The case begins to grow when Homes asks Whitsun what he knows of matters pertaing to outer space: not alot, of course, is the gist of Whitsun's answer. However, the good Doctor admits to having the newly recognised disease, ITS: find out what that is along with LBS.

Homes' client is the ex-naval man, Capt. Kirk, who the detective fondly calls, "...a fat bleeder...". He and Whitsun travel by train to visit the Captain. Whitsun manages to shoot the ticket collector - he and Homes get away with it because Le Strange is not particularly competent - over a no smoking issue on the train. 

Upon reaching the scene of the incident, Homes examines the site whilst Le Strange admits to cultivating a lisp for stake-outs in "...pooftas' clubs an' the like." 

A person with a strange voice called Zoot turns out to be ultimately responsible. But who was he, what did he do and where did he eventually go? And what Did Shylock Homes do about all that?

Rev. Arfer Nower (defrocked), The Religious Flasher.

"After serious thought we can only conclude that Mr JR is at least two sandwiches short of a full picnic. Were it not for the fact that he bribed me with a bag of sweeties I would have no hesitation in recommending him for consideration as criminally insane. Never in the field of human...No, sorry, forgot the rest."
 
 

"Even though they were not found 'pon the road?"

"Especially so."

"But you found them inside his trousers even though the wheel ran over the outside."

"True. But, no, doctor. I?m sorry but you must not."

"Oh bollocks to you, then. I shall find another of our little adventures to write about."

We continued our stroll through the park. Homes, as I have recounted elsewhere was not at all given to being interested in nature for its own sake: a beautiful butterfly was just a mere insect; the haunting cry of an owl was nothing but a pissing nuisance when he wished for sleep. So it came as something of a surprise that he warmed when I pointed out a small, brown creature some yards away under a tree: "See, Homes, a vole."

"Really? So what do you make of that singular item eighteen inches to its left?"

"Why another, of course. 'Tiss probably its mate."

"And how long have we roomed together?"

"Four years. Why?"

"Why? Why? Because you have spent four years in intimate contact with the world's greatest consulting detective who's powers of observation are second to none. Have you learned nothing in that time? Can't you tell the difference between a small rodent and a mound of dog shit.?

"Never. See how the gentle breeze brushes over its coat. See the movement?"

"The movement is not due to the breeze. It is caused by the wings of a plague of bluebottles that are, at this very instant, eating that dreadful substance. You really are a dim bastard, Whitsun."

I trudged wearily by Homes' side, once again having been defeated by his powers. We strolled over to the offending heaps, he wishing to prove his superiority. With some offence I turned to him: "Do I presume you've been studying dog turds for some while? Perhaps you measure them with a vernier so when you are about to ensnare a villain, and supposing he has a dog, you then measure its arse? You compare the two dimensions and, thus, conclude that 'twas he who murdered the old woman? Perhaps, too, you have the intention of writing one of your nasty little monologues 'pon the subject of dogs? bums in relation to crime?" 

"Bitterness does not become you, doctor. Anyway, all things are important as you well know. If a dried up dog turd proves the author of a dreadful crime, then so it does."

He would not be drawn further upon the subject as we wandered through the groves of shimmering rhododendrons and on towards a majestic cedar where a mother and her brood played amongst the fallen cones. "Do not look so downtrodden, doctor. 'Tis an invigorating day, we are far from our stuffy chamber, and the dollies are wearing tight fitting tops yet they don't carry umbrellas. And you will see that, over Bill's mother's, the sky looks threatening." he commanded. "Then, when it pisses down, we shall be able to observe their full, round titties joggling up and down beneath their soaking blouses as they run for shelter." Homes concluded, rubbing his hands together with acute anticipation. "See, we can hide behind the toilets to watch the sport."

It transpired that the menacing, blue-black clouds skirted to the north east. It did not rain. Homes was furious. In a fit of rage he flew across to the park-keeper, bribing him to turn on his water sprinkler despite the hosepipe ban. Shortly Homes' stratagem began to take effect.

"Look at those," he enthused, as the soaking young women rushed here and there for cover. "Not many to the pound, eh, Whitsun. And those, too: one and three quarter British Standard Handful, if I'm not mistaken."

"I could not say, Homes." said I, rather embarrassed at the leer that had grown upon his face. "And I hope to God that you don't intend to approach the woman to prove your estimate. What is all this frivolity, anyway? You are normally such a sour-faced git: do you have a case on hand?"

"Enough water, Jefferson." he boomed to the man controlling the tap, "Perhaps again tomorrow, eh?"

The imitation downpour subsided whereupon the middle aged official tossed a half-crown into the air, smiled at Homes, tucked the coin into his pocket and strode away to scold a group of youngsters who were fornicating in the bushes: "And we'll 'ave n' more of y' swearin' at ode women, either. Little bleeders..." we heard him shout as he marched away.

"Charming man, Whitsun. He has been of considerable help to me in the past. No only does he see everything that happens in this quarter, he provides me with a regular show of the type you've just witnessed. And yes, doctor, I have a case at present: well a potential case, let us say. Shall we meander along towards Baxter Street?"

We took a left and mounted the small, sandstone bridge that spanned the brook. Such a peaceful sight. Fishes played in the cool, gurgling waters and ducks played amongst the reeds. Homes said nothing as the roughly gravelled path took us behind the place where we'd seen the dog muck. Past the huge cedar once again and on towards those lovely rhododendrons. We had walked full circle and were almost through the massive black-iron gates and onto the footpath before Homes asked: "What do you know of flying saucers, Whitsun?"

