Monthly Archives: December 2015

Sherlock in a Box…

From the diary of Doctor Watson

As I sat up, the watch and chain hidden in the palm, the man on the chair leaned forward, eyes narrowed.

“I see you.”

I shrugged. “Sorry, old chap, no idea what you mean.”

The man on the chair stretched his mouth into the semblance of a smile. Reaching out a hand, he wiggled his fingers in a ‘come hither’ movement. “Give.”

Lestrade sat up, yawning. “Watty, d’you have my pocket watch by any chance?”

I sighed and twisted myself round, throwing the watch across the floor.

“Ah, there it is!” Lestrade frowned, glanced at me, then made an ‘O’ with his mouth. “Oops.”

The Chinese man stood up and walked slowly towards us, crouched down and, keeping his eyes fixed on me, stretched out his free hand to pick up the watch. Flicking it open, I saw his eyes widen as he took in the miniature hacksaw set into the underside of the lid. He looked up at me. “Clever, Doctor, but not clever – “

At that moment, a large section of wood flew off the side of the crate nearest us and smacked the villain across the side of his head, knocking him onto the floor.gun on floor

“Ah, Watson, and Lestrade too.” Sherlock Holmes unfolded himself from the inside of the now-open crate and hauled himself into a standing position. “Just in time, I see.” Crouching down, he picked up the gun our captor had dropped and pointed it at the man’s head. “Be so good as to untie my companions, will you?”

As the little man scurried across the floor, rubbing his sore head, I stared up at Holmes.

“How on earth…?”

The great detective smiled. “I knew my skills as a contortionist would come in handy sooner or later.”

Lestrade struggled to his feet and as soon as my own hands were free, we began to tie up our former captor.

“Now,” said Holmes. “I believe we have a megalomaniacal scoundrel to apprehend.” And with that, he dusted himself down and headed for the door.

To be continued…

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Posted by on December 30, 2015 in Detective Fiction


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What the Fu…

From the diary of Doctor Watson

Lestrade and I stood there for a long moment as the eyes of the mob stared back at us. Then with a deft movement, I unleashed my Anti-Moriarty device (a gadget I’ve been working on for some time) and my trusty revolver slid down my sleeve and into my waiting hand.

I held the gun high, ensuring everyone could see it, and for about three seconds I actually believed we might overcome the hoard, locate Fu Manchu, make the necessary arrests and be home in time for tea. But alas, it was not to be so, for at that instant, Fu himself appeared at my feet – apparently having cleverly concealed himself in the very dirt we stood on.Crates with Lettering copy

“Ha!” Yelled he, whipping the weapon out of my grasp. “Once again, I have the upper hand.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “For Fuck’s Sake, Watson…”

I turned to my companion with the intention of giving him a quick slap across the chops, but our opponent was even quicker and bopped Lestrade over the head with a small cosh. Even as I saw the inspector fall to his knees I knew what would happen next.

It was dark when I came to. My first response was to rub my head but it seemed my hands were tied. Literally. I blinked and looked around. We were inside the warehouse, Lestrade lying on his side next to me, and a small Chinese man sitting on a chair a few yards away, pointing my own revolver at my head. I tugged at my bonds but they had about as much give in them as a banker at Christmas.

“You cannot escape.” The man with the gun smiled. “However, my master instructed me to encourage you to try. Then I can shoot you.” He smiled again.

The space around us was bare, but the rest of the warehouse was packed floor to ceiling with wooden crates, all marked ‘Landen Tahn’. I was about to comment on the poor spelling when Lestrade stirred.


“You alright, old bean?” I leaned over, hoping our captor would think I was merely showing concern for my companion, but in reality, I was reaching for the watch chain that dangled from Lestrade’s pocket. Muttering away in a calming tone as if I were offering medical advice to my friend, I was able to loop a finger through the chain. Giving it a smart tug, I pulled it free of his pocket and gathered the item into my stiff little fingers. Quite how I was to carry out the next stage of my plan was not, at that moment, obvious.

To be continued…

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Posted by on December 22, 2015 in Detective Fiction


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In Search of Fu…

From the diary of Doctor Watson

It has been some time since I was able to put pen to paper in this most terrifying of cases, but as I sit here at my desk, I know that the Demon who has taunted us for the last few weeks will shortly be behind bars.

Leaving Holmes in the care of the oddly named Dr Ormond Sacker and his team of virgin-like nurses, I determined to hunt down Fu Manchu and bring him to justice. My first port of call was to accompany Lestrade to the house at No 1A, Hangman’s Lane. Needless to say, neither of us were surprised to find that not only the house, but in fact the entire lane, was no longer in existence. The room where I had been held captive was nothing more than a pile of rubble.

“I fear our bird has flown,” muttered Lestrade.450px-Roper_Street,_Hull_-_geograph_org_uk_-_1226846

I nodded. “But we do have one clue…” I opened my bag and pulled out the carefully wrapped copy of ‘The Mask of Fu Manchu’. Opening the package just enough to examine the wording on the back of the book, I pointed at the name of the printer.

Lestrade’s face began to change, and after a moment I realised he was smiling. “Ah ha!” Said he. “The Fat Bum Press.”

I coughed. “I believe it’s pronounced ‘Phantom Press’, Inspector.”

“Ah, yes of course.” His newly acquired smile was replaced by the more familiar smirk. “In any case, I know where the place is – to the Docks!

And so it was a mere thirty short minutes later that we approached a forlorn-looking warehouse by the River, and proceeded to circle the building to ascertain how we might gain entry.

As we rounded the corner, any doubt that we had arrived at Fu Manchu’s hideout, was blown away like a puff of smoke up a particularly unsoiled chimney. There in front of us stood fourteen individuals of Chinese origin performing a strange, ritualistic dance.

A moment later, all movement ceased as the eyes of the mob turned towards us.

To be continued.

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Posted by on December 18, 2015 in Detective Fiction


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