Tag Archives: The Dangerous Brothers

And Again…

From Sherlock Holmes Esq to Dr J Watson:

I now feel able to furnish you with the remaining details of the ghastly experience I was unfortunate, or foolish enough – the Jury is Out on that point…to recently have undergone…the flashbacks are happening less frequently, and thankfully becoming less acute, gradually losing some of their vivid hyper-reality and hallucinatory properties (I have to confess I was quite taken with That aspect of the Post-Traumatic effects, always being partial to a bit of altered realities, as you know only too well…)

But I digress…As I said, I was  fully prepared to finally meet my Maker (if such exists…), but it was not exactly the time or the place for an intellectual Debate on the Matter, as the actions of The Brothers called for most of my attention. In the circumstances, you can imagine that my first thoughts on seeing Master Douglas suddenly burst in on the proceedings, my pulverised senses took him to be but a figment of my imagination, conjured up in my hour of need to remove me from the Place of (probable) Execution…I admit I Was rather taken aback that my Avenging Angel should take the form of someone who, previous to this scenario, had hardly entered my consciousness, let alone held a special place in that rather sparsely-populated territory…

However, all I could see was the fact that perhaps Death now was Not such a foregone conclusion, and my spirits leapt and regained some of their fortitude; as his eyes met mine and locked on to my Fear and Loathing in “Ma’s Degas” (being the moniker of the Brothers’ Lodging-House – so called from Ma’s insistence that the worthy gentleman in question had once lodged there, and being somewhat strapped for cash at the time, had paid her in kind ….hence the somewhat blurry and indistinct portrait which hung in the Hall…though either M. Degas was somewhat the worse for wear at the time of execution, or it was his attempts at a flattering depiction of said landlady, whose looks unfortunately would never have been her ticket to the Miss Whitechapel Lovely Ladies Competition…or any such Fol-de-Rol based on a comely form – I believe your good lady to be a past Winner of some such nonsense, but I digress once again…Mrs Hudson believes it to be an after-effect of my recent trial, but then again she is ignorant of the consequences of substance abuse…

Anyway, Watson – to cut a long story short (“Thank C—-t!”, you will be muttering under your breath), Douglas demonstrated why men and women look up to him (well, maybe not the second…), and with nary a loss of breath, composure and hair out-of-place, put paid to the Scoundrels’ machinations; I was never more pleased to see a fellow in my life – well, next to you, perhaps…but there was just one thing I still cannot work out – he kept asking me whether I had seen a woman called “Alex”…

I still do not know what he was doing in that seedy Boarding-house…but I cannot deny my relief that he was, and having heard the suspicious noises emanating from the room, that he decided to investigate…Yes, Watson, there Are things in this world beyond our ken, and I for one are jolly glad for that!

I trust you will be round this evening to partake of Supper? Mrs Hudson has knocked up a batch of Strawberry Tartlets (her cousin-once-removed having a glut of said fruit at the moment), and also has received a supply of Gentleman’s Relish from that new place off The Strand – “Gervais and Merchant’s” –  I believe their Pilkington’s Peril is to die for…

Till Supper, your friend, snatched from the Jaws of Death,

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Posted by on July 5, 2014 in Detective Fiction


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On Having Escaped Death Again…

From Sherlock Holmes Esq to Dr J Watson:

Watson – I shall attempt to continue my narrative…

Mrs Hudson has made sure I cannot strain any part of my anatomy by having me lie on the Steamer chair with various segments of my form firmly bound and strapped to said device… does pose problems when the call of Nature strikes, but she has rigged up a nifty contraption consisting of milk bottles and builders’ tape, thus ensuring that I need not stray from my resting-place. To continue…

I saw the gargantuan piece of machinery, belching and issuing jets of steam, emitting a ghastly cacophony of grunts, gasps and groans at irregular intervals; I saw the elation and unalloyed bestial excitement on the faces of The Brothers, as they cackled and jeered, taunting me with primitive thrusts and grinds of their pelvic areas……their features contorted with manic bursts of endorphine-releasing movement, they pranced and circled me, working themselves in to a frenzy of emotional release; I concentrated on keeping my mind in the still centre, refusing to be affected by their orgasmic vibrations; I employed every teaching of my Buddhist acquaintances, silently repeating a Healing Mantra…

Eventually, they wound down their rituals –  “Well, Mr Holmes, are you ready to die??” – the non- bespectacled one spat out, his deranged features mere sixteenth-of- an-inch from my own immobile mask…..” Eddie and I have imagined this scenario umpteen times, as we sat with Dave Hedgehog and the Fat One , over delicious home-cooked meals and home-brewed beverages, dreaming of the day we had you helpless and hatless chez nous…..” .

I drew a breath, slowly and carefully, and prepared to utter perhaps my very last words…….when suddenly, a loud crashing issued from the next room, and to my utter amazement but astounding relief, there stood in the doorway, a figure, etched forever on my retinas – it was none other than Master Douglas himself, proprietor and chief Analyst at his renowned Institution…..I vowed to hence forward forever hold him in my Supreme Estimation.

