Stewart Sinclair, Private Eye: Part Iv

By Elizabeth Greenwood

Elizabeth Greenwood studied sculpture at St. Martins School of Art, and in Florence and Rome. She had a classical education, preferring Greek to Latin for the richness of its vocabulary and her sculpture with its reference to Greek mythology reflects this predilection; she is also a dedicated writer. Apart from poetry, she enjoys producing emblematic fiction based on Mary Poppins philosophical song a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down, thus fulfilling the writers task as entertainer cum moralist, Both creative activities date from early childhood. Although they were largely ignored, she was fortunate in having been born into a family where close relatives had universal minds, uniting a passion for Literature with a keen interest in Politics, the Cinema and Science, especially Space Science. Officially, she began her writing career by producing educational scripts for the BBC World Wide Services which taught her the invaluable benefit of dedicated researching. In later years, to counteract a tendency to create works of the imagination, she has applied herself to the discipline of academic work in the field of biblical studies with particular regard to the Dead Sea discoveries, now well-documented, which give insights into the rise of Christianity. Her particular interest in Sherlock Holmes as an innovative detective relates to his having been born in America in a play on Broadway where it was an immediate success, with a famous actor in the lead while Conan Doyle, the British creator of Sherlock Holmes, was serving with the Friends Ambulance Service as a volunteer front-line surgeon during the Boer war in South Africa.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481799256

Elizabeth Greenwood

Elizabeth Greenwood is the author of Love in the Time of Incarceration: Five Stories of Dating, Sex, and Marriage In America’s Prisons and Playing Dead: A Journey Through the World of Death Fraud. Her work has appeared in the New York Times, The New Yorker, Esquire,GQ, and more. She lives in Brooklyn with her family.

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© 2013 Elizabeth Greenwood. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 8/22/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-9924-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-9925-6 (e)

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. The Reappearance of Stewart Sinclair

2. Avian Rapture

3. Master Humphrey’s Splits

4. Cro-Magnon Chip

5. Charisma

6. Mosaics

7. Break-Out

FICTION by

ELIZABETH GREENWOOD

Utopia 2000 (1994)

Loftycross (1995)

Collected Short Stories and Four Novellas (2006)

Out of This World, a Space Romance (2009)

Sophie’s Friends and Other Stories (2011)

Stewart Sinclair, Private Eye, Part I (2012)

Stewart Sinclair, Private Eye, Part II (2012)

Stewart Sinclair, Private Eye, Part III (2013)

Stewart Sinclair, Private Eye, Part IV (2013)

OTHER WORKS

Nietzsche, Redeemer of Chance (1998)

Sigmud Freud and the Decline of The Judeo-Christian Culture (2008)

POETRY

Pebbles on a Beach (2011)

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THE REAPPEARANCE OF STEWART SINCLAIR

THE REAPPEARANCE OF STEWART SINCLAIR

T he night porter at the Hotel Excelsior was in a quandary. The newly-wed couple who had booked the bridal suite had just arrived several hours late, leaving him to deal with the problem.

‘I am sorry, Sir. The bridal suite is not available.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We can offer you another suite, also overlooking the bay with the same unique amenities…’

‘But I made a reservation!’

‘I know, Sir. The suite has had to be closed for refurbishment.’

‘Refurbishment! The bridal suite! I would have thought of all the suites in the hotel it would have been kept in pristine condition at all times. After all, this is Naples!’

‘Yes, Sir; you’re absolutely right, but something unforeseen, of a rather unusual nature, has cropped up…’

‘Well, sort it out; we’ll wait.’

‘Very well, Sir, but I need the O.K from the hotel manager.’

‘The hotel manager! Have you got royalty in there or something?’

‘That is not for me to say, Sir. I am only the night porter.’

‘If it’s a question of money…’

No, Sir; that it isn’t. Rest assured. I wouldn’t be in this job if it were. You see, Sir, the owner insists on some, how shall I put it? exacting standards being adhered to in his hotel; he’s not just anybody.’

