Children's Writing - Detective Story

In a cluttered office in South London, just off Piccadilly Circus if you look carefully enough, are the offices of VPI (or Very Private Investigators) as they prefer to be known. Although the door looked ordinary enough – slightly-battered, wooden, brass handle – inside, you would find a state-of-the-art, crime-busting duo with a total of one thousand, seven hundred and sixty-three arrests behind them.   Hearing this, you would think you’d find the two occupants of this office working hard to solve the very next mystery, wouldn’t you? Well, you couldn’t be more wrong!

In fact, James Holmes and Sherlock Bond were either vigorously polishing the brass door handles (James) or fast asleep with his crossed feet up on the silent telephone (Sherlock).  James was an ex-secret agent, who had a reputation as a deadly assassin. Sherlock, on the other hand, had been a top detective for the Metropolitan Police, who was the enemy of many a criminal. 

The two of them had been the best of friends at primary school and had always harboured the wish of working together in their shared passion of crime-busting.  They’d gone their separate ways in their careers, until James had a lucky escape the previous year in Russia, when he’d been forced to call Sherlock for help from a prison cell in Moscow.  Sherlock saved James’ life on that day and the two of them decided they would work together, investigating London’s most notorious crimes.

However, today was a quiet day.  James, who liked to keep himself busy, had tidied the various computers, monitors and technological gadgets which filled the office to a sparkling gleam.  Sherlock was a much more laid-back character, usually sleeping unless he was on a case!

Just then, the office phone began to ring.  Shoving Sherlock’s feet out of the way and knocking him off his chair with a bump, James answered the phone professionally, “Very Private Investigators, how can we be of service?”

The panicked voice on the other end of the line replied, “I need your help.  This is Bloomsbury and Co the jewellers.  You may know us, we are known as the most expensive jewellers in the whole of the world.”

“Yes, I know it,” murmured James, remembering how much his wife’s engagement ring had cost.

“Well, our most valuable watch – a Rolex Varietous – is missing. It’s worth one million pounds.”

Taking notes, James listened to the distressed caller, who recounted the morning’s events – coming into the shop, opening for the morning, polishing every item carefully then making the horrifying discovery that the prized watch was gone...

            Picking himself up and rubbing his now sore bottom, Sherlock yawned, “Is it a case?”

“Sure is,” called James, grabbing his bag, containing his camera, fingerprint dust and magnifying glass.  Still rubbing his eyes, Sherlock wearily followed James to the gleaming, black Audi Q8 they transported themselves around in.  As usual, James was the driver.  He had found this to be the best way – as Sherlock had once fallen asleep at the wheel on the way to a case, can you believe?!

Ten minutes later, they screeched to a halt outside Bloomsbury and Co jewellers, on London’s exclusive Bond Street, one of the most expensive streets in the world.  Sherlock bumped his head on the windscreen, waking himself up once more (he’d been asleep since they left the office).  Once at the jewellers, the two detectives waited outside the heavily-fortified door to be let in by the owners.  A loud beep signalled the door’s opening.  As they entered, they were met by a small, thin man with a shiny, bald head and round, silver-rimmed spectacles, who was rubbing his hands together, nervously.

“I’m Rubeus Montague-de Ville” he said, shaking hands with James and Sherlock. He took them on a tour of the shop, showing them the sparkling cases containing some of the world’s most expensive watches, rings and necklaces. Each case held plump, red velvet cushions and a very sophisticated security system, which was apt when the goods inside had a price tag starting at twenty thousand pounds!

Examining each piece of jewellery carefully with his magnifying glass, Sherlock asked, “Could you tell us some details of what happened this morning?”

Rubeus explained that he had come into the shop, following the same routine as he did every morning, parking his Rolls Royce around the back of the building and entering the bullet-proof door at the back, then switching off the burglar alarm system.

“I like to polish the jewellery every morning until you can see your face in it!  I do this because with the kind of customers I have, they expect the very best” remarked Rubeus, rubbing a mark on the glass distractedly. “This morning was just the same. Perhaps I’d got three quarters of the way around the shop, when I realised that the Rolex Varietous was not in its case!”

James looked at where the jeweller was pointing.  Sure enough, there was a gap in the rows of shiny, expensive watches – with a dent in the red cushion to show the shape of what should have been in its place.

“Was the watch in place last night?” asked James, rubbing his finger delicately over the cushion, feeling for evidence.

“Yes definitely,” replied Rubeus, putting his hand on the counter, “that watch is my very favourite.  It is the last item I look at every night, before I leave the building.  I hope and pray that one day I’ll be able to afford one of my own.”

Sherlock frowned, but continued to scatter dust on the various glass cases in the shop, before brushing it away with a small brush. “Aha, here’s a clue!” he cried suddenly, holding an orange ticket with a pair of tweezers.

