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stonepicnicking_okapiTitle: Orange Pekoe
Fandoms: Sherlock Holmes & Miss Marple - Agatha Christie
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Raymond West (Miss Marple's nephew)
Rating: Gen
Prompt: capable
Length: 750
Warning: Discussion of murder methods. Deus ex machina. Breaking the fourth wall.
Summary: Raymond West wants to murder his fiancée.
Sherlock Holmes walked into the public house, and a man who resembled nothing so much as a pouncing raven shot to his feet.
“I expect you’re here to meet me,” announced the odd man with the sweep of hair and the self-consciously debonair manner. “Raymond West, novelist and nephew.”
“Sherlock Holmes,” said Sherlock Holmes, shaking the proffered hand. “Detective.”
“But you require no introduction, do you? That Paget fellow was a marvel. Such a likeness. Please, have a seat,” said Raymond West, gesturing to the chair opposite his own. “I greatly desire a pint, but I’m afraid, for reasons unknown to reason, we’re stuck with this.”
He indicated the serviceable tea which had been laid on the table between the chairs. Above the table, a thin horizontal window framed passing boots, shoes, and the occasional set of wheels on the pavement.
“Sometimes we are provided with what we require, not what we desire,” remarked Sherlock Holmes as he sat.
“Oh, that’s good,” observed Raymond. He poured the tea. “Pithy. Like something my aunt would say. Or embroider on a pillow. Not that she goes in for that. Knitting, that’s her bag. You remind me of her, a bit, you know. Victorian.”
“Our time is limited, Mister West. What can I do for you? I am an illuminator of mysteries, a solver of puzzles, and resolver of problems. Which of these have you?”
“Oh, mine’s a problem. Somewhat, er, matrimonial in nature.”
“Then I’m afraid I cannot help you. Emotions…” The detective made an open gesture with both hands which finished the statement.
“It is more of a logistical matter than an emotional one,” admitted Raymond.
“Pray explain.”
“At one point, in a series of short stories, I have an understanding, which becomes a betrothal, with an artist, a painter, specifically named Joyce Lumprière, and then later, in novels, my wife is a painter named Joan. You see my problem.”
“Ah, I do see your problem. It is one that has befallen many. For example, there are some who claim my companion has been married six times—the last to our housekeeper! Indeed, whether his name is John or James is also a matter of minor debate but,” and here Holmes paused to sip from his cup and return it to its saucer, “returning to your current dilemma, attachments, even betrothals, can be broken. A discomfiture, perhaps, but hardly one with any feature of interest for a detective of my caliber.” Irritation and impatience crept into the tone at the last statement.
“I feel there is only one way to remedy the situation: I must do away with Joyce and marry Joan.”
“If that is your decision, I shall refer you to the very capable Professor Moriarty. It is more his line of country.”
“Are you certain you can’t help me, Mister Holmes?” His attention was briefly diverted by the contents of his cup. “This tea is very good. I like a stroke orange pekoe.”
Holmes smirked. “You sound like Watson.” He sighed and consulted a pocket watch, then said, “Very well. I’ve some time. Perhaps it would be best if we treat this as a theoretical exercise in logic. You propose a scheme, and I point out its obvious flaws.”
“That sounds splendid!”
--
“…and so, you see, there is an almost invisible whirlpool, identified by maps, local lore, weather and tidal conditions, etcetera. And into this whirlpool I will tip my betrothed Joyce, and there she will meet her watery end. Picture it: here are Joyce and I alone in the rowboat. I have arranged that Joyce’s life preserver will do nothing of the sort, having removed the cork and replaced it with a much less buoyant material. Joyce is unable to swim except by women’s intuition, which I must point out is no match for my strong Australian crawl. Joyce and I paddle, she on the left and I on the right, we near it, then we tire, but still make some progress, then she complains her left arm is sore and switches sides, and we continue to paddle…”
“…and make no progress,” said Sherlock Holmes
“What?!”
“You are paddling on the same side,” explained Sherlock Holmes. “You will go in circles.”
“By Jove, you’re right,” said Raymond.
“And if there is anyone who witnesses you tampering with the life preserver, well, they shall have you in their power afterwards. Blackmail is a nasty business, Mister West. And future connubial bliss might not compensate for its taint.”
