This is a manuscript by Tom Brown and Buck White, AnjanaSuta Academy, all copyrights reserved. 2107 april 27
Oink! Whoop! Whoop!!
THE CASE OF THE FALCIOUS HOUND
Act One
We ran into a fire engine and smashed our front bumper and radiator. “Go to ‘the nether regions’, said the Fire-man, “your mother is an ‘unattractive she-dog!’”
These seemed like biological and physical impossibilities, but at the time I was encouraged to just keep driving rather than approach the fire truck to ask for more clarification.
When we arrived at our flat our Man, Jenkins, had the whiskey and syphon ready and after a tall glass our energy was much revived. There was also a telegram just dropped, so Hymnes made no delay in opening it, To our surprise we were informed that a beautiful young women of aristocratic position of the highest order would be calling at 10AM with her Footman and her hound, Blasco, to discuss a matter of the gravest confidentiality.
As soon as we finished the letter Hymnes looked up at the old China clock on the mantel and noticed that it was already 10.05AM. “Just like a woman to be late,” he commented. Nonetheless a sharp but delicate knock then came on the door, and adjusting his cravat Hymnes proceed to open it and usher in one of the most astonishingly beautiful young women I have ever seen.
Being a confirmed Bachelor, Hymens did not look above her feet but politely directed her to a chair by the window. He offered a seat to her well-livered Footman, but the fellow declined expressing his wish to stand within easy access should her Ladyship require anything.Blasco,assumed a seat by her ladyship’s feet and began to sniff the air with concentrated attention.
Our client was covered head to foot in a light grey traveling coat, gloves and a hat with a thick veil that perfectly disguised her face.
Suppressing a heart rending sob she began to express her predicament in a faltering voice.
“Respected Mr. Hymnes and Dr. Wyston, I am very ashamed to explain to you what has happened but considering the dire straits in which it puts my husband, who is no mean official in Her Majesties diplomatic corp, I must be bold.”
“There is no need to trouble yourself Lady Bright-Grayson,” said Holmes,“I can already guess why you are here and I have already discerned the solution to your problem. The letter you lost this morning, identifying you, is in your Footman’s right pocket.”
Of course, both Lady Grayson, the faithful Footman and I were all shocked. This was too ruddy much even for Hymnes. Give a bloke a breather, by gosh, 3-minutes and 47-seconds, case solved, but he continued!
“I was immediately able to deduce your age, station even name as communicated by your voice and gait, and especially from the rings on your fingers.
“But, Hymnes,” I exclaimed, “both her hands are covered with white kid gloves, of the finest quality I must add.”
“Exactly,” Wyston, “but if you had continued your examination of Lady Grayson’s be-gloved hands you would have noticed a slight bulge on the pinky-fingers of both. This could only have come about from the presence of two matching rings.
“Being attentive to all such details at any state function that we attend I of course noticed that her Ladyship Bright-Grayson, wife of Ambassador Dale Bright-Grayson, is the only gentle woman to wear such matching rings in such unique position.
“Furthermore, I can ascertain that the cause of your anxiety is a letter that has fallen from your pocket while you were cycling with the other enthusiasts in Hyde Park this morning. This is revealed by the slight smudge of writing ink that reveals itself on the heel of your left hand and cuff of your right gloves. This color ink is only available at selected writing shops in Sweden where your husband is posted. The other details are of course elementary,” Hymnes concluded stuffing his pipe.
“I for one am completely non-plussed,” commented Lady Grayson, “can you please explain with detail how you came to this astounding conclusion!”
As she was saying this her Footman hesitatingly passed the letter to her with no look of guilt, but a little of shame of incompetence.
Looking a little strained Hymnes explained:
Your shoes reveal small splashes of dried muddy water that are characteristic of Hyde Park where the new cycling-set go in the morning. Before last night there has been no rain for two days, so the splashes must have been acquired this morning. The ink marks, if they had been acquired while writing would have been on your graceful fingers, but their position belies a rapid and hasty search through your writing box in search of the lost letter.
Since your good Footman has a little trace of the same muddied water dried upon the fringe of his pocket I concluded that he picked up the letter that fell from her Ladyship’s pocket while riding this morning.
With a look of deep panic on his face the Footman interrupted, “I had no intention my Lady or Mr. Hymnes of keeping the letter, but it happened as I was moving along behind her ladyship on foot with Blasco on his leash. She was not cycling too fast but it did require rather rapid stepping from myself. Then she hit a small bump and the cycle twisted and in recovering her balance the letter fell. Of course, I immediately scooped it up and pocket it and would have notified her ladyship immediately as soon as I caught up with her, but that took a moment and there were other cycles and trotting man-servants to negotiate.
