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The Colonel’s Choice


From the Diary of Doctor J. Watson

Holmes nudged me. ‘This is our chance, Watson.’

Keeping our eyes on the action in front of us, we began to edge our way towards the partially open double doors. Moriarty was screaming and together with the Claw’s maniacal laughter and the screeching saw blade, we could have broken into a hearty four-part harmony without anyone paying us the remotest attention.

As we slid out of the warehouse, I glanced back and saw that the Professor was only inches away from certain death.

‘Look here, Holmes,’ I whispered. ‘We can’t just leave him like this.’

‘Why not – he fully intended doing the same thing to us in Edinburgh.’

I sighed. ‘I suppose, but it seems…’ And then I noticed there was someone standing nearby. A man in dark clothing walked slowly toward us, a rifle in his hands. It was pointing straight at Holmes.

‘Sherl…’ I said, tapping my companion on the arm. ‘We’ve got company.’

Holmes turned to look and immediately broke into a broad grin. ‘Chief Bromide – what on earth are you doing here?’ He started forward, then stopped abruptly.

The newcomer had reached up and taken off his hat. Now, pulling at his hair, he removed the long black wig. Holding the hairpiece like a duster, he proceeded to wipe his face, removing whatever dark pigment he had used to disguise his true colouring.

Holmes let out a low sigh. ‘Ah. Well, this is unexpected. I thought you were dead?’ He twisted round and looked at me. ‘Watson, I don’t believe you’ve met – this is Sebastian Moran, Professor Moriarty’s left-hand man.’

The other man levelled the gun so it was now pointing at Sherlock’s head. ‘It’s right-hand man, actually,’ he said. ‘Now, Mister Holmes, it seems I got here just in time.’ He waggled the rifle toward the still-open doors. ‘Get back inside.’

Holmes shook his head. ‘I think not, Colonel, you see if you want to save your boss, you’re not going to have time to shoot all of us, and the Claw, and his henchmen before the Professor gets his testicles divided, so I suggest you focus on what your employer would wish you to focus on. I should think you’ve got about eight seconds left…’ He nodded towards the warehouse.

Keeping the rifle trained on us, Moran peered through the crack in between the doors. A look of irritation swept over his face and in an instant, he had burst through the gap. Seconds later a hail of bullets told us it was time to go, so still tied together, we hurried down to the rowing boats.

I won’t bore you with the details of our escape but suffice it to say that the gigantic metal fish (which Holmes has christened the Nautilus), is now safely back in dry dock at Burgen, where a team of Government experts are trying to work out how it got stolen in the first place. Colonel Moran did save Moriarty’s life, but killed several people in the process, one of which may have been the Hooded Claw, although reports of his death have not been confirmed.

Penelope Pitstop retained her title at Brooklands race track a few weeks ago and promised to visit us all the next time she’s in Londen.

Our old friend Inspector Buckingham Caddy was called in to investigate events at The Ullswater Institute for the Utterly Indisposed, where a certain Nurse Ratched is facing questions regarding her continued employment as Matron.

For myself, there are several points in the case that still puzzle me, not least of which is why and how Penelope came to be involved, since there appears to be no connection between her and the Hooded Claw (or Moriarty, for that matter), leaving me with the impression that Holmes and I missed some vital clue. However, as my dear Mary says, it’ll all come out in the wash.

 
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Posted by on December 15, 2018 in Detective Fiction

 

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A Fishy Tale


From the Journal of Sherlock Holmes
Ullswater
Cumbria

Assuring my fellow inmate that I would happily ‘grass him up’ to Nurse Ratched if he should falter, I positioned him by the bathroom door as my look-out and set about climbing onto a wooden cabinet in a bid to reach the high window. Pulling myself up to the ledge, I was easily able to see over the sill and look down on the lake below.

