It was a good half an hour or so before the police, led in earnest by Inspector Albert Spunkleford, finally arrived on the scene. Two of the officers immediately set about untying Romanov from the chair upon which we had imprisoned him, while Spunkleford hastened over to Botter, who was busily tending to my wounded arm.

“Good evening, gents,” he said cheerily, clearly pleased as punch to be doing some proper police work for a change.

“Spunkleford.” I replied, in a terse and rather curt manner, designed to remind Spunkleford that not only was he not in my good books at present, but he was not even a footnote in the glossary at the back of my good books.

“Um…uh…good…good work,” Spunkleford stammered, clearly sensing my growing resentment. “Really…really first class job.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You thought me to be a criminal, Spunkleford. ” I said calmly.

“Well…uh…you…we…I…I…” the detective blabbered.

I allowed the Inspector to work himself up into quite a lather, before my heart softened and my anger faded. Spunkleford was not a bad man by any means, just a bad judge of character. And a terrible dresser.

“Do not concern yourself any further, Spunkleford,” I said, brightly. “We shall not let a little thing like a misdirected accusation of murder come between us. Although, you should be grateful that I am currently rather too weak to set about your face with a heavy, blunt object, as much as I would like to.”

Spunkleford seemed relieved, and broke out in a grin.

“Good man!” he cried, slapping me heartily on the back, causing me to wince slightly. “We’re all on the same side, are we not? Now, fill me in on the detail of this most fascinating of cases, you old dog!”

I relayed the story of Romanov’s ludicrous scheme as we left the Russian embassy and headed to a parked carriage outside. Spunkleford was fascinated, a fact that he imparted by exclaiming, “Fascinating!” at the end of each and every ruddy sentence. As I concluded my report, Romanov himself was led out of the building by two burly policemen.

“You have not seen the last of me, Likely,” the Russian said. “I will make you pay for what you have done to me. I will get you, Likely. I will get you…to DEATH!”

These words may have been more chilling had they not been delivered in an incredibly comic falsetto, caused by the introduction of my lordly knee to Romanov’s testicles earlier. Instead, the threat was rendered undeniably humourous, and I laughed heartily. Romanov failed to see the funny side, and continued squeaking further threats as he was led off to an awaiting police wagon.

“All’s well that end’s well, eh Likely?” said Spunkleford.

“Quite, Inspector, quite…” I began, but then I noticed another of the accursed ‘Wanted’ posters on a wall nearby, and my face furrowed into a frown.

“Botter, if you could…” I said, motioning towards the offending article.

“Right away, milord,” Botter said. He struggled free from the grip of The Bear, who had become rather attached to my man-servant in the most literal of ways, and obligingly tore the poster off of the wall. He handed it to me, then grudgingly returned to the awaiting embrace of his new admirer.

“Ah, yes…about that poster…um, naturally we will be printing a full retraction in tomorrow’s newspaper…” Spunkleford said, growing more flustered as he observed my cloudy demeanour. I rolled the poster up into a neat, tight cylinder, then smiled at the Inspector.

“Spunkleford, my dear fellow,” I beamed. “Please, bend over. I wish to…lodge a complaint…”

- Lord Likely.

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“That’s right, no cock. Not so much as a stump. All of it – gone.”

Sir Marcus Chuffington-Fapps flailed his arms wildly, as he regaled us with the story of his unfortunate encounter with Mrs. Dinklesuck and her blood-thirsty hussies.

We were enjoying a light supper at a local eatery, all of us eating the steak, having respectfully passed on the offer of sausages.

“Those harridans were devising an awful plot, Mr, Likely,”

“Lord,” I corrected.

“Excuse me. Those harridans were devising an awful plot, Mr. Lord.”

I rolled my eyes, but decided to let the error slide, this time. Chuffington-Fapps continued on.

“They had reasoned that the only thing women wanted from men was to feel the thrust of a gentleman’s penis in their quivering lady-holes. Thus, they went on to conclude that if they could somehow remove the penis, and have it as an entirely separate entity, they would be able to pleasure themselves and no longer require the male of the species.”

I spluttered on the glass of whisky I was supping from.

“Why, that is the most ludicrous thing I think I have ever had the misfortune to hear, and I frequently hear Botter talking.” I said.

“Thank you, my lord,” said Botter, trying unsuccessfully to scoop up his gravy using a fork.

“Indeed,” continued Chuffington-Fapps. “Absolute rot and rubbish. But these poor, deluded girls were certain that their plan would result in the country falling under female rule, with a woman Prime Minister at the helm.”

I splurted again.

“I shall be a monkey’s uncle before I willingly take orders from someone with less hair than I.”

“So, they severed your penis and intended to use it for their own onanistic purposes,” asked Spunkleford, taking far too much interest in the seedier side of this tale than I thought was necessary.

“Spot on, Spunkleford,” said Chuffington-Fapps. “They had severed mine, and those of at least a dozen other poor men, and were intending to distribute them through-out the land. Thank heavens you chaps arrived upon the scene, and put paid to their sorry scheme.”

“Well, we wouldn’t have gotten here if it wasn’t for your incredibly clever cryptic letter,” said Spunkleford, trying his best to sound like a proper detective.

“Letter, my dear Inspector?”

“Why, yes, Sir. You are, or are you not, the ‘Mark’ who wrote this missive?” Spunkleford said, handing the letter over for Chuffington-Fapps perusal.

“Hmm. No, Inspector, I’m afraid I am not. I was too busy having my cock hacked off to possibly have the presence of mind to compose a letter of any kind.”

“Oh,” said Spunkleford, visibly deflated.

“Ah, well!” I said, essaying to cover my incorrect deductions. “Then that note probably was just from some psychopath intent on cutting me. At least we still stumbled upon an astonishing adventure!”

Spunkleford brightened.

“And,” I added, a glint in my eye, “All’s well that end’s well, no?”

We laughed and laughed, except Botter.

“I don’t get it,” he protested.

Inevitably, I hit him with a spoon.

– by Lord Likely. These nineteen entries were later serialised in the ‘London Journal of News Items and Limited Illustrations’, in the summer of 1859.

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