The story so far: After a century’s sleep, Fetlock Graves has been acquainted with his centenarian housekeeper, Spittle, and taken his first glimpse of the modern world.
‘Singular! Most singular!’ Graves muttered to himself. Then a sudden disturbance in the street below caught his attention: a young man running pell-mell between buses, taxis and vans.
‘Aha – a chase afoot!’ Graves chuckled. ‘There’ll be Peelers soon, I’ll be bound’. At that moment two burly men hurtled into view, desperately pursuing their young prey.
With surprising agility, Graves leapt from his position at the bedroom window onto the landing, and leant over the balustrade.
‘Spittle!’ he called into stairwell. ‘Spittle, open the tradesman’s entrance and admit the young man cowering outside. Pray guide him urgently to the drawing room, but beware the two hoodlums in pursuit!’
‘Yes sir!’ came Spittle’s faint reply from the bowels of the house. Minutes later Graves had discarded his Chinese silk dressing gown in favour of Norfolk tweeds and Eton collar and was standing by the drawing room mantelpiece observing Spittle direct the young pursuant into his presence.
‘He was, like you says he would be, Mr Graves, sir, down by the steps.’
‘Thank you, Spittle. Perhaps some tea for us both.’ As soon as Spittle had closed the door, Graves elongated an accusatory finger at his interviewee.
‘First, you may discard that ridiculous personation’.
‘What you on about?’
‘Why should a pretty thing like you traverse the streets of London disguised as a young ruffian?’ The detective’s keen eye perceived a fine Edwardian lady beneath her disguise of close-cropped dark hair, denim jeans and jacket, and eye liner.
‘I dunno what you mean, Mister, this is how I am. Look, I appreciate being helped out and everything, but I think I’d better be off now’. The young woman made to move.
‘Remain seated, if you please!’ Graves commanded, imperiously. ‘Young lady, you were in need of rescue from those ruffians, and I provided said rescue. Now I am offering further assistance with your travails’.
‘Assistance with my travails?’ she derided. ‘What, with a fancy dress tea party?’ She indicated Graves’ attire and laughed.
‘Do you not know who I am?’ Fetlock Graves demanded impatiently.
‘I’m guessing you’re one of them Soho loonies with more money than sense’.
‘I am none other than Fetlock Graves, gentleman detective!’ The young woman gasped.
‘What, not the Fetlock Graves?’
The detective smiled in superiority. ‘Quite so’.
To Graves’ dismay, however, his young guest then burst out laughing.
‘No, I was having you on! I’ve never heard of you!’
The detective’s keen eye perceived a fineEdwardian lady beneath her disguise
The Illustrated Casebook of Fetlock Graves 
