10:00am, 29th of January, 1891.

DESPITE HIS complete and utter twattery, Ms. Felicity Boondoggles and I decided to let Inspector Spunkleford in nonetheless.

“My word, what is this place?” enquired Spunkleford as he entered the rather sparse room we had been holed up in.

“This is the Criminal Underworld Neutralisation Team headquarters,” Felicity replied.

“The criminal what now?” Spunkleford blustered. “I’ve never heard of it! Surely I should know of any other departments in the Yard?”

“We operate outside of Scotland Yard, inspector,” Felicity said coolly.

“I can see that,” Spunkleford nodded. “Scotland Yard is across the street, there.”

“Hmmm…well enough of this illuminating chit-chat,” I interjected, before the inspector had further opportunity to make his inherent buffonery more apparent. “What brings you here, inspector?”

“Well, the -”

“And if you say ‘the cab’, I shall twot you.”

“Oh. Well, as you know, Likely, I took some officers down to Mr. Cockduster’s Millinery earlier. We managed to catch some of those Anti-Hat League bounders in the act of rigging some of the hats with their damned explosive devices. Jolly successful operation, all in all. Anyhow, we took these cads back to the station, and managed to get some information out of one of them via some intense interrogation!”

“You thrashed them with sticks?” I suggested.

“Precisely. Worked a treat! One of them gave us a hint as to what the League are planning next…just bear with me a moment, I jotted it down somewhere…” said Spunkleford, opening up his coat to reveal several pigeons, a few of which fluttered out from within his pockets and flew around the room. “Ah, yes, here we go,” Spunkleford exclaimed, pulling a pigeon from an interior pocket and scrutinizing it carefully. “I’m sure I left the message around here somewhere! Ah-ha!” he cried triumphantly, pulling a rolled-up piece of paper from the poor pigeon’s posterior.

“Oh, charming,” I grimaced as Spunkleford passed me the roll. “I see you stored it in your pigeon-hole.”

Spunkleford nodded blankly, while I gingerly unfurled the paper and read the message contained within:

Re-Tweet, Mr. Terrorist Fellow: ‘You think you’ve stopped us copper, but we ain’t even started. You all wait ’til you see our crownin’ achievement!’

“‘Re-tweet‘, Spunkleford?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Honestly, you have lost your cocking marbles.”

“Shut up both of you and give me that!” snapped Felicity, grabbing the paper from my hand and scanning the two lines of text again. “Hmmm…are you thinking what I’m thinking, Likely?”

“I hope so. And if so, the answer is ‘yes’ and ‘on all fours’.”

“No! The message from the Anti-Hat League, you lecherous fop! ‘Crowning achievement‘, it says…”

“Egad! You mean – ?” I began.

“I think so,” Felicity concluded.

“Buggeration! Then we have not a moment to lose!” I declared, as Felicity and I dashed out of the door with due haste.

“I’m not sure I understand what the devil is going on, Mr. Speckles,” said Spunkleford, stroking his pigeon’s feathers gently.

- Lord Likely.

* Be back here in the WEEK, for the FINAL two chapters of ‘One Score and Four’, chums!

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9:00am, 29th of January, 1891.

AFTER SITTING about the place for what seemed like a good day and a half (although I’m certain it was only about fifteen minutes) Ms. Felicity Boondoggles and I were roused from our inaction by a tapping sound at the window.

“Get down!” hissed Felicity, drawing a pistol from somewhere between her fabulous cleavage. “It could be trouble!”

I duly ducked down behind a table while Felicity approached the window and then, in one admirably swift and smooth movement, drew back the curtains and aimed her weapon at the unseen menace outside. She faltered, peered through the glass, then sighed and replaced her pistol in its sumptuous holster.

“False alarm,” she said. “‘Tis just a pigeon.”

“A pigeon?” I exclaimed, leaping out from behind the table. “Pray, let me see!”

“If you must,” Felicity replied, stepping away from the window. “I must say, I never thought of you as a bird-watcher.”

“Au contraire, m’dear!” I smiled, as I walked up to the window. “I am a very keen watcher of birds indeed!”

Alas, my witty quip seemed to fall on deaf ears, and Felicity failed to react in any way.

“Of course, I am using the word ‘birds’ in the colloquial manner so beloved by the working classes, to denote the female gender – so when I say I am a keen watcher of birds I -”

Still nothing. Not a flicker.

“Never mind. Let me see this pigeon,” I said, opening the window. “Ah, yes!” I exclaimed as the bird flew into the room, swooping around briefly before perching on my arm .”‘Tis one of Inspector Spunkleford’s pigeons. The inspector has taken to using pigeons as a means of gathering intelligence. Alas, I fear it will take a great many pigeons to gather quite enough intelligence for that poor, deluded fool!” I examined the bird closer. ” Hmmm…it should have a message attached to it somewhere – ah, yes! Here we go!”

I pulled out a tiny roll of paper from a small tube affixed to the pigeon’s leg, and carefully unfurled it to read the message written upon it:

AT LORD LIKELY: LOOK DOWN

I re-read the message, then rolled my eyes in despair. The inspector didn’t…did he?

I poked my head out of the window and looked down to see Spunkleford stood by the door, waving madly. “Hello, old boy!” he cried. “May I come in?”

“Spunkleford, you witless poltroon, what ARE you doing??” I returned. “You do realise there is a rather conveniently-placed knocker on the door, don’t you?”

“Of course I do!” Spunkleford retorted with an indignant huff. “I am not completely stupid, Likely.” He paused. “The only problem was, the pigeon couldn’t lift it.”

- Lord Likely.

ATTENTION: I wish to apologise for the sudden, abrupt gap in my otherwise COCKING EXCELLENT 24-hour adventure. Sadly, my USELESS ARSE-PIPE of a scribe, Mr. Fanton, Esquire, fell ASLEEP whilst transcribing these THRILLING chapters for your enjoyment. He has since claimed that “trying to write twenty-four chapters in twenty-four hours, without any breaks or any sleep, was a  foolhardy endeavour which was doomed from the start,” Needless to say, I have thrashed him soundly with his own wretched intestines for such insolence. Normal service is now resumed.

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