“Too true.”
Fandoms: Sherlock Holmes & Miss Marple - Agatha Christie
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Raymond West (Miss Marple's nephew)
Rating: Gen
Prompt: capable
Length: 750
Warning: Discussion of murder methods. Deus ex machina. Breaking the fourth wall.
Summary: Raymond West wants to murder his fiancée.
Sherlock Holmes walked into the public house, and a man who resembled nothing so much as a pouncing raven shot to his feet.
“I expect you’re here to meet me,” announced the odd man with the sweep of hair and the self-consciously debonair manner. “Raymond West, novelist and nephew.”
“Sherlock Holmes,” said Sherlock Holmes, shaking the proffered hand. “Detective.”
“But you require no introduction, do you? That Paget fellow was a marvel. Such a likeness. Please, have a seat,” said Raymond West, gesturing to the chair opposite his own. “I greatly desire a pint, but I’m afraid, for reasons unknown to reason, we’re stuck with this.”
He indicated the serviceable tea which had been laid on the table between the chairs. Above the table, a thin horizontal window framed passing boots, shoes, and the occasional set of wheels on the pavement.
“Sometimes we are provided with what we require, not what we desire,” remarked Sherlock Holmes as he sat.
“Oh, that’s good,” observed Raymond. He poured the tea. “Pithy. Like something my aunt would say. Or embroider on a pillow. Not that she goes in for that. Knitting, that’s her bag. You remind me of her, a bit, you know. Victorian.”
“Our time is limited, Mister West. What can I do for you? I am an illuminator of mysteries, a solver of puzzles, and resolver of problems. Which of these have you?”
“Oh, mine’s a problem. Somewhat, er, matrimonial in nature.”
“Then I’m afraid I cannot help you. Emotions…” The detective made an open gesture with both hands which finished the statement.
“It is more of a logistical matter than an emotional one,” admitted Raymond.
“Pray explain.”
“At one point, in a series of short stories, I have an understanding, which becomes a betrothal, with an artist, a painter, specifically named Joyce Lumprière, and then later, in novels, my wife is a painter named Joan. You see my problem.”
“Ah, I do see your problem. It is one that has befallen many. For example, there are some who claim my companion has been married six times—the last to our housekeeper! Indeed, whether his name is John or James is also a matter of minor debate but,” and here Holmes paused to sip from his cup and return it to its saucer, “returning to your current dilemma, attachments, even betrothals, can be broken. A discomfiture, perhaps, but hardly one with any feature of interest for a detective of my caliber.” Irritation and impatience crept into the tone at the last statement.
“I feel there is only one way to remedy the situation: I must do away with Joyce and marry Joan.”
“If that is your decision, I shall refer you to the very capable Professor Moriarty. It is more his line of country.”
“Are you certain you can’t help me, Mister Holmes?” His attention was briefly diverted by the contents of his cup. “This tea is very good. I like a stroke orange pekoe.”
Holmes smirked. “You sound like Watson.” He sighed and consulted a pocket watch, then said, “Very well. I’ve some time. Perhaps it would be best if we treat this as a theoretical exercise in logic. You propose a scheme, and I point out its obvious flaws.”
“That sounds splendid!”
--
“…and so, you see, there is an almost invisible whirlpool, identified by maps, local lore, weather and tidal conditions, etcetera. And into this whirlpool I will tip my betrothed Joyce, and there she will meet her watery end. Picture it: here are Joyce and I alone in the rowboat. I have arranged that Joyce’s life preserver will do nothing of the sort, having removed the cork and replaced it with a much less buoyant material. Joyce is unable to swim except by women’s intuition, which I must point out is no match for my strong Australian crawl. Joyce and I paddle, she on the left and I on the right, we near it, then we tire, but still make some progress, then she complains her left arm is sore and switches sides, and we continue to paddle…”
“…and make no progress,” said Sherlock Holmes
“What?!”
“You are paddling on the same side,” explained Sherlock Holmes. “You will go in circles.”
“By Jove, you’re right,” said Raymond.
“And if there is anyone who witnesses you tampering with the life preserver, well, they shall have you in their power afterwards. Blackmail is a nasty business, Mister West. And future connubial bliss might not compensate for its taint.”
“Too true.”