AND SO with a murderous snowman on the loose, there was only one thing to do. We waited.

After a couple of days of waiting, the snow had thawed substantially, leaving some of the snowmen in the street looking as flaccid as an old man’s todger – all except for one, which stood as firm and as proudly as…well, MY todger.

Using my exceptional deductive powers, I ascertained that the non-melted snowman MUST be an imposter, and after threatening to knock its head off with a shovel, my suspicions were confirmed, as a rather weedy-looking fellow emerged from within his snowy disguise.

It turned out that this chap – Mr. Arthur Funtwhistle – had murdered poor Mr. Ambrose Clutchpenny after becoming consumed with jealousy over the far superior Christmas decorations adorning the front of Clutchpenny’s house. Funtwhistle, it seemed, lacked some of the seasonal goodwill towards his fellow man.

Needless to say, Funtwhistle was arrested, trialled, found completely and utterly guilty and then on Boxing Day he received the belated Christmas gift of a rather tight-fitting rope tie; to whit, he was hung by the neck until dead.

HUZZAH!

Now, I know what some of you are thinking – ‘well, Likely, after three weeks of waiting that seemed to be a most hasty conclusion to this Astonishing Adventure!’ To which I would remind you all that since I began transcribing this tale, both Christmas AND New Year celebrations have come and gone, leaving me with a hangover so enormous, I fear I may never again be able to see straight.

Hopefully, however, I shall be as right as rain before too long, and ready to THRILL, DELIGHT and AROUSE you all with more corking adventures over the course of this coming year!

In the meantime – HAPPY NEW YEAR, chums! Have a drink on me (literally, if you are a rather attractive female who wishes to lap gin from my taut and muscular torso).

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

IT WAS mid-December, and London had been left under a thick blanket of snow, as if the lord God above had looked down ‘pon the glorious British Empire, and had decided it looked so damnably attractive that he had whipped out His tremendous tallywhacker and sprayed the land with His holy horn-paste.

Truly ’twas a sight to behold, as I pointed out to my miserable man-servant, Botter, as we trudged our way through the snow to meet Inspector Spunkleford, who had summoned us to meet him on a matter of some urgency. Botter, however, seemed less than impressed with my poetic observation about the current climate.

“‘S too cold, that’s what it is, milord. Too blinkin’ cold!” he muttered.

“Cold? For heaven’s sake, Botter, do grow a scrotum!”

“‘S alright for you, milord, you had a nice, warm bed for the night. I ‘ad to sleep in a bleedin’ hen-house.” Botter continued, shoving his hands under his armpits to warm them.

“Now, Botter, we have been through this,” I countered. “I cannot very well have my prize-winning hens out in the cold. Nobody enjoys a frozen egg, least of all me. That is why I decided to let them have the use of your quarters.”

“B-but it’s inhumane, milord!” Botter cried.

“Nonsense, they were extremely comfortable indeed. I think I even saw one making use of the bidet, at one point.”

“Not your stupid hens, milord! Me! It’s inhumane to leave me to freeze to death in some rickety old hen-house!” Botter wailed.

“Botter, if you keep up this incessant moaning I simply shall not unlock the hen-house in the morning, and leave you in there forever!”

We continued to crunch our way through the snow as Botter fell into a mopey silence, which rather suited me fine, as I really did not want to listen to any more of his wearisome wafflings anyway.

We turned into a small street and seemed to find ourselves instantly transported to some kind of astonishing winter wonderland. The gardens and houses all along the street were decorated in the most eye-popping manner possible, with various Christmas lights dotted throughout, tinsel hanging from every branch of every available tree and plant, and large, ornate carvings depicting Father Christmas or angels or reindeer looming out from all sides. It was rather like someone had eaten an entire box of Christmas cards, and then vomited the contents out onto the street.

“Well, this is the right place,” I sighed, noting the road-sign nearby. “Fezziwig Lane. I really hope Spunkleford hasn’t called us half-way across the city just to show us his baubles. Come on, Botter.”

