Sherlock Holmes and the Underpants of Death
BY CHRIS WOOD I SEPTEMBER 5, 2008
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During the many years in which it has been my privilege and honour to report the cases of my celebrated friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have never known him bettered by any opponent, no matter how clever or well written they may have been.
In his heroic exploits against the underworld, I have known Holmes to carry out tests of endurance which would exhaust the stoutest. The case of the museum deaths involved Holmes wearing the same socks for over a fortnight, and to crack the devious mystery of the General's missing armour Holmes went without illustrations for two entire pages; a feat which robbed him of much vital exposure. After that particular incident he had to spend a whole fortnight recovering in the pages of Victorian Hello! magazine.
On a dark night the sinister and mysterious affairs first entered our lives, like a hideous beast weaving its way through the London mists, waiting to embroil the finest analytical mind of his age.
Holmes had been sitting by the window, a pipe in his hands, the glow warmly reflecting against the grey night we saw through the glass. The agitated figure could scarcely be seen ascending the steps outside our chambers, so great and sinister was the night's fog. I felt a tingle in my bones and the unmistakeable thrill of adventure hung heavy in the evening's atmosphere.
There came a knocking at the door.
Mrs. Hudson could be heard telling somebody that we didn't want any insurance and that Mr. Holmes was off in Hollywood being filmed. However, the lady would have none of it and soon found her way into our presence.
"You must help me, Mr. Holmes. I am in direst need."
Holmes motioned for her to continue.
"I fear, sir, that I must confide in you and you alone. So if your friend would not mind excusing us—"
"Oh, very well," I said rather testily and got of the bathtub and made for the towel hanging on the door.
With a dramatic utterance she clasped at her head and fell to the floor in a dead faint.
"Not another one," said Holmes as he laid aside the paper with a groan.
"What shall we do?" I queried.
"Stick her in the cupboard with the other unconscious clients."
After a time she came round. Holmes stopped going through her handbag, and I regretfully put down her lipstick.
"Oh, Mr. Holmes. Forgive my nerves, but a most jarring incident has befallen me. My fiancé, who has recently arrived on these shores, is in gravest danger. He inherited recently, you see, an enormous and rambling estate on the edge of an appalling dark moor called Edward Heath."
Holmes hiccupped on his pipe and turned to raise an eyebrow at the camera.
"And then a most amazing thing occurred. My mother, Lady Boyd-Peterson, recently had a pair of her, oh excuse me sir, her undergarments stolen."
This last disclosure appeared to perturb her gentility greatly, but Holmes and I are seasoned in the art of grace, and we assuaged her blushes by nudging each other and making "Wooooaaaagghh!" noises.
"It is so unusual that I scarcely know how to describe it, sir. There is a disturbance upon my life. I do not know if you are familiar with the Baskerville family, but old Sir Hovis died recently and he left a handsome legacy for his sole heir, Sir Henry, who became my fiancé shortly after he inherited, coincidentally."
Very little of positive information was mentioned, and Holmes's manner became strained, and his politeness in bidding her farewell and booting her in the rear as she rose to leave betrayed his disappointment at not being given a case of the complexity which ever delighted him. His mood was clearly soured, and his manner detached.
"Hand me my violin, Watson."
"Certainly, Holmes," I said, turning my back on the great sleuth as I reached for the instrument, discreetly stamping on it once or twice out of respect for his musical skills before handing it over.
As a great music lover, I am used to Holmes' singular violin playing, and in the earlier days of our friendship I could often be seen offering encouragement by striking him on the head whenever he reached for the instrument. Holmes' violin playing is a reflective accompaniment to his thoughts, melodramatic and prone to great gusts of narration.
It is with this particular skill in mind that I have spared no effort in obtaining the finest ear plugs money can buy. I sat behind a newspaper between a pair of these, and wondered how much more I could take of Holmes' moody eccentricity. It was bad enough him keeping his tobacco in a Persian slipper, but of late, the habit of keeping his feet in my cigar case had been getting me down.
Undeterred by the barrage of cushions and small arms fire, Holmes played his violin into the dawn, and I spent the time as best I could composing lengthy, heartfelt telegrams to the Samaritans.
The case began in earnest on a wet Wednesday afternoon in Baker Street. Holmes was looking at his case notes, and I was practising my Madonna impression by singing into a hairbrush and dancing in front of the mirror. We were disturbed by an agitated knock at the door. Mrs. Hudson was out for the day getting waxed, and as Holmes did not stir from his task, I laid down my hairbrush and headed for the door, first taking off my brassier, lest our visitor should think I was a Whig.
At the appointed hour the lady's fiancé arrived. A gentleman in fine apparel stood before me, his fine features unruffled by the inclement weather. He was evidently a man of some wealth, and I wondered why he had walked in the rain when surely he had a carriage at his disposal, or else could have his pick of hansom cabs.
"Mr. Holmes," he cried. "I'm at my wit's end!"
Holmes smiled, ticked off another stroke on his scorecard of people at their wits' end, and motioned him to continue.
"My name is Sir Henry Baskerville," said he, and posed for a quick drawing as the illustrator marched in swigging a cup of coffee, took the required pencil impression and then shut the door behind him. After he had left, Holmes and I stopped being grim and determined, and our guest put his clothes back on.
"The trouble all started, Mr. Holmes, when—"
"A moment, pray," said Holmes. "Would it not be wiser to take your time and tell your story, and begin where the trouble started?"
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