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: Dane Cottage is a really existing place. It served as Miss Marple's house in the TV-adaptations. The Greyhound is also a real pub in Stockbridge. Google Search can be a very useful thing. ;)
Chapter 05
The house in Five Bells Lane is one of the many lovely, thatched cottages so characteristic of Nether Wallop, surrounded by what would be a beautiful garden during spring- and summertime. Even now, in its wintry nakedness, it is a pleasant sight. The occupants are clearly fond of birds as well, based on the various sorts of seeds sprinkled generously under one of the trees.
Bradstreet rings the bell and the door of the cottage opens almost immediately. Out comes a slim, blonde woman of about John's own age or at least barely a couple of years younger with a black coat of fake fur thrown over her shoulders. She doesn't look old enough to be the landlady, though.
"Sergeant Bradstreet!" she greets the policeman cheerfully. "What brings you to our humble abode?"
"I've brought a temporary lodger for Mrs Holding," the sergeant says, proving John's estimate true; then he introduces them to each other. "Dr John Watson – Mary Morstan. Miss Morstan is a teacher in the village school and Mrs Holding's permanent tenant."
"My pleasure," Miss Morstan shakes hands with John, who begins to warm up to his temporary accommodation. She isn't a stunning beauty in the Hollywood sense of the word, but she seems to be a lovely person with a healthy sense of humour. Perhaps staying in Nether Wallop for a couple of days won't be entirely horrible.
She invites them in and leads them directly to Mrs Holding's living room, which, she says, the old lady still calls a drawing-room. It is a relatively small room in any case, full of overstuffed chairs and sofas that all have the same colours as the wallpaper and the curtains: a rather ugly one, in various shades of orange, ochre and brown. After only a minute or two John has the feeling that his eyes are beginning to bleed.
Mrs Holding rises from one of the deep, comfortable armchairs, a-flutter with excitement like a little bird. She's a tiny old lady, small-boned and flat-footed, with a round, sweet, stupid face framed by short grey curls, upon which she wears the most ridiculous knitted hat John has ever seen. It has a ruffled brim, like the pieces of cloth his Gran used to cover the jars of preserved fruit with.
She wears a most unflattering, fur shapeless russet jacket over her mid-length dress and flat shoes with her thick woollen stockings. As she hurries forth to welcome the sergeant in delight, her small handbag falls to the floor, opens and spills out an astonishing amount of coins, lacy handkerchiefs, wrapped sweets, keys, several different shades of lipstick, two combs, a powder compact, a manicure set and a small bottle of pills usually prescribed for elderly people to ease their rheumatic pains. John can hardly believe that it has all fitted into that relatively small bag.
Miss Morstan crouches to pick the spilled things up with a woman's ease; clearly, she isn't doing this for the first time. She glances up into John's surprised face and says, quietly but clearly audible over Mrs Holding's laments about her own clumsiness, "It's bigger in the inside."
After a moment of confusion John gets the Dr Who reference and has a really hard time to suppress a giggle. That wouldn't be nice to the old lady, after all.
Having stuffed everything back into the bag, Miss Morstan makes tea, even though both John and the sergeant ask her not to bother. Apparently, serving their visitors tea at every possible time of the day is the iron law in Mrs Holding's house, and – according to Miss Morstan's stage whisper – resistance is futile.
She appears to be Mrs Holding's minder as well as her tenant, which is clearly OK with her, and John finds that he likes her a lot. Few women are deeply enough into sci-fi series to quote catch phrases, and while he's only moderately interested in Dr Who, he finds the prospect of living under the same roof with a fellow Trekkie delightful. Even if it's only for a few days.
Tea properly prepared and served, they can now all sit around the small coffee table and discuss the reason for the visit. Miss Holding is very obviously delighted to have a live-on doctor for a while, although John emphasises that it will only be a temporary thing.
"I just need a few days for the paperwork to confirm my ownership of The Veteran's House to be completed," he explains which causes another bout of excitement from Mrs Holding.
"Oh, you are the nephew of Mr Garbler, then!" she exclaims. "You know, after he died and you couldn't be found anywhere, some people – like that nephew of Paula Ponsonby – began to doubt that you ever existed. Seeing that you never visited your uncle and all."
"He wasn't truly my uncle," John replies patiently, "just a several times removed cousin of my mother or somesuch. And at the time he died I was in Afghanistan, in a war zone, serving as a battlefield trauma surgeon. I've only just returned to England a couple of months ago."
The ladies digest that piece of information for a while.
