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: In case anybody wants visuals, Mr Reno is 'played' by American actor Erik Estrada.
Chapter 09
As much as John is used to the multi-faceted ethnic kaleidoscope of London (or rather that of the Army in recent years), he certainly hasn't expected to find somebody like Mr Reno in a drowsy little Hampshire village. The countryside is always much slower to catch up with the changes; and while the big cities – or even the larger towns – of the United Kingdom are full of Indian, Chinese or black people (usually in the second or third generation), he hasn't seen a single person in Nether Wallop so far who hasn't been white.
Or Caucasian, as the Americans would say, although John finds the term ridiculous. He's seen his fair share of people originating from the Caucasian republics of the long-gone Soviet Union during his service and they certainly had very little in common with European – or British – people in appearance.
Neither has the man whom he finds in the cluttered little office of Reno Enterprises. It really is just an office, transformed from the closed porch of a small cottage. The closest thing the man looks like is some stereotypical Columbian drug baron – or how budget American action films imagine them.
He is not very tall – though still taller than John, not that that would be hard to achieve – but built like a tank, with heavy shoulders, a barrel chest and arms like tree-trunks. The fact that he's wearing a padded vest and a tight t-shirt known as a wife beater to his camouflage trousers and heavy boots emphasize the almost brutal strength of his compact body.
He must be in his mid-fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair that's a tad longer than the norm among people of his age, and eyes so dark that John can't see where the pupils end and the irises begin. Those eyes seem a bit small in a fleshy face that might once have been ruggedly handsome, but now is just flat and deeply lined. He's wearing a straw hat inside the house – an odd choice in winter, even in such a mild one – the brim keeping his features in shadow.
Upon John's arrival, he puts his papers aside and comes forth from behind his desk to shake hands. His paws are large and rough, the calluses proving that he earns his living by hard physical labour. To John's relief, he doesn't feel the need to crush other people's bones just because he can. Some blokes are like that.
"Reno Reyes," he introduces himself, his accent still prominent. "What can I do for you, Mr…"
He sounds like the soldiers of that US Army unit out of New Mexico John served with during his last tour. John also realises with surprise that Reno is actually the man's given name. He returns the handshake.
"Doctor John Watson. Nice to meet you, Seňor Reyes."
The man laughs, his teeth large and very white in his dusky brown face.
"Oh, just call me Mr Reno; everybody does. My actual name seems to be beyond the skills of British people to pronounce."
"Is my pronunciation truly so horrible?"
John knows it isn't. He's actually pretty decent at Spanish, considering he's learned it from his Army mates in the barracks; but the moment calls for a little bonding – and he doesn't disappoint.
"Better than most I've heard here," the bandito-lookalike says with a broad grin. "So, what can I do for you?"
"I guess you've heard that I'm the actual owner of The Veteran's House," John begins and Reyes nods.
"Naturalemente. That's been the discussion topic of the village since you showed up for the first time."
"You know then that the house is in a really bad shape."
"Sure. It was a half-ruin already when Seňor Garbler moved in. You wanna keep it?"
"God, no!" John says honestly. "London is the place to live for me; nothing else will suit me. But I need money for that."
"So you wanna sell the house?" It is a logical conclusion – and yet John cannot help thinking that Reyes already knew that.
"Very much so," he admits. "However, I can't find a buyer for it in its current state. At least the roof, the plumbing and the electrics should be intact first."
"There's that," Reyes agrees. "But that will cost you, too."
John sighs. "I know. I hope the sale we are planning will bring me enough money for the basic repairs. That Andy bloke who works for you said you'd offer me a fair price."
"Mr Reno always gives fair prices," the man declares proudly.
John has a hard time not to show his doubts. He's fairly sure that Reyes would love to have access to his house, however, so he might actually offer a fair price this time.
"Why don't you come over, take a look at the house and calculate the costs?" he offers.
"I can do that," Reyes agrees; then, after a lengthy pause, he asks carefully. "Is it true that you found the body of that poor Manolo in a hidden chamber in your house?"