‘All right! All right! This is no time to get sanctimonious.’

‘I can offer you the next best thing…’

‘What’s that?’

‘Right next door, with a balcony overlooking the bay of Naples too. And we’ll switch the mode of service to… to supreme since money is no object.’

‘Do whatever it takes but be brisk about it; my wife is tired and she is waiting.’

‘If you’d care to have some light supper, Sir, while the necessary preparations are being made…In these rather exceptional circumstances, I can arrange for a private alcove in the dining-room, though, of course, at this time of night, with staff being somewhat depleted with only a few late night diners still in there…’

‘Do the best you can; there’s a good chap, but no microwave courses, you understand…’

‘That goes without saying, Sir.’

‘What’s the matter, Darling?’ asked the bride, rising from a sofa in the hall.’

‘Nothing, pet; just an obsequious night porter. The bridal suite is closed for refurbishment.’

‘Oh, no! How could they, at this time of night? It’s positively inhuman.’

‘They’re getting another suite ready.’

‘But that’s not good enough, Darling. We booked.’

‘I know, sweetheart, but you did take rather a lot of time in the nurseries at Paestum dithering over what type of roses to take home for the front garden…’

‘It was a difficult choice; roses are for life. Anyway, it’ll give us plenty to talk about when we get home…’

The next morning, the bridegroom asked to speak to the night porter.

‘He’s just knocking off duty, Sir. Can I help you?’ asked one of the staff at the reception desk.

‘Recall him’, said the bridegroom who caught a glimpse of the night porter disappearing through the staff door, ‘I’d like a word.’

Reluctantly, the night porter retraced his steps.

‘Yes, Sir; what is it?’

‘You weren’t on the level with me, last night, about the bridal suite, were you?’

‘How’s that, Sir?’

‘You misled me. It is not closed for refurbishment.’

‘No, Sir?’

‘No; it’s haunted. That’s why you can’t let newly-weds have the use of it.’

‘Is that so, Sir? And what, may I ask, led you to form such an opinion?’

‘When my wife and I stood outside looking at the moon slowly rising over the bay of Naples, the lace curtains in the bridal suite started flying in and out of the window and we heard a man’s voice inside the room saying:

‘Is that you, Emmie?

And then as the curtains stopped moving we heard the sound of a window being closed; so we assumed that ‘Emmie’, whoever she was, had gone in.’

The night porter cleared his throat.

‘Well, Sir, I can only assume that a careless workman had left the balcony window open and that the voice you heard came from beyond the bridal suite, a balcony away, that suite having been let too. But don’t worry about it, Sir; I’ll mention it to the house detective and he’ll soon find the culprit; he’s of the school of Sherlock Holmes; very thorough. I don’t know about you, Sir, but I love Sherlock Holmes! And the funny thing about it so does my son, and he’s only sixteen! You’d think…’

‘All right, all right! I’d like to speak to the detective myself.’

‘I’m afraid that is not possible, Sir.’

‘And why is that?’

‘He left at first lights this morning, called out on urgent business.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Stewart Sinclair.’

A vagabond by night, after his wife’s murder on their wedding-day, he had no idea where to go. At that precise moment, he found himself under the compulsion to leave the hotel far behind. The night porter had recommended a religious community guest-house which offered an evening meal as well as bed and breakfast, but he could not in all honesty range himself in the tourist category with those who wished to wander round the world in search of God. He just wanted to go home where Emmie had gone, ahead of him.

When he looked back and tried to figure out why he had flown to Naples, the motive eluded him. Perhaps, that was where Emmie had gone…But it soon became apparent that it was not so, and any notion in that direction was a harmful fallacy. From a vagabond by night, he had to change into a pilgrim by day, - and pay Santa Fé a visit.

At first, he could not see the horse. There were other animals grazing in the paddock and then he saw him standing on his own, by the water tank.