"Why did you come back in the first place?" Miss Morstan finally asks. "It must be deadly boring for you here, compared with your work at the front lines."
"I got shot," John replies simply. "My shoulder is irreparably damaged. I won't be able to operate ever again, so I got an honourable discharge and was invalided home."
No matter how many times he's already told the story, it still hurts anew, every single time.
"Man," Miss Morstan says with obvious sympathy. "That's hard. What are you going to do with yourself?"
"I have no idea," John admits. "I worked as a locum doctor for London for a while, but it was…"
"… boring," she finishes for him. "Don't be afraid to say so. If anyone, I certainly can understand; I'd return to India in a moment if I could. So… are you moving into your house now?"
"Oh God, no!" John laughs. "What am I supposed to do in a place like this? No, I want to have the house sold, so that I can stay in London."
"What for?" she asks bluntly. "You clearly aren't doing anything of importance there right now. At least living in your house would save you the rent, until you make up your mind about what you want to do with your life."
John has to admit that she does have a point, but the mere idea of leaving London raises his hackles. It feels like admitting defeat and he's not ready for that. Not yet.
"I'll think about it," he says evasively, and she drops the topic.
The rest is quickly done, thanks to the reassuring presence of Sergeant Bradstreet whom old Mrs Holding seems to trust unconditionally. John is showed a cosy little room upstairs (still somewhat bigger than his bed-sit) with a wallpaper every bit as hideous as the one in the lounge, but with a very comfortable bed, a small desk and a built-in wardrobe just large enough to keep several changes of clothes for one person. The armchair at the desk is surprisingly comfortable, and next to the room is a small shower cubicle and a loo, for his use alone, as the ladies share a proper bathroom downstairs, Mrs Holding explains, where Miss Morstan has her room next to that of the landlady's.
John is content with the arrangement. He doesn't want either of these kind women to witness his nightmares, and the walls of the cottage seem solid enough to keep the sounds inside his room. They come to an agreement about the rent – which is fairly modest indeed – about the proper time for breakfast, and then Sergeant Bradstreet takes his leave to deal with some overdue paperwork.
He does promise to drive John to Stockbridge on the next day, though. Clearly, the criminal classes also find Nether Wallop an unbearably dull place if the only local policeman can afford to play chauffeur to random visitors.
By that time John is both physically and emotionally drained and excuses himself to retreat to his room. After a long, hot shower which is a true blessing for his aching shoulder, he calls Clara and tells her everything he's learned. Clara promises to collect the necessary documents for him and meet him in Stockbridge on the next day.
"Won't you get in trouble for missing a day?" he asks. He doesn't want that. Clara has done more than enough already.
"Perhaps," she admits; he can almost see her indifferent shrug. "It doesn't matter. I've got an offer from the Shad Sanderson Bank. The pay is marginally less, but I don't think I could work for Mr Fortescue any longer after how he treated you."
"Hey, you shouldn't give up your job for me!" John protests.
"I don't," she replies. "I'm doing this for me. If I stayed at the Fortescue Bank, one day I might end up like Mr Fortescue; and I don't want to become that person," she pauses. "John, would you mind terribly if I brought Harry with me? She called to ask about you and said she'd like to see the house."
John doesn't like the idea of having Harry involved – especially since Clara revealed to him that his sister wanted to sell the house in his absence. He says so. Clara is apologetic but insistent on bringing Harry with her, and after a while John understands that they're trying to give their marriage one last chance, and while he believes Clara is a fool to do that, he doesn't want to be a hindrance.
"But only if she's sober," he emphasizes. "I'm doing this for you, Clara, not for her. If she shows up drunk, I'll throw her out with my own hands. Tell her that. I'm not kidding. I've had enough of her drunken escapades."
Clara promises everything and thanks him profusely. It's embarrassing. John hangs up and runs his hands through his hair in frustration, calling himself seven different kinds of idiot for giving in – again. He swore so many times no longer trying to save Harry, who obviously doesn't want to be saved – and yet he's just given in again. Even if it was for Clara, basically. For Clara, who would also be better off without Harry.
As a doctor, he knows they can't help Harry without her doing her part. As her brother, he always lets himself be manipulated into guilt and tries it again and again nevertheless.
When he goes to bed, he doesn't dream of Afghanistan and the war and of being shot. Not this time. This time he dreams about his mother drinking herself into an early grave to escape an abusive marriage, with his fourteen-year-old self watching helplessly.
