“IT WAS…YOU!” I said, pointing into the room.

“Me, milord?” asked Botter, standing at the end of my finger.

“What? No, Botter! Get out of the ruddy way, you anus!”

“Sorry, milord. Sorry!” Botter babbled apologetically, as he swiftly side-stepped out of the way.

“Right. Let us try that again, shall we? It was…YOU!” I repeated, pointing once more. And this time my digit found the correct culprit – Peeves the butler.

“Me?” scoffed Peeves. “How utterly preposterous.”

“Preposterous? I think not, sir. It is completely postposterous. It is so far beyond posterousness that it leaves the posterous far, far behind.”

Peeves sniffed haughtily. “Oh, really? And where is your evidence, sir? What is my motive? You are grasping at straws, I am afraid, and making yourself look rather foolish.”

“You wish for a motive? I shall give you a motive. It is no secret that you despise the line of work in which you have found yourself employed, Mr. Peeves. Nary a moment goes by without you moaning or grumbling about your life of servitude, and your low wage. But then – ah-ha! The Duchess receives a priceless necklace, a necklace worth a considerable sum of money – easily enough money for a disgruntled servant to escape his job, and begin a new life elsewhere.” I paced across the room, stopping by Maud Dreadful and Dorothy Mount-Worthy’s side. The delectable Dorothy had stopped playing with the olive in her drink, and was now transfixed by the events unfolding before her big, beautiful eyes. I smiled at her, took the drink from her hand and took a sip. This summing up business was thirsty work.

“Of course,” I continued, returning the drink to Dorothy’s hand. “You could not just pinch the necklace as soon as it came into the house, for you would be instantly under suspicion before you could get away. So, you bade your time, until tonight. A party would prove the perfect cover under which to steal the necklace – especially when the party in question is attended by a renowned jewel thief. Who would suspect the humble butler when there is a criminal among their midst?”

“Former criminal,” Pilferton Swypes emphasised.

“Whatever,” I said, dismissively. “And so you waited until the right moment presented itself to you – the moment when the Duchess had that unfortunate incident with the olive. As the man constantly by her side, you were in a prime position to take advantage of the situation, and in among the confusion you swiped the necklace from around her neck, while pretending to be aiding her with the obstruction in her throat. And that, my dear Mr. Peeves, is how you done it.” I paused. “How you did it, rather.”

“That is a charming story, sir,” Peeves smiled. “But without any evidence it is just that – a story.”

I smiled. “Botter, my dear chap – would you mind awfully lifting the lid off of that serving dish beside Mr. Peeves?”

“Certainly, milord,” Botter obliged, strolling over to the table next to the increasingly worried-looking butler. Botter approached the dish, and then slowly lifted the domed lid aside.

The assembled guests gasped in unison.

There, on the serving tray, lying on a bed of rice, was the pearl necklace.

“The perfect hiding place,” I said triumphantly, helping myself to another sip of Dorothy’s drink. “No-one here would even consider serving themselves. Just the right spot to conceal your ill-gotten gains.”

“Peeves!” blurted the Duke of Fircombe. “What is the meaning of this outrage?”

“Oh, do shut up, sir” snarled Peeves, whipping out a pistol from his jacket pocket. “And you!” he growled, turning the gun on Botter. “Step away from that, you grimy little runt.”

Botter duly stepped back, as Peeves snatched up the necklace with a gloved hand, and stuffed it into his pocket. This done, he turned his attention back to me.

“Well done, your lordship. You figured it all out – bravo! But you are not going to stop me from completing my plan.”

“Fair enough,” I replied breezily. “But I do wonder if you might do me one final favour before you leave? Would you mind saying ‘ahhhh?”

Peeves looked puzzled. “Ahh-”

As soon as his mouth opened, I sprang into action, and as quick as a flash, I plucked the olive from Dorothy’s drink. Then, using my finest over-arm throw, I hurled it directly into the butler’s open gob. My aim proved to be straight and true, and the olive disappeared straight into Peeves’ mouth, lodging itself somewhere in his throat.