We ventured on up the road until we came to a house which was swarming with police-men, bustling back and forth and looking generally perplexed. In among the blue tide I spotted Spunkleford, who was closely consulting a note-book while chewing upon the end of a pencil in a most contemplative manner.

“Good day, Inspector,” I said, slapping Spunkleford so heartily on the back that he almost wound up excreting graphite. “What is all this hubbub about, then?”

“Oh, Likely, old boy!” Spunkleford exclaimed, clearly pleased to see me (as people usually are). “I have got a queer old case here, I don’t mind saying. Very queer indeed!”

“Hmmm,” I pondered, looking about to find a dark patch of crimson seeping through the snow on the ground. “Well, I assume either someone has been rather careless with the cranberry sauce, or there has been a murder here, yes?”

“Yes indeed, Likely. But if only it were that simple! The victim was the home-owner, a Mr. Ambrose Clutchpenny, by all accounts a well-respected and well-liked member of the local community. He was discovered dead at the scene this morning by one of his neighbours, a Mrs. Penelope Twigglebottom. Poor thing, has been in shock ever since.”

“Maybe I should offer her a shoulder to cry on?” I offered. “Of course, when I say ‘shoulder’ I do of course mean ‘penis’. And when I say ‘cry’ I mean ‘sit.’”

Spunkleford carried on, brushing aside my carnal desires as was his wont.

“Now here is where things get…peculiar. We’ve had an eyewitness come forward who swears blind that he saw Mr. Clutchpenny being attacked by…someone. He’s even given us a full description…” Spunkleford explained, waving his notebook in my direction.

“And?”

“Well, apparently the assailant was white, about five-foot four, dressed in a top hat and scarf…” Spunkleford glanced up at me, then back down at his notebook. “Ahem. He had a long, carrot-shaped nose, and eyes…eyes as black as coal…”

I raised an eyebrow. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, Spunkleford, what you have just described to me there is a snowman.”

Spunkleford nodded. “I know. And naturally I would not normally take such a thing seriously, if it were not for the fact…well, there was a break-in down at the docks last night as well. And a witness there gave my officers a description of one of the culprits…”

“…And that too was a snowman?”

Spunkleford nodded again. “He even gave the details to a sketch-artist, and…well, look.” Spunkleford held up a piece of paper on which was drawn a (rather well rendered) picture of a snowman.

“This…” I said slowly, “…is indeed peculiar.”

- Lord Likely.

To Be Furthered!

NEW! You can now receive The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely straight to your Kindle book-reading device! SUBSCRIBE TO-DAY, and ne’er miss an astonishing chapter again!

Moustache No.9: ‘The Spunkleford.’
Taken from ‘Lord Likely’s Extra-Ordinary Inter-Active Moustache-O-Rama‘.

TODAY’S ENTRY in my ‘Moustache-A-Day Movember Marathon‘ is a style suited best to the old-fashioned, befuddled and rather inept among you – ‘The Spunkleford’, named after my old-fashioned, befuddled and rather inept acquaintance, Inspector Albert Spunkleford, of Scotland Yard.

Like its namesake, ‘The Spunkleford’ is large, hairy, irritating and constantly gets in the way. That being said, despite Inspector Spunkleford’s myriad short-comings, he does seem inexplicably popular among readers of my fine journals, which is why I thought this’d be a good time to share with you some of Spunkleford’s more inept episodes, to hopefully prove to you all that he really is a bumbling twat-pole of the highest order.

The Peculiar Prostitute Predicament: Spunkleford’s first appearance in my tales, where he debuts in an entirely unconvincing disguise, the fool.

The Riddle of the Runaway Romanov: Wherein Spunkleford puts a warrant out for my arrest, the absolute arse-pipe.

Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances: In which Spunkleford’s wife is kidnapped by blood-sucking bastards, and the inspector attempts to rescue her.

The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park: An astonishing audio adventure, wherein you can actually HEAR Spunkleford as he blusters and bumbles his way through one of my otherwise marvellous mysteries.