“Hmm, it’s an Underground ticket,” said James, taking the ticket from Sherlock and examining it expertly, “Bakerloo line, if I’m not mistaken.”

“My assistant, Felicia Allen-Jones, goes home via the Bakerloo line!” cried Rubeus, with a leap in the air, “She must be the thief! We must go to her house in Finchley Road right away!”

            Yawning wearily, Sherlock made his way to the door following Rubeus and James, who had already jumped into the gleaming Audi Q8 parked outside Bloomsbury and Co.  “Why do we always have to be in such a rush?” he complained, closing the door, putting his seatbelt on and instantly falling to sleep.

James was just about to screech away, when he looked in his rear-view mirror.  Until then, he had not noticed how sweaty and pale Rubeus suddenly looked. “Are you all right, old chap?  Not used to this crime-fighting business, hey?”

Putting his fingers under his collar, like his shirt was suddenly too tight, Rubeus replied edgily, “Er, no, not in my usual line of work son, if I’m honest.  You’re more likely to find me watching Crimewatch, than fighting crime.”

James laughed and pulled the car away at high speed, expertly manoeuvring around pedestrians and cyclists.  At the next set of traffic lights, he was disturbed by a weak voice coming from the back of the car.

“James, erm, is it possible that we could pull over for just a second? I feel dreadfully travel sick,” whimpered Rubeus, winding down the back window and putting his head out just like a dog.

Rubeus leapt out of the car as it came to a grinding halt and put his head on the nearest lamp-post, looking for all the world like he was going to have a heart attack at any minute.

“Tell you what, old boy, we’ll go to Felicia’s, you head back to the jewellers and we’ll come back to you later!” called James cheerily, hopping back into his vehicle.  “See you later, alligator!”

As he drove away, he watched Rubeus suddenly lift his head and dart into the crowds of Oxford Street. Hmm, he made a hasty recovery, he thought, then got on with the job in hand, catching Felicia Allen-Jones, the suspected watch thief.

When he pulled up outside the address he had been given, Sherlock of course, chose that moment to wake up.  “Right, let’s find our thief!” Sherlock cried, flinging open the car door and nearly knocking James over.  The two of them were at the front door in an instant, James hammering at the door, while Sherlock peered through the front room window.

Felicia’s house was on Finchley Road, a large, welcoming, three-storey townhouse with well-kept gardens and a hedge clipped in the shape of a diamond.  Rubeus had told them that Felicia’s family had worked for him for generations, the two families worked alongside each other, ever since Rubeus’ grandfather had rescued Felicia’s great-grandfather in World War I.

No doubt because of the noise coming from below, it was only a second before a second-floor window was raised and a blonde head peeped out.  “Can I help you?” called the blonde lady, waving to the two detectives.

“You sure can, we’re detectives investigating the missing Rolex Varietous,” said James, beckoning her down, “Where were you on the night of the second of May, around 11.00pm?”

Felicia appeared at the door and let the two detectives in.  “Of course, I can help,” she smiled, “I was right here.  In fact, I have two hundred witnesses who can vouch for me.  That was the night of my fortieth birthday!”

James and Sherlock looked at each other, mouths wide open in shock. If it wasn’t Felicia who took the watch, then who on earth was it? Seconds later, they both came to the same conclusion! Rubeus.  Of course. Sweating, saying he wished he had a watch, his edginess.  How could they have not spotted it earlier?

The problem was, of course, now they knew it was Reuben, where was he? The last time they had seen him, he was propped up against a lamppost in Oxford Street, before disappearing into the crowd.  James and Sherlock knew they had to move fast – Reuben might decide his only course of action was to leave the country, then they would never find him. 

After a quick discussion between our crime-busting duo, it was decided that the best course of action was to look first at Bloomsbury and Co. Both detectives sprinted down the garden path of Felicia’s house, waving their goodbyes as they went. 

Slamming the car doors, the Audi Q4 leapt forward with a terrifying screech – for all of one hundred metres. Friday lunchtime in the very centre of London meant bumper-to-bumper vehicles in all directions.  James thumped his hand on the middle of the steering wheel (blowing the horn in the process) and woke Sherlock with a jump. 

“What’s up? Why are we not at Bloomsbury and Co yet?” yawned Sherlock, shaking his head to try and wake himself up properly.

“What exactly would you do about this and get us there any quicker?” gestured James, waving his arms all around him.

“You know what we are going to have to do, don’t you?” suggested Sherlock, cocking his head to one side and indicating the pavement.

“Pavement it is,” yelled James, turning the steering wheel suddenly to the right.  Terrified pedestrians saved their lives by diving in all directions.  Angry shop owners waved their fists at the two detectives.  Wending their way around shop fronts and veering wildly around pedestrians, driving right on the edge of what was safe, the frustrated detectives reached the end of Finchley Road.