"Quite a lot. Mrs Whitsun threw them at me regularly. See." I said, removing my hat to show him a large lump upon the side of my head. "There was quite enough blood for me to realise that a suture would be necessary. I treated myself, of course, but I could not see what I was doing. The result was that I stitched my shirt collar to my left ear. Anyway, the blows from the flying saucers gave me this newly recognised disease, ITS, better known as Inept Twat Syndrome."

"Interesting. Do you mean Mrs Whitsun, your dear wife? Or, considering the length of time you seem to have had this condition, do I presume 'twas your late mother who was the expert at crockery tossing? Or perhaps you mean both women, doctor? And what is this ITS?"

"As I have just said. 'Tis Inept Twat Syndrome where the unfortunate sufferer becomes an inept twat. For your information, other newly recognised diseases are RSI - Repetitive Strain Injury - commonly found in the wrists of males who wank too much, and BSE. The 'B' stands for Bovine, then there are two other words which I can neither spell nor pronounce due to my ITS condition. Its common name is Mad Cow Disease."

"Ah. Then that must be commonly found in women."

"Your acute dislike of the fairer sex..."

"I do not dislike women, doctor," cut in Homes. "I like to ogle their titties as we have just done..."

"As you have just done."

"Yes, as I have just done. And, as I was saying before your gross lack of common decency made you butt in so rudely, I like to shag them, to ogle them, and to allow them to fetch and carry for me which, as you know, is their sole purpose for existing. Take Mrs Hodsun..."

"I'd rather not."

"Very wise, doctor." 

"Really, Homes, you"re such a confounded misogynist."

"No. 'Tis just the way I walk. In any case, enough idle banter, Whitsun, we may yet have a case to solve. Let us sit 'pon this bench for a moment. We've a visitor due at Baxter Street at four. 'Tis now three thirty. I will outline some facts and then we'll away. I've received a most singular communication from a Mr Kirk. In it he makes reference to flying saucers. Apart form the crockery, have you not seen any, doctor? Have you not, in an instant of forgetfulness, pointed your telescope away from Miss Jacob's bathroom window and up to the heavens; a place where astronomical instruments were designed to be pointed?"

"Certainly not. Err, I mean, I certainly do not point my instrument at her bathroom window."

"Even so, what are your views upon the matter of flying saucers? You know that I'm not given to flights of fancy yet there is a certain draw about the notion of vehicles being propelled through The Great Void by an unknown race of beings, is there not?"

"Come, come, Homes. You cannot be serious, as a great tennis player once said. Such an idea is a veritable pile of festering cat shit. You are suggesting that Mother Earth is not unique. The year is 1893; we live in the modern age. You're talking out of your arse again."

"Well I have to concede there are objections to the notion; strong ones at that. Nevertheless I commend literature to you. Various ancient religious and social groups have reported these things. 'Tis worth a gleg at the library after you've done with 'Knickers, Knackers and Knockers' and 'Whipping Weekly', those tuppenny smut rags you receive in unmarked brown envelopes which I steam open to read before you see them."

"But this is all bollocks. What have space vehicles to do with your case, Homes?"

"Let us see," he said, rising swiftly from the seat. "We've a good step back to our chamber. If you'll follow me, Whitsun, we can hear it from Kirk himself."

We had hardly time to seat ourselves before the slowing wheels of a hansom were heard upon the cobbles below. Mrs Hodsun could be heard remonstrating with a gentleman in the lobby before there came a knocking upon our door: "Enter." boomed Shylock Homes.

An enormous man with florid appearance stood before us, mopping the beads of perspiration from his brow with a huge, red silk handkerchief. He shot enquiring glances between Homes and I between the sighs and gasps of a man clearly well out of condition. In his left hand he carried a cane of the best character and, in his right, a large sheaf of papers. 

"Pray take sit, sir," said I, motioning him to a seat. "Will you take a glass of water?"

"Yes. Thank you, Mr Homes."

"No sir. This is Shylock Homes. I am doctor Whitsun, at your service. Please calm yourself. Mr Homes will take your story as soon as you are fully recovered."

"Thank you, doctor." said Homes. "Now, sir, you are Captain James T Kirk of The Enterprise, are you not?"

"I am."

"And you sent me this letter," he continued, waving the missive to its author, "Which I received here today?"

"Indeed."

"Then what the piss were you doing downstairs to Mrs Hodsun?"

"Oh, begging your pardon, sir, but she accused me of farting in front of her. But I didn't realise it was her turn. In any case I've never farted in my life. Hence I am so fat."

"See, doctor, I've discovered another of your little diseases; LBS. 'Tis Lying Bastard Syndrome. Now then Captain. I see from your note that you command The Enterprise. That place is, I happen to know, a sordid little den of iniquity where whores perform certain duties to the male of the species."

"'Tis untrue, sir." snarled Kirk, standing to face Homes with a face as black as thunder.

"What did I tell you, Whitsun? The Captain suffers from another bout of LBS. Pray sit. If you want my help you'd better shut your gob and let me do the talking. I know about your brothel, sir, because I've had to extricate Whitsun, here, from its clutches a number of times when Mrs Whitsun goes away."

"Now who suffers from LBS, Homes?" I questioned bitterly.

