The story so far: Fetlock Graves, gentleman detective, has awoken after a hundred years, and having rescued a young woman from pursuit, he is attempting to assist in resolving her quandary.
Exasperated, Fetlock Graves began to pace the threadbare Persian hearth rug, whilst his hands occupied themselves in filling his favourite pipe with shag tobacco.
‘I note from your bitten finger-ends’, he announced, finally, ‘that you have a pressing problem; from your scuffed, strange footwear’ – here he indicated her tatty trainers – ‘that you have run some distance to escape it; from the graze below your left knee, that you fell in the churchyard behind St Pancras; from the marks upon your right sleeve, that you crossed the river by boat recently; from the lines under your eyes that you have suffered insomnia for three days; and from the dilation of your pupils at the inhalation of my shag that you are in dire need of a cigarette. May I offer you one?’ And Graves held out his box of best Moldovan Darks, upon which his uninvited guest fell greedily.
‘All right, smart arse’, the young lady offered moments later, her eyes watering from the strong Moldovan tobacco, ‘if you know so much, tell me what I was doing running from the pigs’.
‘Pigs?’ asked Graves, curiously.
‘Yeah, pigs, thassright’. Then noting Graves’ blank look, she added: ‘Rozzers, police, cops innit?’
‘The police?’ Graves stopped in his tracks. ‘Those ruffians chasing you were police?’
His guest smiled, enjoying her own moment of superiority. Fetlock Graves settled into the fireside chair in which he heard his clients’ tales, and as his face became wreathed in blue smoke begged his guest to continue.
‘Gotcha, haven’t I? All right, I’ll tell you. Dunno what good it’ll do me, but I can’t be no worse off I reckon. Them pigs – police – was chasing me cos they think I had something to do with this city boy who got stabbed last week.’
‘City boy? Do you mean errand boy?’
‘No – city boy, high flyer, big shot. Jeez, where are you from?’
Graves smiled. ‘First you tell me your tale, then I may divulge something of my own’.
‘Whatever. So they thinks I done in this city boy – sorry, this “young businessman”, so they come calling at my flat – sheesh, he don’t know what flat is: my “apartment”, my abode, my home – yeah well, they come to surprise me this morning, but I’m just getting back from work – no, don’t look at me like that, it’s not what you think it is – not quite, anyway. And I been dodging them all day’.
‘Quite so. And you maintain your innocence of this young man’s murder?’ She nodded vehemently whilst inhaling. ‘Yet there is some, how shall I put it, some attachment that links you?’
‘I danced for him, di’n’t I? Pole dancing’.
‘Pole dancing?’ Graves spluttered, eyes agog.
‘Pole dancing, lap dancing, you know the score’. Graves shook his head, wearily.
‘I am afraid, madam, that as you may have realised by now, I know little of “the score” these days. But I am happy to be enlightened’. So saying, Graves sucked on his pipe with relish, his eyes twinkling, and his guest’s eyes twinkled in return.