The next morning he wakes up to the fantastic smells of a full English breakfast being prepared downstairs. By the time he gets ready, it is already waiting for him in the kitchen. To his surprise, though, the ladies are only having toast, jam and tea.
"Gentlemen need a proper breakfast," Mrs Holding explains in her naïve, old-fashioned manner. "But I could never eat much in the morning."
She wears a different outfit today; one that is every bit as ugly and unflattering than the previous one. Miss Morstan, on the other hand, wears a nice little skirt suit in dove grey and is obviously ready to leave for work.
"What's your excuse?" John asks, digging into his fantastic breakfast with gusto. It's the best thing he's eaten in years.
"Vanity and finances," she replies promptly, her eyes twinkling in good humour. "A girl of my age has to watch her weight; and I cannot afford to buy a complete new wardrobe, should my clothes become too tight."
They laugh, as she's rather on the thin side, and soon thereafter she leaves to walk over to the local school where she works, promising Mrs Holding to do the shopping on her way back. John has barely finished his breakfast when a police car pulls up in front of the cottage and Sergeant Bradstreet gets out of it. John is surprised to spot his daughter in the back street.
"Since we're going to Stockbridge anyway, I thought we could take her with us," Bradstreet explains. "She works for Parker & Brockman, so we won't have to make any detours for her sake.
The coincidence seems a bit too convenient at first, but then John tells himself not to be paranoid. The girl is a solicitor's clerk, aspiring to go to law school; it's unlikely that there would be too many other law firms in Stockbridge for which she could work.
"Besides," the sergeant adds conversationally," I like to put the fear of God in her boyfriend from time to time."
Kate rolls her eyes. "Really, Dad, as if Justin were afraid of you! You rocked him on your knees when he was a toddler!"
"That was before he started dating my baby girl," Bradstreet says darkly. "I had words with him, right at the beginning, and he knows that not even his uncle would be able to bail him out of serious trouble, should he not behave."
"God save everyone from protective fathers," Kate mutters under her breath. "More so if they happen to be policemen."
John suppresses a grin as he climbs into the passenger seat, while father and daughter keep bickering good-naturedly. He assumes that aforementioned Justin is the same one who is planning the movie night to which Kate invited Billy, the pizza boy. Apparently, he's also Miss Bradstreet's boyfriend and somehow connected to Parker & Brockman as well. In places as tiny as Nether Wallop probably everyone is connected to everyone else. And John can very well imagine Sergeant Bradstreet intimidating even the nephew of an influential lawyer into proper behaviour.
The visit to Parker & Brockman promises to be highly entertaining, if nothing else.
A short time later the police car turns into the now-familiar parking lot of Jasmine House, but this time John is steered towards the front of the building, occupied by the large, modern offices of Parker & Brockman. The law firm, Bradstreet explains, was born of the merger of Parker-Smythe in Andover and Brockman in Stockbridge some twenty years previously, and both senior partners, Mr Parker-Smythe and Miss Brockman, have worked for their respective family businesses in the second generation.
Since the merger, Mr Parker-Smythe has been acting as Head of Commerce and Property and Miss Brockman as Head of Conveyance. Kate happens to be the part-time secretary of Mr Parker-Smythe, while her boyfriend, fresh out of law school, works for Miss Brockman as a trainee lawyer. The firm also has a family executive, with thirty years of experience in family law, and a conveyance executive, but those work in the Andover office.
Clara and Harry are already waiting in the outer office, being entertained by a friendly-looking young man who turns out to be Justin Parker-Smythe. Clara is elegant and lovely as always; Harry is painfully and apologetically sober, trying valiantly to make a good impression in her little black dress and almost succeeding. At least she looks marginally better than the last time John saw her.
They are all ushered into Mr Parker-Smythe's office, which is an example of Spartan elegance: all unadorned surfaces of dark wood, chrome and leather. The lawyer is a big man in a conservative three-piece suit, with a flat, deeply-lined face and slicked-back, thinning hair, wearing gold-rimmed glasses. He is obviously experienced enough to select Clara as the only one of his social class, but extends his courtesy to Harry and John by default.
He asks Kate Bradstreet for the Garbler file, and soon they are viewing the purchase contract of The Veteran's House between the late Alexander Hamilton Ponsonby and the late Nathan Garbler, as well as the last will of aforementioned Mr Garbler, in which he leaves the house to John. Mr Parker-Smythe examines the documents provided by Clara thoroughly, to confirm John's identity, and even questions Sergeant Bradstreet about the results of his research concerning John's person.
