Sir Arthur Conan Meredith's...
Legendary Halfcock Holmes Mysteries
CASE of the EMPTY TROPHY CABINET
As I recall, Holmes was in a particularly gay mood that morning, wearing a rather fetching pink off-the-shoulder cocktail dress with matching accessories by Gucci. Outside Bonker St. was cold and foggy, which made our humble sitting room seem rather cosy, decorated as it was with Laura Ashley floral wallpaper and Japanese silk curtains.
"I'm bored, Witless. Surely there must be a case for us to solve out there somewhere," said Holmes. He had been somewhat on edge recently, ever since our last case which had involved Lady Margaret Tonkington-Smythe and the disappearing marital aide. A very distressing problem, especially for Lord Tonkington-Smythe who was being haunted by strange buzzing noises and sighs and groans coming from her Ladyship's boudoir in the middle of the night. His wife, however, was in a constantly happy mood, walking around all day smiling inwardly and sighing. She would then withdraw quite suddenly to her bed chamber where once again those strange noises could be heard from behind her locked door. Messenger boys would arrive at all hours of the day and night with packets of batteries which would be sent straight up to her Ladyship by the muscular young butler who, I suspected, knew more than he was letting on. Holmes and I withdrew suddenly from the case after Holmes hid himself in her Ladyship's wardrobe one night to discover the cause of the strange noises. We left hurriedly the very next morning and I remember Holmes having to keep his legs crossed all the way back to London. Once back in Bonker St. he retired to his bedroom, where he stayed for three days only stirring to send out Mrs. Hudson for some glossy magazines, Fiesta and Big Knockers Monthly, which he said he needed for some research. He finally emerged pale and drawn with eyes like piss holes in the snow.
Now Holmes was ready for another case. He looked out of the window and suddenly ejaculated. "Really," I thought, "This is too much. Now I shall have to get the curtains cleaned again."
"A-ha!" he suddenly ejaculated once more. "Unless I'm mistaken, Witless, here is our next case now!"
A few moments later Fifi, our new housekeeper, entered to tell us we had a visitor. We had given old Ma Hudson the boot after the Tonkington-Smythe case and employed the charming Fifi. She was a massage girl from Bangkok with splendid breasts and endless legs, though her plum duff wasn't a patch on Mrs. Hudson's.
A rather rotund and out of breath gentleman entered. "I see you have come from up North," said Holmes, "Probably Cumbria and possibly Barrow-in-Furness. You had two boiled eggs for breakfast and you spent the night in the arms of a lady of ill repute, who is almost certainly an Enfield supporter."
"Why, you are perfectly correct sir," said our amazed visitor. "But how on earth...?"
"Quite elementary, my good fellow. I see you have a permanently windswept appearance; from this I knew you to come from up North. You have a strange, almost radioactive glow about you, hence Cumbria. And protruding from your pockets are a P45 and your redundancy notice from Messrs. Vickers and Sons, from which I deduce Barrow-in-Furness. You have egg stains down your tie and a woman's garter in Enfield FC colours is hanging from your left ear."
"Amazing, Mr. Holmes," crawled our guest. I thought the big headed bastard was just showing off again.
Our visitor sat down. "I do indeed come from that area we call 'God's Country'" he said sadly. With that he broke down in tears.
"Pray do not upset yourself sir, recover yourself. Fifi will get something up for you," I said.
"Thank you, but I don't think that I could manage it again after last night," replied our guest. "I must get down to business."
"Quite so," said Holmes as he crossed his legs and looked longingly in the direction of the bedroom.
Our visitor recovered and told us the reason for his visit. "My name, sirs, is Dick Hornbill of Barrow and I am the chief supporter of that fine town's football team. We should be up there rubbing shoulders with Runcorn, Kidderminster Harriers and Macclesfield, but as you well know, we are floundering in the depths of the UniBond League playing the likes of Frickley and Droylsden. True, we had some success with Mr. Vic Halom and reached the hallowed turf of Wembley under Sir Raymond Wilkie." And with that his eyes brimmed over and he sat with a faraway look. After Holmes prodded him with a poker he continued his story.
"But ever since those glory days, it's been nothing but a disaster for us, with us playing crap week in and week out. I'm sorry for my strong language, Mr. Holmes, but it fair makes my blood boil, it really does. I have come to you, Mr. Holmes as a last resort to save us from the ignominy of the NorthWest Counties League and away games at Rakesmoor Lane. I was recommended to you by Mr. Ferguson of Manchester after you gave him so much help in the strange case of Monsieur Cantona and a Southern ß@$*@®¶. How you deduced that Cantona was in fact a top French secret agent on the trail of a black market truffle seller disguised as a Crystal Palace supporter was brilliant."
