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: I'm sure I don't have to explain the reference to Dr Joseph Bell, right? *g*
Chapter 08
Surprisingly enough, Sherlock Holmes isn't the first person who shows up in the next morning at Dane Cottage to speak with John. It is a man in his early thirties; a man who looks every bit like the stereotypical adventurer – or, at the very least, the Hollywood version of it. He is a good six feet tall, broad-shouldered and wide-chested, with boyish good looks and a charming grin. Although boyish types usually don't age gracefully, this man still looks surprisingly youthful for his age. The intense, almost electric blue eyes, the cleft chin and the uncanny amount of even, blinding white teeth probably have something to do with the effect. He wears comfortable jeans with ankle boots, a fur-lined denim jacket and a genuine cowboy hat, and John recognises him as American before he could even open his mouth.
"Doctor Watson?" he asks, stretching out a big hand; he does have an American accent, but with an underlying Scottish burr in it. "Nice to meet you. I'm Jungle Jones."
"That's an odd name," John comments. They shake hands and John is relieved that the other man doesn't make the stupid attempt to crush his bones – not that he'd succeed. John might be small, but he's stronger than he looks, and there's nothing wrong with his right hand. "Not your real one, I reckon."
"No; my officially recorded name is Indiana," at John's disbelieving look the man grins ruefully. "Yeah, I know it's hard to believe. The first Indiana Jones movie came out a couple of years after I was born, and Mom had such a terrible crush on Harrison Ford that she had my name changed. You can imagine what I went through at school – although, at least, it taught me to defend myself at a very tender age."
"You could have changed it back upon reaching legal age," John offers.
The man shrugs. "True; but by then I grew so used to it that it didn't matter. Besides, I'm better known by my nickname in these days."
"Yeah, right, I've heard about you – you're what, an amateur archaeologist?" John tries to phrase his question politely and the man grins.
"A treasure hunter, according to Sergeant Bradstreet."
John can't help grinning back. "And? Is he wrong?"
"Not entirely," Jungle Jones admits. "Every archaeologist, amateur or pro, is a treasure hunter. The only question is what do they consider a treasure and what do they intend to do with it."
"I see," John says after a short pause. "So, what treasure are you after this time?"
"I'm mostly interested in Central America," the other man explains. "From lost Mexican cities down to Olmec masks…"
"Well, my uncle certainly collected an awful lot of masks, but I don't know whether they are genuine ones or bought on a flea market," John says.
"You'd be surprised by the things one finds on flea markets," Jungle Jones replies seriously. "A lot of people have no idea about the value of what they believe is junk."
"And you think my uncle was one of those people?"
"What I think Doctor Watson, is that your uncle might have unknowingly purchased part of the Agra treasure."
John gives the man a blank look, wordlessly urging him to elaborate.
"The Agra treasure was the wedding dowry of an Indian princess that got lost back around the end of the nineteenth century," Jungle Jones explains. "A collection of jewellery, single gems and gold ingots, apparently. Its current worth is estimated at half a million pounds."
That shocks John for a moment. "And you think that stuff is somewhere in my house?"
The archaeologist nods. "It is a strong possibility, yes. The greater part of the treasure was hidden inside a jade Buddha statue. It's a known fact that the statue itself was brought to England by a British officer by the name of Hamilton – who also happened to be the first owner of The Veteran's House. And you did find a jade Buddha statue in a secret chamber yesterday, didn't you?"
"We found a Buddha statue which is green," John corrects, wondering who of the helpers might have provided Jungle Jones with that piece of information. "Whether it is jade or not, I can't tell; or if it has a secret drawer or whatnot."
"Would you allow me to examine the statue?" the archaeologist asks. "I'm experienced enough to determine whether it's from the right period or not, at the very least."
"I'm afraid the ground floor of the house has been declared a crime scene," John replies. "You'll have to ask Sergeant Bradstreet."
"Yeah, 'cos he'd let me enter a crime scene," Jungle Jones comments cynically.
John shrugs. "Well, if it's really the Buddha you're looking for, it's been sitting there for more than a hundred years. Another week or two would hardly count."
