A Most Suspicious Hanging

written by Lord Reginald Sneden, Esq.
transcribed by one Dennis B. Hooper

EDITOR’S NOTE: This second excerpt from Lord Sneden’s memoir finds us in London, where His Lordship took up residence shortly after the completion of his legal studies at Oxford. Though he had graduated somewhere near the top of his class in 1926, he had not, in fact, endeavored to practice law even two years later. This inertia he attributed in part to the passing ennui common to the ruling class when they first fully enter adulthood, but also to the abrupt and overwhelming change in his life that same year: simply put, he had become a fantastically famous author.

Though he had written (and published, through a vanity press) about a dozen Bumbling Detective stories throughout his years at Oxford, it was not until the summer following his graduation that the public at large first became aware of his work. And when they did, his life changed overnight. He was frequently recognized in the street, screamed at from passing vehicles, and accosted by unwelcome guests on the sidewalk in front of his Belgravia townhouse. Those who knew him at the time recalled that he would muse aloud to anyone who’d listen of how desperately he wanted to leave the country, or at the very least to shutter his London residence and return to Sneden Hall. Yet he never did… and it’s been suggested that his relationship to his newfound celebrity was one of the love-hate variety.

Regardless of how complicated his feelings about it, however, it caused him a great deal of agitation. And it was at the end of a long stretch of such restlessness, one morning in 1928, that he found himself the recipient of a most welcome guest… as well as a most troubling telegram.

DING! DING! DING! DING!

The warning bell at the prow of the horse trolley rang out, warning all in the street before it to make way. I scampered from the cobblestones to the sidewalk, laughing as I did, delighted at the opportunity to let the brisk morning air into my lungs, but also just a tad dismayed at how instantaneously winded I found myself. I was rapidly approaching my middle age, and I knew it, having just reached the shambolic milestone of twenty-and-seven that spring, and was already experiencing the deleterious bodily deficits of Father Time. I made it to the sidewalk with moments to spare, as the horse trolley — and the four magnificent shrieking beasts which powered it — lumbered by. I endeavored to catch my breath, and marveled at their synchronized pedaling as they went, waving at the whip-man from the safety of the concrete pavement.

Gazing at my pocketwatch, I could see that I was running early, and decided to walk the remaining blocks to the restaurant at a pace more leisurely. Both because I could afford to, but also because I found the scotsman’s gait to be more conducive to reminiscing. I was meeting an old friend for lunch that day, you see, one whom I had not seen in four years, and I could not have been happier to have received his telegram that week. For it was, I’m pleased to tell you, none other than David Ford.

David was in country checking up on the London location of his family’s department store. We had, in fact, lived together during the year of its construction (a task he’d overseen with a most Davidian mixture of pride and panic), and had become the closest of friends during that time. I’d had the most frightful pangs of loss on the day that he finally moved out and returned to the colonies, which always struck me as amusing, in hindsight, as we’d of course also been constant companions for two years at boarding school and three at university… and one would think I’d have been sick of him by then. Nevertheless, four years was a very long time for two friends to have been apart, and I was looking greatly forward to ‘catching up,’ as David’s countrymen were fond of saying.

I arrived outside the restaurant with five minutes to spare, and planted myself just outside the door, in case my friend had any difficulties deciphering the lettering of the building’s address. Just then, however, I heard two unfamiliar but angelic voices call out my name.

“Oh Lord Sneden,” one of the voices sang, “what brings you to Madam McKendrick’s Pie House this day?” I turned around to see two beautiful young women, whom I knew for certain I had met at various society functions that year, but whose names and histories I could not recall.

“Good morning, fair ladies,” I said, grinning with all twenty-nine of my teeth, taking their hands and raising each to my lips. “How delightful of you to ask. An old friend is calling on me today, and I’m taking him for the finest pies in Londonton.”

“Might you, perchance, have room at your table for two young admiresses?” said the blonder of the two. “We’ve only just finished your latest tale in the London Noontime Gazette, and have a veritable bible of questions.”

“Alas, nay,” I said, with the slightest twist of a smile. “Madam McKendrick does not allow unmarried women to dine with men. Though I suspect you already knew that, you naughty thing.”

“Why Lord Sneden,” said she, gasping, with the rouge of recreational embarrassment blooming across her cheeks. “You have set my pulse a-racing! To think that such an incisive literary mind would invite himself into my thoughts, and issue such prognoses of naughtful intent! I do believe I shall have to find a fainting parlor, where I might recover from the emotional exertions of this moment!”

“The thought of you entering a daytime slumber,” I said, lowering my voice and kissing her hand a second time, “and depriving the world for even one instant of your wakeful grace and wit, fills me with a sorrow the size of an elephant’s mind.”

“Why Lord Sneden…” she whispered, looking as though she had been visited in that moment by an amorous ghost.

“And like that elephant,” I whispered quieter still, “yours is a visage I should never forget.” I kissed her hand a third and final time. “I must take my leave of you now,” I said, “and return to the task of awaiting my friend.”

“Then I should take my leave of you as well,” said she, “but leave behind me one small piece of my heart, here on the concrete before this pie house.”

“And like the pies I plan to devour,” I said, “I should cradle that heart-piece in my hands, and eat it up.” She and her friend began to walk away, and I waved at them daintily as they did so, only belatedly realizing that I had failed to avail myself of either of their names. But I had only a moment to fret, as just then, a young lad approached me.

“Excuse me, sir?” he said, in a vile cockney accent. “Would you by chance be the honorable Lord Sneden?”

“Bleeding, blistering hell!” I exclaimed. “Is there no remaining semblance of respect, in this rotten, festering kingdom, for the notion of aristocratic privacy? Do I look like I wish to be spoken to, at this moment? Do I, then?”

“I’d do well to beg most deeply for your pardon, sir,” said the lad, “but I’m tasked to present you with this telegram, courtesy of the East India telegram company.”

“Very well,” I said, angrily snapping the paper from his hand, and fishing a coin from my coin purse to serve as his fee. “Begone with you,” I said, flinging the coin at the ground before his feet.

“For what it’s worth, Lord Sneden, sir,” said the telegram lad, as he plucked the coin up from the concrete, “I very much admire your stories as well. My older brother reads them to me at night before bed, as he was the brother chosen to learn reading.”

“BEGONE!” I screamed, and the lad tipped his hat and cheerily complied. “Can I not have a moment’s peace,” I muttered to myself. I had only a second to glance at the telegram before another novel voice entered the hearingspace of my ears. This voice, however, was a most welcome one.

“Reggie!” exclaimed the voice in question. I immediately looked up to see my friend David. I rushed towards him, and we shared the warmest and most collegial handshake and shoulderclap of our lives.

“David!” I yelled. “What a marvelous thing to see you again! You look exactly the same as when last I laid eyes upon you, and not a day closer to death!”

“And you as well, old friend,” he said, and it was true. He had somehow retained that same youthful glow, despite now also being an old man of twenty-seven. I could scarcely believe it. “Is this the restaurant?” said he. “It smells incredible. Even from here on the sidewalk I can tell I’m in for a treat. I tell you, I am positively famished, I am hungry enough to eat a horse. But hungrier still to hear what you’ve been up to!”

I winced ever so slightly at the vulgar and rather anti-equine sentiment on display in his phraseology, but elected to overlook it in the name of friendship… and also for reasons more pressing. I had only read the first few sentences of the telegram a moment before, you see, but I had seen enough to know that dining was no longer our most elevated priority.

“Dear David,” I said. “What would you say if I told you that, just this moment, an opportunity has dropped into our laps for something even more enticing than food?” David looked at me for a very long, very uncomfortable moment.

“Reggie, look, old friend,” he said, quietly, “I’m sure they’re lovely, but I’ve been engaged for a year now and I’m doing my best to behave.”

“Ah, no no no,” I said, smiling. “Not that. Even better.”

The door to Roger Tavishly’s townhome creaked open, and we were somberly bade entry by his butler, to whom we presented our cloaks and hats.

“Lord Sneden,” said the Yardsman, approaching us from the far side of the room, “please come in.”

(EDITOR’S NOTE: Despite my best efforts, I have been utterly unable to determine which Scotland Yard detective was attached to this case or, for that matter, any of the cases described in this volume. Lord Sneden always refers to them as The Yardsman. I am not even honestly sure if the original Yardsman from the “Most Disruptive Slaying” chapter makes a second appearance, even though I have to imagine that he played a role in Lord Sneden’s initial elevation to Consulting Detective, following the events of that story. I have simply hit dead end after dead end in my efforts to identify or differentiate them. My apologies to the reader… )

“Good day to you, Yardsman,” I said. “I’ve read your telegram, but I’m wondering if you could quickly give us the run-down. We’re due back at lunch shortly.”

“Of course, Lord Sneden,” he said, as we ascended the escalier. “The details are as follows. Roger Tavishly, whom I believe you knew socially, was home alone last night, while his wife was visiting family in the country. Shortly before 10:00 p.m., his next door neighbor, Lady Edith, heard a terrible clattering, through a wall shared by their bedchambers. She notified the police, who entered the premises by force, only to find Mr. Tavishly in his bedchamber, hanging by the neck, dead.”

“I see,” I said. “And what of the butler? Why wasn’t he available to let them in?”

“He’d been given the night off,” said The Yardsman. “He spent the night in a pub ‘round the corner. Reading a collection of your stories, as it happens!”

“Let’s stick to the pertinent facts, please,” I said, somberly.

“Yes, of course, sir,” he said, shaking his head with embarrassment. “Absolutely. Moving along, then… his alibi was corroborated by several witnesses, as was that of Tavishly’s wife, who was notified late last night, and who returned to London this morning. Although, she is grieving privately with family just now, and is not available for an interview. She’s had quite the shock.”

“I can certainly imagine,” I said, as The Yardsman opened the bedchamber door and let us inside.

Looking around, though Tavishly’s body had already been removed and sent on its way to the morgue, I could envision the sad scene in the space before me. Tavishly hanging by the neck. Two books knocked from the table onto the floor in the commotion. One final glass of absinthe to ease the transition into eternity. Only one narrative thread ran coarsely to me: why on earth would Roger Tavishly take his own life? Though I didn’t know him intimately, I had seen him at parties every month for the last two years, and he seemed to be the jolliest of the jolly.

“Am I correct in understanding,” I said to The Yardsman, “that you harbor a certain doubt as to the self-inflicted nature of Tavishly’s demise?”