The foundations of the Institute were built on a rocky crag close to the water, so from my perch three storeys up, I calculated the water’s edge could not have been more than forty-seven feet away. This allowed me a classic birds-eye view of the harbour area. From the layout of the jetty, I reasoned its original purpose was to cater for the twice-daily steam launch that passed for a bus service, dropping off and picking up passengers at various points along the shore. What struck me as odd, however, was the sheer length of the jetty – it appeared far too long to accommodate the day-to-day comings and goings of a thirty-foot launch.

“Urry up, mate,” hissed Cutler, waving a hand in my direction. “The orderlies’ll be along soon and then we’ll be for it.”

“Just a moment,” I said, fishing in my dressing gown for my spyglass. Extending the instrument, I studied the point at the jetty which I judged to be the optimal area for boats and the like to tie up, and I noticed a disparity – the timber utilised for the main section of the landing-stage showed a clear demarcation line where a new section had been added (the colouring of the wood being a shade lighter and its grain more compact, signifying also that this addition had been carried out within the last year). The only reason I could see for such a supplementary construction must be to enable the jetty to reach further out into the lake where the water was considerably deeper, the sort of depth one might require in accommodating a much larger vessel.

And that’s when it happened.

The water around the mid-section of the jetty began to bubble and foam, as if several divers where rising hurriedly to the surface. However, it was not aquanauts emerging from the silvery water that caused the effervescence, but a vessel of the kind I had never seen before. It was the fin which broke the surface first – a gigantic metal fin that must have been a dozen feet in height and twice as much again in length. But this was nothing compared to the beast it was attached to. Rising slowly out of the lake, a gleaming silver fish appeared, its total length close to that of the wooden jetty itself, which seemed like a child’s toy alongside the beast’s massive bulk.

“My God,” I muttered.

“You’ve seen it, then,” said Cutler, recognising the look of amazement that had emblazoned itself across my habitually stolid features.

“Yes,” I nodded. “I’ve seen it.” But then a flash of recognition seared through my brain and I realised I’d observed the gigantic metal fish before. Whatever Nurse Ratched had given me, had virtually erased the item from my memory and only now was I able to recall my actions on seeing this very same vessel the evening before.

“Quickly,” I urged, clambering down from the cabinet. “I must record these details before that damned nurse has another opportunity to pump her evil juice into my body.” Hurrying back to my bed, I slid a hand into the opening I’d made in the side of the mattress, but my slender fingers failed to make contact with the book’s moleskin cover.

“Looking for this, Mr Holmes?”

Raising my head, I knew before I saw it that she had my journal in her thieving hands. “Give that back, you evil temptress,” I muttered, striding towards her.

She gave a shrug and tossed the book across to me, her pendulous bosoms trembling with the effort of movement. “Interesting reading,” she said, “though I’m afraid your enthralling account won’t be making it into print anytime soon – don’t want the world to discover what’s really going on here, do we?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I spied Cutler sliding along the wall towards his own bed, no doubt intending to slide between the sheets before she noticed him. Unfortunately, Nurse Ratched’s henchmen were already waiting with a large syringe and a straitjacket. Within seconds, the poor man was prostrate on the floor, his screams muzzled by a rubber gag. Moments later, he lay quiet, arms tied behind his back via the restraining garment that now encased half his body.

“You won’t get away with this,” I said. “Even now, my faithful companion Doctor John Watson is on his way here. We’ll blow your evil plan out of the water before your villainous leader can say Jack Robinson.”

“J-a-c-k R-o-b-i-n-s-o-n,” articulated an all-too-familiar gravelly voice from the far end of the room.

His mocking words prompted a sinking feeling in my guts, the kind of sinking feeling I imagine Watson encounters on a regular basis. In my case, though, it was a new experience and I did not like it – I did not like it one little bit. Turning my head, I gave the newcomer a rueful smile in the hope of appearing considerably more relaxed than I felt. “Ah, Mister Claw. We meet again.”

“So,” he said, locking the dormitory door behind him. “You have uncovered my dastardly plan?”

