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Monthly Archives: October 2015

A Cautionary Telegram…

from Sherlock Holmes Esq to Dr J Watson:

Watson
I believe I owe you an explanation as to my recent prolonged absence, which will be forthcoming in due course, but I write this principally to attempt to warn you to be on your guard, as I have been informed via reliable sources that several prominent citizens in our bustling metropolis have been led to their Death by fake Letters asking for assistance in tracing Missing Persons. I believe a Certain Criminal Mastermind to be behind these occurrences.
 

Just a Thought.
Holmes

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Posted by on October 28, 2015 in Detective Fiction

 

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A Call for Help…

To Doctor Watson from Mister Humanfuc

My Dear Doctor

I write to you from my humble abode in the East End of your fine city in the hope that yourself and the famous detective Mister Sherlock Holmes may be aReynolds'_map_of_The_East_End_1882ble to help me.

My young cousin, Bob, has been kidnapped by some never-do-very-wells (which I am told is a frequent occurrence in your fine town). I have received a telegram this morning detailing how the ransom money is to be paid. As I am but a poor immigrant in your ‘luverly’ city, I beg that you are able to come to my aid in this terrible affair.

Please call at my lodgings at your earliest convenience:
1A, Hangman’s Lane, London.

Yours
H.

 
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Posted by on October 27, 2015 in Detective Fiction

 

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Something Wicker this Way Comes (Again)…

From the Diary of Dr J Watson:

The next day Holmes and I made our way to the rendezvous as described on the invitation. I must admit to feeling some degree of trepidation as we approached the hill above the village. Following the path up to the summit, we caught glimpses of the bizarre structure ahead of us and then, emerging into the clearing, we gazed upon the thing itself, as it stood proudly on the summit, gazing out across the bay.Mrs Moriarty

“My God, Holmes,” I exclaimed. “It’s…it’s…it’s…”

“Yes, Watson,” muttered my companion. “It’s me.”

I was struck by a curious mix of terror and admiration as we beheld the strange sight before us. The Wicker man must have been more than thirty feet high, it’s features cleverly shaped into a form I was only too familiar with. “Holmes – it’s you!”

“You have a gift for repetition, Watson,” said Holmes. “Indeed, a good likeness, though currently unfinished, I think.” He peered around the clearing and raising his hand pointed to a lone figure standing some yards from the wicker structure. “Our adversary, I believe.” And with that he strode forward.

Hurrying after him, I kept my gaze on the man before us, struggling to make out his face. As we approached, the stranger lifted his head.

“My God, Holmes,” I began, but my friend held up a hand.

“For a writer, Watson, you appear to be somewhat in short supply of suitable expletives.”

“Sorry, Holmes, what I meant was – Fucking Hell.”

Holmes nodded and turned to the stranger. “Mrs Moriarty, I believe?”

The woman in black nodded as she tore away the whiskers, beard, moustache and false nose. “Yes, Mr Holmes and I am here to take my revenge on you for the death of my husband.” With a quick movement, she snapped her fingers and a horde of swarthy individuals jumped out of the bushes and surrounded us, throwing ropes and chains around our feet and hands. Moments later, they were carrying us to the wicker figure and in an instant, I understood what Holmes had been referring to – we were to be encased in wicker and bound to the effigy’s legs. We were, in short, its feet.

As our captors lashed our struggling forms into place, I glanced at my companion. “Er Holmes…I hope this was part of your plan…”

Holmes gave me a sardonic smile. “Have faith, Watson.” And with that he began manipulating his mouth in such a way that for a moment I half-expected him to pull one of his famous ‘gurning’ faces, but then I saw the short metal tube emerge from his puckered lips and a second later he blew through that same tube with all his might. As I expected, there was no sound, but suddenly the paws of a gigantic hound were upon us, its slavering jaws biting and tearing at our bonds amidst shouts of anger from the gang.

