that now belongs to Doctor Watson here; we weren't allowed to touch anything without his permission. And since he was in Afghanistan until recently, we had no way to contact him."
"Well, I'm here now, so I think it's the best if we look at it together," says John. "To make it official and with a witness and all that. But you said something about Mr Garbler's death last night… that something was wrong about it. How did he die?"
"It was an accident. Or, at least, it seemed to be one," Bradstreet corrects himself. "The roof was leaking – it still is, in fact – and Mr Garbler had the roofer come. They found the leak and the roofer promised to return on the next day."
"And? Did he?"
"He did – only to find Mr Garbler lying in the back yard, dead, with his neck broken. It seemed as if he'd tried to fix the leak temporarily and fell to his death."
"Sounds possible," Bill comments, but the policeman shakes his head.
"Not if one knew the late Mr Garbler. He was the kind of person who needed help with hitting a nail into the wall… and he was afraid of heights. He'd never try fixing the roof on his own, especially not when he expected the roofer to return on the next day."
"But you found no proof that somebody… er… helped him fall off the roof," John says; it isn't a question.
Bradstreet shakes his head. "None. The body was sent to the mortuary in Winchester, of course, but the post mortem report showed up without any suspicious results."
"What about the roofer?" Bill, a great lover of crime novels, suggests. "Couldn't he have tossed the old man off the roof on the previous evening already and returned on the next day to 'find' him?"
"Theoretically, it would be possible," the sergeant agrees. "According to the post mortem, Dr Garbler did die sometime during that night. However, there were none of the characteristic bruises on him that usually show up post-mortem when one was forcefully pushed."
"There's another possibility," John says slowly. "Somebody could have scared the old man enough so that he'd fall off the roof on his own."
"True," Bradstreet allows. "Unfortunately, we couldn't find any proof for that."
"And this roofer," John says. "What kind of man is he?"
"He's an American expatriate," the sergeant replies thoughtfully. "Came here ten… no, almost twelve years ago and opened up a small company for construction work. Reno Enterprises it's called, after him, although it's too big a name for such a small business. It's just him, a plumber, a carpenter and an electrician. Still, it's a true blessing for the locals, offering them three solid jobs and the chance to get their houses fixed quickly when the need arises."
"The others are all from here?" Bill asks and Bradstreet nods.
"Yes. He did originally have a different plumber who came with him from the States, but that one left two or three years ago."
"Why?"
"I don't know. One day he was here, the next day he was gone, and we never saw him again. According to Mr Reno he just quit his job and left, leaving no contact data behind."
"But you have no proof?"
"Do I need any? This is a village, not a prison. Everyone can come and go as they please. Although," Bradstreet adds thoughtfully, "he was seen around the house by the homeless guys who crash there."
"That's odd," Bill comments, but the policeman shakes his head.
"Not really. Everyone is interested in the house; more so since the so called zombie worker's first appearance. There's little in the means of entertainment here, so a haunted house is practically a theme park."
"And now I'm really curious," John says, smiling.
Bradstreet grins, turns into the next little lane, and then they are standing face-to-face with The Veteran's House.
As they were told before, it isn't a very pretty house: a large, old-fashioned, Early Georgian edifice, with a flat brick face broken only by two deep bay windows on the ground floor. It was this ground floor, mostly, where John's late uncle used to live; and indeed, the low windows prove to be the front of the huge room in which Mr Garbler spent his waking hours.
The front yard of the house is basically some sort of rockery – neglected and overgrown and interspersed with flowering shrugs in desperate need of a good pruning – which falls to a stretch of lawn below. It would be a pleasant sight if both rockery and lawn weren't liberally strewn with all sorts of rubbish, from broken bottles through old newspapers to animal bones and empty tin cans. John can even spot a set of false teeth that clearly haven't been used for years, lying under one of the shrubs.
"Some people clearly have made themselves at home here," Bill comments cynically.
John simply shrugs. "It's a house that has been abandoned for half a decade. What did you expect?"
"You okay with this, Cap?"
"Well, it's my own fault for not having looked after the house all this time, isn't it?" John points out reasonably. "I'm afraid it won' be much of a gain, though."
And indeed, the house seems to be in a desolate shape. The roof is broken in several places, bricks are missing from the outer walls on both floors, the blinds are hanging torn in front of the empty windows. Only the two on the ground floor are bolted, denying access to anyone who wants to get in.
