Grammar Schooled

“I never said she stole my money.”

“You never said she stole your money? But isn’t that why we’re here, Mr. erm...?”

“Goldstein. Em Goldstein.”

“You have accused the cleaning lady of stealing your money.”

“No, I never said she stole my money.”

“Yes, you did. It’s here in my notes. Quote: Victim was asked who the perpetrator was. To which he replied, the cleaning lady.”

“No, I never said she stole my money.”

“I’m confused.”

Detective Inspector Syme had been on his way home from a long shift tracking down petty criminals, when he received a phone call from his chief superintendant, asking him to stop by the Cricklewood Arms Hotel in London, as a favour to a friend, to interview the victim of an alleged robbery.

Upon arriving at the hotel, he noticed a loud revelrous celebration emanating from the hotel bar – as he passed a pop-up poster welcoming members of The North London Grammatical Society to its establishment.

Greeting him in reception, the hotel manager, Mr. Charrington, led him up two flights of stairs and down a narrow hallway to room 101, where he encountered a very distraught and somewhat inebriated Em Goldstein.

“For the record, Mr. Goldstein. Can you please repeat what you just said,” Syme pressed on.

Goldstein waved a drunken dismissive hand at the detective, intimating he had said what needed to be said.

“Please, if you don’t mind, sir. The quicker I get the facts, the sooner I can track down the culprit. Now, what makes you think the cleaning lady is guilty?”

“I never said she stole my money.”

“Then why direct us toward the cleaning lady – if you have no other suspicions?”

“You’re not listening, Detective. I never said she stole my money.”

“Perhaps, a cup of coffee is in order. Mr. Charrington, would you be so kind to pop the kettle on.”

Charrington leaned over the room’s desk where a kettle perched ready to be activated. At the flick of a switch, the kettle’s heating element slowly began to stir into action, letting out a kind of white noise associated with electric kettles.

“Milk and sugar?” the hotel manager enquired.

“Yes, please.” Syme replied. “But just black for Mr. Goldstein, here.”

The two men stood in patient silence, listening to the kettle work its way toward boiling point. Then, reacting swiftly to movement in the corner of his eye, Syme instinctively positioned himself next to Goldstein - who was sitting on the end of the bed. His rocking motion had alerted Syme to the onset of sleep about to take over Goldstein’s consciousness. It had been a long day for Syme, so he felt little empathy for a drunken reveller accusing someone of theft. However, he had questions that needed answering, so grabbing Goldstein’s shoulder to prevent him from falling backwards toward irreversible dreamland, Syme followed up with an abrupt slap across Goldstein’s right cheek.

“I say, Detective Inspector,” protested Mr. Charrington. “Is that standard policing procedure?”

“Just needed to stimulate some blood flow, Mr. Charrington. How’s that coffee coming along?”

“Oh, yes. Coming up.”

Distracted by the task at hand, the hotel manager opened two coffee sachets and emptied each one into their respective cups. Then, lifting the boiled kettle from its cradle, he proceeded to pour the hot water into each cup, before replacing the kettle back to its dormant position. Carefully tearing off the end of a paper sugar pouch, Charrington followed this by adding its contents to one of the coffees.

Watching him intently, Syme studied the way Charrington then proceeded to carefully open the creamer lid flap, intentionally pointing the peel-away end away from him.

Noticing the scrutiny, Charrington felt a compelling need to explain.

“I regularly travel into Cricklewood First Class by overground train. Provided as a complimentary enhancement to our morning beverages, are similar sealed creamer tubs. On a moving and sometimes shaky journey, one quickly learns to open the creamers in such a manner that doesn’t spill milk into one’s lap.”

Syme nodded his head at the simple but brilliant logic of such a robotic practice. It was something his many years of being a top investigator of all things unusual, had never taken into consideration. Many a dry-cleaning bill for his suit trousers included embarrassing looking milk stains from coffee creamers, resembling something far more intimate or seedy.

“Fascinating,” Syme remarked. “I have learned something entirely new.”

Stirring his coffee with a plastic spoon, Syme took several sips before resting his cup back on the desk. Seeing Goldstein once again wavering in his upright seated posture, Syme quickly grabbed the black coffee, and assisted Goldstein with downing its entire contents.

“Blow just a little, Mr. Goldstein. Don’t want you singeing your upper palette with scolding liquid.”

Slowly drinking his coffee, Goldstein’s eyes returned to an open position, gazing up without focus into Syme’s nostrils.

“There!” Syme patted a congratulatory encouragement onto Goldstein’s back. “Now, how much of your money is missing?”

Goldstein incredulously looked up at Syme from his seated position and repeated, “I never said she stole my money.”

“Then whose money is it and why am I interviewing you?”

With a heavy air of exasperation, Goldstein meticulously repeated his statement.

“Detective Inspector Syme. I never said she stole my money.”

“Then, what the hell was stolen by her?” The confused policeman demanded to know.

“Who?”

“The cleaning lady!”

“She stole my heart!” The drunken forlorn exclamation bounced off the small room’s four walls, like the tip of a fired Cupid’s arrow had mysteriously turned to rubber.

“Sorry, Mr. Charrington. What is your cleaning lady’s name?”

“Julia.”

“Julia,” Syme repeated. “Look, I need to get to the bottom of this. Can you please fetch Julia and bring her here.”

“I’m sorry, Inspector. That’s not possible. She had to be home by Nine P.M. You see, as well as being our in-house cleaner, she is also a home carer and was needed at… well, home!”

“Who is she caring for?”

“Her big brother, I believe.”

Syme scratched his head and thought for a moment. Unsure of any crime being committed, he closed his notepad and put away his pen - before turning to make his exit.

“I’m done here, Mr. Charrington,” Syme declared. “This is a matter for the Thought Police. Thank you for wasting my time.”

“I’ll show you out, Detective.”

“No need,” Syme snapped back. “I can find my own way out.”

Descending the stairwell to the main lobby beside the bar, Syme briefly stopped as several strange conversations caught his attention.

“The horse raced past the barn fell,” someone shouted out to applause.

“Pack my box with five dozen liquor jugs,” another voice chimed in. “That one uses every letter in the alphabet,” the voice added.

“A woman without her man is nothing,” a loud female voice yelled over some vociferous male protest.

“I see! Said the blind man as he picked up the hammer and saw.”

A few jeers accompanied that last statement. Then, taking advantage of the break in competitive declarations, Em Goldstein reappeared – swaying in the doorway shouting, “I never said she stole my money!”

A brief lull was enthusiastically assaulted by the whole bar cheering on Goldstein’s statement.

“We have a winner!” A voice announced. “We’ve collected the prize money from all your kind contributions, and it has reached a handsome one thousand, nine hundred and eighty-four pounds. Well done, Emmanuel!”

After a round of applause, the announcer stepped from the crowd, revealing himself to Syme. It was none other than his chief superintendent, Parsons – triumphantly grinning from ear to ear.

Reacting to the realisation that his boss was also a member of the collective group, Syme glanced at the welcoming poster in the lobby, then muttered to his superior,

“Grammaticists! You’re all punctuation arse-holes.”

It was at that moment, Detective Inspector Syme suddenly became aware of the investigative faith in his abilities he had had had had no effect on the outcome of his investigation. To Syme, being grammar schooled by a drunken grammarian, was the low point of his long day, but he astutely surmised that the whole escapade was merely an innocent joke played by a police chief on his best detective.

With the refresh lesson that dotting I’s and crossing T’s were as important in note taking as the facts themselves, Syme lifted a middle finger in response to his boss, then exited the hotel and headed home for a well-earned rest…