Oddly, it was only now that I noticed how quiet the dormitory had become. Apart from Cutler’s, all the beds were empty. My fellow patients had vacated the room. How this had occurred without any of them making a sound, was a mystery – had they secretly been awake earlier, waiting for some sign, some prearranged signal? If so, it could only have happened while I was in the bathing area, but with Cutler on lookout, he must have seen whatever had occurred. Was he part of this evil plan too? In any case, it was no coincidence – the Claw had been here all along, watching me, waiting for his chance. But to do what? And why?

“Well,” I said, stalling for time while probing my massive brain for some clue as to what the hell was going on. “Obviously I know about the fish.”

He raised an eyebrow. “A new type of submarine, that is all. Nothing sinister about that, is there, Mister Holmes?”

A dozen ideas flashed through my brain, none of them making any sense in connection with the water-dwelling contraception. “You’ve discovered a new type of fuel,” I ventured. “Something that will threaten the major powers of the world.”

“I have, as it happens,” he said with a smile. “But that is another project. No, this is something far simpler.” He paused, then, “Can’t you guess? Your biographer Johnny Watson mentioned it in one of his early articles for The Strand Magazine.” He smirked. “The story was replaced in the second printing of that particular edition.”

For a moment, I was stumped, struggling to recall which of our early escapades he referred to. Then it came to me: “Ah, you mean The Laird and the Wicker Mannie?

He nodded slowly, making a get-on-with-it motion with his metallic hand, his jaw set hard in a grimace of annoyance.

“The new story was called The Lady in Red, I think.”

The Claw let out a growl, the veins in his forehead throbbing furiously. “A Study in Scarlet, you imbecile.”

“Ah yes,” I said. “It was substituted due to some indiscretion of John’s regarding–”

“Get to the fucking point, Holmes,” screamed the Claw, his face flushing purple.

Gazing out of the window, I noted the appearance of grey-black clouds scudding across the sky, blocking out the sun – an ominous sign. “Very well. The word you’re referring to is ‘rache’ – a German term meaning…” I looked at him. “Revenge.”

The Claw’s anger subsided. “Precisely,” he murmured. “And that revenge begins now…”

 
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Posted by on November 25, 2018 in Detective Fiction

 

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Through a Window


From the Journal of Sherlock Holmes
Ullswater
Cumbria

Not being an aficionado of diary-keeping, I acknowledge a feeling of irritation on recognising that keeping detailed notes on my current situation has become a necessity. This awareness came about this morning following an attempt to recall an encounter last evening. Finding myself unable to focus on specific details of the encounter, I reasoned that a portion of my memory must have been ‘misplaced’. I use this word loosely since it clearly cannot have gone anywhere, and will, at some future point in time, be once more fully accessible. However, as I simply am unable to sustain my usual diligence during the deductive process without the use of my entire faculties, I shall in the meantime resort to Watson’s tedious method of writing everything down.

At supper last night, I shared a table with two of my fellow inmates – one, a chap named Cutler who believes himself to be the ghost of a pirate captain, became unusually talkative on the subject of Nurse Rached. This latter person is a vile individual who delights in tormenting the patients with petty punishments, most often metered out via her innate ability to instil feelings of worthlessness in her charges.

The other man at our table goes by the nickname of Chief Bromide – a dark-skinned fellow who is unable, or at least, refuses, to speak to anyone. (He apparently masturbates during morning prayers, hence the application of a certain type of suppressant, and therefore his current moniker). That he hears and sees everything that goes on around him is perfectly obvious from the minor ‘tics’ and small facial movements he makes, and which I surmise he is unaware of, but nevertheless allow me to clarify that he does indeed respond to conversation, albeit not in the usual manner.

“Watch out she doesn’t get yer alone in the bathroom,” said Cutler, drawing me back to his diatribe. “She’ll stick a rubber hose up yer arse before you can pull your trousers up.”