Mr. Hornbill mopped his brow with the Enfield garter and continued "If you could help us in the same way we would be eternally grateful. We can't offer you much in the way of money, but we can arrange free access and free beer in many of the fine taverns and nightspots of our fair town. These are often frequented by nubile young ladies who will often oblige two fine gentlemen such as yourselves for half a dozen Bacardis and a bag of chips. We have arranged for a guide to take you to these places. Someone who has wide experience of the shadier side of the town's nightlife; indeed he used to play for our fine team. Perhaps you have heard of Mr. Gin Skoffington?"
Holmes fingered the banana lying in the fruit bowl and thought for a moment. "Very well. We will travel up on the 6.30 train from Euston on the morrow. Now, if you will leave us, Witless and I have plans to make."
When Mr. Hornbill had left we got out our trusty atlas and the Non-League Directory to see where the chuffin' heck Barrow was.
"As I thought, it is a shipyard town. Witless, do you know what that means?"
"Why certainly, Holmes. Oily men in overalls; muscular and manly, but at the same time sensitive and caring. Men who like a good pint and a tasty meat and potato pie. Men who say what they mean and mean what they bloody well say; men's men doing manly and chummy things together?"
"Exactly!" replied Holmes and with that we both retired to our bedrooms.
On our journey Holmes conjectured as to why Barrow AFC had not won anything for four years. Was it mismanagement (whoever she was)? Was it the failure to employ the Italian 'Libero' system, freeing the sweeper to enjoy the role of playmaker, with the two forwards making diagonal runs in front of a four man midfield? Or could it just be because they were crap?
We arrived at Holker St. for a meeting with Bill McDuff, club President. Holmes immediately spotted that Mr. McDuff had spilt steak and kidney pudding down his shirt and was using the club accounts to prop up the bookcase in the corner of his luxury office. We left Mr. McDuff none the wiser, the same feeling that the Inspector of Taxes had felt in the past. We then inspected the trophy cabinet, which sadly was empty, except for a few cobwebs and a half eaten pie, which was supposed to be the actual pie Tubby Chilton had munched on during half-time at Wembley in 1890. We then walked out onto the pitch, which was being rolled with what looked like the heavy roller, but was in fact that famous stomach and full back, Barney Stimpson.
"A sad state of affairs, Witless," commented Holmes later on that day as we partook of a pint of Boddington's Best in a small tavern recommended by Mr. Skoffington, the White Lion on Slater St.
"What, you mean the Barrow AFC mystery?' I asked.
"No, I mean an even deeper mystery. Why in Cowps name can't we get beer like this in London? All we get is recycled tap water and gnat's piss. Get them in again, Witless. Mr. Skoffington will be here in a moment with some young girls he's fixed up for us. And while you're at the bar ask the landlady why the men in this pub drink gin and tonic and the women pints of Guinness."
After a night of merry making around the town's many nightspots we returned to our lodgings as drunk as skunks, full with Tetleys, Theakstons and Boddingtons. I awoke the next morning with a blinding hangover to find Holmes had already breakfasted and left, hot on the trail no doubt of villainy and skullduggery. I took myself on a walk of the town's renowned car parks and returned after lunch to find Holmes in a brown study (actually it was a heavily nicotine stained study).
"Ah, Witless, you have returned. From your breathless manner I deduce you have had an energetic day."
The bastard was at it again, sticking his nose in. If the money wasn't so good I'd tell him to stick his job up his arse! I blushed and muttered something about bumping into one of the regulars from the White Lion and how I'd gone back to his flat to help him with his decorating, hence the wallpaper stains on my trousers.
"Quite so, Witless, quite so," he said disbelievingly. "I, on the other hand, have spent the day getting to the bottom of this case."
"You mean you've solved the Empty Cabinet Mystery? Halfcock, you amaze me!"