Shylock Homes ignored my jibe: "You're a naval captain, of course, not a captain of perhaps The Guards nor of the Walthamstow Antiseptic Bell Ringing and Fart Sniffing Club. You were once a prosperous fellow but have since fallen 'pon hard times. You played rugby for your school, you enjoyed the hobby of gardening but no longer do so, you are widowed and your arse is too big for that chair."

After delivering his short narrative, Shylock Homes slouched back into his chair. Our visitor, on the other hand, became increasingly alarmed. He shifted his bulk from one buttock to the other whilst, at the same time, wrung his fleshy hands. And at the next bead of perspiration he whipped out his silk to mop it away. Taking a long draft from his glass, he wheezed: "You are either psychic else a nosy git, Mr Homes. You cannot know these things otherwise."

Homes laughed: "There is no mystery, Captain. You will have to forgive me for I am fond of a little theatre in my dealings with clients. Is that not so, doctor?" I nodded. "Your naval background is given from the tattoo 'pon your left wrist. Although tattoos are not exclusive to naval men - I have known foot soldiers to have them - they are extremely common amongst members of the Senior Service. And my mind was made up when I read the inscription, 'Bollocks to Admiral PCJBS de Villeneuve'. He was the commander of the French Fleet defeated by our own Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson at Cape Trafalgar on 21 October 1805. The other inscription 'pon your arm reads, 'Napoleon Bonaparte is a twat': I cannot vouch for the truth of that, sir. You cannot be the captain of the club at Walthamstow, because I am its captain. Therefore you are, or should I say were a sea Captain. Do you follow my reasoning so far? Good.

"By their very nature naval captains aren't short of a bob or two so I deduce that hard times have fallen by the state of your dress. Frankly, Captain Kirk, you are truly a scruffy bleeder in that tatty ensemble even though 'tis made of the best cloth yet is hardly a year old. I have noticed seven marks 'pon your once expensive cane: only a careless bastard would allow such a situation. As to you previous hobby, I have little trouble in noticing a thirty foot oak tree sticking out of your pocket. It takes weeks for an oak to die back to that state whilst in a man's pocket so I conclude that you no longer garden for a hobby.  Added to that, why but a careless bleeder would garden in his best suit? You are not married because I cannot see any woman in her right mind fancying a shag with so fat a bleeder. And because you are a fat bleeder, your arse does not fit into the chair 'pon which you sit."

"Homes is quite a clever-shit, is he not, Captain? Perhaps you'd better lay your problem before Homes with all speed. He is apt to nip into his bedroom for a marathon farting session when he gets bored: he'd not be out for weeks."

Captain Kirk wriggled uncomfortably in his seat once again: "As you correctly say, Mr Homes, I am the owner of a house of  ill repute. When I was pensioned from Her Majesty's Navy I was untrained for anything save for commanding ships. What good is that upon dry land? Anyway, I had accumulated a small sum whilst at sea and, upon my release, ploughed it into a modest business. It is my 'ship': a modest country public house called The Enterprise. How the top storey came to be turned into a knocking-shop does not matter here. But you are correct, Mr Homes, in that the good Doctor, here, frequents my establishment to visit Tessie 'Big-Tits' Jones."

"Sneak." I hissed at Kirk. "Sneaky bastard. I'll go elsewhere from now on.

"Good. Twas almost certainly you, Doctor, who gave all my ladies a dose. Anyway, Mr Homes, for better or ill I have achieved some standing in the community so when this strange happening fell upon our village, I was the one naturally chosen to come to you. You may remember a Mr Aleign, Mr Homes? Well twas he who recommended your consulting service."

Shylock Homes sat in silent contemplation for a moment or two: "Hmm. Yes, I remember Mr Aleign. Pass me the directory, Doctor."

"Bollocks. Get it yourself."

Homes did so: "Yes. Here we are. He was the man accused of sniffing little girls' bicycle seats. The officers of Scotland Place arrested him but we were able to clear his name. Pray continue, Captain."

"Thank you. Upon the seventeenth - that is Wednesday last -I had 'Lewd' Lucy strapped to the table disinfecting her err...'accutriments' with a bottle brush; she is one of my most popular girls, so receives much attention. Jacob Martin, the village twat and raving shirt-tail lifter, burst in saying there had been a UFO see in the village. On account of him being 'off-his-trolley' as they say in other parts, I told him to UFO. But he was most insistent. He said the Major had seen it, too."

"The Major?" enquired Homes.

"Major Short, sir." puffed Kirk. "He was one of the Royals but left the service under something of a cloud." 

"Do you mean a dishonourable discharge?"

"No, Doctor, the Day he left the Army twas pissing down with rain. Anyway, It seems that the Major had taken Martin into Blighton Woods for some purpose that he would not reveal and, whilst there, they both witnessed strange lights in the sky. Later that day Mrs Davidson reported that her husband was missing. I have here..." said Kirk, mopping his brow profusely and tossing Homes a rolled up newspaper. "I have here Mr Homes, a copy of the following day's newspaper, The Blighton Tosser. You will see that the leading article speculates that a spaceship may have landed in Blighton Woods the previous day, and mentions that human abductions are apparently not uncommon when these things are around.

"Now, Mr Homes, Doctor Whitsun, having spent much of my life 'pon the ocean, I have seen many strange and sometimes bizarre things so am not usually given to fanciful thinking. Nevertheless, gentlemen, I cannot help but think that something odd really is afoot in the village and I - that is we, the villagers, - would be most grateful for your help. Oooops..." he said belching and rubbing his left shoulder, "Excuse me. A touch of flatulence. Twas the cucumber stew I had earlier."

