I sat at a drink laden table in the Gentleman's club with some fine fellows from Parliament. I had been in the midst of regaling them of my Guy Fawkes party last year.
So the screams were bloody hideous. I mean, how was I supposed to know that some peon had managed to dress himself up as the Guy and climb to the top of the bonfire and tie himself on?
Roger Shraval the minister for agriculture spat out his drink with a guffaw.
Was it like when you accidentally set fire to a hedgehog after ejaculating onto it?
I gave a knowing chuckle at this, like a jowly dog wearing a bandana.
Exactly like that old fellow. Exactly like that...
He was a good fellow Shravers despite having a face like Baileys and red wine.
Uncle Boom, may I speak with you?
I looked up. There was a portly old fellow standing a couple of feet away holding a tweed cap. He looked quite respectable for a fatty. He introduced himself as Jock Basadair of Scotland Yard.
Yes, what is it? Can't you see we are discussing parliamentary business?
Basadair looked pained.
I do apologise, old chap. It is rather important. There has been a most peculiar incident which perhaps pertains to you. May I borrow you for a time?
An incident eh? I nodded curtly.
Lead the way, Mr Basadair...
We stood in a hotel room four floors up. It was a large room with small windows letting only a subdued light in. On the floor in the centre of the room, in a large pool of blood, was a man with a large stick poking out of his rectum.
There were several policemen milling to and fro. One of them was calling for a forensics team on his shoulder radio.
I tutted loudly.
Oh dear. It looks like this fellow got the wrong end of the stick.
Basadair nodded ruefully.
Aye, it looks that way. There is a note on the dresser over there, my men were going to call it in as a suicide but when we saw 'that,' we thought we had best give you a call.
Basadair pointed to the wall across from the door. The that which he had mentioned was a blown up and grainy photo of none other than myself. It was a dark and grainy street-shot seemingly taken from a distance and enlarged. Daubed across it in Red paint was the legend...
How very curious?
I walked closer to it and waved my cane at the writing daubed on it.
I say, do you think he means me? That's not very flattering is it?
Indeed it is not sir. Have you ever seen this man before? Spoken to him perhaps?
I turned on my heel like a cat confronted by a cucumber, to face Basadair.
I am afraid not. I have never seen this man before. What was he, may I ask?
Basadair sighed.
A journalist, his colleagues said they hadn't seen him for some time. He had some big story he was working on. An expose that would 'rock the foundations of the establishment.'
A tragedy then, to end up like this... A tragedy...
I murmured as I tapped my pipe out onto the floor and filled her up again with some good old-fashioned Daft Harky. I lit my pipe and took a contemplative puff.
Yes, indeed. Well, if you do not know the man then we can wrap this up. A tragic suicide. I appreciate you taking the time to come here with me.
Basadair looked mournful, his moustache drooping as if his favourite Aunt had seen his penis.
I wouldn't say suicide so quickly, Basadair, old fellow. Oh no. Not at all. This looks very much like a MURDER to me!
Basadair twitched.
Murder?! But there is a note and everything. The door was locked from the inside, there is no way in or out. We are four floors up and the outside of the hotel is polished glass. How could it be murder?
I prowled back and forth.
Not so fast my dear Basadair. How could a man possibly impale himself on a stick like this?
I leaned down and with a mighty tug pulled the stick from the dead man's arse. A small torrent of blood and shit gurgled out like the babbling of a small mountain stream.
The stick was a full-size walking stick, almost two-thirds of its length had been embedded in the man's Summer Robin. I discarded it and its slimy coating on the ground beside the body where it splopped dully in the puddle of blood.
Basadair looked on spellbound as I paced back and forth.
And this! Is this a footprint?
I pointed to a faint boot-print on the floor.
Basadair peered down at it.
Well, there are so many footprints now it's hard to tell but you might be right?
I stamped over to the window and ran my hands over the sill to the lock.
Aha! Look, come close.
Basadair weaved his way over. I pulled at the window catch which snapped off in my hand and turned to him, pointing at some scratch marks on the metal.
See. It looks quite plain that the window was pried open from outside!
Basadair took the catch from me and examined it.
By golly, I think you are right. This means that we are looking for a murderer! Well, the boys at Scotland Yard will be very impressed with this. Such astonishing deduction. You seem to have quite the eye for this kind of thing, milord!
I preened a little, like a Starling in a jam jar.
Ah Basadair, when you have eliminated the impertinent only the pertinent remains...
Basadair chewed thoughtfully on this, his brow creasing deeply.
We could use a man like you, Milord. A man who can read such dark work, where did you learn to pick up these signs if I may be so bold?
I wiped the window with my sleeve, looking out at the view before turning back to Basadair.
Ah my dear fellow, I am afraid...
