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Monthly Archives: July 2015

Waiting for Watson…

From Sherlock Holmes Esq to Doctor Watson:

Watson
Why you will insist on gullibly taking Mrs Hudson’s bait every time, I will never know. Did you seriously believe I would be involved in such a vacuous, pointless pastime as that ridiculous Colonial import? – I sometimes wonder about your mental processes, Watson, especially when you fall for an obvious one like That. Anyway, that is beside the point.

If you Had engaged your Thinking Gears, you would have realised that I have been out and about, setting the wheels in motion and gathering the resources pertaining to this Case of Zellaby’s. I seem to remember several other similar incidences from my Metaphysical Studies with our old friend, Father Brown…I believe he himself was involved in something similar years ago…needless to say, he managed to get to the root of the Problem, drafting in, along the way, his associates, Endeavour and Sunday…Those were The Days…but I digress…

I shall be round to pick you up at 7  –  Please have your Goodbyes seen to long before then…I still blanch at the memory of catching yourself and Mrs Watson in that Very Passionate Send-Off in the middle of your Front Hall..I have tried, but unfortunately failed, to erase the mental picture of That Clinch many times since then; the Involuntary Retching Spasms impede my Cogitations somewhat…As to the Garlic and Sharpened sticks…..I believe the man has been reading far too much lurid Pulp Fiction…or associating too much with those well-known Absinthe Addicts Lee and Cushing.

Till my Arrival, your friend,

SH.

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Posted by on July 27, 2015 in Detective Fiction

 

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Gone Cuckoo Huntin’…

from Dr J Watson to Sherlock Holmes Esq:

Dear Holmes
Since you’re clearly far too busy with your latest hobby (yes, Holmes, Mrs Hudson told me everything about your association with the Chelsea Line-Dancing Club), I’m leaving you this note re my previous missive. Should you get this in the next day or so, I’d appreciate your joining me at the home of Gordon Zellaby as planned.

I’m catching the 6:42 to Midwich this evening, having spent some time collecting the various objects Zellaby advised during our telephone conversation two nights ago. I’m not entirely sure why he thinks wooden stakes and garlic will be appropriate tools in our intended ‘intervention’ but I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.

I shall of course send you updates as soon as I am able.

Yours

Somewhat pissed off,
Watson

 
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Posted by on July 26, 2015 in Detective Fiction

 

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Cuckoos in the Nest…

from Dr J Watson to Sherlock Holmes Esq:

Dear HolmesSign with name
A rather curious letter arrived this morning, which I’m sure you will find of interest. Gordon Zellaby, an old mentor of mine from my junior doctoring days, is quite desperate that we should investigate what he seems to think is an issue of national importance.

You may recall a strange case that our pal Lestrade had some interest in, though it appears nothing very much came of it. The story concerned a silvery object that mysteriously appeared in a field outside the village of Midwich about nine years ago, causing an unusual feeling among the locals that seemed to prevent anyone leaving or entering the village. You might remember Lestrade’s account of the affair and his insistence that since no silvery object could be found, the truth of the matter was simply that all the villagers had over-indulged on the local ‘scrumpy’. He therefore passed the whole thing off as ‘misadventure’.

However, it transpires that something strange did happen all those years ago. Following the above events, it transpired that every woman in the village of childbearing age had become pregnant. In due course, a group of sixty or so children were born who rather bizarrely possessed very similar features – silvery-white skin and blonde hair. Now, I know what you’re thinking, Holmes – that this is clearly the work of some woman-crazy lothario who happens to have an unusually European appearance (almost as if some mad dictator had planned to repopulate the world with a race of ultra Arians!)

However, it is more recent events which are troubling old Zellaby. He has got it into his head that these children (his italics), pose some threat to not only the village, but society as a whole, and he is desperate that the ‘learned Mr Holmes’ should cast an eye on the situation as a matter of some urgency.

(As it happens, I’ve just received a similar request via telegram from your brother Mycroft, who is keen that we should investigate as soon as is humanly possible).

I shall leave this with you and look forward to your reply.

