Please read Chapter 5 here.
Lord Dennis
I write to you forthwith and forsyth. My name is Detective Inspector Ian Detective-Inspector, and I am writing on behalf of His Majesty’s Royal Umbilical Constabulary. I fear my tidings be grim, my lord, so I implore you to indulge my histrionic ramblings.
Upon last Wednesday Eve (Tuesday), it went to pass that a Mr Clarence Crapper did nothing short of disappear from his lodgings. It is only that we have henceforth discovering a withering missive from your good self, which in deed you indeed plan the deed of threatening said Crapper (although we have no evidence that you were seeks the deeds to his fruit and veg emporium). Forgive me, sweet prince. Bend down and let me kiss your ring in forgiveness, it is only my wretched duty that prevaricates such an impertinent imposition from one so lowly as myself. I continue.
The facts are these – Crapper left his shoppe at the usual hour, and proceeding to distribute wilting produce to the clutch of vagrants outside his establishment (the rogue!). He was stalked from this location by a Mrs Sandra Growbag (of no fixed, or unfixed, abode), until he reached his resting place (house). There she did spy verily through the “window” as Crapper transfixed himself in front of the new-fangled “Idiot Lantern”, watching a contrivance that I believe is known as ‘Play Your Cards Right’ (I embarrass myself even mentioned such dross to one such as yourself, blast my blessed duty to hades). Growbag distinctly heard Crapper chant “Higher…higher!” during the televisual glow, and so we know him to be of full-faculty at this stage.
Following this debauchery, Crapper did nothing short of ascend his “wooden hill” (staircase), and presumably to his slumber. Mrs Growbag was unable to confirm any more, as she suffers from debillitating vertigo and even her passion for the man could not induce in her a will to climb. She did no more than curl in to a ball (somewhat like a ‘cat’) and go thusly to sleep where she did lay her head.
Morning has broken, or indeed is didst breaketh and Growbag was risen!! Indeed! She waited, waiting and waited, then waited, waiting for nothing more than Crapper’s appearance. Alas, it did not materialise. At this point she panicked, Crapper being a man of some monotonous routine. Seizing the moment, she dived head first through his kitchen window (it transpires that the door was unlocked and the harridan could have saved herself from a blood transfusion). The whore made her way to Crappers quarters and was some overcome by his stench that she spent upwards of two hours frapping herself with his shaving brush. Indeed, she be quite mad.
When eventually she came to her (somewhat dulled) senses, she realised that the man she longed for was not there!! All that remained was a message scrawled on to his mirror (with lemon chapstick):
sac du confectionaire
Oh Lord Dennis!! How that message haunts me! I dare not say the words, but Jack Hughes!! Jack Hughes!!! (as out gallic cousins would say). I implore you to set my mind at rest and your innocence to be seen by all and sundry. (Mmmmm Ice Cream Sundry). Reply, my lord, reply before my men must come for you. What you gonna do? What you gonna do? What you gonna do when they come for you?
Yours erotically
D.I Ian Detective Inspector
“Making your homes safer, and your melons firmer”
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