John isn't particularly surprised that the man knows about that. He supposes it is a widely known fact in the entire village by now. He isn't willing to tell Reyes everything he knows, though – no matter how little that might be.
"We did find a body, yes," he replies equally carefully, "but it hasn't been identified yet. The pathologist in Winchester is still waiting for the results, as far as I know. Who is – was – this Manolo anyway?"
"My original plumber," Reyes explains. "He came with me from Puerto Rico; he was like an hermano to me, a little brother. He's been missing for what, three years by now, and I've got a keen interest to know what happened to him."
Whether his grief is genuine or well-faked, John cannot decide.
"You should get in touch with the pathologist," he suggests. "His name is Doctor Joseph Bell. If you can name any physical characteristics of this plumber of yours it might help with the identification.
"He was a scrawny little man," Reyes says thoughtfully, "with bad teeth and a long, pointy nose. Like a mouse. Oh, and he had a mole on his right cheek, a fairly big one; not that after three years that would help."
John isn't going to tell him that the body was practically mummified. If he hasn't learned about it yet, John doesn't want to be the source of any further information leaks.
"Who knows," he says. "Some trace of it might still be found – if the body is that of your plumber, of course."
Reyes shakes his head in almost convincing sorrow. "Manolo would never leave without a word. Something must have happened to him. Something bad."
John makes sympathetic noises – as a doctor he's really good at making those – and spares himself the comment that people associating with the likes of Mr Reno Reyes usually come to a bad end. Somehow he doubts that a comment like that would be appreciated. So he pretends to be sympathetic with the man who has probably killed his uncle and they agree that the roofer will come over with his team later in the afternoon to check on the state of the house and decide what will be the most urgent repairs that need to be done.
He is undeniably relieved when he can finally leave the presence of Mr Reno Reyes. He only hopes he won't be left alone with the man in the house.
"Don't be ridiculous, John, of course you won't be left alone," Sherlock declares, examining one of the numerous wall clocks hanging in the 'museum' room on the ground floor. "I'll be with you!"
John isn't sure if that's supposed to make him feel better – what he's seen of the behaviour of the eccentric detective isn't very reassuring – but keeps his opinion to himself. The slight pressure of his illegally kept Sig Sauer, tucked into the waistband of his jeans, on the other hand, is reassuring. He could always count on his trusted pistol to work as it is supposed to work.
They continue sorting out the stuff in the huge room – not that Sherlock is much help, as he's examining the basement, mostly. Miss Morstan comes over to help after school, as Mrs Hudson is currently taking care of her sister, so she's not needed in Dane Cottage at the moment. John finds her presence inspiring and soothing at the same time. She isn't as conventionally pretty as Sarah was, but she's funny and quick-witted, with a wonderful sense of snark. She makes him laugh. No-one has made him laugh like this ever since he has returned to England.
The two of them go through the smaller items and knick-knacks laying everywhere and put them into separate cardboard boxes. Most of it is fairly worthless, but they do find some jewellery and a few pieces of china that are really beautiful, including an antique tea service with unusual decoration.
"You should keep this one," Miss Morstan suggests. "It is unique."
John shakes his head. "It would be wasted on me. My old RAMC mug is good enough for me. We'll see if Mrs Holding wants it; or I can give it to Clara. She's got exquisite taste."
"Clara?" There is something in her voice that John can't quite interpret. Could it be jealousy? But that wouldn't make any sense. They're not seeing each other in that way; and besides, why would anybody be jealous of Clara, of all people?
Then he realises that Miss Morstan hasn't actually met Clara yet, nor has he told her anything about Clara, so it's a logical mistake to make.
"Clara is my sister-in-law," he explains. "Well… soon-to-be-ex-sister-in-law anyway. She and Harry are getting a divorce."
"But I thought you had a sister," Miss Morstan says with a frown.
"I do," he replies, somewhat surprised that she would be confused by that fact. Granted, Nether Wallop is a place permanently stranded in the early twentieth century, but Mary Morstan has grown up in a much more urban environment, hasn't she?
