“Although there is always the thought that your visitors are already in the far future discovering your loss and even now are setting back to search for you.”
“Such is, of course, the case, but they might search for a century and not find me.”
“What a load of old rubbish,” said Omally suddenly rising from his seat. “Come, Jim, let us away to our beds.”
Pooley climbed to his feet. “Be fair, Professor,” said he. “This is all a bit too much over the top. I know that the world is always ready and waiting for one more Sherlock Holmes story, but this is pushing credibility to the very limit.”
“Do you doubt who I am?” Holmes rose to his full height and stood glaring at the deuce of Thomases.
“Be fair,” said Pooley, “this is very far-fetched. You are at the very least extremely fictional in nature.”
“I am as fictional as you,” said Sherlock Holmes.
“Ha,” said Pooley. “If you are the legendary doyen of detectives, answer me some questions.”
“Proceed.”
“All right then, what are the thirty-nine steps?”
“Wrong story,” said John Omally.
“Ah, well… In
The Red-Headed League
how did you know Vincent Spaulding was actually John Clay the murderer, thief, forger, and smasher?”
“By the white splash of acid on his forehead and his pierced ears.”
“Who lost his hat and his goose in
The Blue Carbunkle
?”
“Henry Baker.”
“What was the Musgrave Ritual?”
“Who was it? He who is gone. Who shall have it? He who will come. What is the month? Sixth from the first. Where is the sun? Over the oak. What was the shadow?…”
“Right, right, under the elm, we know.”
“Who was the Norwood Builder?” Jim asked.
“Jonas Oldacre.”
“And the Three Students?”
“Gilchrist, Danlat Ras and Miles McLaren.”
“And the plumber engaged to Charles Augustus Milverton’s housemaid?”
“Myself,” said Holmes.
“Well you could have read them. I always believed that Holmes really did go over the Riechenbach Falls with Professor Moriarty. Those later stories were the work of a stand-in, I thought.”
“Bravo,” said Holmes. “You are, of course, correct. You must understand that a certain amount of subterfuge was necessary to cover my disappearance. My exploits were chronicled by Doctor Watson, through an arrangement we had with a Mr Conan Doyle. I left it to him to continue with the stories after my supposed death.”
“Hang on,” said Pooley. “Not that I can make any sense at all out of this, but if you went below under the pretence of dying in the Riechenbach Falls how could you possibly know about the Norwood Builder and the Three Students. That was four years later in
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
.”
“Ah,” said that man.
“Ah, indeed,” said Professor Slocombe. “And Milverton’s plumber?”
“Detective’s license?” Holmes suggested.
“I give up,” said John Omally.
“Me also,” said Jim.
10
An inexpensive veneer of sunlight was thinly varnishing the rooftops of Brentford as Norman Hartnell took up the bundle of daily papers from his doorstep and hefted them on to his counter.
The early morning was always Norman’s favourite time of the day. The nights were hell, for whilst his body slept upon its Hartnell Mark II Hydrocosipit, his brain went on the rampage, plotting, planning, and formulating, driving him on and on towards more preposterous and unattainable goals. But in the early mornings he could find just a little peace. He could peruse the daily papers as he numbered them up for delivery. He was in the privileged position of ever being the first in the parish to know the news.
On this particular morning, after a very rough night with his capricious cerebellum, Norman sliced away the twine bindings of the paper bundle with his reproduction Sword of Boda paper knife, eager to see what the rest of the world had been up to. As he tore the brown paper covering aside and delved into the top copy a singularly
“Such is, of course, the case, but they might search for a century and not find me.”
“What a load of old rubbish,” said Omally suddenly rising from his seat. “Come, Jim, let us away to our beds.”
Pooley climbed to his feet. “Be fair, Professor,” said he. “This is all a bit too much over the top. I know that the world is always ready and waiting for one more Sherlock Holmes story, but this is pushing credibility to the very limit.”
“Do you doubt who I am?” Holmes rose to his full height and stood glaring at the deuce of Thomases.
“Be fair,” said Pooley, “this is very far-fetched. You are at the very least extremely fictional in nature.”
“I am as fictional as you,” said Sherlock Holmes.
“Ha,” said Pooley. “If you are the legendary doyen of detectives, answer me some questions.”
“Proceed.”
“All right then, what are the thirty-nine steps?”
“Wrong story,” said John Omally.
“Ah, well… In
The Red-Headed League
how did you know Vincent Spaulding was actually John Clay the murderer, thief, forger, and smasher?”
“By the white splash of acid on his forehead and his pierced ears.”
“Who lost his hat and his goose in
The Blue Carbunkle
?”
“Henry Baker.”
“What was the Musgrave Ritual?”
“Who was it? He who is gone. Who shall have it? He who will come. What is the month? Sixth from the first. Where is the sun? Over the oak. What was the shadow?…”
“Right, right, under the elm, we know.”
“Who was the Norwood Builder?” Jim asked.
“Jonas Oldacre.”
“And the Three Students?”
“Gilchrist, Danlat Ras and Miles McLaren.”
“And the plumber engaged to Charles Augustus Milverton’s housemaid?”
“Myself,” said Holmes.
“Well you could have read them. I always believed that Holmes really did go over the Riechenbach Falls with Professor Moriarty. Those later stories were the work of a stand-in, I thought.”
“Bravo,” said Holmes. “You are, of course, correct. You must understand that a certain amount of subterfuge was necessary to cover my disappearance. My exploits were chronicled by Doctor Watson, through an arrangement we had with a Mr Conan Doyle. I left it to him to continue with the stories after my supposed death.”
“Hang on,” said Pooley. “Not that I can make any sense at all out of this, but if you went below under the pretence of dying in the Riechenbach Falls how could you possibly know about the Norwood Builder and the Three Students. That was four years later in
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
.”
“Ah,” said that man.
“Ah, indeed,” said Professor Slocombe. “And Milverton’s plumber?”
“Detective’s license?” Holmes suggested.
“I give up,” said John Omally.
“Me also,” said Jim.
10
An inexpensive veneer of sunlight was thinly varnishing the rooftops of Brentford as Norman Hartnell took up the bundle of daily papers from his doorstep and hefted them on to his counter.
The early morning was always Norman’s favourite time of the day. The nights were hell, for whilst his body slept upon its Hartnell Mark II Hydrocosipit, his brain went on the rampage, plotting, planning, and formulating, driving him on and on towards more preposterous and unattainable goals. But in the early mornings he could find just a little peace. He could peruse the daily papers as he numbered them up for delivery. He was in the privileged position of ever being the first in the parish to know the news.
On this particular morning, after a very rough night with his capricious cerebellum, Norman sliced away the twine bindings of the paper bundle with his reproduction Sword of Boda paper knife, eager to see what the rest of the world had been up to. As he tore the brown paper covering aside and delved into the top copy a singularly
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