“Oh I?” said The Yardsman. “No sir, it feels rather open and shut from my point of vantage. But one of Mr. Tavishly’s friends asked if we could put our best minds on it, as a courtesy to his family and social circle.”

“I see,” I said.

“And of course, your Lordship,” he said, “that meant you. Everyone at The Yardhouse knows, when a case needs special attention, you call on Mr. S.” He flicked his index finger across his nose, and I did the same. David eyed us quizzically.

“Well, I’m wondering,” I said, “if you might put us in touch with the friend in question. So that we might ask them in greater detail about their doubts.”

“Oh absolutely, sir,” he said. “Let me locate his contactual details.” I turned to David.

“Dear David,” I said, “while we’re doing this, might you be able to ask the butler about getting a message to Madam McKendrick?”

“Um… of course,” said David. “Why, though, would that be?”

“Well I have to imagine we’re going to be another hour at least, maybe two.” I saw David take a very deep, stiff breath, no doubt steeling himself for the important detecting work ahead of us.

While David was down the stairs speaking with the butler, I had The Yardsman walk me through the space, and quizzed him on any remaining detectory details, however minute or upsetting. I collected the two books from the floor, so that I could page through them later and see if perhaps they had any contextual wisdom of their own to lend. I thanked The Yardsman, and met David downstairs, and from there we took a carriage to the home of Roger Tavishly’s closest friend.

“So,” said David, as we got into the carriage, “with whom are we about to speak?”

“The Marquess Roderick Jaynes,” I said. “One of Roger’s closest friends since their school days, and a member of a very prominent circle of aristocratic Londonaires.” And it was true. Along with Peter Andrews, Sam Lowry, and Robert Rich, Roger and the marquess had been the life of every Londonial fete since I’d moved here. It was frankly hard to imagine how they’d continue without him.

“I see,” said David. “And what information are we expecting to glean from this visit?”

“Well, that’s a fine question,” I said. “I can’t say I truly know, only that the Marquess Jaynes has apparently expressed some skepticism as to the self-inflicted nature of Roger’s demise. And I must say that I strongly sympathize, although only in the area of motive. A second participant would certainly explain his death… but it would also complicate the act considerably.”

“I see,” said David, furrowing his brow.

Our carriage approached a traffic lamp, and I found my body tensing up. Not because of the discussion, of course, but because traffic lamps were still rather new in London, and many here were still adjusting to them, especially to their irresponsibly confusing color scheme. Many a time I’d witnessed dear friends nearly come to blows when one insisted that a driver ought tarry for the color green, as it was the color of bile, but rush ahead at the color red, as it was the color of lust and vigor. I’d had to break up one of these altercations more than once, as their wives sobbed helplessly beside them. It was a fraught topic, as a great number of people and an even greater number of horses had already died, rushing headlong into intersections where they might previously have exercised caution. (Only a massively expensive public education campaign a year later would finally staunch the wound).

“Oh, remind me, please,” said David, “You mention that Roderick Jaynes is a Marquess. How should I address him, when we meet?”

“Ah!” I said, as the lamp turned mauve and then to green, and our driver approached the intersection. “That’s a good question. It’s only a semi-formal introduction, at his home, and before the dinnering hour as well, so ‘Your Flowing Eminence’ will be more than sufficient.”

“Of course,” he said.

“And I will be introduced as His Royal Lordship the Earl of Snedendom, but once we’re alone you need only call me Lord Sneden, and him Marquess.”

“Very well,” said David, tensing his jaw slightly, and looking away.

We arrived mere moments later, approached the marquess’ residence, and were permitted entry by the butler, the underbutler, and the house executive. After a brief introduction ceremony, the trumpeters were dismissed, and the butler led us back to the library, where the marquess was awaiting us.

“Reggie!” said the marquess, as he held out both hands. “It’s wonderful to see you. Setting aside the rotten character of the circumstances, of course.”

“And you as well, Roddy,” I said, clasping hands with him. “Please allow me to introduce a dear friend from my school days, and a brilliant amateur detective in his own right, David Ford, from America.”

“Your Flowing Eminence,” said David, clasping hands with him as well, and reciting one of the many stock phrases of introduction he’d learned at Oxford, “it gives my heart and spirit joy to bask in your aristocratic grace and wisdom, and I thank you for the opportunity to enjoy the hospitality of your home.”

“Good afternoon,” said the marquess. “It is good to meet you as well.” They exchanged polite nods.

“Now Roddy, I understand you have some thoughts you’d like to share,” I said.

“I do!” said Roderick. “But first, might I offer you some brandy, and a terrifyingly strong cigar?”

“Hmmm…” said David. “I can hardly believe my ears as I say this, but I have actually not eaten since my dinner last night, and I wonder if I might abstain.”

For a moment, no one breathed. I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears. The tiniest flash of horror was visible in the marquess’ eye. I immediately laughed uproariously, hoping to move us past David’s faux pas as quickly as I could.

“Why David!” I yelled. “Once again your puckish American wit has caught me unawares. OF COURSE he will partake of your brandy. And we’d each be eternally grateful for one of your strongest cigars.”

“What a… frightfully unexpected and novel jape,” said the marquess, laughing weakly. “Just imagine, a male guest refusing ceremonial brandy. T’would be like a dog wearing clothes, or a fish with a velocipede.”

“Precisely,” I said. “And therein lies the wit.”

“Yes,” said David, masking his discomfort from the marquess but not from me. “Maybe it was a jape too novel, given the early hour of the afternoon…”

“Oh nonsense,” said the marquess, handing us our cigars as the butler furnished our drinks. “It’s rather nice to be reminded that there is still humor to be found in the world.”

“Indeed,” said I, as we took our seats.

“To old friends,” said the marquess, raising his brandy. “And new acquaintances.”

“Here here,” I said. We each drained our glasses. I observed that David had not finished his, and shot him a stern, private look, hoping to convey that he was risking offense yet again. I saw him reluctantly comply and tip his head as I turned back to the marquess. The butler, meanwhile, approached us and began to fill our glasses anew.

“Now Reggie,” said Roderick, “I’m sure you’ll agree that there is something at least fractionally amiss in the circumstances surrounding Roger’s death.”

“Yes,” I said. “I cannot say that we were close, but I have never encountered a happier chap than he. It vexes me.”

“It is vexatious indeed,” said Roderick, lighting his cigar as we did the same. “Particularly given his stated intention to visit The Orient again, a place well known to be his favorite.”

“Ah, that it was,” I said, recalling how our shared fondness for The Orient had been the subject over which we’d first grown acquainted, at a masquerade brunch a few years prior.

“Yes,” said Roderick, “he’d only just told us that he planned to set sail next month.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“Yes,” said Roderick.

“You know, David is on his way to The Orient next week,” I said, remembering that his family’s chain of department stores was about to break ground on its first location in Hong Kong. I turned to David, hoping he would join in, but noticed that he was already looking a little distracted, either by the splendor of the marquess’ home, or by the rapid infusion of alcohol and nicotine on a completely empty stomach.

“Yes!” said David, swaying ever so slightly in his seat, and tripping over the odd minor syllable. “That I am. I’ve actually never traveled east of the Rhine, so I’m excited.”

“As well you should be,” said the marquess. “The Orient is a fascinating and endlessly surprising place. Or so I’ve read, anyhow.”

“Yes, I’ve had a marvelous time there myself,” I said, having traveled there almost every summer since my first undergraduate year. “David has no idea what he’s in for.” The Marquess and I shared a rambunctious laugh.

But as our laughingthroats came to rest, I noticed David was breathing heavily, and staring at the floor.

“Could I excuse myself for just a moment?” David asked.

“Of course,” said the marquess, snapping his fingers to summon the butler. “Would you please direct him to the retching parlor?”

“Right away, sir,” said he.

The butler led David to the retchery, and as his footfalls grew softer, Roderick leaned closer to me, and said, in a hushed tone, “Listen, Reggie, I’m sorry for the runaround, but just before you arrived, I received a private message from Roger, clearly composed sometime yesterday afternoon. I wanted to share it with you, but of course, even in death, to keep his confidence. I’m sure you understand.”

“Why yes,” I said, leaning forward as well.

“Good,” he said, producing a letter from his vest pocket and handing it over to me. “I think you’ll sadly find that, as regards these complicated events, it does rather uncomplicate them.”

“I see,” I said. I took the note from his hand and began to read. It described a great malaise that had befallen its author, a terrible and growing distance between he and his wife, and his intention — already known to us — to leave England for The Orient, but in a manner perhaps more permanent: he was to buy property there, and split his time somewhat evenly. And without, it appeared, the company of his wife. He detailed the many things that had grown sour for him these last few years in London, and disclosed his belief that only a dramatic change in his circumstances could ensweeten them. He concluded his note, ominously, by saying that he felt a great voyage was drawing near for him, and that he should miss his friend greatly, but that all he had to look forward to at this point in time was the blinding light at the edge of death.

“My word,” I said.

“A poet to the end,” said Roderick. “However gloomily so.”

“Yes,” I said. “I truly had no idea.”

“Well, imagine how I feel,” said Roderick, sighing. “What a wretched thing.”

“Wretched indeed,” said I. “Though I do believe it speaks to the strength of your bond that he wanted you to know.”

“Perhaps so,” he said. “That’s a pleasant thought.” He lifted his glass to his lips, and as he lustily gulped down what remained, we heard the sound of a returning David.

“Ah, David!” I ejaculated. “You’ve returned. I think it’s time we made our way back to Madam McKendrick’s.”

“Oh, is that so?” said David, looking hopeful for the first time since we’d arrived.

“Indeed,” I said.

“Well that will certainly be a feast,” said the marquess, with a wink, “for both the stomach and the senses.” He referred, I imagined, to the ravishing Madam McKendrick herself. I winked back, and trusted David to construe our meaning.

“Well I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help,” I said, attempting to assure the marquess that the secrets he’d shared would be safe with me.

“Oh not to worry,” said he. “We can only do what we can do.”

“Marquess Jaynes,” said David. “T’was a magnificent marvel to make your acquaintance, and I’d consider myself touched by God were our paths ever to cross again.”

“Yes David,” said the marquess. “You as well.”

We were led out by the butler, to a waiting carriage, and I provided the driver with our next stop’s address.

“I’m sorry,” said David, as we embarked, “that address didn’t sound like Madam McKendrick’s.”

“It’s not,” I said. “The marquess shared some information with me that mostly ties up the case, but I just have a couple of gnawing questions for Tavishly’s widow. I’m hoping to see if we can stop by and ask them.”