On the right side a short, broken flight of concrete stairs leads to the main entrance that is bolted, too, and sealed with police tape and a padlock. Parts of the short stairway are crumpled into the overgrown grass and the iron railing has been torn out of its original place, too.
The padlock seems untouched, but there's a winding metal staircase leading directly to the attic at the back of the house – clearly the equivalent of a fire escape that, however, makes it easy to anyone who wants to search the upper floor to gain access. The house has a basement, too; judging by the many small windows; one as large as the room in the ground floor.
"As far as I know there are a wine cellar and a furnace in the basement," Bradstreet tells them. "But if there truly was any wine, it's long gone by now."
Their arrival lures the unofficial tenants out of the woodwork: two homeless men, one about thirty, with dirty blond hair and a dishevelled beard, the other one at least twenty years older, his grey curls neatly trimmed, his features razor sharp, and he's as clean-shaven as one can be without the use of a proper bathroom mirror. The sergeant greets them like old acquaintances; they've probably known each other for a long time.
"Hey Leon, Doc, how's things?"
"Middling," the older man called Doc replies, his voice as sharp and precise as his features, making John wonder what he might have been in his former life. "We may have to make a few trips to the larger towns again, soon. One cannot live out of Nether Wallop alone. Who's this?" he then asks, looking at John.
"Your landlord," Bradstreet replies, grinning.
Doc gives him a flat, unfriendly look. "Ha-ha, what a good joke!"
"I kid you not," the sergeant says. "Doctor Watson is the rightful owner of his house; has been for the last four years, in fact."
The man closes his piercing eyes for a moment. "Oh, swell," he then says resignedly. "I reckon you want us gone, then."
"Not necessarily," John replies with a shrug. "At least not right away. I am planning to have the house sold, though."
"Good luck!" Doc comments dryly.
John frowns at him. "You're not telling me that there's really a zombie haunting the place, are you? 'Cause until right now I thought you weren't soft in the head."
"I don't know about zombies," the homeless man answers slowly. "But something – or somebody – is up there in the attic. There's light sometimes…"
"Likely from a torch, since electricity has been cut after Mr Garbler's death," Bradstreet supplies.
Doc nods in agreement. "I reckon it is a torch, as it's moving from one part of the attic to the other quite rapidly. And we can hear noises sometimes as if somebody was working on repairs…"
"… or looking for something… perhaps a treasure," the younger tramp adds.
Unlike his comrade's, his eyes are glassy and his pupils blown; he's clearly a drug addict with only a tentative connection to reality. John's experienced eyes spot the needle marks on his right forearm – his sleeve is torn and he doesn't seem to have a proper coat, or chooses not to wear it, despite the cold – and Bradstreet gives a tiny nod.
"But we've never actually seen anyone," Doc finishes, ignoring the mute understanding between their visitors. "Well, Leon claims to have seen the zombie once, but at the time he was so shot up with cocaine that it was probably all in his head."
"It was pale… bleached even…," the younger man mutters, "with dead eyes and a horribly disfigured face… an animated corpse…"
"… wearing jeans, a checked shirt and a red baseball cap, yes, we know," Doc silences him impatiently. "Running around with an axe, of all things. You've told it just about everyone by now, and the local brats were watching the house with binoculars for weeks before giving up because they never found anything."
"And no-one has ever tried to search the house?" Bill asks.
"I have," Bradstreet replies with a shrug. "Several times. Never found a thing… dead or alive."
"'Cause you looked during the day," the homeless junkie mutters. "The zombie only ever comes out at night."
Doc rolls his eyes. "Yeah, sure," then he turns to Bill, suddenly deadly serious. "Still, I won't enter the house at nighttime. People who did so were never seen again."
"You mean that American bloke, Mr Reno's plumber?" Bill clarifies.
"He was the first," Doc answers grimly. "There were others… two or three times since him. None of them locals."
"Tramps like you then?" Bradstreet asks bluntly; this piece of information is apparently news for him, too. Doc takes no offence.
"They were better fed and better dressed, at the very least," he says dryly. "I never saw them before; and by now I know most of the homeless people in this area. No, my guess would be that they were hired thugs. Of course, we did our best not to be seen by them. Their kind beats up people like us for fun."