The genially handsome face of the other man darkens in fury for a fleeting moment; then he plasters that wide, white smile on again.
"You are right, of course. Well... can I hope that you'll inform me once the investigation is over?"
John is quite sure that the man will know that before him but sees no reason to antagonise him. "Sure, why not? You've made me very curious."
The archaeologist thanks him and leaves, after giving him the name and address of the B&B where he's staying. On his way out, he nearly runs over Mrs Hudson who's heading for the kitchen to prepare breakfast.
"You had a visitor, Doctor Watson?" she asks, placing a cup of tea and some toast in front of John until she had something better to offer.
John nods his thanks, adding sugar to his cuppa. "Mhm. That archaeologist bloke, Jungle Jones."
"Strange," she comments, throwing strips of bacon into the frying pan. "I could have sworn I've seen him before."
"Well, he's American," John offers. "And he apparently gets around a lot. Perhaps you ran into each other while you still lived in Florida."
"Probably," she allows reluctantly. "I can't help feeling that there's more to it, though, I just can't put my finger on it. Oh, I'm such a silly old woman, I keep forgetting things all the time!" she complains.
"Happens to the best of us, Mrs Hudson," John replies gallantly.
"What happens to the best of us?" a deep baritone voice asks, and Mrs Hudson all but jumps, startled.
"Sherlock! You shouldn't sneak up on people like that! It's not decent!"
The self-proclaimed consulting detective actually chuckles at that and kisses her on the cheek. "Who cares about decent when we have a case like this? The game, Mrs Hudson, is afoot!"
"It's all just a game for you," she replies in fond exasperation. "A man has died, in case you've forgotten!"
Sherlock waves off her protests. "That was years ago; this is now. So, what happens to the best of us?"
"Forgetting things," John explains, and the detective actually huffs.
"Speak of yourself!"
John gives the man his best bland smile. "That's what I was doing. Are you telling me you never forget a thing?"
"Not by accident," Sherlock declares haughtily. "My mind is much better organised than that; I do delete all unnecessary rubbish regularly, to make place for the truly important things."
"You… delete," John repeats blandly.
The detective rolls his eyes. "Yes, delete. This," he points at his own head," is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful... really useful. Ordinary people," he nearly spits the word, "fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters."
He obviously believes the rot he's talking about, so John decides there's no use arguing with him. The expression on Mrs Hudson's face tells him that's the right decision.
"Have you learned anything new in the morgue?" he asks instead.
The detective nods and accepts a cup of tea from Mrs Hudson.
"The victim was male, at the time of his death approximately forty years old, based on the shape of his skull and the set of his eyes of South American origin. He was killed by a left-handed person, presumably a man who was considerably taller, as the position of the head wound indicates, roughly three years ago. It's hard to make a more precise estimate about a mummified body without a proper analysis. Dr Bell sent tissue samples to the lab; we'll know more when the results come back."
"I thought you'd insist on your own analysis," John says because Sherlock is definitely the sort of man who would hate to depend on the expertise of others.
"I would," the detective replies, breaking off the corner of a piece of dry toast and eating it absent-mindedly," if anyone but Dr Bell had been the pathologist on duty. He's the only one outside London whose knowledge I trust. I learned everything I know about forensic medicine from him."
The second time the name finally rings a bell with John. "You mean Dr Joseph Bell? What is he doing in Winchester? Isn't he supposed to be teaching somewhere in Scotland?"
"Oh, he's retired two years ago," Sherlock waves, "but found retirement deadly dull – no wonder, a man of such extraordinary intelligence – and steps in gladly for fellow pathologists who cannot work for extended periods of time."
"But where do you know him from?" John asks. "I can hardly imagine you at a medical school in Scotland."
"I didn't know him until yesterday; not personally, that is," Sherlock admits. "But I've read everything he's published in the last thirty years. His methods are logical and scientifically sound; we are lucky to have him on the case."
"Most likely," John agrees. "So, did you tell Sergeant Bradstreet what you've found out?"
The thought clearly hasn't occurred to the consulting detective because he gives John an honestly confused look. "Why should I? I'm sure Dr Bell will inform Athelney Jones about the results."