“Hmmmm…” said David, somberly. “Could we possibly do so after we eat?”

“Well, I’m sure we could,” I said, “but it feels wise to do so while the thoughts are still fresh in my head.”

“I can appreciate that,” said David, measuring his words carefully, “though I wonder if doing so with a depleted appetite might lead to more focused questioning.”

“Well,” I said, “as you mention it, I actually did have rather a large breakfast this morning…”

“Oh Reginald, please!” exclaimed David, with a renewed American vigor he’d no doubt been suppressing this whole visit. “I haven’t eaten in almost twenty hours, and between that and the recreational poisons with the marquess, if I don’t eat something soon, I’m afraid I might die.”

“Oh!” I said. “Well, I wish you’d said something.”

“My apologies,” said David, quietly.

“Oh driver!” I yelled, rapping on the window. “Let us out here, please.”

I thumbed through the two books, taken from Roger Tavishly’s home, as I waited for David to return from the washroom. I’d procured us a fabulous table in the dining room of the Savoy Hotel, which was just down the street from the marquess’ London domicile. Luckily they’d been able to seat us, and David, his health restored, had regaled me with his many adventures these last few years as we ate. It had been a lovely meal, and exactly what I’d hoped for when I’d first received his telegram.

I found nothing of pertinence in the first book, though its illustrations were lovely, and truthfully, nothing particularly instructive in the second, either, though from the moment I opened it, I had been zapped with a pleasing jolt of nostalgia, as the second was a book I owned myself: The Englishman’s Guide to the Untamed East.

On its cover was a market square of sorts, filled with all the many wonders of that splendid land: silk merchants, costumed townsfolk, rickshaws, bengal tigers, checkered bears, flying fishes, snake charmers, and samurai swordsmen, with rice fields and the Ganges River and the peak of Fuji Mountain in the background. I was instantly overcome with an urge to go back, and not a little jealous of David’s coming voyage.

A waiter arrived, with our post-lunching tea, and just then, so did David. I set the book back on the table.

“Well, Reginald,” he said, “I’ve practically talked your ear off, and you’ve hardly said a word yourself.”

“Ah, but what is there to tell,” I said, with a smile, preparing myself to weave a familiar story, one much lighter and more interesting than the truth: that despite my unexpected recent successes, I was spiritually depleted and bored out of my wits. I looked up at David, ready to spin that yarn I’d spun so many times, but for some odd reason, just found that I couldn’t.

“Reggie?” inquired David, as he studied my face. “Is everything all right?”

“In every material sense, yes,” I said, with a long sigh. “I have a lucrative hobby that brings joy to strangers, and a compulsion to pursue it… and yet… I can’t help but feel myself stagnating, in both body and spirit.”

“My goodness,” he said, “I had no idea.”

“Truly, neither did I, until recently,” I said. “And I have to think I wouldn’t be so selfishly forthcoming on what’s supposed to be a joyous occasion, but… perhaps the gravity of Tavishly’s final act is just beginning to take hold of me.”

“I was wondering about that,” said David, quietly. “It’s not that our lives have been free of tragedy before, but knowing that his end might have been self-authored… it’s the type of thing that gives you pause. Particularly, I’d have to think, when he was someone you knew.”

“Yes,” I said. “It is quite sad. There is no denying it. And, though I must ask you to keep this between us, the marquess shared with me an additional clue — a farewell note — that makes the deliberate nature of his demise all but certain.”

“Oh Reggie, I am sorry,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said, “In fact, I should confess that my proposed visit to his widow was probably a matter of procedure and nothing more. It truly is a case that appears to be open-and-shut.”

“Well,” said David, “then perhaps we should be glad of its conclusion.”

“Perhaps so,” I said, taking a long sip of my tea, though the gladness he described seemed to be late in finding me. I decided to lighten the mood. “Well, tell me about your trip, are you excited?”

“I am!” he said. “I’ve got a fairly long and solitary voyage ahead of me, but after that, three months in Hong Kong! Can you imagine my luck!”

“I’m imagining it right now!” I laughed. “I’m positively overcome with jealousy.”

“Well then perhaps you should come too,” he said, laughing himself. Once again I found myself without words. We sat in silence for a long moment.

“David,” I said, my voice finally emerging with a slight squeak, feeling a terrible anxious tension in my belly, but somehow unable to stop myself from speaking. “You really must stop me if this is too forward… but how horribly impertinent would it be if I were to ask if I could… join you?” David let out the grandest American sigh.

“Oh, good god,” he said. “Thank you for asking, I wasn’t even sure how to broach the subject. Yes, please, it’s your favorite place, you go there all the time, and I was going to be stuck in a P&O stateroom by myself for a month. By all means, join me! It’s a great idea.”

“Oh, marvelous!” I said, feeling my epidermis. tingle with anticipation, and the delight of a coming voyage steal over me. “Well, I’ll have to get you a copy of this, then!”

“Oh yes!” said David, glancing down at the book I was holding. “Is that the guidebook you’re always talking about?”

“It is!” I said. “I have an extra copy of my own I can lend you — this one, sadly, I’ll have to return to the Tavishly family. Here, let me pull up the chapter on Hong Kong, you can at least have a look at that now.”

I thumbed through the various sections — Tokyo, Bombay, Shanghai, Ceylon — looking for Hong Kong, but accidentally turning, perhaps out of habit, to the section on Singapore. I was about to continue ahead… but then something on the page stood out to me. I stared at it for a long moment.

“Reginald,” said David, “what’s come over you?”

“Oh David,” I said, looking up. “We’re not going to Hong Kong.

The steam whistle shrieked as our train hurtled towards the mouth of the Suez Canal. We’d arrived in Cairo the night before, having traveled by airship from Suffolk. As we neared the railway’s terminus, the train deployed a louder and deeper gas whistle, to let the passengers know we were arriving. I leaned over and roused David.

“Oh David,” I said, “we’re nearly there.” David groaned.

“Did we really have to skip the pyramids?” he said, slowly sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

“Oh come now,” I said. “This was an opportunity worth charging ahead for. Just wait until you see the vessel on which I’ve booked us.”

Indeed, our plan had been to spend five days seeing the sights in Cairo before boarding a P&O steamer and beginning the aquatic portion of our trip, but when I’d stopped by the traveling agency on our way to the hotel the night before, I’d come across an absolutely sensational alternate mode of travel, usually reserved for young men of the royal family, or traveling diplomats. The only drawback was that it necessitated us boarding a train this morning shortly before dawn, and backpedaling just a bit to Port Said.

“Reginald, I trust you, I do,” said David, “But they’re the first wonders of the ancient world! I could barely see them from my window this morning!”

“Oh nonsense,” I said. “You’re a world traveler now. Surely you’ll be back in Cairo one day.” (EDITOR’S NOTE: He would not)

“That’s an optimistic way of looking at it,” sighed David, lighting a cigarette and beginning to look for his train slippers.

We pulled into the station a few minutes later. I found a porter to help us with our luggage, having elected to leave all members of my household staff behind. (This was fairly typical for me when I traveled abroad — I found it gave them a nice opportunity to shake up their routines, so to speak, and I trusted them to find other means of employment while I was gone)

Once our cases were successfully loaded onto the roof of our carriage, we took off, and headed towards the berthing place of our craft. I knew what awaited us, of course, but David did not, and so like a magician, I watched him closely, and enjoyed those devilish moments of suspense. I saw him glance out of the corner of his eye a few times, as he scanned a freshly-purchased newspaper, clearly unimpressed with the monotonous succession of identical steamships, but nevertheless clearly dying to know why I’d upended our entire itinerary. As we drew closer to the last spot along the dock, however, David suddenly looked up from his ‘paper, as the substance of my well-concealed surprise unfolded before him.

“No!” said David with a tone of genuine wonder. And wondrous it truly was. A beautiful, magnificent, perfectly-preserved eighteenth century square rig sailing vessel, likely captured from the vile French during the Napoleonic wars, lay against the dock before us.

“That’s right,” I said. “The last of its kind still operated by the British Navy, departing in precisely one hour, with the last two remaining beds reserved for you, and I.”

“I can’t believe it,” said David, putting away his newspaper and marveling at the ship.

“It’s not a mummy-filled tomb,” I said, laughing, “but perhaps it’ll do.”

“All right,” said David, turning to look at me. “You may have convinced me.”

We scampered out of the carriage and joyfully greeted the crew. As some of the lower-ranked sailors were delegated to carry our luggage down below, David and I took a moment on deck to survey our surroundings, and daydream about the adventure ahead of us. The sun warmed our faces as a stiff breeze blew in our hair. It was a marvelous combination.

“So I’ve done the maths,” I said, “and we may be a couple of weeks later arriving in Ceylon than originally planned, but we’re getting a week’s head start, both on the English end of the trip and here in the Canal, so I think that’s something. If the wind is right, it may just even out.”

“Perhaps so,” he said. “Though it’s funny, you were in such a hurry to leave London, and now here we are hopping aboard a conveyance from the previous century.”

“This is true,” I said. “Though I think you might agree with me that the extra time could be worth it.”

“We will see,” he said, smiling in spite of himself.

For my own part, I certainly hadn’t needed any convincing the night before. As my beloved character The Bumbling Detective had, according to my own devising, served in the Royal Navy on a ship not unlike this one in his youth, I’d been dying to give myself some firsthand experience on such a vessel. That I’d lucked into such an opportunity, and at a duration in excess of a month, seemed especially serendipitous. I’m not sure I’d even have known how to say no.

“Well are you finally going to tell me,” said David, ”why it is that we’re taking this Singaporean detour?”

“All right,” I said. “I suppose we’re close enough to leaving His Majesty’s jurisdiction. I’ll tell you.”

David adjusted his posture, and casually leaned against the railing of the mizzendeck, as I did the same.

“Roger Tavishly’s note,” I began, “included a very curious phrase. He said he had little to look forward to in this world beyond ‘the blinding light at the edge of death.’ While the Marquess Jaynes interpreted this, quite understandably, as a sad, poetic flourish at the end of a suicidary notation, the book I showed you at The Savoy that day reminded me that there is in fact a form of erotic massage practiced in one of the houses mentioned in that same volume, which goes by that very name.”

“Is that so,” said David.

“That it is,” I said. “It’s a massage involving contortions, hot coals, and boiling oils, which is said to be so deliciously painful as to conjure up visions of the afterlife.”

“Ah…” said David, with a look on his face evincing a perfect mixture of curiosity and fear.