"And they definitely entered the house?" Bradstreet presses on.
Doc nods. "I saw them climb the metal staircase behind the house; but I didn't see them leave. Not one of them."
"The zombie murdered them and hid the corpses in the gardens," the druggie mutters darkly.
Doc rolls his eyes. "Unlikely. We'd have noticed that."
"What did then happen to them, in your opinion?" John asks.
The homeless man shrugs. "I have no idea; and frankly, I don't even want to know. It's healthier for me not to know."
"You're probably right," Bradstreet allows. "Still, I wish you'd have come to me with this."
Doc shakes his head. "Not my problem, Sergeant. I just want to be left alone."
Although he still looks unhappy, Bradstreet clearly knows the man better than to try applying pressure. Instead, he turns to John.
"Well, Doctor Watson? Do you still want to see the house from the inside?"
"Of course I do," John replies. "There may be things in my uncle's collection that I can sell, and I need the money. Do you have an inventory list?"
Bradstreet nods. "It has been made by Parker & Brockman in Stockbridge, right after Mr Garbler's death and confirmed by a notary. The original is kept by the law firm, together with Mr Garbler's will, but yeah, I've got a copy in my office."
"Do you think there might be anything of value?" John asks pessimistically.
The policeman shrugs. "All I know that Mr Garbler used to go to London sometimes, to look up artefacts at Sotheby's or Christie's. Whether he actually bought anything I cannot tell, but even if he did, it couldn't have been anything big. He wasn't a wealthy man and lived off his pension."
"There must be at least something," Doc says. "Or this 'Jungle' Jones character wouldn't be sniffing around the house from time to time."
"He still does that?" That, too, is clearly news for Bradstreet.
Doc nods. "Whenever he comes back from one of those digs of his, he shows up here, watching the house for a while."
"But he never enters?"
"Not that I'd know. But we're hardly ever here during summer, so it is possible, I reckon."
"Hmmm," Bradstreet frowns. "I've read that inventory list several times and I honestly can't imagine what on it could be interesting for a treasure hunter."
"Perhaps he understands something else under treasure than we do," Bill suggests. "Amateur archaeologists can go batty about old bones and broken pottery and stuff…"
"That would make sense," Bradstreet allows. "Mr Garbler had a great deal of those, neatly sorted and prepared and labelled and all that."
"Are they still here?"
"They should; let's take a look, shall we?"
The sergeant fishes the keys out of his pocket, asks Doc if he'd like to come with them but the homeless man declines. He may not believe in zombies but is very obviously afraid of the house and its mysterious occupant, so Bradstreet doesn't insist on him joining them.
John and Bill, on the other hand, can barely contain their excitement. Especially John, for whom this is the greatest adventure since his return. Even if they shouldn't find anything of value, his natural curiosity is piqued, and he can't wait to see what's inside.
The padlock has become a bit rusty during the recent four years, so it takes the sergeant several tries to open it. When it finally gives, Bradstreet removes it and tucks it into his pocket – it will have to be re-installed after they're done. The front door opens with groaning protest, and they come into a small, dark anteroom with doors leading to various rooms in the ground floor and a short wooden staircase leading to the upper levels. For the fact that it hasn't been used for years, the inside of the house is actually in a decent shape.
One of the doors is bolted and locked, too. Bradstreet removes this padlock as well and opens the two original locks with the other keys on his keychain, and then they can finally enter the central room of the ground floor; the one holding the late Mr Garbler's collection.
As they've already guessed from the outside, the room takes in almost the entire ground floor – and it looks like a small museum. It is both broad and deep, with cupboards and cabinets all round, crowded with specimens – geological and anatomical –, small objects of art and pieces of pottery.
Cases of butterflies and moths flank each side of the entrance and paintings of various sizes as well as pieces of sculpture cover every single inch of wall. A large table in the centre is littered with all sorts of debris – mostly broken pottery, but also colourful gems, whether fake or genuine John cannot tell – while the tall brass tube of a vintage microscope (quite a powerful one in its heyday) bristles up among them.
Glancing around, John is surprised by the universality of his late uncle's interests.
"Was there anything this man didn't collect?" he wonders, poking at a case of ancient coins, only to abandon it in favour of a cabinet of flint instruments. "I wonder if I'll be able to make money of any of this."