“-hhhhhhhggggghhhh!” Peeves choked, as his hands moved to his throat, desperately clawing at it for air. With him thus subdued, I sprang forward and charged at the bounder, knocking him back into a grandfather clock, which splintered apart with a sad chiming sound as we crashed into it. During the tussle, the olive became dislodged, and it gently bounced across the floor.

“Ha!” I beamed, dislodging myself from the broken clock’s innards. “I am afraid the only serving you shall be doing from now on is that of a prison sentence, in gaol!” I quipped, but to little avail, as Peeves had been knocked out in the struggle and was in no position to appreciate my incredibly witty wordplay.

“Bloody good work, Likely!” cried the Duke of Fircombe, striding over to me and shaking my hand furiously. “Tremendous! Absolutely tremendous! But tell me – how did you know Peeves was the culprit?”

“Well, that is really rather simple – the butler always does it, doesn’t he?” I grinned, slapping the Duke on the back, before striding over to where Dorothy and Maud were sitting. “Now, what say we get this shindig going again, hmm? I have uncovered one pearl necklace tonight, and feel rather like dishing out some more…”

- Lord Likely.

WELL DONE! Congratulations to those of you who voted for Peeves as the culprit in last week’s poll! You were absolutely bang-on, so are free to award yourselves one hundred detective points. HUZZAH!

THE PUZZLING PEARL NECKLACE PUZZLE was dedicated to Kerry and Sarah – thank you for putting up with me.

COMING SOON to The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely…

Be back here soon, you hear?

The Puzzling Pearl Necklace Puzzle:

Chapter Three.

AND SO the party finally got into full swing -  indeed, it would not be an understatement to say that the party swung so much, it positively rotated.

The Duke and Duchess of Fircombe proved to be excellent hosts; the food was plentiful and delicious, the drink flowed freely and there were enough beautiful women in attendance to maintain my interest, and my increasingly noticeable erection.

With the booze so readily forthcoming, it did not take me at all long to become completely and utterly sloshed, which in turn led to me staggering around the ballroom, making slurred, sexual advances towards all of the female guests. Some of the ladies found my propositions entirely enticing, and laughed coquettishly, whilst furiously fanning their flushed faces. Others took great offence and slapped me heartily around my cheek, an act which, frankly, only made me more aroused, and more determined than ever to bed them.

More time passed, more drink was drunk, and after a quickie in the bathroom with the delightful Jennifer Eels (during which I unleashed my own mighty eel, which she gobbled at greedily), I found that I was so thoroughly pissed that I was able to withstand the dreary banter of the far less interesting (and much less vaginal) guests. For example, I spent thirty minutes happily listening to Major Thrashing waffling on about his time in the army, and his natural distrust of foreigners. When I asked him if he was a racist, he snorted and said, “No, sir! Not in the least! Why, I’ve shot men of every colour – black, red and yellow!”

Next I found myself in the company of the poet Winsome Pine, a terrible sap of a man who spent a lot of time sighing and whining on about the mysteries of love.

“Have you ever love and lost, your lordship?” he asked.

“No, no. I always win,” I beamed, while knocking back another whisky.

“You are very lucky sir,” Pine continued. “I lost my love very recently. It is a pain quite unlike any other, a pain that may dull over time, but never truly fades.”

“Much like trapping one’s scrotum in a door, then?” I suggested, but Pine seemed to not hear me, and carried on regardless.

“I have written a poem about this very subject. Perhaps you would care to hear it?”

“Perhaps not,” I replied.

“It is called, ‘Hole, Not Whole‘,” Pine said, ignoring me once more, and then he cleared his throat and ploughed on with his tiresome verse.