“And while it is not mentioned by name in the guidebook,“ I said, “I could not help but notice that the institution which offers it was one of three next to which Roger had made a pencilian tick.”

“So he clearly had been to — or intended to visit — that very institution.”

“Precisely,” I said. “And it further stands to reason…”

“That if he was, in fact, looking forward to this massage,” said David, “and not the end of his own life, then he might not have killed himself after all.”

I smiled at David, and flicked my index finger across my nose. He returned the gesture, seeming at last to understand its significance in professional detecting circles.

“All right,” said David, nodding his head. “There’s something to that theory.”

“I‘m glad you agree,” I said.

“So I take it,” said David, “that this institution is a notorious one?”

“Oh!” I said, furrowing my brow. “It is most unseemly. I’ve been there many times.”

Just then we heard the captain yell to the crew to begin preparations for launch. The sailors quickly scurried up the rigging and lowered the first of the sails. David and I grinned enormous grins, as it appeared our voyage had finally begun.

Our first day on the water was strangely more monotonous than we’d been led to expect. Though we had certainly made fantastic time, traveling dead downwind through the Suez Canal, such a vector of travel does not give the impression of speed unless one happens to be looking directly at the passing shore. Moreover, as a ship travels with the wind — and not perpendicular to or against it — it all but swallows any extant breeze, leaving only the sweltering Egyptian sun above. To put it simply, it was as hot as the devil’s breath and twice as rotten. David and I each had to change clothes twice, first into our sailing clothes, and then into our picnic wear.

Thankfully, the environs of the ship, both above deck and below, became quite a bit more hospitable as the sun fell in the sky, and we had a marvelous, relaxed dinner with the crew, almost all of whom had been with the Royal Navy for a year or more, and had been on this ship since the previous June. It felt very good to be far and away from London, and to enjoy some small amount of anonymity for the first time since the public’s discovery of my work. I relished it.

(Unfortunately, following a bit too much grog, I accidentally let slip that I was not, in fact, Snedley Reggington, a little-read travel writer from Birmingham, but was in fact the celebrated mystery author with whom all aboard were well acquainted. I instantly became the center of attention, and was made to inscribe autographs and pose for etchings. Nevertheless, the change of scenery and personnel continued to do me well, and I slept like a baby that night).

We continued to make terrific time the next day, passing easily through the Great Bitter Lake, and the captain told me that we’d likely exit the canal into the Bay of Suez sometime that afternoon. He confided in me that he’d actually been quite worried about our ability to traverse the canal in the event of the wind shifting, as it was extremely narrow, and traveling upwind would be nearly impossible. Indeed, he’d had to accept a tow through the canal on this very vessel four times in the past! He asked me to make a private wish for favorable breezes and safe passage to Ceylon, and while I did not do so, I made an outward point of suggesting I had, and showing respect for his silly maritime superstitions.

We exited the canal shortly after one o’clock, and no sooner had we done so than the captain’s much-feared shift in the wind arrived, a considerable shift in both direction and power. However, in light of our arrival into something resembling open water, this obviously proved to be not a curse, but a blessing. The captain steered us onto an upwind tack, and suddenly we experienced the wind’s full power, our quaint, oversized pleasure craft transformed in an instant into a formidable man-of-war. And I found, at last, the adventure I’d been craving lo these many months.

The sailors cheered as we steered into the wind, and I cheered with them, as the previously well-behaved sea before us evolved into a wet, howling, nautical maze.I thrilled at the rollicking, controlled instability of our craft, as it smashed into the waves, as it thew our entire floating world off its axis, again and again, like a rampaging horse, like a demented seesaw. Hearing the groan of the various lines and pulleys, the snap of the sails, feeling the pachydermian heave of the ship as it battered its way through each aqueous rampart, the salt spray exploding in the air like so much gunpowder…

I ran to the bow of the ship and positioned myself by its carved wooden figurehead, getting as close to the action as I could, feeling the full, queasy, headlong tilt each time the ship crested one watery hill, and plowed into the next. I watched random patches of wind dazzle across the surface of the water, creating magical, dancing thatches of cuts in its skin as it raced across it, sometimes right towards my face, and I counted down the seconds until I was knocked back by another magnificent gust.

“And a very fine day to you, my lady!” I yelled to the figurehead beside me, a mermaid with flowing locks, holding the scepter of parliament in her hand, and a love of country in her teasing eye. Her curves were voluptuous, her hair festooned with sand dollars and fishhooks, and her ample, nearly-bare bosoms were covered by two sensuous crabs. I knew that she would keep us safe.

She spoke nothing back, but I knew that she had heard me. I found myself transposing her sultry, fishy body to the seascape before us, personifying the wild but playful maritime goddess as she spread herself open before us, and my whole person shook in holy terror as we barreled into her again and again, her screams of adventurous joy audible in each gust of wind, her pungent, salty mist stinging my eyes and drenching my sailingsmock.

After a few delirious minutes, I peeled my hands from the railing, grinning from ear to ear, licking her spray from my lips. I endeavored to walk back to the midship’s ladder, in order to return to my quarters and check on David, who had laid down to rest after our morning tea, and whom I had not seen since.

When I entered our quarters, I found what I’d feared: a sweating, quivering David, his pajamas drenched, our wastepaper basket filled with a slurry of reclaimed breakfast, his pallor, to my writerly astonishment, an unmistakable witchlike green.

“Is it going to be like this,” mumbled David, “the entire trip?”

“I’m afraid so, old chap,” I said. “Though I imagine the feeling will pass with time.”

“Fantastic,” said David, before summoning another mighty, esophageal column from within.

“I didn’t know you got seasick,” I said, over the sound of his violent splashing. “Was this a problem on the Queen Mary?”

“No,” he said, “though the Queen Mary didn’t feel like… weathering an aerial bombardment in the belly of a whale.”

“Well,” I said, “perhaps like Jonah, you should atone for your sins, old friend.” I laughed, but he did not, and it quickly became clear that I would not be successful in calming his roiling bowels with humor. “Let me take that,” I said, gently lifting the nigh-overflowing receptacle from his hands, with the intention of depositing its contents over the railing.

“Please don’t be long,” he said, with a polite urgency.

“Not to worry, old friend,” I replied, smiling. “Try to rest.” I headed for the deck, but sadly, at that moment, the boat heaved another magnificent heave, and so did David, if you take my meaning, in the direction of the ceiling, the walls, and the bookshelf.

By the following morning, David was still too sick to eat, but thankfully had very little left within him to bring up. I had seen seasickness many times before, of course, and knew he needed, more than anything, another day or two to adjust, at which point he would almost certainly find his equilibrium, and be able to join me in sampling the delicacies of Royal Navy dining fare.

“Is there anything to eat other than hard tack,” he asked, as I brought him his breakfast, but I told him truthfully no, and had not had any success the previous day with any of the cook’s lunching or dinnering options. It was odd, as I’d always imagined Americans to have hardier stomachs than their English cousins, what with their prairie cuisine of baked beans, hotted dogs, and burgled hams, but it was certainly not proving to be true of my colonial friend. Perhaps, I thought, my years of English food had actually prepared me better for our voyage.

David seemed to be drifting off to sleep again, so I went up to the deck, where the crew were going through their daily bathing ritual. I decided to join them. I stripped down to my underthings, carefully folding my overthings and laying them on the deck. Some of the more confident sailors bathed in the nude, though despite my many crowded and distinctly un-private years at boarding school, I found myself strangely bashful in their presence. Perhaps it was their bodies: each had the glorious, sun-kissed complexion of summering youth, something my skin had not known since I was twenty, nearly a lifetime ago at this point. And to a person, each had the musculature of a Greek carving, our creator’s sculptural artistry evident in each flank. Indeed, the first mate’s buttocks tensed and glistened in the sun like the haunches of the finest racehorse. The bosun’s mighty thighs rippled like the sea itself.

For my part, my body had barely employed its musculature in any capacity since my days as the demicaptain of the punting team, and I had gained nearly twenty-nine hundred millistone (EDITOR’S NOTE: about forty pounds) since my first undergraduate year. The body I inhabited was no longer the corporeal treat for the eyes that perhaps it once was. I felt a sorrow for my vanished youth, and a cold unease as I imagined my continuing decrepitude, as I was to be, in all likelihood, turning a monstrous twenty-and-eight before I set foot again on English soil.

After I finished bathing, I took some time exploring the ship, chatting up various members of the crew as they went about their duties. I particularly enjoyed my conversations with the first mate and bosun, and though my chat with the captain was brief, he invited me to dine with him and the other officers in his quarters that evening, so that we might continue our conversation at length. I told him I looked grandly forward to it.

I continued to check on David every few hours, though sadly there was little I could do beyond fetching him water and small, rudimentary morsels of food, which he continued to refuse. Shortly before dinner, I dressed in my finest, and went to confer with the ship’s surgeon, a wonderfully witty and well-educated man despite his Celtic provenance. We enjoyed some word games and some pre-dinner festivities before relocating to the next cabin for our meal.

“Ah, Lord Sneden, do come in,” said the captain who, along with the other officers, was already seated at the dinner table. The ship’s surgeon and I entered, and found our seats.

“Why thank you,” I said. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Lord Sneden…” said the captain, “not to be confused, of course, with one Snedley Reggington.” Everyone chuckled mightily.

“Ah yes,” I said, chuckling myself. “I apologize for the ruse, although I’m sure you understand my motive in attempting to travel incognito.”

“Oh of course,” said the captain. “And we’re honored to have you aboard. Though we did sense that something was afoot, given that a mere travel writer would never have secured such an esteemed and exclusive berth, no matter how precise his grammar.” The men chuckled again.

”Is that so…” I said. “I believe you’d make quite the detective yourself.”

“Why thank you,” said the captain. “And may I ask, is that what leads you on this particular voyage?”

“Hmmmm…” I said, with a touch of embarrassment, and a furrowed brow. “Is that the rumor that’s going around?”

I’d done my level best, you see, to conceal my detecting hobby from the public, both for reasons of preserving a writerly mystique, but also because at least some of my readers would have found the idea of a non-fictional upper class detective distasteful. Nevertheless, it didn’t surprise me that my activities had reached the naval officers’ gossip network.

“You might say it is,” said the captain. “Although, as with all rumors, I had assumed it was best taken with a grain of salt.”

“Well,” I said, leaning forward, “as long as it stays on this ship, I’d advise a dash of parsnip and lemon pepper to go with that salt. Because it happens, on this occasion, to be true.” A magnificent murmur arose.