Shylock Homes spent some time deep in thought. He offered cigarettes around then said, "And what steps have you taken?"

"The quickstep."

Homes leapt from his chair in a fit of almost uncontrollable rage. "Bastard. Stupid bastard." He screamed at Kirk, shaking him violently at the shoulders. This is not Come-along Dancing at The Empire, this is a serious investigation. Any more of that and I will get Whitsun to do a frontal lobotomy on you."

Homes re-took his seat whilst Kirk composed himself enough to continue. "Forgive me, Homes, But I thought...Ah, never mind...I went for a Constable but he was elsewhere painting landscapes, so I went for a policeman but he was away taking part in an inter-force shitting contest. I had a mind to visit Scotland Place but took the contrary view because of the obscure nature of the matter. Other than visiting you I have done nothing."

"Very wise, Captain. Very wise on all counts. Now," he said, turning to me, "Pray go along to the telephone box 'pon the street corner: and take with you a two-pound hammer - that will be very close to one kilogram if you are metricated, Whitsun. No? OK. When you are at the 'box, phone Mr Jones, The Marshall Machinery Company, the Reverend Smith and Mrs Hardstaff. Say that I have dropped their cases like a hot potato because they are all crap, and not to piss me about with such trivia again. Reinforce the point be asserting that, otherwise, I will send you to burn down their respective premises. Then vandalise the phone box and return here as soon as possible. And you, Captain, Kirk, will please return home. Now that I have flushed my other cases, so to speak, I intend to take the piss out of Whitsun to pass a couple of hours." 
 

"Pardon me for saying, Mr Homes, but is that not just a touch unkind? The Doctor is your friend, after all."

"Yes, bastard, it is unkind."

"The Doctor suffers from Inept Twat Syndrome, Kirk." said Homes. "There is much sport to be had from asking his opinion 'pon this matter or the other or as to the progress of a case. Today I will test him with yours. He will provide me with the most ridiculous solutions from his pea-sized brain. He will be totally wrong, of course, so I will take the piss. So, if you will leave, we shall both be with you by evening; we will catch the 5.27 train from Euston."

"Then I will meet you at the station in my trap. Please come out onto the road from the platform. Good day, Mr Homes."

With that, Captain Kirk eased himself from his chair, moved with some difficulty to the door as he is a fat bastard, and I accompanied him down the stairs. Opening the door I smelled the unmistakable freshness of rain having recently fallen into a clear summer's afternoon. The ladies looked a picture in their soaking T-shirts, their firm bosoms heaving as they walked. I was glad of seeing that. Not so much for myself, of course, but for the fact that Homes had not seen them at such close quarters. I bade Kirk a good afternoon as he dragged his heave frame into a hansom cab. The cabby made some curt remark about him being a fat bastard and that he might have to charge double fare on account of the extra feed that would be required for his horse.

With the phone calls made I beat the receiver with the two-pound hammer. With the equipment in some considerable disarray I was about to duff-in the glass panels when a man bashed upon the door saying that his mother had been run down by a four-wheeler and he wanted to call a doctor. "Tough." I snarled, and strode purposefully back to our chambers.

"You have ogled the women, doctor." Homes said with a wry smile.

"Preposterous." I ejaculated.

"Then explain the bulge in the right-hand side of your trousers." 

"Err...err. Yes. Certainly. After smashing the telephone equipment as you directed I took the liberty of breaking into the coin box and extracting the contents: the bulge you see, Homes, is money. Twill save us from blagging the gas meter for weeks."

"Excellent, Whitsun. Excellent. Now, what do you make of this case?" Initially I refused to be drawn, but Homes is nothing if not persuasive especially as with a piece of gas pipe pressing against my throat. So I relented and he was soon ripping my theories to shreds. "Well then, Doctor, I have proved my point to Kirk in his absence."

The discussion ended with me telling Homes to 'Naff off'. I was not proud of that outburst but it was better than spending ones life at Her Majesty?s pleasure for murdering him. "Then what is our next move?"

"We catch the 5.27 and head north west. The train journey will come as a welcome distraction form this convoluted case. And pray take your revolver."

"Why."

"In case we need to shoot someone, you twat."

"Fair enough."

Within fifteen minutes we stood along side the train that would eventually reach the great industrial regions north of the border. Climbing aboard we found ourselves a compartment. Homes immediately lit a cigarette as the muffled sound of the guard's whistle signalled the start of our adventure. With a slight jolt the locomotive eased its train forwards and we were off.

"Homes." I ejaculated, pointing to the sign, "We chose a non-smoking compartment."

"Indeed, Whitsun. Two points here. First, The compartment is not smoking; it is I. Do you think I would be twat enough to ride in it if I were smoking?"

"And second?"

"Second, I feel rebellious towards the railway company. Upon glancing at the totty in the station's first class ladies' waiting room I noticed that the company had installed 'No Farting' signs. Did you see? No? Well, no matter: the signs are there on the wall.  know they are only mere women, doctor, but the company cannot expect them not to fart whilst waiting for one of their trains that will, in all likelihood, be late anyway. Tis a bleeding stupid notion. No. I shall smoke. If the ticket collector complains then you may make early use of your revolver."

We rattled along at a good pace. I chose to while away the miles by looking out onto the countryside as we skimmed along. Homes busied himself with an implement he'd invented which he said would allow him to secretly pick his nose whilst at the theatre. But a moving train seemed to be an absurd place to experiment with it. Each fresh lurch of the train brought a fresh cry of pain from Homes as the metal blade dug further into his sinuses: "Whitsun, I seem to be leaking. Do you have your medical bag? What do you mean I didn't tell you to bring it. What if you need a pee? Where is your willy? Did you leave it 'pon the side table in Baxter Street."