A young man he had never seen before came out to greet him.

‘We’ve moved him in here because he looked bored, not being ridden. The field has been rested; the grass is better and there’s plenty of it to keep him occupied.’

Sinclair walked up to the horse and patted him.

‘Hullo, old boy. I’ve missed you, probably a lot more than you missed me.’

The horse pricked its ears.

Why don’t you take him for a spin? His saddle and bridle are still in the tack-room. You’ll have to stick to the sandy tracks though; we’ve had his shoes taken off, for economy’s sake.’

‘I think I’ll lead him out for the first time. We need to become acquainted with each other again…Is Sister Brigitte still here?’

‘No; all the nuns have gone, but Farmer Reid is still here, running the farm. It’s lucky for the animals; he knows his job. There’s no better hay for miles around.’

‘Does he still wear his bowler hat?’

‘Yes! It’s getting shabby though. Excuse me, asking, Will you be keeping the horse?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, if you change your mind, will you give me first refusal? I’ve become quite fond of him.’

‘Yes; he is a very special horse’ And slipping his bridle over Santa Fé’s ears Sinclair said :

‘Come on, old chap, let’s go.’

The horse began neighing almost as soon as they started up the track alongside the field.

‘Not so loud’, said Sinclair, ‘you’ll stir up the others.’

And sure enough the horses in the paddock started careering up and down alongside the fence. As Sinclair and Santa Fé got to the railway bridge at the far end of the field, where the fence marked the boundary between the paddock and the railway bank, Sinclair heard a train approaching and he had to use all his strength to restrain the horse to stop him from engaging under the bridge before the train hurtled past overhead. When the horses in the field saw Santa Fé standing still, they stopped galloping about and resumed grazing; they were so used to trains travelling at high speed up and down the railway line above the paddock that once the unusual thing – Santa Fé being led out – was over, they stopped tearing up and down in a panic and resumed grazing, despite the train going past at speed above the pasture…

Although the horse had not left the field for months, he took everything in his stride; only when he caught a glimpse of the lake through the bushes did he show any signs of excitement, pulling towards the reeds.

‘No. old boy’, said Sinclair, restraining him, ‘not to-day. I aim at taking you back safe and sound, though I dare say you are more likely to get out of scrapes than I am in the circumstances.’

Up on the ranges, the red flag was being hoisted, indicating tanks would soon be deployed and the summit was temporarily out of bounds.

‘Just as well really’, said Sinclair, ‘perhaps we’re not ready for the climb yet, you and I.’

Had an eagle glided down from the empyrean heights where the whirring of tanks issued, it would not have looked incongruous. The place had a stark grandeur reminiscent of Mount Parnassus which did not incline the heart to bucolic melancholy in the style of English romanticism, but rather to austere stoicism such as had inspired men in Antiquity to show fortitude in the face of adversity. Had he gleaned nothing else from a classical education, it would have stood him in good stead to deal with the confrontation of evil such as that perpetrated by Georgina Gibson, Emmie’s killer.

As he led the horse away from the lake, down quiet sandy tracks, he could not help but think of Orpheus who had gone to Hades to bring back Eurydice, and had lost her for ever through looking back. Strange how in different cultures in Antiquity the backward glance was considered lethal. In Genesis, Lot’s wife had looked back despite the angel’s warning, and she had been turned into a pillar of salt. Orpheus had turned round to look at Eurydice and she had been snatched from him a second time…His going to Naples in the hope of retrieving Emmie had been as futile as Orpheus’s own descent into hell to recover his beloved. From the start, Georgina Gibson had marked Emmie as her own,- the secretly coveted object of her lust. Just as she could not bear the thought of having to share Anita Reynolds with a male lover, so she could not bear the idea of Emily Hankey becoming at such an early age the exclusive property of a man; and no descent into hell could alter that.

