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By A. Conan Fats
Special
to the Gazette
Editor’s
note: A. Conan Fats is a maternal-side descendant of
English mystery writer A. Conan Doyle, author of the Sherlock
Holmes stories. He is currently a resident of Greater Grace and
owns and operates a rare-book shop that specializes in first
editions of British mystery fiction. Acey (for A.C.) as he is
commonly known around Grace, is also a collector of notebooks,
unpublished manuscript fragments and letters attributed to A.
Conan Doyle. From these he has now written a story about a
hitherto unknown visit by Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson to
Grace in 1899 to solve what seemed at the time an insoluble
mystery. As was usual in the Holmes stories, the narration is by
Dr. Watson.
Chapter
5
We
rode for half an hour and then encountered a rather strange
caravan of covered wagons, each of them painted with religious
slogans. As we drew up, we were hailed by a tall, bearded man
sitting in the lead wagon. “Welcome, pilgrims. I’m Rev.
Jehoshaphat Biggotte. Take a load off and rest a spell.”
“Thank
you reverend, you are most gracious. My name is Holmes, and this
is Dr, Watson. We’re visitors to this fine country, as you
might have guessed by our accents. But tell me, of what
denomination is your religious order?”
“Well, sir, we our missionaries of the Church of the Golden
Standard, Fort Knox denomination. We are spreading our gospel of
salvation through total tithing to those unfortunate souls who
have been consumed by greed and wanton capitalism. We have
dubbed our cause the Crusade to Convert Croesus. As the Good
Book says, it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a
needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. It is
a daunting and exhausting mission we have undertaken, but we
persevere to free sinners of the yoke of earthbound wealth. This
gentleman handling the reins is my acolyte, Mr. Sumphouse
Sweeney. Say hello, Sumphouse.”
“Hello.”
“And
good day to you, Mr. Sweeney,” Holmes said. “But perhaps you
could answer a vexing question, Rev. Jehoshaphat--“
“You
can call me Father Phat, as all my followers do. It’s much
easier on the vocal cords. But your question is?”
“As
we were passing through the town of Grace, we heard of a quite
mysterious crime. Someone had stolen an invention, something in
the nature of a self-propelling mode of transportation not
requiring railroad tracks. Are you aware of this criminal
event?”
Father
Phat’s ingratiating smile was suddenly replaced by a curiously
guarded expression. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have no knowledge
of that unfortunate happenstance.”
“But
is it not true, sir, that during the commission of the crime you
were in fact in residence at Miss Babalu O’Bunion’s House of
No Regret?”
“Hubba,
hubba,” said Sumphouse Sweeney. ”Yummy ladies.”
“Shut
up, you dolt!” the reverend admonished his acolyte. “Please
pardon this unfortunate sinner. He’s had a bit too much sun
today and has always been prone to hallucinations. I believe
he’s actually referring to a box social and fund-raiser held
by the Grace Ladies Temperance Society at the community hall.
After giving a rather strenuous sermon about the evils of
intoxicating libations, I retired to the rude comforts of this
very wagon.”
“Babalu
sells good booze,” Sumphouse said before Father Phat roughly
clamped a hand over his mouth.
“We
shall not detain you any longer from your appointed rounds,”
Holmes said. “Please give our regards to Miss O’Bunion.”
“Yah
sure, you betcha,” Sumphouse managed to utter through the
splayed fingers covering his mouth.
As
we rode away I said, “Tell me, Holmes, how did you know Father
Phat was in residence at Babalu’s bawdy house?”
“I
didn’t, Watson, but it seemed a reasonable gambit. And so it
proved.”
“So
do you think that she and the reverend are co-conspirators in
this affair?”
“Perhaps,
perhaps not. But now I think we should make camp for the
evening. It appears best to reserve our infiltration of Casa
Grande de los Fontaneros for the dark of night.”
“Capital,”
I replied. “It seems there will be a full moon tonight to
guide us.”
After
some scouting we found a rocky outcrop where we could hide our
horses and the mule, and make a sheltered fire not visible from
the butte rising directly above us. Drawing upon my experiences
in the Kashmir campaign, I erected our tent with little trouble,
noting with satisfaction Holmes’s unstated but obvious
admiration. Our dinner was a rather dismal combination of bread
and cheese and tinned sardines, washed down with a rather decent
claret I had obtained at the hotel. As darkness descended we
settled into our bedrolls and were soon fast asleep.
It
must have been near four in the morning when Holmes shook me
awake. “Watson,” he said, “look up and tell me what you
see.”
I
rubbed my eyes for a moment and then did as bidden. “Well, I
see a beautiful full moon. And there’s the Big Dipper, and the
Little Dipper, and the North Star.”
“Look
again, Watson. And this time concentrate all your faculties.”
“All
right. I can see Ursa Major, and I think that reddish object is
Mars, and—“
“Watson,
you idiot! Can’t you see that someone has stolen the bloody
tent?”
“Oh.
Well, yes, I was about to say that,” I blustered, “if
you’d merely given me the chance.”
“Balderdash,”
Holmes replied. “All right, get moving. It’s time for our
reconnaissance.”
“But
Holmes, surely Fritz Fitz is aware of our presence. It appears
likely that his men stole our tent, and will be on guard against
us. Suffice to say that it would be an inane escapade for the
world’s greatest detective to beard the lion in his den.”
“Precisely,
and that’s why he won’t be expecting me to be so foolhardy.
Come, Watson, the game is afoot.”
But,
In
chapter 6 Doctor Watson hisses....
"Dogs! What now, shall we retreat?"
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