“In my universe, there is a hole shaped like you,
Which nothing can fill, whatever I do.
You made me feel wanted, loved and adored
Now words have no meaning, and I am abhorred.
My heart still beats but each thump brings fresh pain,
I know not if it will ever feel true love again.
I miss your good night, I miss your good morning,
You may not have passed, but yet I ‘m still mourning.
I reach for hands that are no longer there,
Seeking some comfort in naught but thin air.
I would give everything, without any qualms,
To spend but one night, held in your arms.
There is a hole in my universe, into which I do tumble – “

“Now how about you drop your knickers, and let’s have a fumble?” I grinned, finishing the poem as I saw fit.

“How dare you, sir!” Pine snapped, shaking with anger, clearly not taking the time to fully appreciate my mastery of the poetic voice. “Do not make light of my anguish and woe! Terrence was my everything, my all and you – ”

“Terrence?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “I thought as much! I knew you were a plumber of the dirty sink.”

“And what of it?” Pine snapped. “Do you fear homosexuals, Lord Likely?”

“Oh, no, no,” I answered. “Unless they’re charging at me with an axe or something. Still, it is no wonder the poor bastard left you – you strike me as a terribly tedious and whiny little runt.”

“You…you BEAST, sir!” cried Pine, to which I responded by roaring with laughter, and then I trotted off to find something to mount.

That something turned out to be the gorgeous Dorothy Mount-Worthy, and the equally-ravishing Maud Dreadful, two of my closest companions. In fact, so close had we become that more often than not we were actually entwined.

As I approached the highly dickable duo, the orchestra Fircombe had hired for the evening suddenly struck up, and so, being the gentleman I am, I swept Maud off of her feet, and led her to the dance-floor.

As the orchestra played on, Maud and I spun and swirled around the room with incredible grace, our every move so very synchronised that to the onlookers it must have looked like we had been practising for an entire age. We danced like we had been born to dance, and as we danced Maud smiled a smile that seemed to illuminate the entire hall, her blonde hair trailing behind her head, like the tail of a particularly beautiful comet.

Truly, it was a wonderful and magical moment. Well, in my head, at least.

In reality, it was more like drunken groping set to music, which was still great fun, none the less.

After a while the music died down as the Duke of Fircombe took to the floor and beckoned us to all fall silent, as he had something to say. I sighed very loudly to express my dissatisfaction, but then Maud and I dutifully returned to our spot alongside Dorothy.

Fircombe started blathering on about how he had recently returned from a trip to Japan, where he had met Emperor Gojira or some such twaddle. I wasn’t really paying attention, as I was distracted by the sight of dear Dorothy playfully toying with an olive on a stick, which had been served in a glass of gin she had been drinking. I watched, positively agog, as she suggestively rolled the olive across her soft lips, and then slowly started sucking upon it, thereby making that olive the luckiest damned olive on the planet. It took an immense amount of willpower on my part not to ravage Dorothy right there and then, so I tried to refocus my attention on the Duke’s dull speech.

“…and so, after meeting with the Emperor, he bestowed upon me a great gift,” the Duke droned on. “A gift which I would now like to present to my darling lady wife, Esmerelda. Esme?”

With a delighted squeal, the Duchess of Fircombe waddled up to the Duke’s side, still clutching a a plate of canapés in her her hands. The Duke smiled at her, and then presented her with a thin, oblong box. For a moment the Duchess looked torn between her food and the box, but finally she put down her plate and tore open the box, revealing an admittedly spectacular peal necklace. It was a dazzling piece of jewellery and as such drew admiring gasps from the crowd – most notably from Pilferton Swypes, the reformed jewel thief, who not only gasped but went on to exclaim, “Fuckin’ hell!” at the top of his voice.

As the Duke put the necklace around his wife’s neck (which seemed to be rather a struggle), the Duchess went on and on about how overjoyed she was, and how she hoped to find an occasion special enough to allow her to wear the necklace.

“I think she should wait until a time when the ruddy thing will fit around her neck,” I whispered to Dorothy, which caused her to spit out the olive she was still slurping upon, sending it tumbling into her cleavage.

“Allow me!” I volunteered helpfully, and then I plunged my hand between those bountiful breasts, in search of the elusive fruit.