As we fell to the ground, the yells of the villains reached a crescendo as Scooby Doo rounded them up, while Shaggy shouldered his blunderbuss and aimed it at the baddies.

“Just in the nick of time, Mr Rogers,” said Holmes, dusting himself down. “Though I’m sure we could have tarried a little longer.” He turned to the woman in black, who was splayed on the ground with one of Scooby’s massive paws in the middle of her ample chest.

“Time to unmask the real villain, I think.” And Holmes stepped forward and grasped the woman’s hand.

“My God, Holmes,” I began, then “Sorry. I meant, heavens to Betsy, it’s Bertha Mason, the mad woman in the attic!”

“Yes,” said Holmes, revealing the horrendous burns that ran up and down the woman’s arms. “The unfortunate Mr Rochester’s former wife who everyone assumed had died in the fire at Thornfield Hall.”

I frowned. “So, not Mrs Moriarty, then?”

Holmes laughed. “Of course not, Watson. You see, if you had read the invitation properly you would have understood the message.”

“Sorry, Holmes, what…?”

The great detective sighed. “Colonel Sebastian Moran is an anagram.” He paused. “I see this information has not enlightened you Watson, so I will expand. It is an anagram of collarbones emanations’ which is of course completely meaningless, or to put it another way…”

“Entirely mad.” Said I.

Holmes nodded. “And since Bertha Mason is the only entirely mad person I have ever come across who might bear a grudge against me, it follows that only she could be behind such a meaningless venture. Clearly, she was able to fool Moriarty’s former associates, but unfortunately her obsession with fire has been her downfall.”

“But Holmes, this case began because Shaggy enlisted our help..”

“Indeed,” said Holmes, with a curious smile. “Bertha seems to have become a little mixed up in her literary associations, thinking that our colleague Scooby Doo was in fact, the Hound of the Baskervilles.”

“Ah,” I said.

“You don’t understand, do you?” Said Holmes as we walked away.

“Can’t say I do, to be honest, Holmey.”

“Never mind, Watson, never mind.”

Watson

 
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Posted by on October 17, 2015 in Detective Fiction

 

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Telegram Sam(oriarty)…

From the Diary of Dr J Watson:

Having ensconced ourselves atOld Woodward Place copy The Old Woodward Place, Holmes and I endeavoured to make our surroundings as comfortable as possible (given the recent threat to our very existence). Shaggy took his ridiculous hound for a walk while I toasted crumpets on a rather ‘homely’ fire, knocked up a jug of hot chocolate and waited for Holmes to finish his ablutions.

“Remind me to avoid Wild Rabbit Curry in future, Watson – the damn stuff has given me a roaring dose of the runs.”

“Rather like the rabbit itself, then,” I chuckled.

Holmes gave me a sardonic smile and seated himself in one of the two armchairs by the fire. I handed out my wares and we settled down to discuss the case.

Holmes unfolded the ‘telegram’ again. “So, Watson, according to this we have until tomorrow night to solve this caper before something devilish occurs.” He peered at me over the top of his reading spectacles.

“You have a plan, I take it?”

My companion nodded. “Indeed, though it relies rather too heavily on our laidback friend for my comfort.” He paused, then “But since it is the only plan, we must take it and run with it. Run, in fact, being the operative word. If I’m right, the only way to bring an end to this affair is to allow ourselves to fall into Moriarty’s trap. At which point, we will of course escape the ravages of the burning effigy and effect a capture.”

I swallowed hard. “Surely you don’t mean that we should follow the instructions on the telegram?”

“Of course, Watson. How else can we be sure of success?”

I shook my head and wondered if I should take a few minutes to write a farewell letter to my dear wife, just in case.

Holmes sipped his hot chocolate and smacked his lips. “The game’s afoot, Watson. And I do mean, a foot…” He gave me one of his Confucius-type smiles and turned to gaze into the fire.

To be continued.

Watson

 

 
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Posted by on October 9, 2015 in Detective Fiction

 

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