Seen with hindsight, Anita Reynolds’ murder had been a warning, - one he had not heeded being human. Just as Georgina Gibson had killed her bride to be, so she had to claim Emily - a potential elect too - as her own in order to deprive him as she had deprived Farmer Reid. What had she got to lose? From the fastness of a women’s high security prison where she undoubtedly enjoyed a certain educated ranking as a History teacher, which elevated her above the other inmates, she could with impunity plan a new murder to round off the job and enhance her status. It was well worth breaking her parole; well worth too chucking away her beautiful Spanish hair pin at her victim’s feet as a gesture of contempt, knowing she would never recover the cherished object…

It would have been the limit, had she been able to claim Sinclair for the remainder of his life as a vagabond in the night- the night of the spirit, the darkest night of all – as well as a young life of such promise as Emily’s in addition. With Georgina Gibson, when it came to crime, it was not so much ‘an eye for an eye’ as a revendication of gender supremacy for all to see, on the very porch of the established Church, making a mockery of its vows ‘until death do us part’.

As they came within sight of the railway bridge, Santa Fé neighed and the horses on the other side of the bridge answered him:- they were back!

‘All right, old chap’, said Sinclair, ‘that’ll do for one day; but don’t get it into your head that this sort of thing will happen again on a regular basis. Men’s instincts are fallible, unlike yours. The past cannot be undone; all I can do is find an accommodation with it, but it may be far from ideal for a natural like you.’

He was sitting in his garden in Regent’s Park watching Cordelia peck around with a couple of rescued battery hens, with no particular train of thought to occupy his mind, except the very reality of her dominance over the other two, when a warning of clairvoyance like an aura came over him as he looked away towards the brick wall which served as background to the water feature, an ornamental spout in the shape of a bearded deity’s mouth discharging trickles of water; and there coming through the wall he saw Emily grown old. She was wearing a short, flimsy night-dress. In her right hand she carried a stick on which she leant and in the other hand she held a lantern to light the way; and then she vanished as silently as she had come… When he had recovered from the weird sense of displacement he had experienced, the meaning of the vision became clear to him.

Emmie carried a stick for him to lean on throughout the years and a lantern to light the way ahead. They would grow old together. She would be there to support him, through thick and thin, lighting the way. He would never be alone in his quest for truth nor would he ever be able to look back on her as a separate entity, sitting by the fire in her old age, recollecting how much he had loved her once upon a time, as poets are sometimes wont to do, out of male vanity.

Just as he could rouse the horse from its melancholy stance by the water trough, so he could coax Emmie to go with him and be his guide, denying death its premature victory.

F I N I S

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AVIAN RAPTURE

AVIAN RAPTURE

A s part of his rehabilitation plan, Sinclair often repaired to Queen Mary’s rose garden in Regent’s Park to admire the blooms; it was a way for him to try and control the aversion he had developed for red roses since the wedding… Lately, a lady sitting by herself always on the same bench had caught his attention. There was a look of sadness about her and Sinclair was sure that on several occasions he had seen her wiping tears from her face. Wondering whether she was grieving the loss of a loved one, he sat down beside her.

‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ he said, looking at the flowers in the parterre across the path.

‘Yes’, she replied, dabbing her eyes; and with that she put away her handkerchief, and made as though she prepared to get up and leave.

‘Excuse me asking’, Sinclair said, ‘but I have seen you here before, always in the same spot…’

‘Yes’, she replied, ‘I never tire of looking at the roses. They remind me of my daughter.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. How long ago did your daughter pass away, if I may ask?’

‘Oh, my daughter’s not dead. She left home to take up a position in Glasgow which offered better prospects than the one she was in before in London and I haven’t heard from her for months… She seemed to be doing all right, settling down and making friends. The only thing was, she didn’t like the cold; she hated the cold even as a child. I did warn her about it.’

‘They say no news is good news, remarked Sinclair.

‘It’s not like her to leave me without news. In the beginning, she would call me often to tell me how she was getting on. But you know how it is nowadays; girls are independent; they’re self-opinionated without much real knowledge of the world. Her mobile phone’s switched off.’