Watson

 
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Posted by on July 19, 2015 in Detective Fiction

 

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The Great Escape…

from Dr J Watson to Sherlock Holmes Esq:

(From the Diary of Dr Watson)

Now that I’m safely back home and nestling my head in the bosoms of my dear wife, I shall take this opportunity to consider the events of the last few days. My previous diary entry reveals how we found ourselves trapped in the school, desperately waiting for someone, anyone, to come to our aid. Holmes, as usual, had professed little faith in my abilities and consequently I took matters into my own hands…

Tippy, myself and Miss Machine, took stock of our situation and my companions decided, with some gentle persuasion on my part, that our best option was to dig a tunnel. We aimed to begin this task at the south wall of the cellar under the playground (above which our deadly feathered fiends were still squawking loudly), and dig our way out onto the steep bank of the river, a mere half a mile yonder. Gathering the now (thankfully) docile children, we armed ourselves with a variety of spoons and began the task of hacking away at the (again, thankfully), soft clay we found after removing a portion of the cellar wall.

In less than six hours, we had tunnelled almost three feet and just as I was beginning to think our work would never end, the roof of our lowly tunnel collapsed.

When the dust had cleared, I peered upwards and saw to my joy a glimmer of moonlight (for night had now fallen). Listening out for the slightest sound, I immediately noticed the lack of squawking – the birds had gone! I determined to forgo our tunnelling venture and spirit away, under cover of darkness, myself, the girls and the children, up through this narrow passage, across the playing field to the river and safety.

I had, however, given in too readily to the idea that the birds had deserted their posts, for no sooner had I engineered to have all of us out onto the grass, than a loud squawk echoed across the land. In seconds, the savage creatures were upon us, clawing and shrieking like clawy, shrieky things. I recall thinking that I should have listened to Holmes, when a sudden brightness caught my eye.

Across the playing field, dozens of lights were hurtling towards us, their sharp beams slicing through the darkness like shite off a hot shovel. The sudden interruption startled our attackers and the creatures rose up as one, leaving us momentarily free. At that point, someone grabbed my arm and I turned to stare into the soft, squidgy face of my old school chum Jessica Fletcher.

“Come, Johnny, come,” she yelled and turned to run back through the crowd of individuals who I now know as the local Light Aircraft Fanciers Society, their heads somewhat curiously adorned with propeller hats, and each of them waving a large torch.

Surrounded by our saviours, we were hurried across the grass to a waiting motor launch, where a certain Captain Jacqueline Sparrow had hot buttered scones and tea ready and waiting.

With all the children aboard, I sat down heavily next to Jessica and turned to smile at her. “Jessie, Jessie, Jessie,” said I, gazing into those beautiful blood-shot eyes. “How can I ever thank you?”

Jessica gave me one of her famous winks and muttered, “Oh, don’t you worry, Johnny, I’ve got plans for you…” And with that she slid her hand down my trousers.

I won’t go into all the shenanigans that followed once we were snuggled up in the safety of the ‘The Frigg and Whippet’ in Cabot’s Cove – suffice to say Jessica rounded things off rather masterfully, revealing the culprit behind the apparent madness of the bird population. Performing one of her famous unmasking ceremonies, Jessica gathered us all together and asked our friendly local school teacher, Miss Florence Machine, to step forward. With a sudden upward swing, Jessica smashed a four-pound hammer into the poor woman’s face.

I see now that it was perhaps rather remiss of me to scream quite so shrilly, but in my defence, I was truly shocked by what I saw. As Florence’s’ face literally slid off and crashed to the floor, the mess of cogs and chains inside her head left no doubt as to who, or should I say, what, she really was.

I imagine the idea of naming her ‘Miss Machine’ was one of Moriarty’s sick jokes, for it is he (I am convinced) who is the real mastermind behind this madness, and he, also, who created the thousands of mechanical birds who (thankfully, yet again) have now all been destroyed.

As a footnote to this episode, a northern film director has asked if he might utilise the remains of the previously mentioned mechanical creatures, as he has a plan to make a ‘moving picture’ detailing our adventures. Dear Tippy, too, has been approached with a view to portraying herself in what sounds like a pretty unrealistic plot. I mean, mechanical birds are one thing, but no-one would ever believe a plot centered around the idea that several thousand starlings could turn against the human race.

I will forward a copy of this episode to Holmes, though he will no doubt reply with his usual, “Tish, tish, Watson, you really have no imagination!”

 
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Posted by on July 13, 2015 in Detective Fiction

 

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