Daniel S. Irwin

Holmes Again

“Mister Holmes, I’m glad you’re here.”
“Always warming to be appreciated, constable. Fortunately, Doctor Watson and I were in the neighborhood sampling gutter whores. What have we here?”
“Seems this man, what was lodging here, has met his untimely end, head removed and all.”
“Good Lord, Holmes, what a ghastly mess!”
“Indeed, Watson.  Let’s see….hmm, quite a bit of blood loss, no sign of struggle. Do you notice anything unusual, Doctor?”
“Head’s gone, just as the constable said.”
“Watson! The man’s head is gone! I believe this to be…murder.”
“Great huge knockers! How do you do it, Holmes?”
“Years of training, Watson. We must examine the clues. Look, there’s a brown substance on the floor.  Doctor Watson, what do you make of it?”
“Well, let me peruse a small sample. It’s still warm…interesting texture…pungent aroma…can’t quite place it. Taste always tells more…yuck! That’s horrible tasting stuff! Holmes! It’s horse shit!”
“Just as I suspected. It’s all over the streets of London. We’ve got it on our shoes. The killer came from outside of this building!”
“Amazing, Holmes.”
“Of course. Now for the weapon…the fiend! He used a P.T. Barnum fat lady!”
“But, Mister Holmes, how can that be?”
“I propose, constable, that the killer, in his cunningly crafty plan, drugged a very bulky, huge P.T. Barnum fat lady, brought her here, placed the victim’s head between her massive thighs, and in tickling her with a feather, caused her to contract her fleshy legs, thus snapping the victim’s head clean away from the torso.”
“Egad, Holmes! Not the dreaded fat lady cunt snatch!”
“Watson, must you continually utter those ridiculous remarks of astonishment? There should be a great deal of gold or jewels missing from this flat,”
“But, Holmes, look about you. This man obviously was a pauper.”
“A clever ruse to throw us off, Watson.”
“The killer redecorated?”
“The working of an insane mind, Watson. But, he missed one thing. Do you see the opened book across the room?”
“What about it?”
 “A clue, man, a clue. After the attack, the victim must have desperately struggled to reach the book to leave a clue as to the identity of his assailant.”
“Holmes, the wanker’s head was removed. Wouldn’t that be difficult for him?”
“Yes, Watson. Such determination is to be admired. Aha! Nothing is marked on the pages to which the book is opened. So, the book, itself, being opened is the clue. Opened? Opened? I’ve got it! Watson, what else is opened?”
“The door to your room at the asylum, I hope.”
“Yes, Doctor Watson. And ‘door’ rhymes with ‘stevedore’. Stevedores load trunks onto ships. Trunks are also found on elephants. Elephants live in Africa. Africa has jungles. Jungles have pygmies. Watson, do you see?”
“No, but I haven’t been smoking the same thing you have.”
“He’s telling us that the killer was a small man.”

Knock, knock

“Hello, what’s all this?”
“Mister Holmes, this is Mister Angus, he collects the rent in this building.”
“Thank you, constable. Mister Angus, you appear to be a small, putrid, cream puff of a man. What’s your business here?”
“What? You can’t hear? I collect the rent. My uncle owns this boarding house. Inherited it, he did, before I was born.”
“There, constable, that’s your man!”
“How’s that, Mister Holmes?”
“It’s all clear as a cow pie in Hereford. Gentlemen we have uncovered a diabolical plan for murder.  Mister Angus arranged for his uncle to inherit this building before his birth, which allowed him to secure the position of rent collector avoiding undue notice, knowing that, one day, his intended victim would be hauling treasure into this very room. What say you to that, Mister Angus?”
“Go stuff yourself! It’s all lies! Lies!”
“Proof positive! The first sign of guilt within a sick mind is denial! Your denial has sealed your doom, Mister Angus. Justice will be served. Constable, take him away!”
“Thank you, Mister Holmes. With evidence as strong as what you’ve given us, he’ll be hanged, without need of a trial, within the hour.”
“Another crime solved, eh Holmes?”
“It feels good, doesn’t it, Watson? It’s starting to rain. We forgot an umbrella.”
“Maybe there’s one in the closet. What? Holmes! There’s a rather large man, covered with blood, in the closet. He has a meat cleaver in one hand and a head, recently severed at the neck in the other. My good man, what are you doing in there?”
“I chopped the bloke’s ‘ead off. I like killing, I do. Kills them where I finds them.”
“Holmes!  Here is the murderer, not Mister Angus!”
“Nonsense, Watson. The poor fellow probably just wandered into that closet by mistake.”
“Holmes, you egotistical fruitcake! They’re going to hang an innocent man. We must tell the police that we were wrong!”
“Steady on, old thing. We could NEVER do that.”
“And, pray tell why not, Holmes?”
“Elementary my dear Watson. To admit we were wrong would be….damned un-British.”
“I say, Holmes! I hadn’t thought of that. You’re right, again.”
“Rue Britannia, Watson.”
“Rue Britannia, Holmes.”
“Now, let’s go do those tarts.”

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