Meanwhile, with the necklace now around her neck, the Duchess had decided that she was so happy that she was going to sing, so that she might fully express the joy she was feeling. The Duke looked faintly embarrassed, but instructed the orchestra to start playing.

The first note was struck,  and the Duchess opened her mouth…

…at which point I successfully retrieved the olive from betwixt Dorothy’s fun-bags, with a triumphant cry of, “Huzzah!”

But, dear readers, my hand had become rather sweaty in the pursuit of the olive, and I could only watch helplessly as the fruit flew out of my grip and sailed across the room…

…and straight into the Duchess’ open mouth. The Duchess seemed to freeze for a moment in shock, then her hands went up to her throat as she started coughing and spluttering, the olive clearly having come to a rest somewhere in her larynx.

“Well thank heavens for that,” I said, as the rest of the guests swarmed to the frantic Duchess’ aid. “At least she shan’t be able to ruddy well sing now.”

- Lord Likely.

Today’s chapter is dedicated to dear Sarah, who has just become an auntie. Congratulations, m’dear!

Also, many thanks to Mr. Scott Pack for singling out my astonishing adventures within the pages of his own web-log. Mr. Pack is a publisher, so clearly knows good words when he sees them! Hoorah!

*****

The Puzzling Pearl Necklace Puzzle is a Which Ruddy Bastard Did It? mystery, meaning that YOU can also partake in the mystery! Read carefully, dear readers, for their shall be clues and hints aplenty, and when the time comes to reveal the bounder responsible for the crime, YOU will be able to thrust forward your own suggestions as to the identity of the culprit, and see if you have what it takes to be an astonishing adventurer!

Please, keep your eyes peeled and your genitals scrubbed…

The Puzzling Pearl Necklace Puzzle:

Chapter Two

IT TOOK me over half an hour to complete the lengthy task of washing my mammoth man-hood in preparation for the evening’s festivities. ‘Tis never an easy task cleansing such a lengthy love-pole, you know. Usually it is a three-man job.

Anyway, as well as having tended to my tumescent tally-whacker, I also made sure to secure some company to escort to the ball, as it would not do at all for a gentle-man of my considerable reputation to arrive at a social gathering without a beautiful woman on my arm. Or better still, my face.

Naturally, me being me, I had to go that little bit further, and so secured the services of two delectable darlings to accompany me to Fircombe Hall; my frequent copulatory companions, Dorothy Mount-Worthy and Maud Dreadful.

The two beauties arrived precisely on time, but one glance at them – Dorothy with her gorgeous, almost feline eyes, soft lips, impressive curves and considerable cleavage, and Maud smiling brightly, with her golden curls cascading over her slender shoulders – and I was worked into such a fanny-hungry frenzy that I instantly threw them onto a nearby settee and gave them both a damned good rogering, making full use of the six orifices presented before me.

This impulsive act, along with the time it took to clean up afterwards, meant we did not arrive at Fircombe Hall until a good couple of hours later, by which time the party was already in full swing. This did not bother me, of course. I am always fashionably late, and am always well worth the wait.

My man-servant, Botter, and the two strumpets waited behind me as I firmly rapped upon the door of the large mansion belonging to The Duke and Duchess of Fircombe. Moments later, the sound of bolts being drawn aside could be heard, and we were soon confronted by a rather miserable looking butler in his early fifties, his weathered face topped off with an increasingly balding pate. I assumed that the lack of hair was due to his locks hurling themselves off of the top of his head in despair, lest they spend any more time in his woeful company.

“Yes?” the man drawled.

“Good evening, my good fellow,” I chirped. “Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action here, and company,” I added, indicating to my female friends. The butler craned his neck round to examine my entourage, and then sighed loudly.

“You can’t bring that in here,” he said, pointing at Botter.

“Oh, well, of course!” I concurred. “Is there somewhere I can keep him until the party is over?”

“Yes. We shall put him in the kennel,” the butler informed me, indicating to a large, metal cage to the right of the house, inside of which more abandoned servants, maids and other assorted flotsam dredged from the service industries skulked around, looking sullen.