So, there you have it. The Spunkleford – ridiculous looking, and fantastically dense. I need say no more.

- Lord Likely.

LIKED today’s ‘tash? Then please DONATE to Likely for Movember! And be here tomorrow for another Magnificent Moustache!

NEW! You can now receive The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely straight to your Kindle book-reading device! SUBSCRIBE TO-DAY! Or possibly tomorrow. JUST SUBSCRIBE, dammit!

This being the case, I am all too aware that great advances in technology are occurring all the time. Where once gas-lamps lit our homes, light-bulbs now sit, emitting their comforting, phosphorous glow into our houses. Where once horse-and-cart transported us through the city, now motorised auto-mobiles chug us along on our journeys. And where once a firm, wooden plank was sufficient for beating one’s man-servant, one can now thrash the bounder with a stainless-steel pipe. Ah, vive le progres!

One most recent technological marvel has been the emergence of the Electronic Hand-Held Book-Reading Device, bringing the great works of literature to a small contraption via tiny atoms or magic or something. I don’t pretend to understand (or indeed care about) the science behind this invention, but I DO acknowledge that it looks, feels and smells very much like the future!

Naturally, I am not one to be left behind, and in wishing to see my journals survive well into the next millennia, I have instructed my own technological bods to go about engineering a way of transferring this very web-log into a form suitable for enjoyment in one of these Electronic Hand-Held Book-Reading Devices! And by jove, they have only succeeded!

YES, dear readers, I am pleased to announce that The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely is now available for perusal via Mr. Amazon’s ‘Kindle’ contraption, as of today! HUZZAH!

For a mere, piffling 99p per month (with a FREE 14-day trial) , one may subscribe to these journals and have them delivered electronically into your Kindling device! Think of it like an electronic penny dreadful, only 99 times better, and not at ALL dreadful!

Do not delay! Click HITHER to-day!

I do hope some of you who own these devices shall take up this opportunity. Not only is it the chance to be at the razor-tipped cutting-edge of progress, but NOWHERE else will you be able to receive such a constant stream of sheer ASTONISHMENT and AMAZEMENT, rendering all those so-called ‘books’ completely obselete overnight! Furthermore, it is the chance for many of you to fulfil that most desired of dreams – holding me in your VERY HAND. HUZZAH!

If you do subscribe – or even if you do not – a review of said journals would be appreciated ‘pon this page, so that word may spread and the Likely Empire may forge ahead into thrilling new territories!

Prepare thine tinted-spectacles, chums – the future is bright, the future is LIKELY!

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

IF YOU have been thrilling to my recent audio adventure, ‘The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park’, chances are you would have also been aroused to the point of explosion by the loin-stirringly fantastic theme-music accompanying said adventure.

That being the case, I thought I’d offer my dear readers and listeners the chance to enjoy my Likely anthem without all that (admittedly wondrous) talking all over it, in it’s purest, unedited form!

And so, do enjoy Mr. Andi Woodford’s GLORIOUS composition, below!

Or download it via the iTunes shop, so you can keep it on your personal music-playing device of choice, and have it playing where’er you go, so you can imagine being as incredible as I am:

And if you have not yet heard the audio adventure at all, follow these links to listen to it RIGHT AWAY!

The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park

Part One: Wherein Mr. Javier Spoons is MUGGED by FOG.

Part Two: Wherein Lord Likely has an excellent plan.

Part Three: Wherein the mystery is solved!

FINALLY, many thanks to all of you who have said such very kind things about the above production – it seems the tale has been much well-received, and therefore another audio masterpiece may well be forthcoming! In the mean-time, do feel free to share this with your chums on the Book of Faces or the Twittering Device – all should have the honour of listening to this CLASSIC TALE!

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

Listen to the previous episodes, hither: Part One | Part Two

PREPARE yourselves, dear readers and listeners, for to-day sees the THRILLING conclusion to my ASTONISHING audio adventure! Ne’er before has a release been so eagerly anticipated, aside from when in the final throes of sexual congress, of course.