“My goodness,” said the captain. “Is there anything you can tell us about the case you’re attempting to solve?”

“Alas nay,” I said. “Only that… there may have been a killing, and someone may have gotten away with it.” The murmur sprang up afresh.

“How terribly exciting,” said the captain.

“Yes,” I said, swirling my beverage. “I came across an important clue back in London, and simply had to follow it wherever it led, even to the far side of the world. I’ve got a fairly clear sense of the what and the when, so to speak… I need only determine the how… and the who and the why.”

“Well,“ said the captain, “it sounds like you’re off to a terrific start. If there’s anything the H.M.S. Sunset can do for you, please let us know.”

“That I certainly shall,” I said, taking a long sip of my wine. “On that topic, not in any way to doubt or criticize, of course, but… what purpose DOES such a magnificent antique like this one serve in such an otherwise modern fleet.”

“That’s a very good question,” said the captain. “But one with a simple answer. In order to understand the present, one must always have a connection to the past. And what better way to remind the world — to say nothing of our own people — of Britain’s historical greatness than to keep a symbol of that greatness at all times patrolling the seven seas.”

“Of course,” I said. “That makes perfect sense.”

“After all,” said the captain, “we may not have modern conveniences like radio, electricity, lifeboats, or toilets, but we have something no other vessel has: one hundred and fifty years of honor and tradition.”

“Here here!” yelled the first mate.

“Here here!” yelled the other sailors, and we all raised our glasses and drank.

“Well do you know what I think?” said the captain. “I think it’s time for a song. I wonder who might like to entertain us tonight?“

The sailors looked at each other, and as I gathered that this was a regular occurrence on the ship, I was prepared to sit back and let the proper protocol reveal itself, but when several seconds went by without a volunteer, I found myself raising my hand.

“Lord Sneden!” exclaimed the captain. “I did not even realize you played! We would be honored.” As the sailors clapped, I rose and walked over to the other end of the captain’s cabin, where the saloon-style tack piano I’d first noticed when I’d walked in was bolted to the inner starboard wall. I cracked my knuckles and sat down.

“I would like to dedicate this number,” I said, “to my ailing American companion, in the hopes that it might lift his spirits, and usher him along on the journey to good health”

“Here here!” said the captain and the sailors.

As I began to play, however, I quickly realized that my vivid memories of having once been a celebrated concert pianist were merely hallucinations brought on by the laudanum I’d shared with the ship’s surgeon an hour beforehand, and that in fact I had never once taken so much as a lesson. Nevertheless, I believed it better to forge ahead than to give up before the song was done, and so I rushed my way through a terrifying, atonal, nightmare version of The Star Spangled Banner. I fully expected a polite but awkward reception at the song’s conclusion, and prepared myself to quickly slink away back to my seat. When I finished, however, the sailors all clapped uproariously.

“I have never heard a lovelier or more rousing rendition of that song,” said the captain. “Well done.”

The sailors shouted out requests, as David loudly moaned on the other side of the wall, no doubt in agony that he was unable to join us.

“Well,” I said, “how about I take a crack at La Marseillaise?”

“No!” screamed the bosun, along with a few of the other sailors, and I immediately realized my error, as my earlier assumption that this had once been a French ship had turned out to be correct. I relinquished the piano at once, and my rude suggestion unfortunately cast a pall over the rest of the meal, though mercifully I was able to win back their affections by the time dessert arrived, with some dirty limericks I’d learned at boarding school.

We drank grog and sang on the deck until late into the night, the enlisted men joining us this time as well, and I finally got to sleep a few hours before dawn.

The following day, I found myself very worried about David. His eyes were sunken and yellow, with dark sickly bruises beneath them, like ink drips on newsprint. His breathing was hot and labored, and he sweated and shook all day, alternately burrowing beneath his blankets, and tossing them aside like rags. He continued to refuse all food, and was already visibly losing weight, of which he hadn’t had much to lose to begin with. Shortly after lunchtime, I made up my mind to help him.

“Get up,” I said. “We’re going up top.”

“No,” said David. “Let me die.”

I prodded him a second time, trying to entice him, correctly, with how much nicer he would find it above deck, but when he refused anew, I enlisted a burly midshipman to assist me, who slung David over his shoulder and carried him up to the deck. I located a life ring, and a length of rope, and after getting the life ring around David and the rope securely fastened to both the ring and the railing, I unceremoniously pushed him overboard. After a moment of rage and panic at my apparent betrayal, David achieved equilibrium, and began to bob pleasantly on the surface of the water, dragging behind the ship, and suddenly no longer victim to its wild rocking. A look of profound calm came over David’s face.

“I can’t believe it,” he said. “Was this really all it took?”

“I’m afraid so,” I said, laughing.

“Well don’t I feel foolish,” said he.

“I think we’ll just leave you there for an hour or two,” I said. “I’ll lower down some food and drink for you, and then when you come back up, we’ll have you stay on deck, in the fresh air, for the rest of the day. I think that will help.”

“I think so too,” he said. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” I said.

“My god it feels good to feel like myself again,” he said.

“Well you deserve it,” said I, smiling and giving him a playful salute. I resolved to procure a meal for David, and perhaps a nice, relaxing snack for myself. I started moving towards the galley, daydreaming about spotted dog, or perhaps some braised miller.

Just then, however, a terrible shuddering ran through the ship, as though an earthquake had escaped its home on dry land and followed us to the middle of the sea.

“My word!” I yelled. “What was that?” And in a matter of moments, our circumstances rearranged themselves in a bone-chilling fashion, as the most frightful words a man could ever hope to hear rang out from the bow.

“WHALE ATTACK!” yelled one of the younger crewmen.

I felt my blood turn to ice. The deck shook again, and we heard a terrible ripping sound, as the beast took its first bite of the ship.

“We’re done for!” screamed the cabin boy.

“Quiet! Becalm yourself!” I yelled, slapping the child across the face, though I must confess that I had no idea how right or how wrong he was in that moment.

I ran down to my quarters for supplies, seeing as I did so that the whale had already claimed his first casualty, as his shaking had jostled loose the tack piano, which was rolling back and forth in the captain’s quarters, and had already smashed into the bosun, snapping his neck. I realized that David was all alone in the water and too weak to pull himself out, so I scrambled back up the stairs and looked out over the stern, for a moment failing to find him, until I recognized the telltale gilded glint of his pajamas.

“Reginald!” yelled he. “What’s happening?”

“Whale attack!” I yelled back. “Here, if he swims near you, shoot him with this!”

“Brilliant!” yelled David, as he held out his hands to catch my pistol. I heaved it as hard as I could in his direction, but unfortunately I missed, and it immediately sank.

“Well, shit,” I said.

“No matter,“ said he, ”I’ll be fine. You go pitch in if you can.”

I ran to find the captain. On my way, the cabin boy approached me, his face streaked with tears. “Sir, I’m sorry for my cowardice in the face of the whale.”

“Not to worry,” I said, “we’re all a bit shaken up just now.” I did not know, however, as I first began to speak, exactly how literally my words would land, as yet again our craft was subjected to a mighty shaking, and the whale rammed us afresh, and took another fearsome bite of the hull.

As I regained my footing, I saw the crewmen scramble to prepare the whaling bazooka, which was essentially a shoulder-mounted cannon which one aimed at the whale, stuffed with grapeshot and gunpowder, and then fired. The Captain was attempting to direct them from the bridge, but it quickly became clear that he was the only one who had previously used the weapon, and he asked me if I could steer the ship for a moment.

“Oh absolutely, sir,” I said, as I had spent many a summer piloting single-sail pleasure craft off the coast of Brighton. We quickly exchanged clothes, until I was dressed in his captain’s attire, and he in mine.

Just then, the whale began the next phase of his assault, shooting jets of boiling water from his wicked blowhole. Instantly, five crewmen were knocked off their feet and blinded, their screams carrying with a terrible echo across the howling wind. A second jet shot across the bow, and knocked the first mate clear overboard. He must have gone straight under, as I never even heard his cries.

Seeing that we were already well on our way to losing our fight against the beast, I developed a plan of attack: we would beat upwind for an eighth of a nautical mile, then come about, run perpendicular to the wind for a similar distance, then jibe, and barrel directly towards the whale from either a broad reach or a run, whichever was more in line at the time with the whale’s position. Then we would fire the whaling bazooka directly at its head, taking advantage of the steadiness afforded us by such a downwind tack. I explained my plan to the cabin boy, and asked him to relay it to the surviving crew.

“Aye aye sir!” he exclaimed.

“Oh, and one more thing,” I said. “See if you can fashion a bomb from the fissile materials used in the whaling bazooka.”

“A brilliant idea, sir!” he said. He ran off as I took my place at the helm and began to command the ship.

“Hard-a-larboard!” I screamed. “Trim my mizzen! Luff my whiffles! Point up to a close reach, ye mangy dogs!” I yelled my instructions to the crew as we commenced my triangular maneuver, and they yelled back in assent, thrilled as they surely were by my leadership. Within minutes, we had turned around, and were charging downwind towards the whale. The cabin boy approached me with his bomb.

“Shall I stand at the ready to deploy it, sir?”

“That you shall,” I said. “Should anything happen to the bazookateer, be ready to light the fuse, jump in the water, swim up to the whale, and cram it down its blowhole. Then swim away as fast as you can back to the ship. Understand?”

“Perfectly, sir!” he exclaimed.

The whale reared up and prepared to ram us yet again. The bazookateer packed his weapon and fired, taking out a large chunk of the creature’s tail, considerably weakening it, but sadly not enough to render it harmless. The whale screamed in agony, a feverish bellow that all but promised revenge. I yelled at the men to load the weapon again, but it was only then that I saw that the housing of the cannon had blasted apart on its last discharge, ruining the weapon irreparably, mortally wounding the captain and several others, and taking the bazookateer’s head clean off.

“Blistering hell,” I said. I shook my head and turned to the cabin boy. “Very well, lad, prepare the bomb and deploy it. Be brave! I’ll see you when you return.”

“Aye aye sir!” yelled the cabin boy excitedly, lighting the fuse and climbing overboard. I waved at him as he went, knowing that I was very likely sending him to his death, but reasoning that his chances were better without that knowledge. He swam towards the beast, climbed atop it, and rammed the bomb into place. He then dove off, taking advantage of the three or so seconds before the beast understood what had happened. The cabin boy mercifully swam himself clear of the animal’s orbit, but it quickly went into a frenzy, ramming and biting the ship as it slowly began to suffocate. It finally met relief from its torments after several nerve-jangling seconds, when it exploded.

