The Perilous Adventures of Hemlock Jones

It was on a bitterly cold and icy evening, towards the end of winter 1895, that my esteemed colleague, Hemlock Jones, and I sat in the study. My good friend had his equine head buried deep within the dailies, whilst I, Dr. Joseph Dartly, was engrossed in a most remarkable treatise written by Dr. Godfrey Lambchester regarding the discovery of a solution that could render one completely ginger, to all intents and purposes. There was sudden thunderous rapping at the door.

“Heavens!” I ejaculated, “Who could be calling at such an hour?”

“No doubt another wretched soul in need of my singular talent for solving the unsolvable.” Jones replied with an air of self-confidence which lent itself to a well-hung midget.

A short time later Mrs. Hardswallow, the keeper of our Cracker Street lodgings, showed into the room a man of notable height.

“Mr. Lewis Gubbins.” Said the rotund housekeeper.

Jones leapt from his seat. “Pray do come in and take the load off your feet.”

The man of notable height sat down in much the manner of a rooster. Jones watched the man intently with his deep set, wild eyes. A full minute passed.

“Now.” beavered Jones. “You are Mr. Lewis Gubbins a neigh-sayer by trade, but you also take great pleasure in the sketching of pineapples… a hobby perhaps? You have, no doubt, a rather perplexing misfortune you wish to relay to me after finding Her Majesty’s finest of little use.”

Mr. Gubbins’ face dropped like a prune.

“Sir, you exceed even your exceeding reputation.” the notably heighted fellow exclaimed. “We have never met, yet you seem to know all about me.”

“Good lord, Jones!” said I “even I a veteran of some dozen cases, am at a loss to explain as to how you came about such a conclusion.”
“Sedimentary, my dear Dartly.” Beamed the ever-aroused Jones. “I deduced by the two identical indentations on our friend’s shoulders that he must either be a neigh-sayer or in the employ of a pie shop, the indentations clearly being made by a sandwich-board. Being unable to pick up a single whiff of steak or the all important pungency of kidney I was able to rule out the possibility of the latter. As for the sketching of pineapples, you will notice a thick layer of lead on our friend’s hand, which has clearly been lifted off a paper fairly recently.”

“But Pineapples?” Spewed I.

Jones let out a shriek of indifference.

“Pineapples being the most aesthetically appealing of all the fruits made it a fairly safe bet, especially to a man of such notable height.”

“Once again you have taken the breath from my bones.” Whimpered I hoarsely.

Jones sat licking himself akin to a grooming feline.

“But that hardly explains my reason for coming or the lack of police assistance.” Murmured the visitor.

“He’s quite right, Jones.” I interjected.

“Well, those were the simplest deductions of all. You are here, it is late, and the police are, pardon my French, merde!” Smirked Jones.

“Bravo!” Yelped I.

“Well I never… if you are half as successful with my case as you were with my particulars the case will be cleared up in no time.” Rapped the man whose height was indeed notable.

“Now,” croaked Jones, “tell us your tale and spare no detail no matter how insignificant you feel it to be.”
The gentleman sat upright in his chair, took a deep breath and began. “Well, it all started early last week.”

“Intriguing!” mused Jones as he picked up his violin and began to play a violent fusion of screeching notes “pray continue”.

“You see I was walking down Canal Street, last Tuesday morn at about nine-thirty. I was plying my usual trade of saying ‘neigh’ when the queerest fellow came sauntering over. He wore a suit of such colour that I should swear I have never seen like it.”

The gentleman of height attempted to make himself heard above the din, but Jones continued to produce sounds from his violin that put one in mind of a cat massacre.

Jones froze momentarily. Seeing his chance to finish the story the man of remarkable height continued

“He asked me…”

Jones bolted forward and began playing his violin twice as loudly as before whilst maintaining a squinted eye-contact with our guest.

“But I digress,” vented Jones. “Do continue”.

Jones laid down his violin and slithered casually to his easy-chair. Gubbins looked over at me cautiously awaiting confirmation to continue, which I duly gave him by ruffling my moustache with a disused salad-fork, which was a custom of the era, nodding having been outlawed the previous spring.

“The man in the incredible suit introduced himself as doctor Velvet Monroe; he claimed to run a small but prestigious practice on the outskirts of our fair London,” prattled the lofty Gubbins. “He went on to offer me twenty-pounds for a day’s work…”

“Doing what, precisely?” inquired Jones.

“Why-saying ‘neigh’ of course. He had wanted me to pay a visit to his practice to say ‘neigh’ to some of his richer clients who had become somewhat delusional due to the fact most folk say ‘yes’ to them…”

“Yes, I’ve heard of that.” Interrupted I, “I believe they call it ‘Hooply syndrome’ on account of the licking involved.”

“Hooply syndrome? How very singular…” cogitated Jones aloud.

“So, as requested, the following day I made my way to Blackwood, a small hamlet in the Berkton fens. Upon my arrival, I was met at the station by a porcine gentleman who led me to a dark handsome-cab. He said very little; muttering something about the cab being blacked out for my own safety and anonymity.”

“Peculiar,” rasped Jones.

“After perhaps a fifteen minute cab journey I was asked to alight. I had arrived in the middle of the most beautiful countryside I had ever seen. Standing before me was a rather beautiful stately home. The porcine gentleman ushered me toward the great house. Well, no sooner than I had stepped in through the main entrance I was greeted by the man who had procured my services merely the day before.”

“Did you notice anything different about him?”

“Now that you mention it, he did seem a foot-taller the previous morn, but I put that down to the country air.”

“Well, naturally.” I interjected.

“Not necessarily,” spurted Jones, “I beg thee, continue.”

“The doctor showed me into a large room, a large sitting room if you will.”

“I will,” dribbled Jones lecherously.

Gubbins wriggled in chair with a bemused look on his face before continuing, “The sitting room was occupied by around twenty well dressed gentlemen wearing the tallest hats of the season. They looked as gentlemen from the finest families of our nation but they seemed somewhat confused.”

“How-so?” chirped Jones.

“For instance one group of about five gentlemen seemed deliriously happy at writing their names on the wall in faeces, not each with their own faeces but that of a common stock.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” I smaned referring to a book I had read earlier that day.

“As for the work itself, I was asked to say ‘neigh’ directly into the face of each gentlemen there for approximately one minute per man. I told the doctor that being a professional neigh-sayer meant the intensity of my ‘neigh’ was quite severe and perhaps only the most resolute of men could face a full minute of my negativity.”

“And?”

“The doctor reminded me that for twenty-pounds a day he could have his pick of London’s neigh-sayers, except for perhaps Geoff Landsbury. I’m not proud of it, but I did it. I did because I needed the money. After I had ‘treated’ each gentleman I was taxied back to the station and allowed to return home. This continued for the next three days. On the fourth day however, I arrived at the station ready for my final day’s work and the financial reward that accompanied it, but the handsome piloted by the porcine man was nowhere to be seen. I inquired around the town for information, but none of the locals were able to place the men or indeed the house.”

“So you feel you are owed for your labours?” shrieked Jones.

“Well, yes.”

“And that is why you went to the police.

“Yes.”

"Naturally." I moaned.