"'Cause as you've said yourself Athelney Jones is an idiot, while Sergeant Bradstreet is the man with local knowledge," John points out logically.
Or so he thinks. Sherlock doesn't seem to agree.
"I'm not wasting my time on the country police," he declares haughtily.
"Yeah, 'cause you're doing so much of importance right now," John returns. "I understand that you're truly brilliant, but there's no need to be such an arrogant arse to ordinary people, you know."
Sherlock shrugs. "I've earned my arrogance."
"Not here; not yet," John corrects. "You haven't found anything of importance so far; we have. And if you want to search the house – my house – thoroughly, you'll have to play nice with Sergeant Bradstreet. It's that simple."
The detective waves dismissively. "Mycroft can make Athelney Jones allow me to search the house any time."
"Perhaps," John allows amiably. "But he can't make me not break your nose, whoever he might be, when you try entering my house without my permission."
"I'd like to see you try," Sherlock replies snidely.
"No," John says with a friendly smile. "I really don't think you would."
For a moment there's almost palpable hostility in the air, while Mrs Hudson (clearly worried about Sherlock) keeps looking from one to the other anxiously; then the detective shrugs.
"I thought you wanted this case solved."
"I do," John allows. "But not over the head of Sergeant Bradstreet, whom I've come to respect very much."
That earns him an annoyed huff. "Sentiment!"
"Yes," he says mildly. "I find it occasionally very useful."
The detective mutters something under his breath John is grateful he doesn't understand and storms off, obviously offended. Mrs Hudson shakes her head.
"Don't take it personally, dear," she advises. "He's always like this."
"Which explains why most people won't listen to him, even if he's right; nobody likes being called an idiot all the time," John pauses. "Who is Mycroft, by the way?"
"His older brother," Mrs Hudson explains. "A rather… distinguished gentleman; works for the government in some nebulous capacity. I never quite figured out what he does. A minor position, he says, but…" she shrugs but John understands that said minor position is likely a fairly important one, or the description would be a lot less vague.
"So if I broke Sherlock's nose he'd have me deported to Siberia, right?" he asks, only half-jokingly.
"I wouldn't harm Sherlock if I were you," Mrs Hudson replies seriously. "Whatever else Mycroft might be, he's very protective of his brother. So am I, to give you a fair warning; and I've got a frying pan!"
They both laugh and drop the topic. Later in the afternoon John puts his mobile internet connection to good use and googles both Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. The former brings up a dozen or so news articles about complicated murder cases he has helped the police to solve, as well as an obscure website called The Science of Deduction, which is, to be frank, deadly boring.
The other search turns up nothing. Well, almost nothing, save for the official website of the Ministry of Transport, where Mycroft Holmes is listed as a civil servant. And that's it. John is fairly sure that no low-key employee of the Ministry of Transport would have the power to interfere with police investigations or to get Sherlock access to Dr Bell's morgue, of all people. Therefore it must be a mere cover position for something a lot more important.
John decides not to break Sherlock's nose, unless it's absolutely inevitable.
Whatever the true position of Sherlock's shadowy brother might be, he's nothing if not efficient. In the next morning a phone call comes from somewhere high up in the police hierarchy and Detective Inspector Athelney Jones grudgingly agrees to let Sherlock examine the secret chamber and the green Buddha statue hidden there.
The DI refuses to waste his time with such things, though, and assigns Sergeant Bradstreet to the task. It is a solution that everyone welcomes. Including the sergeant himself.
"It isn't an antiquity," Sherlock judges, after having used his magnifying lens for at least twenty minutes on the Buddha. "Late nineteenth century at the earliest. Good, solid workmanship, though. And it is definitely jade, so at least it has some material value, should you want to sell it."
"This Jungle Jones character said it might have a hidden drawer in the bottom," John says. "He thinks it might have been how the Agra treasure was smuggled out of India."
"I seriously doubt that," Sherlock mutters. "The legend of the Agra treasure is just that: a legend. In truth, it's long been found. It just has never been admitted, for political reasons."
"And you know that – how exactly?" Sergeant Bradstreet inquires.