‘Have you thought of going to the Police?’

‘My daughter would never forgive me if I did that; she would reproach me with a lack of trust.’

‘The Police keep a record of missing persons…’

‘Missing! Why would my daughter go missing? She’s quite clued up about everything.’

‘What I mean is, being such a long way away from home, she may have dropped her guard just for the sake of having company…’

‘Yes, that’s true; my daughter’s a very friendly, warm-hearted person by nature…’

‘That’s precisely what I meant. I tell you what; I’m a private detective. Here’s my card. If you haven’t heard from your daughter by the end of the month, contact me. I have friends in Scotland. A few discreet enquiries here and there won’t hurt.’

She opened her bag, took out a piece of paper and scribbled a name on it.

‘My daughter’s name is Rose. I have a photograph of her. Here, take it. That’s her dog with her on the photo.’

‘Where’s the dog now?’

‘I’ve got him; he’s a handful.’

The days were drawing in and as he walked through Queen Mary’s garden in Regent’s Park Sinclair noticed the lady to whom he had offered his services sitting on the same bench, looking just as sad as before.

‘Relishing the last rose of summer?’ he asked. ‘When you think they’re still blooming in some parts of Italy…’

‘Yes’, she replied wistfully.

‘I hope you won’t think me indiscreet, but have you by any chance heard from your daughter?’

‘No. As a matter of fact, I came here to-day in the hope of seeing you. I am in such a quandary…’

‘Why don’t you let me handle this for you? My fees are very reasonable; I don’t make money out of people’s woe the way some of my colleagues do.’

‘Oh, it’s not that’ she said, ‘it’s the shame of it. It’s such an underhand way of dealing with a blood relative; but I suppose, if there is no alternative…’

‘Well, that’s it, isn’t it? You can’t go on agonising ad infinitum. Besides, your daughter’s health may be in jeopardy.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You said she didn’t like the cold. Have you thought of ringing up the hospitals in Glasgow? Maybe, she’s caught a chill and gone down with pleurisy or worse still pneumonia, and she’s reluctant to tell you on account of the warning you gave her about the climate. That’s something I could do for you discreetly, if it’s any help.’

‘You’re very kind. Yes, all right then. One has to start somewhere, I suppose…’

‘Yes; it’s the sort of thing that could happen to anyone. We shan’t be sending smoke signals to your daughter’s abductor…’

‘Abductor!’

‘In the world we live in, it is wise to envisage all kinds of scenarios. Crime is electronically engineered and Glasgow is not exactly a safe haven. Now, in the event of my calls producing no lead, would you consider letting me have the dog? You have still got your daughter’s dog, I presume?’

‘But why? He’s all I’ve got left!’

‘I was toying with the idea of going to Glasgow to look for your daughter myself to start with rather than contact colleagues up there… I think he’d make a very good sniffer dog, if you could let me have some items of clothing your daughter left behind? I’m used to animals; I have a horse of my own and a few chickens as well.’

‘All right then. But, please, don’t take too long.’

‘My dear lady, Glasgow as a district has over one million inhabitants. Edinburgh would have been a different proposition altogether. I’ll also need a photograph of your daughter, a recent one, without the dog. Have everything ready, including a week’s ration for the animal, by next week-end, and, please, not a word to anyone. Should people ask you how your daughter is, smile and say she’s fine now she’s got the dog with her…By the way, what’s the dog’s name?’

‘Jasper, on account of the colour of his coat, a kind of dirty brown. My daughter and I fell for him at the Battersea Dogs’ Home. We were looking for a pet, not a pedigree dog’.

‘Spaniel cross something?’

‘Yes…’

‘Excellent; he won’t attract too much attention.’

No sooner had Sinclair retrieved his steps homeward though the rose garden than he began having reservations about Emmie going with him to Glasgow. It was such a dangerous place; he’d feel happier if she stayed behind to look