Anyway – let us dilly-dally no more! To listen to the fantastic finale of this fog-based fable, simply utilise the listening device presented to you now:

OR! Alternatively, the production is available to download for approximately no shillings at the Apple iTunes shop, hither:

HUZZAH! I do so hope you have enjoyed this amazing aural adventure, chums – be sure to let me know, and perhaps there shall be more in the near future…

The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park written by Mr. A. D. Fanton esquire, with humorous additions by the cast.

Vocal stylings provided by Mr. Fanton, Mr Andrew Weston, Mr. Thomas Butler and Mr Andi Woodford.

Music and Sound Effects provided by Mr. Andi Woodford.

Produced by Lord Likely, and a fair few lashings from some reeds.

- Lord Likely.

To hear the previous part, do please click HITHER!

AND SO, with London’s fog having seemingly turned against the city’s inhabitants, it is left to me – Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action -  to once again step in and save the day!

To THRILL to this latest instalment of my Astonishing Audio Adventure, do please utilise the device below:

Alternatively, you may download the production at the Apple iTunes store, whatever the cock all that means:

UPDATE! The conclusion to this action-packed adventure is now available to hear HITHER! Huzzah!

The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park written by Mr. A. D. Fanton esquire, with humorous additions by the cast.

Vocal stylings provided by Mr. Fanton, Mr Andrew Weston, Mr. Thomas Butler and Mr Andi Woodford.

Music and Sound Effects provided by Mr. Andi Woodford.

Produced by Lord Likely, and a fair few lashings from some reeds.

- Lord Likely.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, pin back your ears, and loosen your under-garments, for I have a particularly wondrous treat for you to-day!

For your extreme and unequivocal listening pleasure, I give to you the FIRST PART of an ALL-NEW and ALL-THRILLING audio adventure! HUZZAH!

And so, if you are sitting comfortably, let us commence the terrific tale without any further ado! Prepare thyselves for  ‘The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park’….

Alternatively, you may also listen to the audio play via Mr. Jobs’ Apple iTunes store, hither:

The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park written by Mr. A. D. Fanton esquire, with humorous additions by the cast.

Vocal stylings provided by Mr. Fanton, Mr Andrew Weston, Mr. Thomas Butler and Mr Andi Woodford.

Music and Sound Effects provided by Mr. Andi Woodford.

Produced by Lord Likely, and a fair few beatings from a cricket bat.

UPDATE! Part two is now ‘pon us! Click HITHER to enjoy!

- Lord Likely.

To read the previous chapter, please click HITHER.

THERE ARE a few activities from which one should refrain whilst deeply hung-over. Bouncing up and down ‘pon a dirigible is one; taking a small rowing-boat out to sea on a particularly stormy day would be another. And one may most definitely add ‘standing over a bloody, severed, chewed-up corpse first thing in the morning’ to that inglorious list.

“And as you can see, the attacker tore out the victim’s larynx, here,” Inspector Spunkleford continued, pointing at a gaping, bloodied hole in the victim’s throat. The gruesome scene before me, coupled with the after-effects of my previous night’s drinking, was causing my stomach to churn harder than a particularly aggressive milk-maid trying to make butter in a hail-storm.

“Botter,” I said, turning to my man-servant. “You do realise that it is awfully bad manners to keep your hat on in the presence of the deceased?”

“But you – ” Botter began.

“Do not argue Botter! Remove it at once, and pass it here!”

“Very good, milord,” Botter sighed, as he passed me his bowler.

“That is more like it, Botter. A little respect never hurt anyone,” I said, and then I proceeded to empty the contents of my stomach rather forcibly into Botter’s hat.

“There you go,” I said, wiping my mouth with a handkerchief, and offering the vomit-filled bowler to my man-servant. ” You may have it back now.”

“Very good, milord.” Botter glumly replied.