"I liked to poke around in my brother's confidential files when I was much younger," Sherlock admits. "It drove him mad that I could break through his security measures; I enjoyed it immensely. And like all children, for a while I had a vested interest in lost treasures."
"Can you find a hidden drawer, then, assuming there is one?" John asks.
"Of course!" the detective replies, clearly offended. "Help me move it!"
They carry the Buddha into the large room and lay it onto the long table that has been partially cleaned in the previous days. Sherlock whips out his magnifying lens again and examines every square inch of the bottom of the statue. At first he doesn't seem to find anything, but then a triumphant grin lights up his face. He takes out a pocket knife, inserts the tip of the blade into a barely visible crack in the bottom, and a previously hidden small lid springs open.
Behind it, there is a hole of the size of a baby's fist, and in that hole is a small pouch of green leather. It's hard to tell who's more surprised: John, Sergeant Bradstreet or Sherlock himself.
"Not entirely a legend, it seems," John comments.
"It depends on what's in the pouch," Bradstreet says. "Can we risk simply pulling it out of the statue?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "It isn't a millennia-old relic, Detective Sergeant; it won't fall to dust from a simple touch. And even if it does – we don't need the pouch. What might be interesting is inside."
He reaches inside the statue unceremoniously and yanks out the pouch. It does not crumble to dust; but when Sherlock turns it inside out, six pearls of extraordinary size and beauty roll onto the table. John and the sergeant stare at the found in shocked surprise.
"Are they real pearls or just glass beads?" John finally asks.
To their bewilderment Sherlock picks up one of the pearls and carefully bites down on it. Then he repeats the procedure with the other five, too.
"They are real ones," he declares. "Their surface is slightly rough; that's the proof that they've grown naturally. Only artificial pearls are completely smooth."
"Could these pearls have been part of the Agra treasure?" John asks.
"Possibly," Sherlock shrugs. "They were likely given to Colonel Hamilton as payment for smuggling the treasure out of India."
"Colonel Hamilton," John repeats. "As far as I know he was the one who had the house built in the first place."
"Including the hidden chamber," Bradstreet assumes.
"It doesn't matter," Sherlock says impatiently. "The treasure as a whole has been retrieved a hundred or so years ago. This insignificant little part belonged to the Colonel and now it belongs to you," he looks at John.
"Does it?" John asks doubtfully. "What about the Colonel's descendants?"
"He didn't have any," Bradstreet replies in Sherlock's stead. "He left the house and everything in it to his godson, the late Mr Ponsonby Sr, who sold it to your uncle, the late Mr Garbler, who again left it to you. Legally, your claim is bullet proof."
"Not that it would make your rich or even particularly wealthy," Sherlock adds. "The pearls aren't that valuable. But you should be able to sell them for a price that will cover your rent for a year or two."
"Even in London?"
"One year in London, if you're careful with your expenses," Sherlock corrects himself. "Unless you get a flatshare; then it will last a bit longer."
"Yeah, sure," John puts the idea out of his head immediately because seriously, what flatmate would put up with his moods and night terrors? "But if the Agra treasure is beyond anyone's reach and these pearls can't be compared to the Koh-i-Noor, why would Jungle Jones want to examine the Buddha so badly? You have a theory about that?"
"At least seven," Sherlock says absently; then he corrects himself again. "Well, two working theories, actually. Either the man has bought the legend in its entirety, or he wants to get into the house for a wholly different reason."
"Which would be?"
"I don't know; not yet. Not before I've searched the rest of the house," he looks at John. "Would you mind?"
John shakes his head. "Not at all. The house has already produced a few nasty surprises; I'd like to know all that is there to know about it. Besides, we still haven't found out anything about the so-called zombie."
"Actually, there's a better solution," Bradstreet suggests. "Why don't we allow Mr Jungle Jones to do his own search? Not officially, of course; that would only make him suspicious. But we might pretend to slip up just a little bit and overlook him entering the house."
"It would make me feel better if Mrs Hudson could remember where she's seen this Jungle Jones character," Sherlock admits later when they're among themselves again.