He seriously doubts it, to be honest. He isn't one to collect things, himself – being in the Army has taught him to travel light – and he can't imagine that anyone would want all this junk.
"You can always organise a car boot sale," Bill suggests, only half-joking. "You'd be surprised by all the shit people are willing to buy, just because they think they'd get a bargain. And I'm sure the local school would happily accept those."
He waves at the large cupboard of fossil bones behind the central table, above which is a line of plaster skulls, with labels like 'Neanderthal', 'Heidelberg' and Cro-Magnon' printed beneath them.
"Those and the butterflies, too," he adds. "It's clear that your uncle was a student of many subjects."
"Or simply obsessed with junk," John mutters unhappily.
He still doesn't believe to find anything of value here, although the few delicate Japanese vases he's seen so far do look promising. Bill, however, disagrees.
"At least the furniture is pretty decent," he says. "These old-fashioned little cabinets are very popular at the moment, if you can trust my wife… especially original ones, made of solid wood like these. You can get a good price for them from a second-hand shop in London."
John gives him a baleful look. "And how am I supposed to get them to London?"
"You aren't," Bill replies patiently. "That's what the Internet is for. You take photos of the individual pieces – with your phone –, upload them to one of those websites and wait for the offers."
"But I'd have to stay here for that," John points out. "People will want to actually see the stuff before buying it."
"True," Bill shrugs. "Problem? You haven't got anything else to do right now, do you?"
That is depressingly true, of course, but John still isn't quite ready to leave London and move to Nether Wallop, not even temporarily. London is the place to be, even if he won't be able to afford it much longer.
"Mr Murray does have a point," Bradstreet interferes. "In any case, before you'd be able to do anything about the house or what's in it, you'll have to appear at Parker & Brockman in Stockbridge, to confirm your identity. I might have checked you out through official channels last night, so I happen to know that you are indeed the rightful heir, but I cannot hand over the keys to you without their permission, as they are the executors of Mr Garbler's will."
"And where am I supposed to stay in the meantime?" John asks. "With the tramps in the garden shed? Or am I to move in with you at the police station?"
His tone is more than a little hostile but Bradstreet takes no offence. He simply says he has a better idea, locks the room and the main entrance again and leads them away from the house.
"Where are we going?" John asks belligerently.
"To Dane Cottage, at Five Bells Lane," Bradstreet replies calmly. "Mrs Holding, the owner, takes in lodgers, both permanent ones and bed and breakfast-style, and right now she's got a free room. You can stay with her while you clear things with Parker & Brockman. Don't worry," he adds, seeing John's uncomfortable expression. "It will be cheaper than travelling to and fro between London and Stockbridge and then taking a cab here every time."
John is torn between two choices, neither of them really to his liking, but Bill finds the sergeant's solution a good one. He says so.
"I'll come and fetch you when you're done," he promises. "And you already have an overnight bag, so what?"
"But I don't even have my laptop with me!" John protests.
Bill recognises the unspoken addition or my gun, which John wouldn't voice within the earshot of a policeman, it being illegal and all that.
"I don't think you'll need it, Cap," he says quietly, and only John knows that he doesn't mean the laptop at all. "But I can bring it with me when I'll be back for you, say in three days' time, all right?"
John nods jerkily. He feels strangely vulnerable, alone in the unknown village; it gives him the uncomfortable feeling that he's lost control over his life completely. He doesn't want to stay here. But he doesn't want to return to his miserable bed-sit, either. And at least the house full of junk is legally his. He might even get something out of it, if he can summon the patience to navigate among the pitfalls of bureaucracy.
"All right," he says with a resigned sigh.
Bill Murray goes back with them to the police station, where he gets his things and climbs into his Land Rover.
"Take care of the Cap for me," he says quietly to Bradstreet, who simply nods, and then drives away. John stares after him glumly – until the sergeant claps him on the back.
"Come on, Doctor Watson, let's have lunch; then we'll pay Mrs Holding a visit. The sooner you get your affairs sorted the better for you."
Resigned to his fate, John follows the man to the local pub, where they have a couple of sandwiches each, and John orders a lager. Strengthened that way, he almost feels ready to face Mrs Holding, whoever she might be.
~TBC~