"They had a civil partnership," he adds, defensive reflexes kicking in. Harry might be a pain in the arse but she's still his sister. His only sister. The only family he still has. "It is legal in this country, you know. Even if it doesn't always work out. Heterosexual marriages don't always, either."
"All right, all right, don't bite my head off," she says a little tersely. "I was just surprised, is all. This isn't the first thing one would assume."
That's actually true, and he calms down a little. Until she asks the inevitable next question. "So, are you, too, you know…?"
"No," he snaps, a lot more aggressively than intended. "It's not the flu, you know. It doesn't spread via infection."
She stares at him somewhat bewildered and he realises he's been rude.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to snap at you like that. It's just… people are always asking these questions, and after a few decades it's become really annoying."
She nods, eyeing him warily. "You've got quite a temper," she then says – but not in a manner that would indicate that it's necessarily a bad thing.
He laughs ruefully. "Yeah, being the shortest soldier in the Army can do that to a man. If one cannot intimidate by size one has to use other means to keep the troops on their toes."
"By a fearsome temper?" she grins. "And that works?"
"Well, being a crack shot helps," he admits. "Plus being a doctor, in charge of the needles. It's usually the biggest, brawniest guys that start crying for their mums at the sight if a small needle. Gunshot wounds they can take without a flinch but needles…"
They laugh; then John turns serious again. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I had to defend Harry all my life for what she is – as if it were wrong somehow – and then myself against people assuming that being gay is genetically encoded in our family. I tend to overreact," he extends a hand (after having it wiped on his shirt. "Friends?"
"Friends," she accepts his hand with a devious glint in her eyes. "However, you'll have some serious grovelling to do so that I might forget how rude you were."
She grins again and so does he. "That can be arranged."
Later in the afternoon Reno Reyes makes an appearance, accompanied by Andy and a chubby, good-natured Welshman named Rhys Williams, who turns out to be their plumber. The successor of 'that poor Manolo', who may or may not be identical with the mummified corpse found in the hidden chamber behind the cupboard.
John likes the man immediately. Under different circumstances – if he did intend to live in Nether Wallop, that is – he could imagine himself befriending Rhys. He comes from a lower middle-class family himself, but he never minded having mates from the blue collar class. Since he has no intention of moving to the countryside, however, he drops the idea with a minimum of regret.
The team of construction workers goes through the house with the fine-toothed comb and the results are mixed at best. The leaking roof can be fixed, it seems, although it won't be exactly cheap, given its general shape, Mr Reno explains. Andy declared the electricity problems rather minor… other than the burned-out boiler in the basement, that is, which has to be replaced, being beyond help. John winces when he thinks of the costs.
But the worst are the plumbing problems. Apart from the broken sink in the bathroom (and the dysfunctional loo), Rhys has found a great number of broken pipes all over the house; and the central heating is in serious need of repairs, too.
"The best thing would be to replace the heating system, together with the boiler," the Welshman says. "Infrared heating would be the most practical solution in a house of this size."
John shakes his head, disheartened. "I don't have that kind of money. Can you patch up the old system for me?"
"I can, but it won't last long," Rhys warns. "And a defective heating system would lessen the value of the house considerably."
John shrugs in defeat. "I'm afraid it can't be helped. I'm not a rich man, not even a moderately wealthy one. I'll have to make do with what I can get for the house as it is."
Rhys nods in understanding. He isn't a wealthy man himself, and a newly wed one with a wife who has somewhat expensive tastes at that, thus he understands what it means to make do with what little one has all too well.
And with that, the decision is made. Mr Reno makes his calculations, which make John wince again, even though the price is more than fair indeed. It's obvious that the man is desperate for free access to the house and would even cut his own profits for that chance. Andy and Rhys don't seem happy with the results – apparently this will have consequences for their pay as well – but are willing to accept them for John's sake whom they've come to genuinely like.
Not that they'd have any other choice, of course. Reyes is their boss, and it isn't as if they could easily find other employment. Not in Nether Wallop; or in Stockbridge, for that matter. John knows that and feels vaguely guilty, even though the relatively low price could still break him.
