The Casebook of Doakes and Haig

Yet Haig stayed on, passed on from one generation to the next like a family heirloom. Which, in a sense, he was. "You are free to leave at any time." It was an offer I had made more than once, especially as the "family fortune" was dissipating rapidly.

"I live up to my obligations," he sent an angry puff of smoke toward the ceiling. "Best you do the same."

"Indeed." The bell from the front precluded further discussion. Instead I pointed to our inventory. "Let's not get too far ahead of ourselves. We don't want to be disposing of unsold stock that has spoiled."

"Doakes and Haig never spoils." I did notice with some satisfaction that he had put his feet up on the table as I went to service our customer. It would probably be our last of the day.

The distressing news came the next morning. We were in our apartment above the store. Once we had shared six rooms; now I rented out four to cover expenses. But it wasn't enough. I was morosely going over the accounts trying to decide how to juggle the bills this month when a snort from Haig interrupted me. He was standing on the kitchen table, the newspaper spread below him. He was walking atop one article. "A shame, a most grievous shame," he said when he realized he had my attention.

"What is?"

"Mrs. McLeary is no longer with us."

"What?" I grabbed for the paper and nearly knocked him to the floor.

"Relax, boyo," he said as he regained his balance, then adjusted his waistcoat. "Says right here," he pointed with a foot.

He was right. The article described a break-in that had occurred early evening last. A Mrs. Liam McLeary was found dead in her apartment, all valuables missing. The bobbies had no leads. A wake would be held within two days. "Who would do such a thing?" I said after I regained a semblance of composure.

"A hooligan from the Colonies most likely. Uncivilized they are; we should never allow them to return. They left once, be done with them." Haig stomped his foot for emphasis.

That was Haig's explanation for every spot of trouble, from scuffles with Spain to wars with Argentina and Sweden: somehow, some way, the American colonists were to blame. "I'll have to go."

He frowned. "To the Colonies?"

"To the wake." I read the article once more. "We'll have to close for a few hours; the wake is in the afternoon." I was surprised when he offered no protest. Although he did make a surprising request.

So two days later I knocked on the door of the late Mrs. McLeary. It opened slowly and two eyes peered out. "Who are you?" the woman asked.

I removed my hat and bowed. "Sean Doakes. I was a friend of Mrs. McLeary. I just wanted to visit for a moment and pay my respects."

"Sean Doakes?" The half-hidden face considered. "I don't know ...of course!" and the door flew open, revealing a very attractive woman of about 25. "Mr. Doakes, please do come in," and she grabbed my hand and pulled me into the room. "My grandmother used to talk about you all the time! I'm Colleen Wickes."

"A pleasure, Mrs. Wickes."

"Miss. Please, just call me Colleen."

"Delighted."

"May I take your coat?" I handed it to her gratefully. "You can put your satchel by the wall if you wish."