            At the end of the street, the traffic eased, and James was able to navigate his way back on the road and drive like a Formula One driver in the direction of Bond Street, where they hoped to find Reuben and arrest him at once.

As they pulled up outside Bloomsbury and Co, all James found was a hand-written sign which said, ‘Closed until further notice’, which looked like it had been hastily written and propped up against the door handle. James ran around to the other side of the Audi and opened the passenger door, tipping Sherlock out onto the pavement in the process!

“Come on Sleepy, this isn’t the time to rest your weary head!” called James, picking Sherlock up none too gently.

“Ha no chance, not with you around waking me up all the blooming time!” whined Sherlock, rubbing his forehead with one hand and his eyes with the other.

As they approached the door of Bloomsbury and Co, Sherlock noticed the door was not closed, as he had first thought – it just looked that way.  Bursting in to the jewellers, he quickly appraised the scene which met his eyes. 

You would not have known the shop was a world-renowned jewel and watch shop anymore! Every single case was empty! Reuben must have made his way back here and done this, while they were distracted by the underground ticket and travelling to Finchley Road.

“Now what?” said James wearily, resting his forehead on one of the counters.  He was tired of all this chasing around – where on earth would Reuben have gone?

“Worry not,” replied Sherlock, putting his arm on James’ back, “I know exactly where he is headed.  All we have to do is go there ourselves and catch him.”

Lifting his head immediately and spinning round, James said, “What? How on earth do you know?”

“Ah, my dear James,” laughed Sherlock, holding the sign Reuben had left, “Reuben inadvertently left us a clue.”

When Sherlock turned over the sign which had been on the door, James realised it was, in fact, an email confirming a one-way flight out of the United Kingdom to New York, due to fly out at 1.45pm that very afternoon.

James and Sherlock turned towards each other at the same time and yelled, “To the airport!”

Twenty-eight minutes later, James and Sherlock pulled up outside Heathrow Airport.  Leaping out, they slammed the car door behind them and sprinted off for the revolving doors.

“Oi! You can’t park your car there, mate!” shouted the security guard, brusquely.  With that, James and Sherlock ran around the revolving doors and found themselves back outside again.

“Urgh! Now I feel dizzy!” moaned Sherlock, clutching his head.  James shushed him and told him to go and park the car, while he went to search the airport.  Three minutes later, when Sherlock had abandoned the car in the nearest space (a disabled one, so he hobbled away from the car in case anyone was looking) and found James scanning the departure boards for flights to New York.

“Have you found the flight?” Sherlock called, standing next to James.  James shook his head in frustration.  Just as it seemed they were about to catch Rubeus, now it looked like he was going to get away from them and not face retribution for the crime he had committed. 

Not only that, but they wouldn’t be paid either – and James had been looking forward to buying a new pair of hi-tech night vision goggles.  However, their luck was about to change.  At that moment, the departure board clicked round and the New York flight detailed on the email clue they had found came into view.

“Gate 51! Gate 51! Let’s go!” cried Sherlock, hauling James by the scruff of the neck. Both detectives sprinted along the terminal building, hurdling luggage and weaving in and out of brightly-coloured tourists ready to go on holiday and smart businessmen on the way to important meetings.

“We’re never going to make it!” puffed James, “Gate 51 is right at the end of the airport and the flight is boarding right now this instant!  If we don’t get there in time, he’ll get away.”

“I have an idea!” shouted Sherlock, veering off to the left and off down a corridor suddenly, “Leave it with me!”

Before James could ask where he was going, Sherlock was gone – lost among the crowds.  James was alone, worn out and close to tears.  He hated the idea that Rubeus would get away – all because of that stupid red herring. He thumped his fist against his hand.  How could he have let himself be tricked like that?  A loud beeping sound interrupted his thoughts.

“Whoa! Come on Sleepy! We have business to attend to,” shouted Sherlock, from his seat upon one of the trailers used to transport workers around the airport, “Get on the back, this will be much quicker!”

The next moment, via two near-misses with security officers and tourists, the two detectives screeched up at Gate 51. Out of the corner of his eye, James spotted a man in dark glasses, scarf and bowler hat – strange clothes for the middle of summer.  Without a thought for his own safety, he rugby tackled the man to the ground and cuffed him. 

“Rubeus, ha you thought you’d got away from us, didn’t you?” panted James, leading him by the arm into the hands of the ruffled security guards, who had appeared to arrest our detective duo and were now looking on, rather confused.  Sherlock told them the situation and apologised profusely for his behaviour in the airport.

Rubeus Montague-de Ville was arrested and sentenced to 12 years in prison for robbery and fraud.  On the other hand, James and Sherlock were treated like heroes and received a handsome reward from the Metropolitan Police.  Sherlock, of course, snoozed like a baby all the way back to the office!