The two or three surviving crewmen cheered as whale viscera rained down all around us, enjoying the thrill of victory for many joyous seconds, before it became clear that the explosion had also compromised the integrity of our ship, which promptly and rapidly began to sink.

“David!” I yelled, suddenly remembering my friend, whose life ring was tethered directly to the sinking ship. I pulled out the captain’s sword and began working to cut through the rope. Unfortunately it was a ceremonial sword, which made the process of cutting considerably less efficient, and I found myself with almost no time to do anything else before the waves were at our door. With a sudden eruption of trapped air, the ship lurched into the black water, and I swam out to David, embracing him in pure relief at my discovery that he’d survived the ordeal, but mildly terrified of what awaited us. As I uncoupled from our embrace, I saw the fright in his eyes, and turned around to see that the boat had sunk, and that all but the cabin boy had gone down with it.

For the next couple of hours, we paddled around, scooping up as much whale meat as we could, reasoning that it could well be days before anyone found us. We stacked the chunks of whale on a small floating hunk of the ship’s hull that we’d found, so that they might dry in the sun. We crowded around our life ring, which mercifully seemed to be able to support all three of us (the cabin boy was trifling in size, and David had lost nearly a quarter of his body weight in the last few days).

A ways away we also saw what appeared to be a barrel, and though it turned out to be empty, we reasoned that we could fill it half-full with fresh water if any rain came our way. To conserve our energy, we resolved to stop swimming unless absolutely necessary, and kept our conversation to light, non-inflammatory topics, studiously avoiding any discussion of religion, politics, or cricket.

As the sun set on our first day adrift, the cabin boy began to cry. David and I reassured him that things would be fine, and that a royal commendation likely awaited him when he returned home to England later that year. He explained that his sorrow was not one of grief — he’d only been on the boat a day longer than we had, and had barely begun to forge friendships with the other sailors — but rather one of inward-looking shame. He’d been terrified, he confessed, as he’d approached the beast, seeing his own death reflected in its eyes, and unable to control or tamp down that fear, only perhaps to outrun or outswim it. I patted his head, and told him that in the field of battle, there is no such thing as overcoming fear, that one can only hope to do what the cabin boy had in fact done, to outpace the fear and then extract courage from the experience later. He smiled at my wisdom, and I let him believe that I knew what I was talking about, though truthfully I was only repeating something I’d read in an adventure book, and had found his actions on this day to be far more heroic than my own. Nevertheless, my words seemed to help, and I enjoyed the long awaited moment of calm that seemed, at last, to visit us.

It was then that the sharks came.

Thankfully I still had the captain’s sword, and was able to fight them off, but in the process of stabbing and kicking them we all wore ourselves out considerably, and knocked about half of our whale meat into the sea. After about ten minutes of eerie calm, we finally convinced ourselves that the sharks were gone, and allowed ourselves some rest. Shortly before dawn, I heard the voice of the cabin boy.

“Sir,” he said, “I’m cold.”

“I know,” I said, “so am I. But the sun will be upon us soon.”

“I’m cold,” he said. “I’m so frightfully cold.”

“Be patient,” I said, knowing of nothing I could do to help him, and simply aiming to keep his spirits up. “The sun will be here soon.”

“Very well, sir,” he said, floating quietly for a moment before whispering again, “I’m cold. I’m cold. I’m cold,” quieter and quieter, before seeming at last to fall asleep. I allowed myself some further rest as well.

An hour or so later I opened my eyes to see that his face had turned blue. I sprang into action. “David, wake up!” I said. I scooped our remaining whale meat into my hands and gave it to David to hold, as I endeavored to lift the cabin boy out of the water onto the floating chunk of wood… but alas, there was nothing of him left below the surface — it appeared the sharks had returned after all, and his hypnotic repetitions earlier had been a valediction, not a plea.

David and I floated in something close to silence for the next day, facing in opposite directions, hoping to identify a passing ship. We tried to stretch our whale meat as far as we could, but wound up finishing it by nightfall. Knowing that David had barely eaten since we’d first set sail, I’d made sure he always had the larger portion, much though my rumbling belly had protested each time. Despite the food, we were beginning to grow incredibly thirsty, but thankfully, we were visited by a gentle rain in the middle of the night, and were able to collect several days’ worth of rainwater in our empty barrel, assuring our survival for a while yet, even in the absence of any further protein.

By the third day we began to grow concerned, however, as according to our calculations, we simply should not have drifted so far from the shipping lanes as to be invisible to passing vessels… yet we still had not seen so much as a speck on the horizon. David made a dark joke that our refusal to resort to cannibalism following the shark attack may well prove to be our undoing. I couldn’t decide whether or not to laugh.

The sun was merciless, and by the fourth day it was beginning to affect both our complexion and our mental acuity. When David cried out that he saw a plume of smoke in the distance, I was fully prepared for the image to prove illusory, but upon turning around I saw that he was, in fact, correct, and that a gigantic ship was heading straight for us. Tears streamed down our faces as we threw ourselves into a full continental embrace for the second time that week.

Though we gladly would have accepted a leaky Corsican fishing boat, the ship which rescued us was stately and luxurious. Due to our tragic circumstances (as well as my celebrity) we were provided, free of charge, with a first class stateroom, and the ship’s tailor quickly set about making us new clothes. David immediately threw himself into rebalancing his caloric ledger, devouring oysters Rockefeller and lobster thermidor as though each were going out of fashion. For my own part, I split my time between the dining room — where we regaled the other passengers with the story of our trip thus far — and a deck chair, where I attempted to write out, in longhand, all of the many journal entries and story notes I’d lost when the ship went down.

Each Sunday night there was a magnificent ball in the ballroom, and for that first Sunday’s soirée, David and I were the guests of honor. It was the crew’s way of showing their appreciation for what entertaining guests we had turned out to be, but also a means of apology for their initial, if quickly reversed, decision to prevent us from boarding (as I had still been dressed in captain’s attire at the time of our rescue, they had erroneously assumed that I was a captain who had refused to go down with his ship).

All in all, it was a very relaxing voyage, and we found ourselves perfectly rested by the time the shores of Ceylon came into view. Shortly before we arrived in port, David and I held a private memorial ceremony at the stern of the ship, saying a few short words of remembrance for each of the departed sailors we’d so briefly known, and committing the captain’s sword and uniform to the deep. As we watched them sink, it was difficult not to contemplate how close we’d come to such a fate ourselves.

“Ahhhhhh,” I said as I stepped into the bath, feeling it creep up my skin as I slowly submerged myself, enjoying the intoxicating contrast between the nearly-cool water and the fantastically humid Singaporean air. I felt a profound sense of relaxation, from the bath and its exotic environs, but also from our very filling first Singaporean meal, from which David and I had just returned. I had made a special point of taking him to a dumpling house, where I’d given him his first introduction to many local delicacies, although not, as it turned out, to rice (David had insisted that it was a staple of the modern American diet, an improbable assertion at which I‘d simply had to take him at his word).

Simply put, it felt marvelous to be back, in what I had long considered to be my second home. Indeed, I felt this bustling port city to be, in many ways, the perfect synthesis of Eastern cultural innovation and English efficiency. I was proud of all that my countrymen had been able to do for this place, and I was delighted at the opportunity to introduce it to my friend.

As I slowly acclimated to the bath, David appeared across the room in a robe, and somewhat bashfully began to remove it, preparing to join me at the other end of the bathhouse’s enormous tiled tub. It occurred to me as he did so that, although we had been both roommates and schoolmates, this was actually the first time either of us had seen the other in the nude. He folded his robe carefully, and set it on a small teak table beside the bath. As he turned around, I immediately noticed (EDITOR’S NOTE: At this point, Lord Sneden goes on to describe David Ford’s naked body in exacting and, one would probably agree, extraneous scientific detail, going on for several pages longer, in fact, than the entirety of their ocean voyage. For reasons of brevity, and as a gesture of good faith following the threat of legal action by the Ford estate, I have elected to skip over much of this section).

“So tell me,” asked David, “is this, in fact, the establishment Roger Tavishly intended to visit?”

“That it is,” I said. “Madam Zhang’s is both a bathhouse and a massagery, and is renowned by all in the expatriate community for both services.”

“I see,” said David, raising his arms and resting them behind his head, as solitary pearls of water dangled and dripped from the downy hairs of his underarms. “Will we be questioning Madam Zhang, then?”

I debated how thoroughly to answer, as Madam Zhang’s had actually been taken over by an English woman, Madam Thompson, many years ago, after the original owner had fallen behind in repaying the rather sizable loan which had facilitated the construction of the ornate massagerial wing.

“I shouldn’t think so,” I said, finally. “Madam Zhang is no longer around, but I have to imagine the current proprietress will be available at some point this week.”

“Reggie…” said David, sitting up in the tub. “I thought you said you’d sent word ahead that we were coming.

“Oh I did,” I said, “but merely as guests. I didn’t want to give too much away, you understand.”

“I suppose,” said David, “but I’d hardly imagine somebody here would be involved in a strangulation all the way back in London. Wouldn’t it make more sense to be sure of their availability? So we can question them properly, and secure their cooperation? Our boat to Hong Kong leaves on Friday, you know, it’s not like we have an infinite amount of time.”

“I know,” I said, “but if the circumstances change, then I’ll just have to adapt. In the worst event, I suppose you would just go on to Hong Kong without me.”

“Reginald,” said David, seemingly taken aback. “You’re free to do as you wish, of course, but are you still planning on coming?” His words, much like the conical architecture of his foreskin, were pointed.

“Oh I am, of course I am,” I said. “However… if we turn up something in our investigation here that heats up the case, so to speak, then… perhaps I’m not.”

“I see,” said David. “Well, I understand, but I’m sorry to hear that. I was looking forward to exploring Hong Kong with you.” I could see, however unintentionally, that I’d wounded my friend.

“And I you, of course,” I said, and meant it, for the duplicate reason that I’d actually never made it farther east on the continent than Singapore, and would be experiencing Hong Kong with fresh eyes myself. “But detectory duty does occasionally call, as I’m sure you’ll agree. And if we were to confirm, say, Tavishly’s fondness for extreme erotic torment, it might be reason enough for me to head home and continue the investigation there.”

“I see…” he said again, quietly, looking momentarily quite sad but then quickly composing himself.