"Well," he then says, "everything seems to be in proper order. You are indeed the lawful owner of The Veteran's House, Doctor Watson. My sincerest condolences for the loss of your uncle. What are you planning to do with it?"
"I was planning to have it sold," John replies with a shrug. "But I'm told that in its current state if won't do me much good. At leas I'll try to sell my uncle's collection, such as it is. An empty house is always more appealing to potential buyers than one full of junk."
"We could help you organise a car boot sale," Justin Parker-Smythe offers and Kate Bradstreet nods enthusiastically. "Billy and Andy would be game, too, I'm sure. It would be fun; and perhaps we'd get to see the zombie, too!"
Mr Parker-Smythe rolls his eyes in exasperation. "Don't be ridiculous, Justin, zombies don't exist, save in those idiotic video games you love to waste your time with. Whatever hides in that house, I'm sure they're very much alive."
"Then why hasn't Mr Bradstreet found anyone?" Justin demands.
The lawyer's eyes are cold behind his glasses. "Perhaps he didn't search thoroughly enough."
Which is a thinly-veiled insult towards the policeman and the way he does his work, but Bradstreet doesn't take the bait. He just smiles calmly; it isn't a friendly smile, and Justin Parker-Smythe takes an involuntary step away from his uncle as if wanting to get out of the firing line. John gets the feeling that the head lawyer isn't any happier about Justin and Kate being in love with each other than Bradstreet is. The whole thing begins to resemble of Romeo and Juliet, he thinks, suppressing a grin.
"My friend Bill also suggested a car boot sale," he says, mostly to break the tension. "However, I've never done such a thing before, so any help you can offer would be very welcome."
Kate and Justin exchange excited looks, much to the dismay of their respective older relatives.
"We could do it next weekend," Justin suggests. "With a little advertising on Facebook we can generate enough interest to have a good sale."
"You can stay with Mrs Holding until then, Doctor Watson," Kate adds. "I'm sure Miss Morstan would be happy to help, too."
"We can discuss the details later," Clara intervenes, seeing Mr Parker-Smythe's growing impatience. "Are we done with the official stuff here?"
The solicitor nods in obvious relief. "As far as I am concerned, yes."
"Good," Clara says. "Why don't we go and have an early lunch somewhere, John? You're welcome to join us, Sergeant," she looks at Bradstreet, but the policeman shakes his head.
"Thank you, but I have things to do here. I'll meet you later, Doctor Watson, I think. Now that you've officially taken over your inheritance, undue interest in The Veteran's House will grow for a while, so it's better if I keep half an eye on it – and you."
John chooses not to tell him that he doesn't need protection. He clearly means well, and besides, being on good terms with the police can be useful. He simply nods, gathers his documents and follows Clara and Harry out of the office.
They end up in The Greyhound, one of the local pubs: an old, lovely white-and-yellow building at High Street that offers a nice ambience, excellent food and a fine selection of excellent and ales. John isn't practically hungry after the huge breakfast he's had a little more than an hour ago, but the two women haven't eaten yet, so they order a proper lunch while he's nursing a large mug of coffee. He'd prefer a stout, which he won't have, because of Harry's presence, and hopes to get over with this pitiful attempt of a family reunion as soon as possible. As much as he loves Clara – and he really does – spending time with Harry, even for Clara's sake, is something that he finds burdensome.
Especially as he has the nagging suspicion that Harry is only interested in the whole thing because she hopes to get some of the money the car boot sale might bring in. The fact that she's already tried to have the house sold, behind her brother's back proves that she hasn't quite understood that John is the single owner of it. She clearly considers it a shared property, just because they are siblings, and expects to have her share of everything.
Consequently she's the one who starts discussing the topic.
"Are you really letting those young brats help you with selling your stuff?" she tries to sound concerned but only manages to sound demanding and aggressive.
So much about good intentions," John thinks but nods anyway.
Harry is scandalised. "You don't even know them!"
"Sometimes that's an advantage," John mutters.
Harry gets the hint, of course – she might be an alcoholic, but otherwise she isn't stupid – and blanches in anger.
"They'll steal everything of value," she accuses.
John sighs. "Harry, I've seen the stuff and I'd be surprised if there were anything of real value. Most of it is flea market ware. There's nothing worth stealing; not unless you're into fossil bones or fake gemstones."
At the word gemstones Harry perks up visibly. "Are you sure they're all fake?"