Thus they come to an agreement and John signs the contract with a not-so-small amount of anxiety, hoping that the sale will bring in enough cash for the most urgent repairs to be made. What else could he do?
The sale has been re-scheduled for the next weekend, as Detective Inspector Athelney Jones allowed access then to the crime scene. Not that John would open the hidden chamber for the snooping locals. The last thing he wants is for his house to become a scene for sensationalists and crime scene tourists. Therefore the chamber is closed again, and when the cupboard is moved back to its place, no-one can tell by merely looking where the secret door might be.
During the days till the sale the huge room in the ground floor is tuned into an exhibition-slash antiquities shop. The late Mr Garbler's collection gets reorganised and displayed attractively all over the cabinets and the long tables that are arranged in a U-form, with its open end facing the door.
The expert from the National Antiquities Museum in London – the one Clara has hired – arrives on Wednesday and spends the entire day in the house, examining and photographing the items that might be of interest for the museum. He is a fairly young man by the name of Andy Galbraith and looks even younger, but he obviously knows his stuff, On the end of the day – after a lengthy discussion over Skype with Ms Acquah, the museum director – he makes an offer for quite a few small prices of Chinese pottery that surprises John and gives him some small reason for hope.
He agrees immediately.
"You might get more for them through an action house," points out Jungle Jones who's been drawn in by curiosity. Or so he says.
John shrugs. "Sure, but that would take time. I need the money now."
That's an argument that can't be easily contradicted, and so the archaeologist lets go.
Another expert – a gallery owner from Clara's wide circle of acquaintances – arrives on Thursday to take a look at the ungodly number of paintings Mr Garbler has hoarded in his house. Most of it is fairly worthless, only good enough to be sold on the flea market – and even some of those are ready for the rubbish bin, due to careless keeping – but the lady selects a few moderately interesting pieces and offers a moderate price for them.
John is grateful for Sherlock's presence who's just come back from Winchester. The consulting detective clearly has some knowledge about art in general and paintings in particular and interferes in the one case where – in his opinion – John might have been cheated.
"We do have the proof now," he tells John when the gallery owner leaves with six paintings of various ages and sizes in her car. "The dead man in the secret chamber was Manolo Gomez. And he was killed approximately three years ago with a blunt object; most likely the blunt end of an axe blade."
The last part isn't really news for John; he's assumed that much when examined the body himself, but it's nice to be reassured by an authority of Dr Joseph Bell's calibre. By the expert.
"So he must have been one of the guys Doc saw entering the house but never leaving," he says thoughtfully. "Any ideas who might have killed him?"
"The so-called zombie is the most obvious suspect," Sherlock replies. "Has he been seen again?"
John shakes his head. Justin, Kate, Billy the pizza boy and even Andy have been camping out in the house at night during Sherlock's absence – Doc and Leon adamantly refused to enter it after sunset – but no sign of the zombie has been found.
Sherlock is mildly frustrated by the news.
"That doesn't make any sense! He must be hiding in the house somewhere! There isn't any other solution; he's apparently too disfigured to live somewhere else in the village unnoticed."
John tends to agree. He's come to the understanding that no stranger could possibly hide in plain sight in a place like Nether Wallop. Which is one of the reasons why he wants to return to London as soon as possible.
"Do you think there might be another hidden chamber in the house?" he asks.
Sergeant Bradstreet had spoken about that possibility but so far they haven't found it, despite Sherlock's ongoing efforts.
Sherlock nods. "There has to be! The problem is, I've gone through the house with a magnifying lens and found nothing. It has to be part of the original design, which is why there aren't any revealing signs."
"Does this mean we may find more dead bodies yet?" John isn't happy about that possibility; Sherlock on the other hand, is delighted.
"Obviously! The 'zombie' itself may be dead by now, which would be a possible explanation for his absence."
"Great," John comments sarcastically. "And how are you planning to find either him or the hypothetical dead bodies?"
"By observation," Sherlock declares and John gives him a bewildered look.
"Sorry, what?"