"No. Tis here. Shall I piss on you instead?" 

"No." he snarled, dripping more gloop onto the carriage floor.

"Tickets please." Boomed a voice form the gangway. The door opened to reveal a tall man holding his ticket punch. 

"Tickets please. Err, this is a non-smoking compartment, gentlemen, Have you been smoking? If so I shall have to report..."

Bang.

I missed. The bullet shot through the open compartment door, out through the open gangway window and away into oblivion. But the railway official staggered backwards, bumping his head upon the door frame. I sprang to my feet. Homes threw open the window and began to fan the incriminating cordite fumes outside. He flicked his equally incriminating nub-end into the sulphurous fumes that billowed form the engine as I grabbed the ticket collector's arm. He was dazed and grazed but otherwise unhurt.

"Goodness me, sir. You are shocked. I am a doctor. Rest a while and I shall see to your needs. Here, take a pull 'pon my flask."

As the fiery liquid poured into his mouth the official gave a start. After some moments he was recovered enough to allow his left hand to examine the not inconsiderable wound upon his brow: "Oh." he moaned, "What happened? Where am I? Oooooh. Do I remember a gun shot? Was it you, sir? Oooooh."

"Preposterous, my good man. The train jolted violently over the points as we've just passed over Chatterswith Junction. You seemed to loose your balance, you then slipped and banged you head 'pon the door frame. See,? said I, being unable to look him in the eye whilst pointing to Homes' blood upon the carpet, 'See, you have stained the carpet. The company will not be too pleased with that. In fact I fear the cleaning staff will give you a right arseholing. In any case, sir, there are no guns here. If you heard an explosion then twas probably my friend, here who was, at the instant you entered the compartment, trying to light his farts."

In the meantime Homes had cleaned himself. "The doctor is right. You must have been out for a minute or two."

"But it stinks of fags in here. Were you smoking? It's against the rules, you know. I shall be forced to..."

"No, sir," cut in the master detective, "I am Shylock Homes, at your service, and this is my friend, doctor Whitsun. We are honest men, sir. We don't smoke in non-smoking compartments, the doctor doesn't rob telephone boxes, I don't blagg gas meters, and neither of us tells lies. The blow to your head has obviously caused concussion which, in turn, has caused you to hallucinate so confusing the smell of cordite and the smell of cigarettes with the smell of locomotive smoke. I opened the window after your accident to let in some fresh air."

I was still offering comfort to the ticket inspector when the fast, rhythmic motion of the train began to ease. We had travelled quite some miles since he burst in upon us and I could see by Homes' movements that we were approaching our stop. "That's right, sir," croaked the ticket inspector, "Next stop, Blighton."

Once upon the platform I helped the injured railwayman to a bench whilst Homes alerted the Stationmaster as to his plight. He was most grateful for our assistance. Neither of us referred to the narrow escape that we?d just had. Instead, we sauntered along I silence to the station?s exit.

As country stations go, Blighton was quite austere. With its begrimed bricks, peeling yellow paint and used jonnies strewn upon the platform it was a dismal stopping-off point. Yet, conversely, upon our travels we had seen some beautiful places where the stationmasters obviously took some pride in decorating the buildings. Morkensford on the eastern route was a fine example for the place was adorned with the most beautiful flowers of all shapes, sizes and colours. Our two visits there were upon a summer's evening and I can distinctly remember the almost narcotic effect of the fragrant blooms as we stepped from the train. But stationmaster Swinson of Blighton was clearly not a gardener.

"And neither is he." said Homes, pointing to Captain Kirk who's unmistakable form could be seen in the trap.

"You have taken to clairvoyance: how did you follow my thoughts"

"With considerable ease. We already know Kirk does not garden, Whitsun. In any case, I do not dabble in clairvoyance. I am not given to fancy.

"You were given to fancy that crumpet in the park after you induced old Jefferson to turn on the sprinklers."

"That is different, doctor," beamed Homes as we walked along Station Street towards Kirk's trap, "But, as to following your thoughts, I noticed your warm smile when we were upon the station. You were obviously thinking of the Brannagan Affair. That, too, was related to railway stations: Morkensford, to be precise. I recall your rapturous ejaculation at what you called, '...those beautiful, heavenly flowers...' as the train drew in. Then, as we walked to the exit just now, your smile moderated considerably. You were reliving your shameful display 'pon the platform that evening."

"Twas the heavenly scent of the flowers that made me fall over." 

"You were pissed."

"I wasn't...Err, well..."

"Ah, Captain."

"Well, err..."

"Good. 'Pleased you could come over. I've reserved you two rooms for you ion the third floor of The Enterprise.” Kirk furtively glanced about then lowered his voice to a virtual whisper before continuing, “There’s a door just by the linen cupboard which leads above, gentlemen, should you wish to avail yourselves of our, err… hospitality, you err…understand. On the house, of course.” Resuming his former volume, he continued, “Will you wish to inspect the scene of the supposed UFO landing, Mr Homes. We have an hour or so before darkness and the journey takes some fifteen minutes. Ah, good. Climb aboard, gentlemen. Blighton Woods, Gerald, if you please.”

