A Lame Entry

[Editorial Note: Martin and I wrote a Holmes pastiche for the creative writing competition at Malhar 1996. It was titled, naturally, "A Lame Entry". The original text is lost in the mists of time, but last week I decided to recreate it from memory.

Then, I'm afraid, I got carried away. The first 150-odd words (up to 'Lithium') are from the original version, as are the last half-dozen. Everything in between is new. Be afraid, be very very afraid.]

“Elementary, my dear Watson.”

Sherlock Holmes broke into my reverie. Somewhat surprised, I attempted to keep up.

“Wh-what was that again, Holmes?”

“Elementary school. Where I spent my formative years. Right on your right”.

I craned my neck to look out of the hansom cab, but could see nothing there, and told Holmes so.

“There’s nothing there, Holmes.”

“By now it’s left on your left”, said Holmes, gesturing vaguely. “But that’s immaterial. It was at elementary school that I first met my archenemy, the villainous Professor Moriarty. He never forgave me for pouring invisible ink down the back of his shirt in third grade. I’m told he spent the next fifteen years trying to develop his own formula for invisible ink.”

“What became of that, Holmes?”

“I don’t know, Watson, I never saw anything of it. I suspect he failed because he forgot to add Lithium to his mix.

“Lithium, Holmes?”

“Element three, my dear Watson. But Moriarty moved on to bigger things. After he heard that I had become a consulting detective, he devoted all his energies to becoming a master criminal, and I’m afraid to say he succeeded.”

“The fiend! What did you do then, Holmes?”

“All in good time, Watson. Before I tell you more, I think we should head back to Baker Street and eat some lunch; you seem very hungry”.

I had long been accustomed to Holmes’ penetration of my innermost thoughts, but this piercing insight surprised even me.

“How on earth did you know that I was hungry, Holmes?”

“Alimentary, my dear Watson. Your stomach rumbled.”

Soon we were back in the lodgings we shared, tucking in to a much-needed repast.

“This is delicious, Holmes. What is it?”

“It’s just halibut, cooked in the northern California style. Or as they say, a la Monterey, my dear Watson”

“Amazing. I wouldn’t have thought civilization in America to be so advanced, Holmes.”

“Indeed, Watson. But I suspect you’ll enjoy the second course even more.”

“Really, Holmes? What could possibly be better than this fish?”

“A lamb entrée, my dear Watson.”

---

Our meal done, Holmes resumed his narrative.

“I would never have caught the villainous professor had it not been for some help I received from the most unexpected of quarters. Strange, to think that the Napoleon of crime should be brought low by someone who was neither a policeman nor a professional detective. But there it was. A gentleman of my acquaintance, a rising young politician from Mr. Disraeli’s party, proved key to the case.”

“Who was it, Holmes?”

“A layman Tory, my dear Watson. I do not think I can reveal more than that; there is his career to think of. In any case, this gentleman happened to intercept a coded message from Moriarty to one of his minions. Knowing my proclivities, he delivered the message to me, and I deciphered the code. The message revealed great danger to a well-known society figure, Lady Ella Holiday. I made arrangements for her protection, but it was not to be.”

“What happened, Holmes?”

“Ill men tarry, my dear Watson. Inspector Lestrade was discommoded by a stomach infection, and could not reach her in time to save her life. But he heard her dying words, which seemed to be ‘Ray’. Naturally the finger of suspicion lit upon her husband Raymond, but I knew better. I had already observed the collection of Lusitanian artifacts in the victim’s home, and deduced the meaning of her final utterance”

“Which was?”

“Ella meant ‘rei’, my dear Watson. As you surely know, a rei is a Portuguese coin worth a tenth of a centavo. I immediately realized that this respectable society lady knew the whereabouts of the fabulous lost treasure of the Braganzas. No doubt Moriarty had had her killed when she refused to reveal her secret.”

“The villain! But what did you do next, Holmes?”

“You know my methods, Watson. Through a minute examination of the deceased lady’s papers, I came to the conclusion that the treasure was in a sunken galleon off Vigo Bay. I donned the disguise of a Frenchman from Egypt – Alamein Thierry, my dear Watson – and made my way down the coast to Vigo. But there I ran into a minor difficulty. The water was teeming with venomous devilfish of a peculiar colour.”

“Coloured devilfish, Holmes? Whoever heard of such a thing?”

“Yellow manta ray, my dear Watson. I was sitting at the cliff’s edge pondering my situation when, to my chagrin, around the corner walked Professor Moriarty.”

“The fiend!”

“Indeed, Watson. Clearly he too had examined Lady Holiday’s papers and reached the same conclusion as I. He was surprised to see me, no doubt, but wasted no time in launching a murderous attack upon my person. Locked in combat, we fell together over the cliff, and I was sure that this would be the end of my career. But Fate decreed otherwise. With the last of my strength I grasped a fortuitous protuberance, while Moriarty plunged to his doom below. And that was an end to the dastardly Professor.”

“What an astonishing tale, Holmes. You were lucky indeed. What was the fortuitous protuberance that you grasped?”

“Woody flora of the citrine variety, Watson.”

“Wh-wh-what, Holmes?”

“A lemon tree, my dear Watson!”