At over 800 years old, Helston is the second oldest town in Cornwall. Transected by the River Cober and home to Henry Trengrouse, inventor of the rocket powered safety line; it is the nearest `civilisation` to the tiny hamlet of Tredannick Woollas. A pretty market square is surrounded by a pretty, stained-glass window church (St. Michael`s); an indoor market (1837); a folk museum and several little shops and cafes. Ne`er a Starbucks nor Carphone warehouse to offend the eye of the happy tourist.
Sherlock Holmes strides ahead, looking for the taxi rank, until he is stopped short by a shop sign, next to a greengrocer`s. "The Life of Pie" was the name of the bakery (stuffed to the gunnels, he notes, with the ubiquitous Cornish pasty) and a strange bridge like sign was protruding above the window; much like an old fashioned pub sign. John has caught up with him.
"Looks like we`ll not go hungry, then. I like the name."
"As do I," says Sherlock, thoughtfully.
x0x0x0x0x0x
Stepping out of the taxi.
"Oh, wow."
Bloodybuggerohell.
"When you said `house`, I thought you meant a dwelling with fewer than thirty rooms."
Tregennis Lodge is a beautiful, buttermilk Georgian – mansion. A gravel drive sweeps across its portico, and original sash windows glow warmly above their heads in the light of the approaching sunset. Ancient ivy snakes up the pale walls, mingling with the clematis that is budding and will soon explode into its amethyst beauty.
"Did your friend win the lottery after he was de-mobbed?"
"He said his family were `comfortable`." Clearly, an understated kind of Lieutenant.
The door was ebony black and demarked by a huge brass sea serpent or lizard, acting as a knocker. Fortunately, John has remembered the whereabouts of the key (third plant pot from the left) and Sherlock was too stunned by the house to even comment about crime prevention in the `isolated and dangerous` countryside.
Low, orange and golden shafts of light slant in through the two hundred year old windows as two grown men in their thirties run, shouting, from room to room in the empty house; yelling as they discover a feature more amazing or luxurious than the last.
"Four poster bed!"
"Library! Even better than the Diogenes Club!"
"Giant walk in freezer!"
"An actual BAR! With real optics."
"A dumb waiter!"
But, as usual, Sherlock won the one-upmanship when he located the stairs down into what had been the cellar.
"John! Get off the waterbed and come down here – "
"There isn`t a w – oh, my life."
As he cornered the cellar steps, he saw the shimmering, reflected glow in the curved brick roof. A slight smell of chlorine and the other-wordly glimmer of underwater lighting. Surrounded by curved arches and supported by brick pillars; it was almost ethereal. A gentle hum emitted from the generator.
"A swimming pool," breathes John. "I told you we were very good friends."
x0x0x0x0x0x
The freezer is well-stocked and James Dodd has told John to help himself, since shops there were a tad sparser than in central London. After dinner, they sit in the vast library/bar and have port (but no cigar), watching the sunset through the large patio doors which lead into a greenhouse of some kind. John hopes there is a timed sprinkler in there, since Sherlock could (and has) managed to kill a cactus by neglect. It was the kind of perfect evening, spent with a friend, where no-one has to say a thing. John has cleared up, (despite managing to cut his hand pulling out the dishwasher drawer) and all is quiet. Sherlock`s phone is pretty busy, however.
"That`s five texts in the past half hour, Sherlock. Isn`t this supposed to be a break?" He had called Mary earlier and sent her a video of the house. She was pretty envious, since she hadn't managed to get any time off herself.
Sherlock looked thoughtful, like he was deliberating something. He pushed the phone over to John.
"It`s the strangest thing. I seem to be the target of an anonymous texter. What do you make of it?"
John scrolls:
"Six texts in three days – from the same withheld number."
`Good day Sherlock – there are Many Terms for you.`
`Good day Sherlock – This Equals That.`
`Good day Sherlock – Variables – who knows how many?`
`Good day Sherlock – who is your Constant?`
`Good day Sherlock – Multiply by Yourself – what happens?`
`Good day Sherlock – an Exponent of Two.`
Each text is signed with the initials – "B.M."
"Brenda Mortimer? But she`s dead."
Sherlock casts down his eyes and John wishes he could self-edit sometimes. "She`s gone, Sherlock, so – who - ?"
"I`m not sure, but I know it`s linked to the last `Angels Wings` card. Same initials. Aprendido la leccion - learnt their lesson.
John looks at the texts again, shaking his head. There seems to be a mathematical theme of some kind.
"Are you worried about this? `Cos if you are, there is no point staying here. We should just go back to London and sor-"
Sherlock Holmes shakes his head, thoughtfully. "No, I think we should stay, for now. This is maybe somewhere I need to be." And he takes his port and his phone into the kitchen next door to speak to his pathologist.
x0x0x0x0x0x
It isn't until the next morning that they find the maze.
The vast lawns at the back of the house stretch out towards a large coppice of scarlet rhododendrons. To the left and right there are hugely tall shrubs. The left hand side hides an intriguing set of steps which lead down, thrillingly, to a small cove and shingly beach. On the right hand side there lies a huge conifer maze which could rival the one at Hampton Court.
As they walk into the entrance, John wonders, to himself, if a ball of string might be in order.
"Come on Ariadne," smirks Sherlock, annoyingly.
The hedges are around three feet taller than the top of Sherlock`s head and block out most of the light, so once inside, John could see just how quickly anyone can become lost. Sherlock seems to have no such worries and strides ahead with the confidence of Theseus.
After around fifteen minutes, John finds himself thinking about where he put his phone.
Once again, Sherlock chips in. "You left it on the kitchen bench. Mine is charging." He looks fiendish. "How exciting! No-one can help us."
"How do you always seem to know what I`m thinking?"
"No-one telegraphs his moves quite like you, John. Your hand twitched towards your inner breast pocket ; your eyes darted back towards the house, trying to recollect your most recent moves. Come on, let`s find the middle."
Not betraying any signs of post-viral trauma, Sherlock sprints off towards his goal and John has no option but to follow him.
It is three whole hours later when the detective and the doctor are lying, hot, sweating and filthy on the pristine lawn; having only just escaped the impenetrable and dense green clutches of the Tregennis maze.
John`s tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth and his shirt, drenched in sweat, sticks to his body like cling film. Bits of actual twig and leylandii are sticking out of his hair. All he can think of is how much water he is going to drink.
"If it wasn't so two years ago, I would KILL you for that little adventure."
Sherlock lies flat, looking up at the sky; dirt, sweat and twigs decorating him like a scarecrow.
"I know," he grins, widely, "wasn't it just brilliant!"
Beep, beep. Text alert. From Sherlock`s pocket.
"Oops."
x0x0x0x0x0x
At exactly the same time in 221A Baker Street…
Two abandoned ladies are lamenting, whilst sharing a demi-vat of Semillon.
"That house is a bloody mansion, Molly. It must have thirty rooms. A swimming pool in the basement, for God`s sake!"
Molly Hooper holds up her glass in salute. She is clearly out of practise since having Benedict. "I hear you."
Mary scrabbles, ungainly, to her feet, tangling slightly in the beautiful china blue rug.
"I know what we`ll do…where`s ya lap top, Hooper?" She turns to her friend, who is already asleep; sitting on the floor with her head resting peacefully on her own sofa.