Dafydd Pryce no longer
worked out of his Rhondda constituency offices in Merthyr Tydfil for the Labour
party. Instead, his offices were in the
crisply restored Arts Council brick townhouse adjacent to the old town hall in
the centre of the town, now in full swing of an immense restoration project for
a new theatre and arts complex serving Merthyr College.
Pryce was the
government employee in charge of overseeing a massive cultural project that
would be yet another mark of integrity for the Rhondda district of South
Wales. The signs above his cosy brick
office entrances were hand-carved bilingual works of art in burnished oak
relief, swinging slightly on scrollworked black iron in the cobblestone
sunshine.
Next door, the smell of
espresso steam wafted into the footpath, as a posh coffee shop was in full
swing serving outdoor customers at reclaimed secondhand tables with daisy vases
and mismatched chairs. On the other side
was a shop blooming with every colour of hand-dyed scarf and handbag
imaginable. And in the old town hall,
now arts centre across the cobbled road, the din of pressure hammers in the
cement replacing a faulty electric supply wire, the whacking of hammers putting
up drywall in the new art gallery and the circular saws pealing through the
summer breeze, currently ruined any attempt at posh pretense by any business in
the district. Everyone grit their teeth
and waited desperately for it to finally be finished in a month.
John was looking
inquisitively at Sherlock in the summer sunshine over his cappuccino cup while
Sherlock gazed across the road and up the laneway.
“There’s no point being
out this early if we’re not going to see Pryce today.” said John crossly. “This is a bit of a holiday for me, and I
never get in till midnight, so one day coming out past eleven wouldn’t go
amiss. I like a good lie in.”
“Which is ironic,
seeing as you’re meant to be the oh-so-motivated professional,” teased
Sherlock, breaking his gaze up the road for a sidelong glance. “Now let me
watch the road. Pryce isn’t in yet. We’ll see how last night’s altercation panned
out.”
“Why, how do you think
it will pan out?” asked John.
“People who believe in
magic wars and lightning bolts, witch doctors and favour of the gods. They believe in it so it affects them. If he’s in a state, we can work that to our
advantage. Get more information off
him.”
“That’s like walking
into a church and acting the holy roller to get information off people.” said
John, wearing his ‘I can’t believe you would do such a thing’ face.
“It works.” said
Sherlock lazily.
“I suppose you’ve done
it then.”
“Pentecostals are the
easiest. You have no dogma, just jump up
and down a bit and wave your hands in the air.
They’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
“I can’t believe your
nerve.” John was laughing by now.
“You’re bloody unbelievable.”
“I don’t mind
them. They make very bad liars. Most of the nutjob churches have fairly
decent blokes in them. Watch out for the
old women, though. They’re vicious. They can smell you a mile off.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows and widened his
eyes in mock fear, then sipped his tea. “Catholics are another story,
though. They’re required to believe in
dogma and that adds even more nonsense on top of resurrection and world
deluges. They make astonishingly good
liars.”
John put his head in
his hands. “God, Sherlock.”
Sherlock gazed down the
road. “Precisely. Now all we need to know, is which invisible
god is doing the psychological smiting.”
John looked wistfully
at his watch, wanting the day to be over already at 9.30 AM. Adventure was certainly his cup of tea, but
today the sunshine was beckoning a nice country walk and picnic. “Can’t we just go do some research down at
the museum? Breege invited us down. Or take a walk over in that wood by Pritchard’s
cabin.” He breathed in a bit
wistfully. “I wouldn’t mind a walk in
the woods. Since we’re out of
London. No rabid hounds to contend with,
just mad tree worshippers.”
“We’ll be going soon.”
said Sherlock. “I just want to see how this war is panning out.”
As soon as he mentioned
it, Dafydd Pryce parked his silver Audi TT across the road, and in it was a
great massive dent on the drivers side.
He got out and was wearing a blue cast on his arm. Grimly he walked into his office, accompanied
by his frail-looking and worried wife.
Sherlock grimaced and
raised his eyebrows again, and looked sidelong over at John. John, however, looked concerned, more so than
usual. And then he looked at Sherlock.
“Well, someone’s voodoo
certainly seems to have worked.” said Sherlock.
“I need to find out
more. I don’t like this.” John started
to get up from the table, coffee only half finished.
“No, John, let’s keep
watching. Don’t be too eager to blast
off finding the truth when you haven’t triangulated the lies.” Sherlock stayed in his chair and beckoned
John to sit. “A few more persons are
going to arrive shortly.”
“Triangulated the
lies. What does that even bloody mean?!”
asked John, exuding more than false exasperation on an otherwise lovely
morning.
“I triangulate the
truth by listening to the way that peoples’ lies echo, like a game of Chinese
whispers reverberating and checking itself within an organic field of
self-organising chaos.” said Sherlock tersely.
“Yeah, English please.”
John sipped his coffee.
“Deduction.”
“Sounds like the
selfsame voodoo rubbish you so eagerly love to rubbish.” teased John.
Sherlock was gazing up
the road. “SHH.” he nearly barked. John
frowned and then shot a quick glance next door.
Two men in shabby brown suitcoats and jeans quickly made their way into Pryce’s
door without buzzing in. They were
wearing small green glass baubles on silver chains under their shirts, and
country caps. “The troops are arriving.” He nonchalantly downed his tea mug and stood
up.
John stood up as well
and put a pound coin on the table. “Well,
are we having a chat with him?”
“Not now. Let him have his meeting. I fancy a brisk country walk.” said Sherlock.
“That’s better,
something to look forward to, right?”
“No. I hate nature,
John. You know that. Be sure to bring the forensics kit and your
lockbox.” They left for the Tydfil forest.