“Marvellous!” I beamed, turning to my man-servant. “Off you go then, Botter. And do try and refrain from chewing anything you should not, and if you must soil yourself, make sure you put down some newspaper first, hmm?”

Botter rolled his eyes and slouched off, while the rest of us went inside to mingle with the magnificent.

*****

“PRESENTING LORD LIKELY AND…ahem…FRIENDS!” shouted the butler, introducing us to the gaggle of party-goers massed in the main hall of the house. “I bloody hate my job,” he added quietly as he turned and left the room.

“Ah, Likely!” beamed the Duke of Fircombe, a rather short but immaculately dressed fellow, sporting a very proud, grey moustache that practically covered the entire lower half of his face.

“Charmed, Fircombe, ’tis a pleasure for you to have me here,” I grinned, shaking his hand firmly. “By the way, is your butler alright? He seems terribly displeased about something or other.”

“Oh don’t mind him, that’s just Peeves. He’s always miserable, to be honest. Ah, here’s my wife!” the Duke exclaimed, as the rather plump Duchess waddled into view,  her hair piled up so high atop her head that it shook violently from side to side whenever she moved. I rather feared it would topple off of her head at any moment.

“So pleased you could make it, your lordship,” she smiled, an awful smile with bits of vegetable and what appeared to be chicken wedged between her teeth.

“Delighted,” I lied, as I fought my natural reaction to vomit profusely.

“Come, Likely, come – I want you to meet some friends of mine,” the Duke said, grabbing me by the elbow. I groaned inwardly. How I loathed this part of any social gathering, the greeting of total strangers with a fixed grin, feigning interest in tedious life stories told by tedious individuals you shall never see again. I just wanted to go straight to the drinking and fucking part, that was all I was here for, after all.

However, my interest was rather piqued as I was introduced to the first couple, as one of the two was a rather voluptuous red-head, with a frankly incredible bosom. If I could choose the manner of my own death, then I could think of no greater way to go than suffocating betwixt this charming lady’s massive mammaries

“This is Lord Marmalade, the marmalade magnate,” said Fircombe, introducing me to the less interesting half of the partnership.

“So you must be Lady Marmalade,” I smiled, taking the lady’s hand and gently kissing the back of it. “Tell me, m’dear….do you spread easily?”

Lord Marmalade was apoplectic with rage at my opening gambit, and had to be calmed down by Lord Fircombe. Lady Marmalade, on the other hand, seemed rather taken with me – as well she should, being a female with eyes and all.

After that particular highlight I was whisked around the hall and introduced to other far less intoxicating individuals. There was Major Thrashing, a rather crusty old war veteran; Winsome Pine, a distinctly fey gentleman who apparently wrote poetry; Lady and Lady Mimshole, who were either sisters or lesbians (I naturally hoped it was the latter); Sir Flaxon Twist, a loud and rather obnoxious Member of Parliament; Jennifer Eels, the heiress to the late Sir Rodney Eels’ eel empire; Trent Straddlenuts, an American oil baron and friend of the Fircombes, and Pilferton Swypes, an apparently reformed jewel thief who had just written his first book, ‘Stealing the Hearts of the Nation‘, chronicling his change from public enemy to national treasure, or some such twaddle. As far as I was concerned, he was still a complete arse-smear of a man.

“Lovely to meet you all,” I smiled as I shook my final hand of the evening. “Now, what say we all get thoroughly pissed and maybe thrust our genitals together in the act of sexual union, eh?”

- Lord Likely.

The Puzzling Pearl Necklace Puzzle is a Which Ruddy Bastard Did It? mystery, meaning that YOU can also partake in the mystery! Read carefully, dear readers, for their shall be clues and hints aplenty, and when the time comes to reveal the bounder responsible for the crime, YOU will be able to thrust forward your own suggestions as to the identity of the culprit, and see if you have what it takes to be an astonishing adventurer!

Please, keep your eyes peeled and your genitals scrubbed…

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