Just as I approached her she again hit another bump and this time she was forced to dismount from her cycle to catch herself. As she righted herself and adjusted her riding frock, goggles and mask she happened to touch her pocket where I can now guess the letter had been kept.
At the time I did not know this, nor did I understand why she began to search so frantically on the path we had just taken, but she soon stopped and informed me that we must with all haste return to Letchmore Heath Cabin, His Lordship’s London residence. After that you have described the rest.”
Her Ladyship with heartfelt gratitude thankedHymnes and offered him a generous bank draft for his prompt but valuable service expressing her eternal debt.
After they had gone Hymnes and I began to take our simple lunch of pork, beef, mutton, fish, fowl, caviar, frog-legges with an excellent bottle of Port, but I could not help asking him, “I did not want to broach the subject while her Ladyship was here, but was the importance of the letter some compromising content that she wrote in a passionate moment of her youth before marriage?”
“No,” muffled Hymes as he masticated vigorously on a strip of smoked venison, “the letter was simply an invitation with her name on it to the Lancer’s Ball to be held by the Duchess SilliaAbercroft at the end of this month”.
“But why so much concern for the letter then?”
“It was not the letter,” he answered with a trace of consternation, “when she was put out of countenance by the toss to ground from her cycle, her pantaloon must have slipped up revealing a portion of her nude ankle, and of course, even though fully disguised if anyone retrieved the letter they would have been able to have identify her. It would have been the end for Lord Grayson’s career I am afraid”.
I was of course thoroughly flustered and could only mumble to myself, “Nude ankle, gentlewoman cycling”, realizing the scandal.
But Hymnes was taking the grisly affair with a totally detached analytical mind, however his jaw did seem to tighten as he then let his next comment slip.
“But I afraid that we have not seen the end of Lady Grayson, and her more serious problems are just beginning to arise!”
“What is that,” I asked with a fork of pickled salmon suspended on the way to my mouth?
“That dog was no ordinary dog,” said Hymnes, “did you not notice his olfactory agitation when he came in the room.”
“Well yes,” I said, ‘but he’s a dog!”
“Exactly,” said Hymnes, “but I tested a hypothesis by taking out some Bleach-Bathers and stuffing my pipe. Did you not notice?”
“Well, yes, I saw you fill your pipe and for a moment I thought that you were going to smoke, but of course then you remembered that a lady was present in the room, and thus you did not light it!”
“I never make mistakes,” said Hymnes as he masticated for a moment in silence. Then he pointed his fork at me carefully and asked, “How did the dog respond when I opened the humidor?”
With some haught and aplomb I responded, “I distinctly noticed that he did nothing!”
“Precisely,” said Hymnes, “but you did not notice that his neck and shoulder muscles stiffened. He was forcing himself not to react. Bleach-Bathers is a very, very rare blend including leaves from a rather remote part of Egypt that incidentally is the preferred of Dr. Samsyn Murrieta, the most diabolical and fiendish criminal and master of disguises, that Europe has ever know.”
I dropped my fork, “Hymnes! You don’t mean to tell me that her Ladyship’s dog was not a dog at all, but a disguised criminal wanted by every police agency in Europe!”
“That is my conclusion,” Wyston, “but considering the embryonic state of urinologyinEuroe at this time I could not hope to get positive identification of Murrieta, so we must just wait and watch.”
Hardly aware of our after-dinner brandy and cigars, I could also only wait for what appeared to be a Battle of the Titans now looming on the horizon.
THE PLOT THICKENS
The Fireman seemed to be a curious nemesis of ours, as our cab was caught in traffic next to his truck following month. Recognizing me as the driver who had dinged his truck he stuck his head out of the window and yelled, “The registry of your parent’s marriage was not properly filled.” I confess, such a low blow was hardly tolerable and hardly even knowing the fellow in the most remote manner I responded, “Intellectually stunted, height challenged homo-sapien!”
Hymne seemed delighted by our exchange but commented, “I think if we are strict in Strunk and White, then you should have edited your phrase to, ‘Mental midget!’.”
I could only puff and say no more.
We were on the way to the British Museum to attend the presentation of a collection of rare aboriginal blow-guns and also do a little more reading in our respective areas of interest. We had no sooner arrived than something seemed to agitate Hymne’s sense of balance. He was like a craft being blown by opposing winds and waves.
After Prof. Lynne Smoot-Sothby had presented the various guns and explained the culture that surrounded them, one be-whiskered savant with a brushed top hat began to challenge him upon a set of guns used by the aboriginals of Manipuraand BengalaState.
Prof. Sotherby took the somewhat aggressive suggestions of correction with consideration and that seemed to end the case, but Hymnes introjected, looking at the critic, “Is the learned anthropologist suggesting that this particular set of blow-guns may have been involved in the famous and as yet unsolved Bree Bauwsindisgrace in Kent one year and seven months past?”
