Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(109)

Margie said she was following everyone on Facebook, but no one posts about draining a septic tank. Anyway, some of the stuff she knew had just happened two minutes before. Margie and I cornered her in town and made her explain. Shirley said it was elementary: Jonny O smelled of septic tank and pipe cleaner, fresh, and had red hands from the cold and clothes that smelled of washing powder. Kelly was covered in short blond hairs. They were on her shoulder and all down her back. She’s small, the dog is big, so it must have been asleep or unconscious. Her eyes were red. She loves that dog. If the dog was unconscious, Kelly wouldn’t be out for an aimless walk. Reasoned deduction. Can you go away now please?

It isn’t witchcraft. Shirley’s witchcraft is that she can take all of that in with one glance. It’s overwhelming, she says, so much info at all times. That’s why she needs to be alone so much.

I was in Margie’s baker’s shop when they walked in. It was busy that day because of the holiday. The door tinkled and silence fell as it shut behind them. They were tall and looked alien compared to the rest of us, a gaggle of small women in anoraks and woolly hats.

Margie looked at them and asked innocently, “Has there been an anthrax attack?”

We all laughed—not unkindly, just because spirits were high. We don’t really do open confrontation here. There are other ways.

They didn’t laugh. The leader ordered Margie: “Give me three loaves and the rest of your pancakes.”

Everyone stopped laughing. Disapproval crackled in the air.

It was very rude, both the way he said it and what he’d said. We’re an island. Resources are limited. You’re only allowed as many pancakes as there are people in your party, Margie’s rule. She says, otherwise it’s anarchy, people queuing before the bakery is open and all sorts of madness.

Margie didn’t confront it straight on. That’s not her way. She changed the subject.

“What are you fine gentlemen doing here?” It was clear that she was annoyed, though.

“Camping,” he said and dropped, and I do mean dropped, a shower of pound coins onto the counter. “A loaf and the pancakes.”

Not even a please. Margie glared at the money and then at him. He looked back at her. They had a bit of a silent standoff.

“We’re here for New Year’s Eve.” One of the other ones had spoken. He was smiling around the room as if asking us to stop hating him. “We want to be the first to sign the new visitor’s book.”

Ah, the famous Saxa Vord Visitors’ Book. Saxa Vord was a radar station until satellites made it redundant. They shut it down. Now it is an extreme campsite of international renown. People use their visitors’ book signature as an avatar on Twitter. They would blog about how rough it is in their extreme sports club or whatever. This was the most extreme day of the year. They couldn’t have been less interested in us or our rules about pancakes.

“We call it Yules here,” Margie told him. “That’s Norwegian for ‘New Year.’”

Margie was being friendly. Saying this to a visitor normally leads to a discussion about how close we are to Norway or about the Viking history of the place. Conversations with outsiders have a course, like a river, and she was inviting them to follow her down the course of this one to a softer bank. But they didn’t take it. The first man spoke again.

“Yeah, the loaf and the pancakes.”

Margie was furious now, which was bad because everyone knows she has a temper. She went to prison for killing her husband. It’s not a secret. I used to go visit her. We stick together here.

Looking straight at him, she laid her forearm on the counter and swept all the coins onto the floor. They bounced and rolled around our assembled feet. “Get out.”

We all watched the men leave in silence. They didn’t even pick up the money. It was a bit much.

I ran after them. I thought they deserved an explanation. I told them, you know, all the shops will be shut for three days. You can’t just roll into town and buy everything up, d’you see what I mean? They seemed quite interested in that but the rude one said, you know what, to hell with it, we’re not coming back to this shit-hole. We’ll be gone by tomorrow. Then they climbed up into their all-terrain Range Rover and sped off to the headland.

They were right. They were gone the next day.

Margie and I were out for our “Yule day yomp” and ended up at Saxa Vord. I heard her shout: “Oh God, no!”

We stood looking over at the cliff top, the bitter north wind stinging our faces. There was no one in sight. The tent was gone. Their Range Rover was still there, one door jammed open and stuff strewn all over the ground. The heavy chassis was rocking in the wind.

We hurried over, buffeted one way and another. The wind caught my hood, shoving me in a staggering little circle. Margie caught my arm and we looked at each other. We both knew they were all dead. Margie looked at me, frightened and sad. I cupped her face to comfort her. She didn’t want to go over to the car, she wanted to turn back but I made her come with me to make sure.

We got there, finally, and they were gone. The grass was flattened in a rectangle right on the headland. Tent pegs lay on their sides like sharpened metal question marks. A length of rope was trailing on the ground under the car, whipped hither and thither by the wind, tied to the door handle as if they’d used it as a winch. Anyone seeing it could well imagine those men staggering around in their specialist clothes, unable to see, tying off the rope and lowering it down to the companion who had slipped onto a ledge, clinging on for dear life. Margie was shaking her head and asked, why didn’t they tie the rope to the axle? Why the door? It made no sense.