Kirk’s man, Gerald Scott, whipped up the horse. But the animal seemed disinclined. So it was at a pace quite unlike, and rather more leisurely, than the scrambles of London that we trundled through the lanes of Blighton Village. Never have I seen such a beautiful place: it will make an ideal picture to put on a calendar when someone invents colour photography and four colour printing. To our left we saw the early Victorian mansion of the well known Chalmbury family, with its tall chimneys from which wisps of smoke rose to greet the evening air. We took a left then a right. Down a winding thoroughfare sided by tall box hedges and out towards the village green in which there was a pond colonised by a flock of Canada Geese, plus three snow white swans. Kirk pointed out his establishment over to our right. It was a singularly strange, circular building which gleamed with some iridescence in the setting sunlight, and was rather out of character with the thatched cottages between which it nestled. And, atop the gentle slopes of March Hill, as it is called by the locals, Kirk pointed out Blighton Woods.

In truth it was no more than a large area of trees. In former times it might have covered three or four hundred acres but, at that time, it was perhaps two or three. It was reduced to its present size when, said Kirk, “A firm of paper millers felled the trees to produce paper for an odious publication called, ‘Whipping Weekly’. I can’t think what sort of dreadful , nasty, pervert would read something like that, can you, doctor?”

“Err….” I offered as Homes sniggered.

“The village was up in arms about the company and what it did to Blighton Woods. But they moved away some years ago, closer to London I believe. But all that does not account for a flying saucer, I fear.” 

Presently we arrived at the foot of the hill. The horse steadfastly refused to take another step, preferring to graze upon the lush grass at its feet. Homes, of course, went on ahead whilst I accompanied the profusely sweating Captain Kirk. By the time we had reached the trees Homes was examining the ground. The Captain slumped down, his already moist red silk working feverishly at the rivulets upon his brow.

“What news, Homes?” I enquired.

“This an interesting place, Whitsun. Note these marks upon the grass.” He said, scanning his arm over about half of them. “What is your opinion?”

“I don’t have one. Remember that you think me a twat.”

“Come, come now, doctor, your services have been useful to me in the past. In any case, you are ill with ITS. So what is your opinion of these marks?”

“Niceties, Homes, usually precede your threats. It is the well known carrot and stick approach. No. Bollocks. Go boil your head.” Said I, sitting resolutely upon the turf. 

“Fine. Have it your way. Verbally you have already received the carrot.” Said he, bending to pick up a large, fallen branch. He brandished it me saying, “And this is the stick which I shall be forced to apply to your goolies should you not co-operate.”

So, choosing one of the marks at random I made an inspection. IT was roughly circular and about eighteen inches in diameter. The grass was flattened to the soil but no deeper. Walking the full circle of marks – which was about ten feet in diameter – I counted eight in total: “Difficult to be sure, Homes. I looks as though someone has sat down ‘pon the grass. But, perhaps, these marks were made by the feet of the flying saucer? It might be that, considering the hard ground, the weight of the craft was distributed amongst the eight.”

“Then how did it land?”

“Through the canopy of trees?” I offered pointing skywards.

“You could be right, Whitsun. And what do you make of the singed grass? Ah, there is Gerald with his nag. Time flies during an investigation, does it not, doctor? If you are quite ready Kirk, we will visit your premises. Whitsun is doubtless dying for a bit of nookie, I need refreshment and you look totally bolloxed.”

Within twenty minutes we sat in the smoke room of The Enterprise, a place that was, as we expected full of smoke. With its mock-Tudor beams, dark oak panelling and hissing gas lamps that hardly penetrated the dense smog, it looked just the place where dastardly murders were done. I made a note in my journal to return some day and commit one. Kirk ordered us a glass of best beer whilst Homes went to the far side of the room to start a fight. Although he is an expert in the ancient, oriental fighting art of  origami, I feared for his safety: ten versus one is not good odds. I rushed over to him to quell the situation, asking, “Homes, what on earth are you doing?”

“Sorry, doctor, I felt a little queer.”

“Yeth. And I’ll thlap his writht if he tweakth my bottom again.” Minced one of the gang, a short, bearded person who wore a pretty pink frock.

“Good God,” cried Homes, “’Tis Scotland Place’s raving nancy-boy-copper, Inspector Le Strange. What are you doing here? And how long have you had that lithp. Err…lisp?”

“Homes? Doctor Whitsun? Was I about to 'get it on' with Mister ‘Omes, doctor?”

“You really are a mincer, Le Strange.”

“No, Mr ‘Omes. Us top policemen ‘ave to adopt many disguises when we’re on a case. And this ‘ere lisp ‘as been cultivated for stake-out in pooftas’ clubs an’ the like.”

“A case? The only case you’re on, Le Strange, is your own head case.”

“Any more o’ that an’ I’ll ‘it you wi’ my ‘andbag. You’re not above the law despite you’re being a clever-shit.”

“Come, come, Le Strange…”

“I nearly did…”

“No. Come to our table and meet Captain Kirk.”

After discussing our adventure upon March Hill, Homes engaged a local in polite conversation. Using all the tact, guile and subtlety that years of detecting had brought, he said, “Eh. Eh you. You the stick, stupid bastard. What do you know of this UFO business?” 

“Not a lot.”

“Right,” snarled Homes, “We’re off. This hole is full of gits; stupid ones at that. No shags tonight, Whitsun, sorry. There’s a through train at 10.00. We’re off back to Baxter Street.”

“Without solving the case, Mister ‘Omes?”

“’Tis already solved. Arrest the fat bastard.” Growled Homes.