“There are those who delight in such practices,” I observed with a sardonic smile.

He nodded glumly, “Oh aye, but not the way she does it.”

Glancing at the Chief, I thought I detected the beginnings of a smile, but a moment later it was gone as his features regained their unyielding indifference.

Cutler continued his ramblings while I took a few minutes to observe the other inmates in the dining area. There are currently forty-three of us in Ward 4, including five who are completely catatonic and will only move when manhandled by a pair of burly orderlies. The rest are mostly sad cases, here due to a lack of appropriate care in their own communities or through the pressure of families who cannot bear to be smeared with madman-in-the-attic type scenarios. (I’m sure Watson would have something pertinent to say on the matter.)

Cutler’s conversation abruptly ceased, and he muttered a feeble greeting to someone behind me. Turning around, I stared up into the dark and wholly malevolent eyes of Nurse Rached.

It was at this point that my memory begins to fade.

On awakening and finding myself in bed, drenched in sweat and completely naked, I immediately sought to recollect the circumstances that might have led to this unusual, and somewhat disquieting circumstance. Recalling only the details I have so far related, I pulled on my dressing gown with a view to hunting down my two companions.

The large timepiece on the wall showed it was not yet six o’clock. Most of my compatriots were still entrenched in their beds, snoring and farting alternately. Cutler, however, was already dressed and waiting at the entrance to the ward, no doubt hoping to scrounge a cigarette from one of the orderlies. He started at my approach and hurried away into a side room, gesturing at me to follow.

“Bloody hell, mate,” he said, closing the door. “You must’ve done something real bad.”

“What on earth are you gibbering about, man?” I said, giving him a shake.

“Rached, weren’t it? She gave you something to shut you up.”

I blinked. “Some type of drug?”

“Dunno what they call it, but she dishes it out to anyone who sees too much.”

“Too much of what?”

He looked at the floor. “Can’t say.”

I grabbed his chin and forced him to look at me. “Come on man, spit it out.”

Moving close so his mouth was by my ear, he whispered, “You must’ve seen something what you didn’t ought to have seen.”

This put me in a quandary. If I had witnessed something significant, I was not aware of it, therefore it could only be that whatever I had seen had not registered as important in my own mind. “Now look here, Cutler,” I said. “You have to tell me what this something is.”

He shook his head vehemently. “Can’t do that, mate, not a bleedin chance.” He grasped the door handle and made to leave, but I pulled him back and threw him against the wall.

“You’d better tell me, or I’ll tell Nurse Rached how much you enjoy the rubber hoses.” I admit this was a rather pitiful tactic, but I had to discover what he knew.

His eyes went as wide as saucers. “You bloody bastard, you.” Then biting his lower lip until it bled, I observed the man wrestle with some internal dilemma as he strived to come to a decision. Eventually, he gave a quick nod and opened the door.

“I’ll show you,” he murmured, “but you ain’t got to let on it was me, right?” Taking my arm, he peered around the doorway, then hurried down the still-darkened dormitory towards the bathroom. Checking each cubicle, he verified that none were occupied, before pushing through into the bathing area.

“Through there,” he said, pointing across the room to a window, high on the west wall of the Institute. “That’s where I saw it.”

“Saw what?” I exhorted.

“A fish – a gigantic metal fish.”

 
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Posted by on November 11, 2018 in Detective Fiction

 

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A Warning to the Ill-Advised


The Ullswater Institute for the Utterly Indisposed
From Sherlock Holmes Esq to Doctor J. Watson

Watson,
So, the Hooded Claw is back? Well, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – you’re a fool, Watson, a damned fool!