"Somebody must know about the hidden chamber," Sherlock explains with an eyeroll that clearly expresses his low opinion about John's mental abilities. "Somebody who is looking for that which has been originally hidden there – and that certainly wasn't the Agra treasure. No; I'm almost certain that whatever it is, it came from the States. Look at all those strangers showing up in Nether Wallop in recent years? Reyes, his man Gomez, Jungle Jones… just how likely is it, do you think, for so many Americans moving into the same insignificant little English village? One that has been all but abandoned by its original inhabitants? The universe is seldom so lazy."
"So you think they are all looking for the same thing?"
"Obviously. Jungle Jones's story about the Agra treasure was clearly a distraction; a red herring, if you want to put it that way."
"But what are they looking for?" John wonders.
"We'll know it when we find it… or the 'zombie'," Sherlock answers simply. "Let's hope that when the construction workers go to work we'll find something, too."
On Saturday the big sale of The Veteran's House opens its gates and John and his helpers do their best to draw attention to it. Kate and Justin have put the event up to their favourite social media hangouts, luring a surprising number of people from Stockbridge and even from Winchester to Nether Wallop; people that are interested in old things and hope to purchase some nice pieces for a good price.
Mrs Hudson – with the assistance of her sister – has baked enough biscuits and oatcakes and scones to feed an army. Literally. Miss Morstan has organised her older students (mostly the girl guides) to fetch the baked goods from Mrs Holding's house, and now they are selling them together in front of the house.
There is even some entertainment, provided by Jungle Jones, who has declared himself willing to do some "Indy" tricks with his trusted whip for the amusement of the visitors and is as good as his word.
John has to admit that the man sells his Indiana Jones image very well. He wields the whip with considerable skill; so much so that he could have put a young Harrison Ford to shame. John briefly wonders if this is part of Jones's cover persona or a skill he actually uses in his true occupation; because it's getting increasingly dubious if a real archaeologist named Indiana Jones – presumably named after the film character – ever existed.
But the sale is an unexpected hit and John temporarily forgets about the man because he's too busy selling wall clocks, pretty but not very valuable paintings, pottery, the fake jewellery and other knick-knacks his late uncle has collected in the mistaken belief that thy would be true antiquities. Those he has already sold to the experts sent to him by Clara.
He regrets that Clara hasn't come but understands her reasons. Bill Murray and his wife, on the other hand, have come, and so have some of the rugby lads (John's blog proving to be useful for something for a change), so John isn't entirely without personal friends here, which is a relief. As fond as he's grown of the good people of Nether Wallop, they aren't his people. Not yet, and it's doubtful that they'll ever be. He doesn't intend to stay here long enough for that to happen, although he wouldn't mind staying in touch with some of them.
Especially with Miss Morstan.
In any case, the sale is in full swing. By noontime the biscuits and scones are gone and Billy, the pizza boy runs off with Justin's car to Stockbridge to fetch some more food as well as canned drinks. People clearly intend to stay and have a good time, and it shows. The long tables in the large 'museum' room have lots of empty places; the walls are becoming bare in ever-growing patches.
John's wallet, on the other hand, has filled up nicely. He is pleasantly surprised that people would willingly spend so much money on what he sees as useless trash, but their loss is his gain, right?
He begins to feel good about himself and about the whole situation – until he catches a glance at Mrs Hudson behind her empty biscuit stall, that is. She is chalk white and literally shaking like a leaf. John becomes worried – he's come to like the resolute old lady a lot – and goes over to her to offer his help.
From that vantage point he can see what Mrs Hudson is looking at. It is the repeat performance of Jungle Jones..
"Is something wrong, Mrs Hudson?" John asks with genuine concern because he's never seen her so shocked, and a deeply emotional shock could be dangerous at her age.
"I know now who that man is," she replied in a whisper; her lips are bloodless under the generally applied lipstick. "That is 'Killer' Evans!"
When John, also frankly shocked by that piece of news, looks out to find Jones, the false archaeologist is gone as if he'd never been there.
~TBC~