“Why?” I questioned, turning to look for Kirk. But he had gone.

“Because he…”

At that instant there was a blinding flash whereupon a tall, green being with three heads stepped through the door; it was closed at the time. The room fell hushed.

“Take-me-to-your-leader.” It said, in a strange, metallic and slightly distorted monotone. “And-give-me-zome-of-that-brown-liquid-that-makez-you-laugh-alot-and-fall-down-when-you’ve-had-too-much. And-no-trickz-or-I-will-reduce-this-place-to-a-pile-of-cat-shit.”

“’Tis that already, Zoot the Martian.” Hissed Homes, his sharp features thrust towards the being. “Have another try.”

“OK-earth-man. Iz-the-fat-baztard-in-charge?”

“Yes.”

I watched Zoot intensely, waiting for a chance to blast him with my revolver. As he turned one head towards Homes who was by then watching the stripper performing upon the stage, I raised the pistol. But the other two heads saw me.  He raised a kind of gun and fired. There came from it a beam of blue light and a low humming sound. Like me in the train, he missed. But the bar fittings melted and that convinced me enough was enough.

“’Pon my word, Zoot,” I cried, “What is the meaning of this over dramatic intrusion? Shylock and I were on our way back to Baxter Street. Stand aside and let us pass.”

“Bolloxz.”

”I am Inspector Le Strange of Scotland Place.” Began he, striding to the front of the gathering and waiving his handcuffs at the space creature. “I must ask you to accompany me to the station. Shootin’ at the doctor, ‘ere, is a criminal offence. Throw down your death ray.” 

“Nob-off-short-arze. I-want-some-of-that-liquid. And-give-me-that-double-brazelet. The-wive-wantz-one-and-you-can’t-get-‘em’on-Marz.”

“For Gawd’s sake give the alien a pint of best. And give him your damned ‘cuffs.”

The creature took a sip. “Ukkkk. Thiz-tastez-like-pizz. We-heard-that-the elixir-of-live-was-available-at-thiz-boozer. Thiz-ztuff-iz-shyte. I’m-off.”

“Before you go, Zoot, tell me, did you land your saucer ‘pon the hill: did it make the marks ‘pon the grass?”

“”No. We-were-going-to-land-there-but–there-were-zome-men-laying-on-the-grazz-lighting-their-fartz. We-landed-elzewhere-in-caze-the-ship-exploded.”

“But where?”

Zoot did not answer. With a similar blinding flash he disappeared. Quite what happened next remains a mystery to this day. I remember Homes shouting, “Run for you lives.” And that he, Le Strange and I rushed forwards. But, somehow, by some strange contrivance, it seems as though we had not actually moved at all and that we were already outside. Perhaps we gained enough composure to see Le Strange pointing towards the heavens at an eerie, pulsating light that grew dimmer with each passing second. That was the last we saw of Zoot.

“I’m sure ‘twill cost Kirk to repair his smoke room.“ said I, somewhat bewildered.

“I doubt it.” Replied Homes, knowingly.

I turned to go back inside. But there was nothing there. The Enterprise had disappeared. Gone were the drinkers, the hookers and the bar staff. Everything had gone. It was almost as though the whole episode had never happened.

“In God’s name, Homes.  Can this be real?” I breathed.

“I cannot say for sure, doctor. This is the strangest of cases. But the matter is clearly closed. Let us go back to London. Will you accompany us, Le Strange?”

“Certainly, Mister ‘Omes. Perhaps at your convenience you’ll be kind enough to tell me what went on ‘ere. My guv’nor will be askin’ awkward questions about this episode.”

In the absence of Kirk, Gerald and the trap, we three walked back to the railway. Not a word was said. Permitting myself one more backwards glance at where The Enterprise once stood, I could not help but wonder at our night’s adventure. We sat upon the platform, again without a word being spoken. Eventually the train arrived: this time we found ourselves a smoking compartment.

“Tell me, Le Strange, I queried, “What were you doing at Blighton?”

“I was on a case, Mister ‘Omes. The local copper was away shittin’. This ‘ere case brought me to interview the station master at Blighton. Interestin’ly, and as a side issue, ‘e told me about this suspected shootin’ aboard the 5.27. ‘E described two men what left the station in a trap goin’ towards Blighton Village and wi’ Captain Kirk an’ that knockin’ shop what evaporated before our very eyes. It were the strangest thing, Mister ‘Omes, but the station master’s description matches you and the good doctor, ‘ere.”

“And so it should, Inspector. We were aboard that train, were we not, Whitsun?”

“Err…”

“Yet we shot no one?”

“Well…”

“Nor did we hear any shooting, eh, Whitsun?”

“There, Inspector.” said Homes wisely, and concluding that particular point of Le Strange’s case for him, “What did I tell you? Whitsun and I know nothing about shooting aboard the 5.27.”

“O’ course not, Mr ‘Omes. O’ course not. Anyway, wi’ all that’s ‘appened tonight I can’t progress any further. If the potential witnesses ‘ave gone up in a cloud ‘o smoke, that’s that.”

“Indeed, Inspector, indeed. And I doubt I can make matters much clearer for your, either.”

“But you’re a right clever bleeder, Mister ‘Omes.”

“Well, as you praise me in such glowing terms I will do what I can for you, Le Strange. This is – or should I say – was a dark business. And it is one of the few cases that I’ve failed to bring to a satisfactory conclusion. In fact, Le Strange, you and Whitsun know as much as me. There was little data upon which to work. The whole matter took just a few hours, not that that in itself is a problem. The fact is that I suspected Kirk of some wrong doing without being able to say exactly what it was. You remember the tattoo ‘pon his arm, Whitsun…?”