John sighs again wearily. "No, I'm not. I'm not an expert, after all. But I seriously doubt that Mr Garbler would have left them out on the table if they were genuine."
"Why are you calling him Mr Garbler?" Harry asks. "He was our uncle."
"An uncle we never met and only ever saw in an old family photo where Mum was four," John reminds her.
"Well, he felt close enough to leave his house to you," Harry says nastily, and John rubs his temples to push back the upcoming headache – not that it would help.
"Is that's what this is about?" he asks tiredly. "That he left the house to me, not to you?"
"Well, he should have left it to me," Harry returns stubbornly. "I'm the oldest, after all. And you with your gambling habit…"
"Stop it!" John grinds out, while Clara is desperately trying to silence Harry. "Stop it at this moment. You know very well that I was falling into the habit because of the total lack of support from home. Because I had no-one to talk to, no-one who would send me the occasional letter, who would give me a call from time to time. Because I had to empty my savings account again and again to bail you out of trouble after your drunken escapades. You've cost me everything I had, so don't you dare to hold again that bit of gambling against me!"
He stands and throws a few coins onto the table for his coffee.
"I'm sorry, Clara," he says. "I know you mean it well, but don't you make me share the same room with her ever again. We're done with each other, Harry and I."
When he storms out of the pub, he's surprised to see the police car idling on the other side of High Street.
"I thought you'd returned to Nether Wallop, Sergeant," he says when Bradstreet gets out of the car and opens for him the door on the passenger side. "What happened?"
"Nothing," the policeman waits patiently for him to climb into the passenger seat before slamming the door closed again. "I just had the feeling that your family time wouldn't last long and thought I'd save you the coach fare."
"What made you think I'd not be long?" John asks.
Bradstreet shrugs. "Your sister might be sober now, but I recognise a habitual drinker when I see one. Is she a recovering alcoholic?"
"Not recovered enough," John says grimly. "She keeps relapsing, which is why Clara left her a short time ago."
"The two are an item?" there isn't judgement in Bradstreet's voice, just professional interest. He's collecting information, that's all.
"Legally married, actually," John replies, "though in the process of getting a divorce. Unless Clara lets Harry talk her into another pointless effort of trying to save their marriage."
"Which is a hopeless endeavour, eight times out of ten," the sergeant comments dryly and starts the engine.
John gives him an inquiring look. "Do I hear the voice of experience speaking?"
"She was run over a month after the divorce. She was blind drunk."
"I'm sorry," John offers after a moment of uncomfortable silence.
The sergeant shrugs. "Not your fault. Besides, it was a long time ago. I've come to terms with what happened, and so has Kate. It was harder for her, of course, she was her mother, after all, but she's a tough girl."
They drive in silence for a while, each thinking about his respective family.
"So, have you made up your mind about the house?" Bradstreet asks after a while.
"I believe I'll keep it for the time being," John says thoughtfully. "See if I can sell the stuff my uncle collected. At least some of the paintings should be saleable enough, although I'll need to have someone who has a clue about such things take a look at them. Perhaps I can raise enough money to fix the house; or at the very least the roof. I can always put it up for sale later."
The policeman nods slowly in agreement. "That is certainly true; and the people of Nether Wallop will greatly enjoy the spectacle. Who knows, we may even get behind the sighting of the zombie worker and the mysterious disappearances in the house."
"You really believe what those homeless blokes supposedly saw?" John is not sure he does.
"I'd have serious doubts when it comes to Leon," Bradstreet clarifies. "His brain has been turned to mush by the drugs years ago, save for some basic vegetative functions. Doc, though, is a different matter. He may drink from time to time to keep himself warm, but his mind is still razor sharp. He used to be a civil servant in Andover before he lost everything due to a really nasty divorce – including the custody for his two teenage daughters – and ended up here about five years ago."
"And he adopted the younger tramp as an ersatz family?" John asks.
Bradstreet shrugs. "We all need a purpose in our life. I'm sure Leon would be long dead by now without Doc – and perhaps it's true the other way round, to. Are you really going to let them stay in that garden shed of yours?"
John shrugs, too. "Sure, why not? At least they keep an eye on the house."
"They can do more than just that," Bradstreet says. "I'm sure that at least Doc would be useful when you check your inventory lists. He has the right mindset for that sort of thing."
John is a bit surprised. Like most other people, he never gave a second thought of what homeless people might have been before – or a first one, for that matter. Sergeant Bradstreet clearly sees these people from a different vantage point – and perhaps he's right.
"I'll think about it," he says.
~TBC~