I had to confess to being a trifle taken aback myself, at his sentimentality in the face of duty, but had to remind myself that this had been a very unusual trip, owing to his extreme illness and the near-fatal assault by not one but two aquatic monsters. Perhaps it would be distastefully cold to uncouple so quickly after such a set of shared experiences. I made up my mind not to alter my plans unless truly necessary… even though the fashions for English expatriates were completely different in Hong Kong and I’d have to commission yet another set of new clothes.

Just then, two lovely young massage specialists entered the room, and offered their services to each of us. I declined, and so did David, at first, protesting that he was engaged to be married and that his beloved might not approve, but following some rather aggressive prodding from me, he assented, and rerobed himself and followed the two beautiful masseuses out of the room.

I enjoyed a few moments to myself, closing my eyes and listening to the gentle, barely detectable lapping of the water against the sides of the tub, until I became aware of someone else’s presence in the room.

“Lord Sneden,” said a husky feminine voice.

“Madam Thompson,” said I, opening my eyes and seeing her standing above me. “I’d hoped our paths might cross again.”

“And so they have,” she said. “May I join you?”

“Of course,” I said.

Madam Thompson was, for obvious reasons, the only woman who was allowed to use the baths. She removed her robe, depositing it in the same spot where David’s had so recently resided, and descended nudely into the tub. I watched her aged body slide into the water, her wizened skin like windblown Saharan sand, her bosoms like two stranded, beach-bound jellyfish.

“It’s been quite a while since we’ve seen you, Lord Sneden,” said Madam Thompson.

“That it has,” said I.

“We’ve heard of your many exploits since your last visit. How very exciting.”

“Why thank you,” I said. “I had been writing for many years, but it appears somebody finally noticed.” I laughed self-effacingly, and she laughed as well.

“Then I think we should celebrate,” she said. “I’ll send for some wine.”

“Thank you, but no,” I replied, “I’ve had more than my fill tonight.”

“Well isn’t that a shame,” she said, seductively. “Is there anything else I can do for you? Can I arrange for a massage, perhaps? Our staffing policy is the same as before but there are plenty of masseurs next door at the Golden Lion.”

“No, I don’t think so,” I said. “But there is something with which I believe you can help me.”

“Very well,” she said.

“Roger Tavishly… Does anything about that name light a candle for you?”

“Why of course,” she said, slowly, after a long pause. “He’s been to see us many times.”

“I thought as much,” I said.

“And on one occasion, so did his wife.”

“Well now that IS interesting,” I said, sitting up. “I thought female guests were not permitted.”

“Oh everyone is permitted,” said Madam Thompson. “For the right price.”

“And what other services are available,” I asked, in a lowered voice, “for the right price? Perhaps a dangerous and possibly illegal massage of your own devising, known as… The Blinding Light at the Edge of Death?”

Madam Thompson stared at me for a long moment.

“No, we don’t offer anything by that name,” she said, slowly and deliberately.

“I’m not sure I believe that,” I said, just as slowly, and just as deliberately.

“Well, Lord Sneden,” she said, sitting up herself, “for the right price, we do offer something called The Piercing Whistle at the Far Edge of Life, which takes its name from the high pitched whine a person is sometimes known to hear in their inner ear, from the combination of contortions and jets of pressurized steam.”

“Ah,” I said.

“But that is a very different offering from the one about which you inquired.”

“Perhaps so,” I said.

“And was also of no interest to our mutual friend Roger Tavishly.”

“Is that so,” I said.

“Yes,” she said, somberly. “And you’ll notice that I speak of him in the past tense. Lord Sneden, were you even going to tell me that he’d died?”

“Of course I was,” I said, quietly, and feeling the tiniest tinge of shame despite the subterfuge my craft so often required.

“I did not realize you were here in a detectory capacity,” she said.

“I’m afraid I am,” I said. “Though you are certainly not a suspect. I am merely collecting information.”

“Why would anyone be a suspect?” she asked. “I thought he hanged himself.”

“I thought so too,” I said. “But something about the verbiage in his final letter persuaded me that perhaps he was not planning to leave this world at all, but simply to come here. For the world’s most dangerous erotic massage.”

“Well,” she said, drawing a quick breath. “I can state categorically that that could not have been the case. He was well-versed in all forms of earthly pleasure. But entirely uninterested in pain.”

“And his wife?” I asked.

“Who yet lives, Lord Sneden!” said Madam Thompson, scoldingly.

“On my life,” I whispered, “I will not repeat a word. Please. It’s important.” Madam Thompson sighed.

“She did not either. I can’t imagine they even made it so far as to contemplate our more adventurous offerings. They came here one night and reserved the entire house. They enjoyed some rice wine and a long soak in this very tub, and then retired to one of the massage rooms for an erotic elocution lesson. After a few minutes, Mrs. Tavishly left in tears, and though Mr. Tavishly returned every night for the next week, Mrs. Tavishly never did.”

“So neither of them had any interest in the massage in question,” I said, sighing and sinking back down into the water. “It was simply a turn of phrase, and a coincidence. For which I’ve traveled all the way to bloody Singapore.”

“Yes,” she said. “It appears you have. And now I think it’s time for you to leave.”

We stared at each other for a moment, and then I silently assented, and exited the tub, Madam Thompson’s eyes boldly studying my nudery as I did so. I rerobed myself and headed for the changing room, stopping first to knock on the door to David’s massage room, to let him know that I was on my way out. He yelled back that he’d see me at the hotel, and I departed, leaving Madam Zhang’s for good.

Later that evening, in an attempt to clear my head, I visited another relaxation house, one operated by Madam Thompson’s brother-in-law. After another few glasses of wine (EDITOR’S NOTE: Here again, Lord Sneden offers an extraneous and perhaps overly graphic description of his activities that night, devoting several pages to the fragrance and temperature of his massage oils, the biceps and abdominal musculature of his masseurs, and to the vibrational frequency of what he refers to as “the relaxation wand.” Once again, for the benefit of the casual reader, I have chosen to skip ahead).

I paced about my room furiously, my new theory mapped out on several pieces of notepaper, which I had laid out upon my bed. I was not, as of yet, certain of the soundness of my theory, but it felt very promising.

Just then I heard the door to David’s room open. As we had adjoining rooms, and a sitting room between them, I stepped out into the communal area and knocked on the door to his bedchamber.

“Oh David,” I said, “would you care to join me for a drink.”

“Of course,” he said, opening the door and stepping out into the sitting room.

“Good,” I said. “I managed to speak with the proprietress, by the way.”

“Oh, fantastic!” he said.

“It turned out to be for naught, of course.”

“Well that’s a shame,” he said.

“But then!” I said. ”I devised another theory, far more ingenious than the last! I’m booking a ticket home tomorrow.”

David sighed.

“And just like that…” he said, his voice trailing off.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “If you have to go, you have to go. Godspeed.”

“David,” I said, failing to mask my slight annoyance, “I realize that we come from vastly different cultures and upbringings, but I feel that I’m detecting a touch of sarcasm in your tone where, truly, none is warranted.”

“Sarcasm is not my intention,” he said, yet again giving off a whiff of womanly pout. “If you have to leave, I understand, I’ll go on to Hong Kong alone.”

“Really?” I said.

“Really,” he returned, but with the same hints of haughtiness.

“Are you certain that’s all you’d like to say?“ I said.

“Entirely,” said he. I watched his face as he stared at the floor in silence.

“My god, man,” I snapped. “Am I really to be subjected to further caterwauling, about cutting our shared vacation short? When I have a very real opportunity to return to London and put a killer to the rope? Am I truly so selfish?”

“No, of course not!” he said. “If you believe you have to go back, fine, I respect it. What I object to is how instantaneously you lose all interest in anything but your investigations the second you come across a new clue. It’s exhausting. You’ve been like this the entire time I’ve known you. And more to the point… it would be one thing if I thought you were really onto something, but as much as I‘ve wanted to keep this to myself, I just don’t think there’s anything to this one. At all. I’m sorry, but I don’t. I know it’s hard to accept that someone you know — and an Englishman, no less — probably died by their own hand, but you must be able to see that that is, by far, the likeliest explanation, and you are just wasting your time. And everyone else’s.”

We stared at each other in silence nigh-eternally.

“Well, I was going to share my new theory with you,” I finally said, “but now I’m not sure I want to.”

“Do as you like,” said David, folding his arms. “I really don’t care.”

”I just don’t understand,” I said, after an exasperated moment, “why you are making such a big deal of this. The investigation comes first! It always has! It is a duty, and a sacred one. Even when the theory one is pursuing is as thin as a spidery silk. You pursue it until there’s nothing left to pursue. That is the discipline! I assumed you understood that. And moreover, I would like to remind you that we are FRIENDS. I am not your brother, and I am not your wife. I have no such familial obligation to you of my time or my loyalty. And where, by the way, IS your wife? If you need companionship so badly, why haven’t you brought her?”

“Well first of all,” said David, “we’re engaged, not married. If she were my wife, I’d assume you‘d have met her by now. Perhaps at our wedding?”

“My mistake,” I said, angrily.

“Although, then again, with you — who knows?”

“All right,” I said, “that’s about enough of that!” I stomped off across the room, intending to withdraw to my bedchamber and loudly fasten the door behind me, but David’s voice caught me before I reached the threshold.

“That being said,” offered David, exhaling loudly and sitting down, “I’m not completely sure why I’m here. I doubt I could’ve persuaded Mary Ann to join me on a six month trip, but I certainly didn’t have to come myself. Anyone else from the company could’ve done this.”

“Oh,” I said.

“In truth, when I agreed to make this trip, I had doubts about marrying her, and wanted time on my own to think.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said, sympathetically.

“I’d hoped,” he said, “that with a few months apart, I’d have a better sense of how I felt. Whether absence made the heart grow fonder, as the saying goes.”

“And?” I said.

“I think it has,” said David, speaking in a higher pitch and nodding his head vigorously.

“Well that’s good,” I said.

“I think by the time I get back, I’ll be ready.”

“Well I think we should toast to that, then,” I said, grabbing two glasses we’d used earlier and pouring some whiskey into each. “To you and the lovely Miss Bernard. Who I look greatly forward to meeting.” David smiled, and we each raised our glasses and drank.

We sat up a while longer, our passions cooled as quickly as they were beheated, and talked about all the many things going on in our lives. I decided to stay on a few extra weeks, on the condition that David help me flesh out my theory, and while I mostly worked on it alone, it was good to have the extra time, and the companionship at the end of each day. Hong Kong was marvelous, as incredible as Singapore in many ways, and we managed to visit many beautiful shrines, hike in the surrounding mountains, and replenish ourselves in the bath every night. After three weeks, David and I treated ourselves to one final, incredible meal, and I boarded a steamer home.