“Indeed, Homes. Kirk became decidedly uneasy when you mentioned the point in our rooms. I presumed he was uneasy because, perhaps, he needed a shit. But, then again, perhaps I was wrong.”

“You’re always wrong, doctor. You’re a twat.  But, as to the tattoo, you will remember that it carried the initials PCJBS of Admiral de Villeneuve. Now, I will wager that you have heard of that seafaring gent but, equally, I will wager that you would not know his initials; one or two, perhaps, but not all of them.” I shook my head.” “Nor you, Inspector/ No. I thought not. I suspected that only a seaman would know all five. It would, as likely as not, be an educated seaman: someone who could both read and write. A captain, perhaps?”

“Maybe, Homes, but it could not have been Kirk.” I triumphed. “He was about five and fifty yet the battle of Trafalgar was ninety years ago.” 

“”I have often said, doctor, that when the possible has been excluded, what remains, however unlikely, is a load of old bollocks.”

“’Scuse me, Mister ‘Omes, but don’t you mean, ‘what remains must be the truth’?”

“Err, yes, Le Strange, I do. Thank you. ‘Tis spending all one’s time in the company of pillocks. It befuddles the brain. Now, remembering HG Wells’ book, The Time Machine, and speculating that any race of extraterrestrials would be technologically advanced as compared to ours, I could only conclude that Kirk was either a time traveller or a spaceman.”

“So you deduced that he was a time traveller because he was a fat bastard.” I cried. “Brilliant.”

“No, doctor. I concluded he was a spaceman and a fat bastard.” In fact I believe Kirk and Zoot were -are? - one and the same person and that, by a process beyond our comprehension, he was able to change between the two. And I deduce that he could not have been a time traveller because who the hell would hang around in the 1890s?”

“But if this were his real time…”

“Don’t break the habit of a lifetime, doctor. Sensible statements are not required here. The Kirk/Zoot combination was a spaceman and that is that. When he burst into our chamber he breathed heavily, do you not remember? As a medical man you doubtless thought he was simply fat and, therefore, out of condition. I, on the other hand, thought he had been having a wank in front of Mrs Hodsun. But he then explained about the farting so I cleared him of being a wanker. Also in our chamber I commented upon the fact that his arse was too big for the chair. In fact he had three arses as well as three heads, two of which were concealed beneath his voluminous suit. How many persons do you know with three heads, doctor? And did you not observe that he belched from an orifice at about the position of his left shoulder? That was his left head belching.  So, clearly, he was an alien or spaceman and not a time traveller. And, in any case, who the merry dongler eats cucumber stew, for Gawd’s sake?”

“That’s all very good, Mister ‘Omes, but my chief ain’t goin’ t’ swallow that.”

“Cucumber stew? I should hope not. But I’m afraid I can add little more to the story, gentlemen. Whilst I cannot pretend that I expected The Enterprise to be a space vehicle, I did expect something extraordinary to happen when Zoot – as we then knew him to be – left the scene.”

“But how did you know his name, Homes?” 

“That was the most brilliant piece of deduction on my part.”

“Pissing liar,” I growled. “Twas the badge upon his lapel which said, ‘Zoot the Martian’.”

"Well, twas obvious to me that he was the captain because I am, as Le Strange pointed out, a clever bleeder. In fact I saved you all from a life on Mars by my quick thinking when he left. Should we not have thrust towards the door when we did we would, in all probability, now be slaves of the Martians, being required to service their women for some dastardly space experiment."

"Err, why did you not want me to arrest Kirk, Mister 'Omes?"

"Why not. Le Strange? The man was a complete twonk. Not that that in itself constitutes grounds for arrest but, no doubt you and you copper-chums could heave trumped-up some charge or other against him. OK, so what if he was innocent? When has that ever bothered your lot? You could have banged him up…"

"Really, Mister 'Omes, that's not the sort o' thing I'd come to expect from you."

"No, no, Le Strange. Banged him up for some crime or other despite your being a bit, well, err, AC DC to coin an electrical expression. Oh, I don't know, impersonating a Martian; impersonating a human, a cat, anything would doubtless do. Use your imagination, Inspector…daft bastard."

The rest of the train journey passed without further reference to this bizarre affair. Indeed, it is one that I recall for you with some misgivings because Homes' powers were never really tested to their fullest extent. Neither is there a conclusion, per se. It is worth noting that, many months later, Homes learned that the missing Mr Davison was never missing at all. He'd simply popped out to rob his local grocer of two hundred fags, the episode taking longer than it normally did. As to the Major, he turned out to be a raving wooftah and bicycle seat sniffer, and he and Aleign were half brothers who had set up in business selling second hand saddles. Other than that, there is no more to tell. 

 "It has been a strange day, has it not, doctor? Said Homes as we alighted form the train. "Let us take a hansom to Baxter Street." 

We climbed out at 221c. Homes went upstairs whilst I went to telephone Mrs Whitsun who was at her mother's.

"You were quick, Whitsun. Was she out shagging dockers again?" 

"No. Well, I don't know. You see, some bastard's smashed up the phone."

"Never mind, old chap, let's read the…Oh, bollocks, the gas has gone out. Do you have a shilling for the meter?"

"Certainly, Homes." said I, producing a coin from my left hand trouser pocket.