Having disavailed myself of that particular booze-fuelled burden, I felt much more like myself again, and felt my brain wake up and steam back into action.

“Hmmm,” I hmmmed, as I produced a magnifying glass and examined the corpse laying on the street. And then I sneezed.

“Well, we can rule out a wild animal attack. This was most definitely the work of a person. And a rather well-to-do person, at that.”

“And how do you know that, Likely?”

“They seasoned the body with pepper before taking a bite.”

“Well, that certainly corroborates with the night-watchman’s statement…” Spunkleford beamed, evidently pleased that his meagre attempts at police-work had yielded results.

“Yes…but he also stated that the assailant was CHARLES DICKENS, who, need I remind you, is currently deceased, and not in a terribly good position to go out and about as much as he used to do, let alone feast upon the flesh of innocent bystanders…although…what’s this?…”

I stooped down and retrieved a scrap of blood-stained paper lying beside the victim’s right hand. It had been torn from a larger sheet, but the part which remained clearly bore the word ‘DICKENS’. This was entirely too coincidental, I reasoned.

“Inspector, do we have any idea who this fellow was at all?” I asked, motioning toward the body.

“Ah, yes Likely! We recovered a wallet from the body. We believe him to have been a gentleman named Theodore Fruntlope, worked as a publishing editor for one of the big book publishers.”

“A publisher of big books, or a publisher of considerable status?”

“Erm…yes. The second one.”

“I see. And what books does this publisher publish?”

“Oh, you know. Paper ones. Lots of pages, split up into chapters, and – “

I sighed. “Which AUTHORS, Spunkleford?”

“Oh. Well, I…I’m not really sure, old boy…” Spunkleford blustered.

“Well, I suggest you find out right away, Inspector!” I cried, thrusting a finger into the air. “I shall wager that one of the authors on their books is none other than one Mr. Charles Dickens!”

“Ah! Erm. I see. And?…”

“AND!…” I paused, my finger still held aloft. “That means something! I’m not sure exactly what it means yet, Spunkleford – but I assure you I shall work on it! Come along, Botter! There is thinking to be done!”

*****

BOTTER and I adjourned to a nearby tavern called the ‘The Soggy Biscuit‘, a place of ill-repute but healthy profits, due in no small part to the fact that the landlord made his premises freely available for prostitutes to ply their trade, which thus made it one of my favourite places to go when I needed a good, hard…think.

I drunk long into the early hours of the evening, enjoying the delicious beer, and the delicious women. Soon I was deep in conversation with a hugely buxom harlot by the name of ‘Big’ Bella Butterlegs, so-called because her legs spread ever so easily. As we talked, Bella took  to whispering sweet nothings into my ear, while I returned saucy somethings into hers, and we soon agreed to depart to her abode around the corner, for a spot of rumpy-pumpy – much to the chagrin of my miserable man-servant.

“Milord,” he whined, “Should we not be working on the investigation?…”

“Botter, why don’t you investigate THIS!” I boomed, extending my middle finger at the wretched cove. “Now, what can you deduce from the evidence before you?”

“That you wish for me to extricate myself from your company?” Botter answered sadly.

“Indeed, to put it politely,” I nodded. “To put it impolitely, FUCK OFF, you wretched little arse-smear!”

And with that, Bella and I left The Soggy Biscuit, laughing heartily at my supremely excellent insult and Botter’s subsequent misery.

As we staggered down the road, arm-in-arm, I felt my spirits rise, along with my proud Lord Palmerston, and suggested to Bella that we slipped into a secluded alley-way so she could tend to my raging erection there and then. Bella giggled, and acceded, as well she might, the filthy slattern.

We dashed into such a side-street nearby, and Bella dropped to her knees before me like the cock-hungry whore she was. But before I could free my tumescent tally-whacker, we were disturbed by the sound of something stirring at the other end of the alley-way.

“Hello?” I barked, re-fastening my belt. “Who’s there? This isn’t some sort of peep-show, you know! Although we may be able to come to some arrangement, for the right fee…”

No reply came, but the sound of shuffling steps.