I saw my friend many more times in the years that followed, but alas, I never returned to Hong Kong.

I sat in the stuffy London courtroom, staring into space, silently rehearsing my oratory, as I’d done on my veranda every day that week. I had confidence in the strength of my argument, of course, but it required, upon getting the killer in front of me, that I was completely successful in breaking them, which would be difficult under any circumstances, but especially given that I had never formally tried a case. I must confess that I was quite a bit more worried than I expected to be.

“Lord Sneden,” said the judge, snapping me out of my reverie. “I invite you to call your first witness. The court is yours.”

“Thank you, your majesty,” I replied. “I should like to call as my first witness… the widow Tavishly!”

A shocked murmur rang out through the courtroom, as I knew it would. But a well-constructed prosecution requires uncomfortable moments sometimes. I had no doubt that this would be one of them.

“Madam Tavishly,” I said, after she had been sworn in on a replica of the Magna Carta. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart for joining us, in this, the season of your grief.”

“It is my privilege and pleasure to do so, Lord Sneden,” said she, “though I am at a loss as to why such a trial is necessary, when my husband’s passing is well understood by all to have been self-directed. I am hoping that you might be able to enlighten me.”

“That, Madam,” I said. “is both my hope and my promise.” I bowed, and lightly kissed the fabric of her glove. She blushed in spite of herself, and I was glad to see it.

“Madam Tavishly,” I began, warmly, “could you please describe to me the scene of your late husband’s final moments.” Mrs. Tavishly gasped.

“Lord Sneden, I don’t know that…” she began.

“Madam Tavishly,” I said, interrupting her, “I promise you, it is in the service of a noble cause.”

“Very well,” she said, composing herself. “Though I did not bear witness to the scene myself, as I have not returned to our townhome since the day before my husband’s passing, it is my understanding that he, using a rope, or a belt, or a length of bedsheet, fashioned a knotted loop in our bedchamber, affixed it to an electric light on the ceiling — or perhaps a chandelier — and then proceeded to… and then proceeded to…”

Mrs. Tavishly did not finish, however, and began to weep.

“Thank you, Madam Tavishly,” I said. “That will suffice. I know the pain this discussion surely brings you.” Then I looked away from her and added, for the benefit of the court, “let it be so recorded that Madam Tavishly has confirmed her understanding of her late husband’s method of death, and reiterated her claim that she was nowhere near the townhome at the time of the cursed event.”

Mrs. Tavishly bravely arrested her weepery, and I turned back to her and continued.

“And may I ask, Madam Tavishly,” I said, “where you were on the night in question?”

“Visiting with my husband’s family at their country estate,” she said, eyeing me just a little bit strangely. “Where I was seen by all concerned, as well as the entirety of the household staff.”

“Madam Tavishly,” I laughed, “it is for the benefit of the court that I ask these questions, not because I doubt your presence at Tavishton.” Yet again, I angled myself slightly away from Mrs. Tavishly and towards the court, adding, “let it be so recorded that Madam Tavishly was seen by all at Tavishton on the day in question.”

“Lord Sneden,” said the judge, disapprovingly, “I do hope this line of questioning is leading somewhere.”

“I promise, your highness, that it is,” I said. Then, turning to the widow, I continued. “Madam Tavishly, what might you be able to tell me about Madam Zhang’s bathhouse in the colony of Singapore.”

Madam Tavishly gasped anew. An explosive murmur tore through the courtroom, and the judge, in shock, erupted in my direction.

“Lord Sneden!” he exclaimed. “I am without words. I ask that you find your way to your conclusion as rapidly as the English language allows!”

“Very well,” I said, turning to Mrs. Tavishly, looking her dead in the eye, and speaking with a cold and threatening solemnity. “Madam Tavishly, I remind you in the gravest possible terms that you are under oath, and ask you, under penalty of both perjury and penury, did you or did you not, in the company of your late husband, visit the aforenamed house of ill repute?”

Mrs. Tavishly whimpered, and looked at the judge in horror.

“Answer me at once!” I screamed.

“Yes,” she finally said, in a voice as quiet and small as a mouse.

“Lord Sneden,” said the crestfallen judge, “please accept my apology. Madam Tavishly, I command you to proceed.”

“Thank you, your worship,” I said. “Now Madam Tavishly, it is my understanding that you visited Madam Zhang’s bathhouse on your last visit to Singapore. And that it was your husband, a man of a certain carnal weakness, who had asked you to accompany him to the aforementioned low place. Which you did, joining him for a bath, and an erotic elocution lesson, before fleeing the establishment in tears. Am I correct so far?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Tavishly, weakly.

“Now,” I said, “that may be the morally upstanding course of action, and I commend you for it, however… to my mind, it goes to motive.”

“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Tavishly.

“Oh I think you do,” I said. “Allow me to explain. Your husband’s erotic proclivities were his own failing, and his cross to bear. And you were not wrong to disapprove. You were, however, wrong…”

I paused for a long moment, allowing the tension to grow. Then I pounced.

“To plot his murder!” I screamed.

“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Tavishly. The courtroom erupted afresh. Even the judge seemed unsure of how to feel.

“Oh you know exactly of what I speak, you repulsive witch,” I began. “You loathed your husband’s carnal failings, they ate you up inside. So much so that on the night in question, you decided to strike, and take your revenge. It is true that you spent the afternoon at Tavishton, no one disputes that. But that night, you were seen departing the estate, under cover of darkness, by both the butler and the underbutler, scurrying away to a waiting carriage. Do I lie about the carriage, Madam?”

“No,” she replied, sobbing. “But I did not return to London, you must believe me. I went to visit… I went to visit…”

“Whom!” I screamed.

“My lover…” she said, descending into a fresh spell of sobs.

“Your lover?” I said. “A likely story. And what be this lover’s name?”

“I can’t,” she said.

“You must!” I yelled.

“I won’t!” she returned.

“You will!” I parried.

“Sir Ian McLellan Hunter,” she finally cried.

“How terribly convenient,” I said. “The very Ian McLellan Hunter who drowned in a punting accident one month prior to this date, and whom is therefore unable to corroborate this flimsy account.”

“You must believe me!” she wailed. “We were in love!”

“Oh I believe that he was your lover.” I said. ”What I don’t believe is that you were anywhere near the warmth of his embrace the night of your husband’s passing. In fact… I believe that you loomed over your very husband, as he breathed his last breath, and that it was you, yourself, who squeezed it from him!”

“No!” she screamed.

“Yes!” I screamed back. “You detested him. And you wanted him dead. You knew he would be up late, viewing his favorite book of erotic watercolors, and drinking absinthe, and you knew you had the perfect moment to strike. You had the carriage drop you off two blocks away, and you crept into the house, knowing the butler was gone for the evening. Your husband was already intoxicated when you found him, and yes, you may have had second thoughts about robbing him of his life as you ascended the stairs. But when you saw the hated erotic drawings, you flew into a rage. You grabbed his belt from atop the chest of drawers, and began to choke him with it. Under normal circumstances he might have overpowered you, but he was already too weak from the absinthe to fight back. As he began to suffocate, his legs pounded on the floor, awakening Lady Edith next door. You said nothing as you did these things, so determined were you to snuff out his very life. The only further sound Lady Edith heard, apart from your husband’s frantic, rhythmic pounding, was one lone, ecstatic gasp, one small moment of grace afforded him by the gods as he began his ascent to the afterlife. You then took his belt and, in the attempt to create a suicidary tableaux, affixed it to the door handle of your husband’s closet.”

I then turned and loudly said to the courtroom, “for you see, ladies and gentlemen of the court, there was no chandelier in the bedchamber, nor an o’erhanging light fixture. Only in the bedroom antechamber did such a thing exist. But that is not where he was found. The only means by which a man could hang himself in the interior bedchamber was by sitting against the door and hanging himself from the door handle. A terribly inefficient, and therefore unlikely, suicidary method.”

Madam Tavishly, in shock, began to sob compulsively.

“I am not the least bit surprised that you did not volunteer this detail,” I said. “Because it is a detail that firmly damns you.”

“I did no such thing,” she whimpered.

“Oh but you did,” I said. “And then, in a final act of humiliation, you withdrew his pantaloons — and his underpantaloons! — to his ankles, leaving them to flop ignominiously about. Not unlike his foul, turgid, uncovered undercarriage! Truly, madam, your callous disregard, not just for your husband’s person, but for his very right to draw breath… it sickens me. As it doubtlessly sickens all assembled here today.”

“My god, my god, why have you forsaken me!” screamed the widow Tavishly to the sky.

“Your highness,” I said. “I could continue, but I do not wish to take up any more of the court’s time with this sordid tale. I rest my case.”

The entire courtroom applauded. The judge said nary a word, but simply affixed his traditional black cap, indicating that he was preparing to deliver a sentence of death.

“I’ve heard enough,” said the judge. “Madam Tavishly, you disgust me. I find you guilty of your husband’s murder. I am compelled by our legal system to impose nothing less than a sentence of death.”

Mrs. Tavishly wailed indecipherably.

“And yet,” he said. “I am also moved to some small measure of compassion, as your actions were clearly driven by hysteria. I will not be passing a sentence of death on this day.”

Mrs. Tavishly stopped crying for a moment, and looked hopefully at the judge. He removed his black cap, and donned instead his judicial dunce cap.

“I hereby sentence you to a lifetime of confinement in a sanitorium. May god have mercy on your soul.” The judge banged his gavel, and the courtroom applauded anew, as Mrs. Tavishly was led screaming from the room.

I was immediately congratulated by The Marquess Jaynes, and by Roger’s other friends, who had been observing the trial the whole time. We made plans to meet for drinks later, and I was happy for the small amount of closure I’d been able to grant them, grieving as they still were for their cherished friend.

I departed the courtroom, with a degree of solemnity, pleased with myself for a job well done, and for having removed one more foul murderess from the streets of London. Yet I also felt the gravity that I increasingly felt each time I brushed my hand against the machinery of justice. It was a weighty responsibility, and one I did not bear easily. I walked alone for many blocks, unsure of what to do with myself, but at last resolved to tie up a loose end from a few months prior. I walked hopefully through a familiar door.

“Good afternoon,” I said. “I wonder if I might partake of a meal.”

“Of course, Lord Sneden. Please follow me,” said Madam McKendrick.

THE END