Apologies old friend, but I do find myself wondering what goes on in that tiny brain of yours. Even though you have systematically recorded the evidence of your own eyes, you seem not to have allowed the information to penetrate your skull. For the sake of clarity (yours, not mine), I shall outline my thoughts on your notes:

In allowing Miss Pitstop to stay at the well-known racing-driver’s retreat, The Brooklands Hotel, you may as well have lit a beacon on top of her head – even our old pal Sikes would’ve had more sense. Also, the ‘young couple’ you observed were clearly on the Claw’s payroll – everyone knows the English hate motor sports, so unless the pair were German, from the Isle of Mull, or escapees from The Londen Asylum for the Really Rather Mad, I think we can safely assume your cover was blown the moment they set eyes on you. However, as we now have to deal with the fact of your having exposed our client to the felonious elements within our society, I have resolved to be the grown-up in this matter and move on.

Before I do, though, I should like to add an additional error of judgement (as if another needed to be drawn) – why on earth did you give yourself the ridiculous moniker of Ormond Sacker? Even that cretin Conan Doyle couldn’t have thought that one up. In future I suggest you choose one of our time-honoured standby pseudonyms, Joshua Smith or Thaddeus Jones.

Now, on one point I must congratulate you (cherish it, Watson, such plaudits will be rare). As you say, the paper used by the Claw to send those threatening letters, bears a watermark. I also concur with your assumption that the image was created using the cylinder-mould process. The singularly unique features of the image demand it must have been added after the paper was pressed and cut, therefore cannot have originated from the Basildon Bond factory. In any case, I very much doubt the Hooded Claw has need of several dozen reams of watermarked stationery. Since any legitimate paper manufacturer would not touch a specialised job in the quantities required, we must look to the criminal underworld to locate the brains behind it. To my knowledge, there is only one person in England who possesses both the skill and the level of villainy to carry out such a task – the forger Austin Bidwell.

Locating Mister Bidwell is likely to be a waste of time at present, since it is probable he has already fled the country, so I think we should confine ourselves to dealing with the Claw.

Now, you must have guessed that my sojourn in The Ullswater Institute for the Utterly Indisposed was not merely due to a finger injury. In fact, the self-inflicted wound to my digit proved necessary to gain entry to the Institute and, more specifically, to what inmates refer to as the ‘nutters’ ward, due to the high incidence of apparent suicides. Situated on the west side of the building and being on the third floor, the bedroom windows in that ward overlook the lake and, more importantly, a small harbour. It is for this reason I am now able to verify that all our lives, including that of Miss Pitstop (who I imagine was targeted purely to attract our attention and get us out of the way), are in terrible danger. That the Claw only succeeded in distracting you and Mrs Watson is of no consequence, as I am certain he will have altered his plans accordingly and will be expecting us to join forces here in Ullswater very soon.

I am sending this message via Bobby the carrier pigeon, Inspector Lestrade’s most recent strategy for speeding up communications between himself and his lacklustre team of detectives. I commandeered the aforementioned bird and adopted the pretence of him being my ‘pet’, in the certain knowledge that secreting one of Mycroft’s patented Telegraphical Steam Conduits down my pyjamas would soon have been confiscated by my so-called carer, the tyrannical Nurse Ratched, and access to the steamographal telecommunications office in the village would be out of the question once I had submitted myself to the Institute.

If you have not already done so, I suggest you book tickets for all three of you on the next train to Cumbria. In addition, I beg you to take the utmost care, as the Claw may attempt to capture you en route.

I recommend you gain entry to the institute by utilising your medical qualifications – though one or two of the staff here may be in league with Mister Claw, the majority are an asset to their profession and are unlikely to refuse admittance to an actual doctor.

Once again I urge you to take care. Though I do have an inkling as to the Claw’s intentions, I may be completely wrong, and it is entirely possible he intends to subject all of us to the sort of murderous device Moriarty employed in our Edinburgh adventure. Needless to say, I have no wish to face another ‘slicing and dicing’ machine, and as Mycroft is out of the country, a last-minute rescue from that quarter won’t be on the cards.

Yours
Holmes

 
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Posted by on October 28, 2018 in Detective Fiction

 

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