“Hello?” I repeated, peering into the darkness to see if I could pick out a figure.

“Please sir….” came a small boy’s voice from the shadows, “…can I have some more?”

“More?” I snapped. “More WHAT?”

Then, out of the dark, appeared the most wretched apparition I had e’er seen. He was indeed a young lad, dressed in a cheap, cloth hat, scarf, a grubby waist-coat and equally dirty shorts. But it was not his evident poverty that repulsed me so (although that was indeed disgusting), but the unnatural green-ish tint to his skin, his misty eyes and the blood dripping from his mouth. And, worse still, the bowl he was holding out in front of him, in which sat what looked very much like a human BRAIN.

“Please sir…” the spectre repeated, “can I have some more….BRRRAAAAAAAIIIINS?”

And then, the child lunged forth, jaws slavering…

- Lord Likely.

Continue on to Part Three…

IF YOU enjoyed this chapter (and who COULD NOT do so?) please consider donating via the button below. All your contributions toward the running of this webbed-site, and the feeding of my scribe, Mr. A. D. Fanton, are gratefully received and allow us to keep astonishing you week after week! MANY THANKS!

Illustration by the supremely-talented Mr. Stuart Linfield. Good show, sir!

“Rrrrarrrggggggh! Rrrrrrarrrrgh! Guuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrggggh! Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh!”

“Heavy night, milord?” asked Botter, my man-servant, as I shuffled into the breakfast room.

“Guuuuuuuuuuuuuuh! Rrrrrrrarrrrrgggh!”

“Very good, milord.”

I collapsed heavily into a chair at the table, my head thundering as if it were filled with elephants vigorously humping one another.  Good heavens, what a stupendous night that had been, I thought. At least, I assumed it had been a stupendous night, I could not actually remember any of it. But I had been there, and I am naturally stupendous, so it seemed entirely reasonable to assume that the night itself had thus also been stupendous.

It was then that I realised that my man-servant was still talking.

“Buuuuuuuuuuuuh?” I groaned.

“Can I get you anything, my lord?” Botter repeated.

“Ffffffffffffeeeeeeeeerrrrrrgh,” I burbled. I cleared my throat, and tried again. “Coooooooffeeeeeeeeeeee.”

“Very well, milord. I’ll just prepare some,” Botter replied, picking up a sack of coffee beans from the table.

“Noooooooooo. Cooooooffffffeeeeeeeeeeeee,” I repeated, my arms flailing in the direction of the sack.

“But I need to – ”

“COOOOOOOFFFFFFFEEEEEEEEEE!” I yelled, as I reached forward and grabbed the sack from my man-servant’s wretched mitts. Botter duly stepped back, as I took the bag and proceeded to bury my head inside its contents.

“Are…are you all right, milord?” Botter asked nervously, as a full ten minutes passed during which I did not move an inch from this position – that is until I felt the cretin’s hand upon my shoulder.

“DO NOT TOUCH ME!!” I bellowed, springing back upright, spraying coffee beans from my mouth as I spoke. “Touch me again, and your hand shall find itself wedged firmly up your anus.”

“Very good, milord.”

“Hmph,” I grumbled, as I finished chewing the beans still in my mouth. “Anything new to report, Botter? Any post?”

“A couple of letters, my lord,” Botter answered, handing me the aforementioned couple of letters. “And a great big sack of mail from your admirers,” he added, placing the large sack on the table. “I am afraid we have lost another post-man, however. He threw his back out bringing that to the door.”

“Pfffft. The Royal Mail really needs to employ stronger men, if you ask me. Unless they are planning to change their name to ‘Royal Female’. HA!” I chuckled, as I flicked through the post disinterestedly. “AH! Look, Botter! A letter from Poppycock Press, my would-be publisher! I imagine they’re writing to offer me a small fortune for the privilege of publishing the manuscript I sent to them.”

I tore open the envelope and skimmed the missive within.