He gave Bradstreet an evasive answer to the suggestion regarding the self-proclaimed archaeologist, which surprised John who would have expected the detective to jump at the idea. He says so, but Sherlock shakes his head.
"If Mrs Hudson knows the man, she could only have seen him, however fleetingly, back in Florida, around her late husband," he explains.
Which doesn't explain anything for John and he makes no secret of the fact. "And? Problem?"
"John," Sherlock says seriously. "Frank Hudson was a drug baron of the really nasty sort; which is why Mrs Hudson was so relieved to see him executed. What do you think were the kind of people he surrounded himself with? And our so-called archaeologist specializes in Central American artefacts – don't you find that a bit too much of a coincidence?"
John agrees that that would be unlikely; he wonders, though, if Jungle Jones acts on his own or has been hired by someone else.
"People like him rarely act on their own," Sherlock replies. "And if he is a hired gun, the person who's hired him won't be interested in something as elusive as the Agra treasure. Something that is barely known beyond the borders of Great Britain."
"So you really think he wants access to the house for a different reason?" John tries to clarify and the detective rolls those unusual eyes of his.
"Of course he does, don't be an idiot!"
"Why does he want to examine the Buddha so badly then?" John ignores the casual insult aimed at his mental capacity; he's come to realise that for Sherlock Holmes everyone is in idiot.
Compared with his own genius he's probably even right about that.
"He doesn't," Sherlock replies with unshakable self-confidence. "He just wants to get into the house. I assume that he expects to find another secret room in there; a room that hides the true items of his interest."
"Which would be?"
"I already told you: I don't know. I'll know when I've found them."
"Yeah, of course," John says a little doubtfully. "And how do you intend to do that? Sergeant Bradstreet has searched the house several times already but never found anything."
"Sergeant Bradstreet is not me," Sherlock declares arrogantly; then he makes a small allowance. "Even though he appears slightly less incompetent than the rest of the police."
"What makes you think so?" Not that John would disagree, but he's surprised that Sherlock, with his obvious disdain towards the rest of mankind, would see the sergeant in such a relatively positive light.
"He listens to the homeless people," Sherlock explains. "He doesn't treat them as idiots. He's the only one who was willing to believe that there might be something behind the zombie legends."
"There is?"
"Of course. The 'zombie', whoever – or whatever – he might be, is the key. When we find him, we'll understand what's really going on in your house."
"And how do you intend to find him?"
"By staying in the house for the night and waiting for him to appear."
"Tonight?"
"Tonight and every night if we have to – until we find him."
"We'll hardly manage that between the two of us," John points out," and Bill Murray will have to return to London tomorrow."
Sherlock shrugs. "I'm sure Miss Bradstreet and her friends will be happy to participate."
"In what way?"
"They can watch the house for us from time to time."
"They've done so before, to no avail," John reminds him. Sherlock shrugs again.
"Well, let them watch from within, then!"
"I will," John promises. "But we should watch out for that roofer guy, too; the one who 'found' my uncle dead. I'd be surprised if he weren't involved in this whole mess somehow."
"Unlikely," Sherlock agrees. "But keeping an eye on him is the easy part."
"Is it?"
"Of course. He's a roofer. You've got a leaking roof. Hire him to fix it!"
"But I don't have the money for that!"
"Perhaps, but he doesn't know that; not for sure," Sherlock explains. "And approaching him that way wouldn't look suspicious."
"I dunno," John says. "Everyone here knows I want to sell the house 'cause I'm broke. And the roofer is in league with Mr Ponsonby in some way, if Sergeant Bradstreet is right."
"He probably is; country policemen may be dumb as bricks, but at least they're well-informed about local gossip," Sherlock points out. "But if people know you're planning to sell the house, they'll find it only logical that you'd want the roof fixed; it would get you a better price that way. And the roofer would be too eager to get into the house to ask questions. Greedy idiots usually are."
"How do you know the man is a greedy idiot? You haven't even met him yet!"
"I don't have to. If he indeed reverted to simple murder instead of finding a better method to get into the house and find what he wanted, he is an idiot. And greedy."
That's certainly true, and so John reluctantly agrees to contact Mr Reno on the next day.
~TBC~