To be Continued


Posted by on June 29, 2014 in Detective Fiction


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Having Escaped Death Again…

From Sherlock Holmes Esq to Dr J Watson:

I wonder if you could ask your good lady wife to organise a floral arrangement ( I believe this to be one of her specialties) and have it sent round to Master Douglas’ Institution by way of a small token of my appreciation and gratitude, as were it not for the timely intervention of said gentleman, I should now be, in the words of the immortal M.R. James’ schoolboy – ” a deader”…

Without any preamble, as you no doubt will have heard the gist of the incident, by one means or another, there I sat, bound and gagged in the William Morris- style chair, with its delicate Pugin-like carving, as the sinisterly unhinged forms of The Dangerous Brothers strutted and gurned around me, like Hieronymus Bosch characters come to life, rolling their eyes and drawing back their lips in wolf-like grins.  “Well, Eddie! What have we here? I do believe it is the famous Investigator Mr Sherlock Holmes! Honoured to make your acquaintance, sir! ” , and with an exaggerated bow, the rumpled figure leered into my face, one brow arched in quizzical fashion. On ascertaining that I was not about to engage him in any manner of dialogue, he appeared to lose patience, and aiming a battered boot at his accomplice, instructed him to “Fire her up!”

I shall take a break here, Watson, to consume some of my medicinal broth, as these exertions have somewhat weakened my recovering constitution. I shall resume my missive shortly.

Your friend, somewhat the worse for wear, SH.

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Posted by on June 21, 2014 in Detective Fiction


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From Dr Watson to Sherlock Holmes Esq:

Apologies for this delay in replying to your recent missive, but my mind has been racing and I have been forced to take several precautions before putting pen to paper. I am sending this to you by hand and intend to follow it shortly myself when all is ready. Read on, to learn why…

My good lady wife insisted that we attend a rather ghastly dinner party last evening at the home of that dreadful bore, Ernie Hemmingway. I’m certain you’ll have come across his books – novels, he laughingly calls them – detailing the exploits of outlandish characters who always have some similarly outlandish difficulty to overcome and who invariably end up shooting themselves in the head at the end of the story.

Anyway, the damn fellow bored the arses off his guests (myself included) for several hours while relating the turgid and unimaginative plot of his latest (apparently) prize-winning novel, which, like all his previous rather tedious attempts at entertainment, is written using what he likes to call ‘the iceberg technique’. Quite what the actual point of this farcical literary mechanism is, passed me by completely, however, one rather odd phrase of his did strike me as strangely relevant to your letter:

It seems that Ernie used to play the part of a horse’s arse in some pantomimic show down at Filthy McNasty’s Liquor Emporium between skirmishes during the Boer War. I wasn’t really listening, but when Ernie was explaining the punch-line of a particular sketch he was involved in, the phrase ‘just like The Dangerous Brothers’ caught my attention. I immediately boned him about this, but he palmed me off with some rubbish about seeing an early version of their act at the Alhambra in Newcastle.

I kept a close watch on Hemmingway after that and couldn’t help but notice a distinct lack of eye contact on his part for the rest of the evening. As we were bidding our host goodnight at the door, he suddenly grasped my arm, pulled me to one side and whispered harshly in my ear. At first I thought he said ‘By Christ, but you’ve got a big one, Watson’, but then I realised he’d actually mumbled ‘Five nights until the big one, Watson’. I gave him what I imagined was a curious stare but he merely held his forefinger to his nose and murmured ‘Dead Men Tell No Tales’.

Before I could ask him what this meant he had ushered myself and Mrs Watson into a gloomy Cheapside (his books clearly aren’t doing that well) and we quickly hailed a Hansom in case some ruffian leaped out of the shadows to relieve us of our few possessions. As the carriage trundled along, I mentioned the strange phrases to my wife and she immediately responded with a review of a novel she had recently read by some chap named Hornung, who I’m sure you’ll know is a relative of that buffoon Conan Doyle.

However, she then went on to say ‘but darling, I think Mr Haemorrhage [she was quite drunk] would have been referring to his own book of the same title, wouldn’t you think?’ She gave me a look that told me we have conversed on this same topic before, but of course I had no recollection of it, so simply replied ‘Oh, yes, of course, dear’.

I realise I am rambling somewhat, but to get to the point, when we returned home, I looked through my wife’s bedtime reading and discovered the very book in question. I’m sure you can imagine my horror on reading the title of the first chapter, which stated: In Which the Famous Detective is Horribly Killed During an Altercation with a Vaudeville Act…

Needless to say, I would urge you to stay indoors until I can pack my trusty revolver and any other weapons I can find and make my way to Baker Street.


Take Care!

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Posted by on June 15, 2014 in Detective Fiction


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