“BALLBAGS!” I roared, hurling the letter aside. “They are refusing to print my masterpiece! They say that it is much to crude and far too depraved for print! Bah, these fellows would not know a good thing if it came up to them, lowered its trousers and excreted a lump of solid gold upon their chests! A pox on them, I say!”

“Maybe you should tone it down a touch, milord, and resubmit? I mean, there is an entire chapter in there where you go into great detail about masturbating over an image of the Queen…”

“TONE IT DOWN?” I bellowed. “I am Lord Likely, not Jane ruddy Austen! I shall simply have to find a publisher with rather bigger balls, is all…”

My tirade was cut short by a knock on the door.

“Go and see who that is, Botter. I wish to fume some more.”

Botter nodded and scurried off to answer the door, while I sat in my chair, looking mean, moody and magnificent.

“It’s Inspector Spunkleford, milord,” Botter said, re-entering the room. “He wishes to see you right away, says it is most urgent.”

“Dear me,” I sighed. “Whatever is it now? Can he not find his way back to Scotland Yard on his own, or something? Fine, send him in.”

Botter nodded smartly, and withdrew, to be replaced by the portly form of Spunkleford.

“Ah, Likely!” boomed the big man, rather too enthusiastically for my aching head.

“Gah! A bit quieter if you could, Spunkleford, there’s a good chap.”

“Ha! Heavy night eh, old friend?”

“What? Why does everyone keep saying that? How can a night be ‘heavy’? Unless you are calling me obese. Are you calling me obese, Spunkleford? I mean, I concede I have developed something of a ‘champagne gut’ of late, but still….”

“Never mind, Likely,” beamed Spunkleford. “‘Tis not important. What is important is this rather interesting case that’s come up…think you’ll be interested, as it’s rather astonishing, you see…”

“Oh?” I said, leaning forward, my ears pricking up at the ‘a’ word. “Do tell.”

“Well, I’ve just come from the scene of a rather brutal murder. Chap seems to have been savagely attacked… but furthermore, he was EATEN.”

“Eton? Well, they’re rather wealthy, those college boys. He was probably mugged, I’d wager…”

“What? No, not ETON, Likely! EATEN. As in devoured. Feasted upon. Chewed up. That sort of thing.”

“Oh.” I paused. “OH!”

“‘Oh!’ indeed, Likely. But wait for it, this whole matter gets stranger still. You see, we have a witness to this ghastly crime, a night watch-man from a nearby clockwork book factory. Saw the whole thing, and he was therefore able to give us a full description of the assailant.”

“Oh! Well, it seems like a rather open and shut case then, Spunkleford. I don’t understand why you’re here, frankly.”

“Ah! Well you see, we got in a sketch artist to draw up a picture of the attacker, as we do in these instances. And…well, take a look for yourself, Likely.”

Spunkleford pushed a drawing across the table. I picked it up, looked at it, rubbed my eyes, and then looked at it again.

“But that’s…”

“…Charles Dickens, yes.”

“But he’s…”

“…been dead for twenty years, yes.”

“But I…”

“…don’t understand how a dead man could possibly murder someone?”

“No, I was actually going to say, ‘…but I really wish you would stop finishing my sentences, Spunkleford. It is terribly irritating’.”

“Oh. Sorry, old boy.”

I pondered upon this latest mystery. Having a world-renowned author embroiled in a murder investigation was astonishing enough to warrant my time and energy, but a DEAD world-renowned author embroiled in a murder investigation? How could I possibly resist?

“I’LL TAKE THE CASE!” I roared, leaping to my feet and then tumbling to the floor in quick succession. “And some more coffee,” I added from my spot on the ground.

- Lord Likely.

Continue on to Part Two…

IF YOU enjoyed this chapter (and who COULD NOT do so?) please consider donating via the button below. All your contributions toward the running of this webbed-site, and the feeding of my scribe, Mr. A. D. Fanton, are gratefully received and allow us to keep astonishing you week after week! MANY THANKS!