A ‘Which Ruddy Bastard Did It?’ Mystery.

Chapter One.

WHEN you are as utterly charming, witty, eloquent and simply damned good-looking as I, it is somewhat inevitable that people simply clamour to invite you to their dinner-parties, social functions and balls. Indeed, a party is not a party at all until it is attended by the great Lord Likely, and it would not be an exaggeration to state that I put the ‘art’ into ‘party’. And, after a few drinks, and if the quality of totty present is very high, I also then proceed to put the ‘part’ into ‘party’ as well. But never the ‘why’.

Naturally, with so many invites dropping through my letter-box I have to be quite selective when it comes to deciding which events to grace with my considerable presence. The disappointment felt by those who receive a declination is so crushing that it can take people years to recover.

One fellow who’s invitation I turned down became so wracked with grief that he hurled himself off a bridge and into a canal, his life only saved because he had failed to notice a narrow-boat passing underneath. He did break his legs, however, proof (if proof be needed) that a negative response from me can really affect one’s standing in society.

Anyway, it was on one sunny, March morning that I received yet another invitation, but this one caught my eye before I casually tossed it onto the pile with the rest.

The first thing I noticed was that the invite was gold-plated – a sure sign of wealth and class, and therefore also indicative of a party which would have plenty of food on offer and, crucially, a near limitless supply of alcohol.

The second thing I observed was that the senders were the Duke and Duchess of Fircombe, a couple highly revered in polite society for their legendarily lavish functions, and highly expensive tastes.

That sealed the deal for me, and I decided there and then that this was to be one engagement I could not afford to miss. I read on and saw to my delight that the soiree was to be held that very night at Fircombe Hall, and so without further ado I summoned my wretched man-servant, Botter, and instructed him to lay out my best suit and my finest harlot for the evening, while I adjourned to the bath-room to take a bath.

I was in extraordinarily chipper spirits as I laid in the bath-tub, soaping my todger, and was eagerly awaiting a night of drinking and socialising, hopefully interspersed with bouts of intercourse.

What I did not anticipate was the fact that I was not merely attending another party, but that I would soon be embroiled in yet another astonishing adventure…

- Lord Likely.

The Puzzling Pearl Necklace Puzzle is a Which Ruddy Bastard Did It? mystery, meaning that YOU can also partake in the mystery! Read carefully, dear readers, for their shall be clues and hints aplenty, and when the time comes to reveal the bounder responsible for the crime, YOU will be able to thrust forward your own suggestions as to the identity of the culprit, and see if you have what it takes to be an astonishing adventurer!

Please, keep your eyes peeled and your genitals scrubbed…

February 27th, 1858.

YES, dear readers, it is true – I need YOU! For to-day is truly an historic day, for it was on this very day, two short years ago, that I began to chronicle my Astonishing Adventures!And such a momentous occasion cannot possibly go by unheeded, which is why I need you to come and join me in a massive, spectacular two-week celebration of my continued excellence and sheer, bloody incredibility.

Since February the 27th, 1856, and over the course of some two-hundred and twenty thrill-packed entries, I have continued to dazzle, entertain and arouse my many magnificent readers. I have done battle with killer prostitutes; travelled to the United States of America and come face-to-face with unruly, homosexual savages; tackled randy beasts; defeated maniacal mad-men and beaten off many a cad and a bounder. (No, not like that, you swine).

After so long being so ruddy fabulous, I recently decided I needed a change of scenery to refresh my weary bones (being so relentlessly wonderful is extremely tiring work, you know), hence the decision to blow up the Likely Estate (I did not want it falling into the hands of ruffians or – urgh – commoners) and my relocation to my glorious new abode, here at Likely Towers -  a glorious new residence which thrusts into the sky, a powerful erection making love to the Heavens.

Of course, transporting all of my priceless possessions was hard work, hence why I employed the use of an elephant to help me move my things to my new home. My extensive collection of pornography itself took two whole days to rehouse, but it was well worth the effort. I simply cannot be without my vast supply of smut, you know.

Now I am settled in, I am ready to throw the mother, father and great uncle of all parties, to which you are all duly invited, of course.

Over the next two weeks, I shall be playing host to some breath-taking tributes to my stupendous self, from artists and writers of great repute. Of course, if any of my loyal follwers also wish to produce such a work – maybe a poem detailing my many great achievements, or an erotic portrait, or a song about how excellent I am, then do feel free, and I shall share it with the masses over the next fortnight.

Send such homages to hislordship@lordlikely.com

But for now, let us eat, drink and be naked – for it is a time of celebration and great cheer.

Bottoms up!

- Lord Likely.

(Post-Script: I also wish to make it clear that despite Inspector Spunkleford’s asertions, I did not have intercourse with his wife. His sister, on the other hand, is a different matter altogether).

(Post-Post-Script: also celebrating today is dear Meilin Miranda, who’s own scintillating serial, ‘An Intimate History of the Greater Kingdom‘, is celebrating one year of greatness! Congratulations, m’dear!)