Barry Longyear: The Purloined Labradoodle

“Cameras?” I asked.

“A few remote recording cameras on the grounds—nothing manned. Again, nothing inside the castle. Lord and Lady Devon let parts of the estate for weddings, corporate functions, and other events—in that respect Powderham is very much a business. However, the castle is also their home. The more valuable artworks and sculptures have motion detectors, sensitivity sensors, alarms and such. Anything thatisn’t bolted down has ID nanodots concealed on or in it—no way to getthem out of the castle.”

“What about nanodot codes on the guests’ jewelry?”

“About three quarters of the missing pieces have them. Nothing’s come up at the gates, and no one’s left by air. No guests have left yet and no castle staff.”

“Who has left?”

“The first shifts of caterers, florists, technical and lighting crew, photographers, a quick raid by a discreet liveried dustbin brigade, and the Lord Bishop of Exeter. We checked in, beneath, above, through, and around everything that could block a signal.”

“Years ago, Collier, I had a case in which a well-endowed woman concealed a nanodot encoded diamond ring between her breasts and got it through the screens. There was a sufficient enclosure of flesh to absorb the dot’s signal.”

“There is sufficient jewelry already reported missing to pack an overnight bag, Jaggers. In my entire life I’ve never seen anyone that well endowed outside a perv graphic.”

“Ah, sweet bird of youth.”

“Indeed. I am aware other cavities have been used in which to conceal valuables, but have you ever seen the points and edges on emerald cut diamonds?”

“Yes I have. I agree: It would take quite a fellow to stick a bracelet full of them up his bum and still play bass guitar for two hours.”

“Jaggers, unless the thief burrowed out underground, the stuff’s still on the grounds.”

“I take it you’ve checked possible underground routes and locations?”

“What do you think? I should make clear, Jaggers, that the castle is not liable for any stolen property. That’s not his lordship’s concern. It’s just that his lordship is related to the bride’s family and is a guest at both wedding and reception, as well.”

“Hence he would prefer not having the screws slamming his fellow guests up against his ornate walls, spreading them out, and patting them down.”

“You are so sensitive, my friend. I knew calling you was the right thing to do.”

“See you in a few, Collier.”

Watson pulled the cruiser up from Heavitree Tower as Collier sent me lists of wedding guests, wedding service and catering staffs, as well as castle staff including full-time and part-time security personnel, along with images.

As we took the Exminster-Dawlish Warren Air Corridor down the west bank of the Exe, Dr. Watson neé Shad turned on the autopilot, leaned back from the controls, and glanced at me. “Powderham. This is the place with the old tortoise who entertains children, Holmes. Timothy something?”

“You are correct, Watson. The first Timmy Tortoise dates back to 1854 and died in the early twenty-first century. The current one is an amdroid bio taken from the original Timmy’s DNA imprinted by—her name escapes me—an actress.”

“Went down there with Nadine, Holmes, and caught the woman’s act just before we were blown up that time out at Hangingstone. Quite depressing.”

“Getting blown up, or the tortoise?”

“Tortoise—What? Oh.” He chuckled. “You will have your joke. Her act was depressing, Holmes, her act. Rather get blown up again than have to sit through her routine again. Dreadful. Hundred-and-fifty-year gig and all the flies she can eat.”

“I suspect the actor imprinted onto the Timmy bio restricts her tortoise fare to lettuce, Watson. Perhaps the odd tomato slice. I hear she does impressions. Is that true?”

“Dear God, Holmes: Turtle standup comedy impressions for seven year olds. No one should miss it. ‘Hey, man, I heard these two bugs talking the other day, y’ know? One says to the other, “Katydid.” Now, get this. The other says, “Katydid.” Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. So the other says, “Katydid.” Now, the second bug comes back real quick with “Katydid, ha, ha, haaa…” Shad looked through his side of the window and back at me. “Dreadful. Well, it’s work I suppose. Clarice Penne’s her name.” He glanced back at me. “Ever see her picture?”

“I can’t say I have, Watson.”

“Hideous looking woman. If she’d let herself go a little she’d be a dead ringer for Alistair Sim. There’ll be a part for her if they ever decide to tell the story of Jack the Ripper’s waning years in a nursing home.”

“Alistair Sim of the Ebenezer Scrooge Sims?”

“The very same. Not a whole lot of really creepy maiden aunt parts available these days. I suppose she figures the shell game is at least show business. Reminds me of that old joke about the fellow in the circus scrubbing the elephant’s bum.” He coughed a Watson cough. “Sorry, Holmes. This wretched acting business: Millions grasping hungrily for a scant dozen brass rings. Had one of those rings once myself.” Silence as he thought for a moment on his famous past, then he shook his head and waved a hand as if dismissing it from his attention. “Sorry. Sorry, Holmes. Can’t imagine what came over me. Got a head full of fuzz lately. Apologies.”

“Think nothing of it, old fellow.” I frowned at him. How much was fuzz and how much was Shad doing his Nigel Bruce’s Watson?

He sat in silence for a long time apparently thinking heavily upon something of great importance to him. At last he asked, “Why else does this Powderham Castle sound familiar to me, Holmes? It’s stuck in my head like Tom Mix and Hannibal Lecter, but I can’t seem to place it.”

“Why, I’m astounded, old fellow. Did your Nigel Bruce Watson getup come with a bumbled brain program?”

“Bumble—No need to be offensive, Holmes. I asked but a simple question.”

“Now, no need for hurt feelings. Late in the twentieth century what famous motion picture was partly filmed at Powderham? Remember?”

“A vid?”

“Think, now.” I raised an eyebrow in his direction. “Come, come Watson. Anthony Hopkins…”

“Motion picture? Hopkins? Wait, wait…”

“Ed—”

“No! Edward Fox! Hop— Remains of the Day. Of course. Emma Thompson, Christopher Reeve, Hugh Grant—Powderham is Darlington?” He looked at me, bushy gray eyebrows arched. “Dear god, I am bumbled! What year?”

“Nineteen ninety-three,” I added with a touch of smugness as I looked over the lists and images supplied by Ian Collier, which also included images of the pets brought by a few of the guests. In a flash I knew who stole the jewelry as well as how it was done. What to do about it, however, was going to take a bit of detail sorting.

“Having trouble finding the culprit, Holmes?”

I nodded toward his screen. “Have a go at it, Watson. While you’re busy at that, I need to check some details.”

On my screen I checked my details. My suspicion turned out to be correct. Assistant Chief Constable Ian Collier had been allowed to take immediate retirement from the force sixteen months ago for unspecified reasons. Using some computer tricks Shad taught me early in our relationship, I managed to find out those unspecified reasons involved specific unauthorized use of police equipment. It was all in the notes. I triggered the special links, entered a private code or two, and found the answers I needed. How mundane the scandalous tale once unfolded.

When the Collier family dog, a golden retriever named Laddie, was dying, ACC Collier had had a patrol cruiser with him at his home. In the grip of despair, he and his two young sons put Laddie into the cruiser to rush him to the vet. Laddie, however, died along the way. Ian probably hadn’t even thought about it. The equipment was there, so were his sons, and so was the need. He harvested Laddie’s engrams onto a chip—police cruiser, police reader, police chip. What to do with the harvested engrams after that got lost in the dust when the cruiser’s automatic after-action report was picked up by a hostile media. It was then reviewed by a cautious deputy chief constable, judged by a frightened board, defended by an indifferent Association of Chief Police Officers, and resulted in forced retirement. Birmingham and West Midlands found itself with one less good cop. Then it was job-hunting time, new digs, new schools, new church, new friends, same family minus a dog, a home, and maybe part of a dad.