Holmes explained. "It was all quite elementary, once I had established a few facts and after a very illuminating interview with a Mr. Sybil Largesize, one time secretary of the football club and a Mr. Pill Cowling, who does a nice line in curtains and will run us up a pair for 6/9d a yard. They have shed some light on the matter. You will remember that Barrow appeared at Wembley only a short time ago under the fine guidance of Sir Raymond Wilkie and things appeared to be on the up, but after the untimely departure of Sir Raymond things began to fall apart. On the field things went from bad to worse, but also at this time, many fine men and women were getting made redundant from Messrs. Vickers and Sons. I have discovered that the closure of the shipyard was an elaborate cover-up to divert attention away from the events at Holker St. The football club was being undermined by men with a desperate and sickening mission. You will have heard me mention in the past an arch-villain by the name of Jonas Queen, who goes in disguise as the manager of a football club to commit masterly crimes. You well remember the White Hart Lane Mystery some years ago. Just how did a non-League outfit hold a first division team to a draw in the FA Cup? Ably assisted by his dastardly assistant, Grimy Housecoat, he was brought in to revive the club, but in fact he was the front man for this desperate gang I have now tracked down. After nearly succeeding in their task, they were replaced by a North-East gang boss, Tricky Dicky Menace, who took the plan a step further, but fortunately he was dismissed after a rather pathetic performance at Gretna. He had shown his hand too early and had forced his masters into action designed to strike fear into every soccer loving person in the area. These desperate men had one thing in common... they like to play with different shaped balls than the round one of the 'beautiful game'."
I took my hands out of my pockets and stared at Halfcock in disbelief. "You don't mean what I think, surely?" I cried.
"I certainly do, and I've told you before, don't call me Shirley!" replied my partner. "The men behind this dastardly deed will stop at nothing to achieve their goal." He paused and then shrieked "THESE MEN WANT TO PLAY RUGBY LEAGUE ON HOLKER STREET!"
Could it be true? Surely not, no-one could be that stupid. Well they could, have you ever watched Supermarket Sweep? But what sort of men could think up this scheme? They must be followers of Beelzebub, devil worshippers who should be brought to book as soon as possible. They had come so near to their goal, but thanks to Holmes they were to be denied. Give the lad his due, he might be a boring old fart in a stupid hat, but he knew a major crime when he saw one.
"Yes, these men would have stopped at nothing, Witless. If they had succeeded, then Barrow AFC would be no more. We would have had to go to Rakesmoor Lane to see any decent local footie. Yes, it would have been that bad. Craven Park would have been sold as an overflow car park and radiation dump and the men with oval balls would have moved into Holker St. This morning I disguised myself as a humble cleaning lady and entered the headquarters of the gang's ringleaders, a certain office block in Abbey Road. Pretending to insert an advert for a fish tank in the Under-a-Fiver section, I gained access to their office where I confronted Pencil Pearson and his henchman Fingers Cassidy and told them the game was up. They have now left town taking their typewriters with them. Once again the town is free of gossip and innuendo."
"Brilliant Holmes, but what will happen to the football team? They have no leader to take them out of the wilderness."
"Fear not, Witless for this morning I sent a telegram to Preston and unless I am mistaken, here is my reply and the answers to a town's prayers."
There came a knock at the door and in walked Mr. McDuff with two other men, one of whom tripped over the cat. With a graceful dive he hit the carpet and stayed there motionless for some time.
"Gentlemen, let me introduce Mr. Tiny Hotbreath, who will become our new manager. He is a social worker of some repute and is used to dealing with juvenile delinquents so he should have no trouble with Tubby Chilton and Procky," said Mr. McDuff and he swelled with pride.
"I have heard of you, Mr. Hotbreath, and your good work at Noddyfield FC. I understand you have brought a new secret weapon with you that will guarantee the Bluebirds twenty-five goals a season?" asked Holmes. "And unless I'm mistaken he's rolling around the carpet at this very moment."
"Pleased to meet you, Holmesy lad," replied Hotbreath. "Let me introduce Jurgen Whittaker, legendary Olympic swallow diver and male model."
And with that the writhing figure jumped up from the floor in one graceful movement and drop kicked the cat out of the window. At last Barrow AFC were in good hands.
So the singular case of the empty trophy cabinet was solved and a town's football club was saved from oblivion. all thanks to the boy Holmes sticking his nose in everywhere. As for the rugby club, well who knew what would happen to them, but if their so-called fans got out of their armchairs on a Sunday afternoon and went to cheer them on, they might survive. Holmes and I returned to London, I opened a pub with a rather nice centre half from Arsenal and Holmes moved to Brighton with the lovely Fifi to run a personal services agency. Once again he'd be sticking something in where it wasn't wanted!
THE END???
Martyn Meredith
Issue 023 - August 1995