The critic made the small turn of his head necessary to see Hymesand I felt sure that although he did not start to see him, he did look for a moment very much like someone carefully detached from his surrounds but who had been caught by an unexpected bump. If so, his recovery was as quick as a cat and his hand on his silver knobbed stick rotated slightly like a dreadnaught’s turret as he responded to Hymnes.
“Very interesting proposition, Sir. I had not thought of it myself, but now that you mention it, of course it could be possible.”
Hymnes smacked a little and gave a mild laugh, “Then I guess we must discuss the cult of Sri Krsna-caitanya at some time.”
The suited critic touched his hat with a mild smile and turned to Prof. Sotherby who not seeing anymore questions thanked his audience and began to fold up his collection.Some few students moved forward for more detailed discourse.
Hymnes also moved forward and specifically looked at the set of Bengali dart guns. With a nod of approval from Prof. Sotherby he picked them up and smelled them carefully, fingering them lightly. Prof. Sotherby came next to us having closed up almost the rest of his instruments and asked, “Do you know much about these? I admit I acquired them in a very indirect fashion and the adamant critic in the audience seems to know much more about them than I do.”
Hymnes looked up from deep thought and smiled warmly and seemingly even boyishly at the Professor. He commented that we had once had a cook’s helper who was Bengali and from him he had learned a few things. He explained that in the tradition of the 15th century monk and mystic, Sri Krsna-caitanya, there was considered one terrible, poisonous substance called visaya-anna. It probably would not have had any immediately noticed effects, but worked on the mind to fill one with damnable desires for low and destructive pleasures.
Hymnes, whose sense of smell always amazed me, commented that he thought he still smelt the slight fragrance of roti prepared by the horrid and feared sect, known as Mayavadis, by the rather priggishly pure sect of Sri Caitanya.
“Goodness!” gasp Prof. Sotherby, “Well I always wear gloves which are washed scrupulously after I handle the weapons.”
“Excellent,” said Hymnes, “most excellent!”
Without further comment we moved off toward the library stacks and Hymnes began to softly sing an enchanting Bengali ditty, gaurangabolitehabe…
. . .
We read throughout the whole afternoon, but when we left about five P.M. I could tell that Hymnes had been working with two minds, his reading just being a substitute for tobacco while he really was thinking of something else.
“What is it, Hymnes,” I asked as we entered the Hansome.
He laughed and commented, “I may have the analytical mind my friend, but you have the sympathy of a true man of medicine. Yes, some forms are moving in the shadows. Let us look in the Times and see what scows are outbound for Bengal in the next few days.”
After doing this and checking a few more things, Hymnes told me with a glint in his eye, “Pack a few things for the tropics, we are headed for India.”
“A few things for the tropics? This is a major move. What is happening, Sir?”
He responded, “You know I spoke with the Foreign Secretary and you may also notice that Ambassador Dale Bright-Grayson has been re-assigned to India and asked to travel immediately. He will be on the Maid of the Mist, a very fast American Clipper, along with his family at first tide next Wednesday.
“Gracious,” I said, “that only gives me the weekend to pack and turn up my affairs!”
Hymnesjoking, poked me in the abdomen and laughed and said, “Come on, old Captain, you know that you are loving the adventure of it at every moment!”
I blushed and laughed and we both shared a spot of Scotch going over the kit and gear that we would need, as well as what needed to be so quickly done to put in order our rooms and agendas.
. . .
Needless to say (but of course, you never know what is going to happen in a history like this) we were on the Maid by next Wednesday morning early bright and early. Our Steamers had already been loaded the day before and we had passed the night in a nearby hotel so as to have one last night of solid ground under our feet before undertaking several weeks of rolling on the sea.
The casting off was almost more than a human being could take. The sun was shining. Its light coming over the horizon and it seemed to pull the sea and its tide towards it. Of course, we had to catch that tide or be stuck in port for another day, and the crew and officers knew exactly what they were doing. Yanks can move with an aplomb that sometimes embarrasses our British lads. Final goods were being secured below ship. Gaily dressed ladies and little children were saying good-bye and there were many a moist eye of family and on-lookers.
As if by command the breeze began to stiffen and right on time the final herding ashore of family, friends, business-secretaries was finished and the gangways retracted.
The Captain nodded and the Sailing Master began yelling strangely coded oaths to the crew who had gone aloft like a set of monkeys. I have traveled on sailing ships before but this was the first time on a clipper, and I was actually surprised by the difference in her lines and rigging. Her sails were coming down like clouds from heaven and puffed up like brawny strong arms as they embraced the breeze.