~ Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances: Parts Nine and Ten ~

For the previous chapter, please click here.

“I AM afraid the wedding’s off, lady,” drawled Evan Hellsinger, as he trained his stake-loaded pistol upon my would-be -wife (and vicious vampiress) Helena Handbaskett. “But you’re just in time for your funeral!”

“I’m already dead, foolish mortal!” hissed Helena, baring her fangs.

“Oh yeah,” Hellsinger remembered. “Well, uh…prepare for your second funeral, then!”

Helena rolled her eyes in despair, and then in one swift, effortless motion, she grabbed Hellsinger by his collar and hurled him out of one of the stained-glass windows. I watched with dismay as the only vampire-slayer in the building crashed through the window and disappeared into the night outside, leaving a Hellsinger-shaped hole in the glass, through which bright, brilliant moonlight streamed into the church.

“It has risen!” Helena proclaimed excitedly.

“Well,” I smiled, getting increasingly frisky as the five bottles of whisky I had earlier consumed started to make their presence felt in my system. “You ARE wearing a very low-cut dress, m’dear…I am bound to get rather excited…”

“SILENCE!” Helena screamed. “The Blood Moon…it has risen! The time is here…the time is UPON US!”

I watched with mounting confusion as the various vampires in the building surged forward to revel in the moonlight, dancing and skipping in the beam like over-excited schoolchildren playing in the rain.

“This…this doesn’t look good,” I muttered to Inspector Spunkleford, who had come to my side to behold the freakish spectacle himself.

“I’ll say,” Spunkleford replied. “That window will cost hundreds to replace!”

I was about to refer to Spunkleford as a ‘blithering great anal-fissure’ when I suddenly noticed that Helena had gone very quiet, and was basking in the moonlight, her head tilted back,  almost as if she was absorbing the light through her very skin. Then she slowly began to rise into the air, gently turning in the beam as she rose up, until she came to a stop a few feet short of the church’s ceiling. She hung in the air for a moment, then her head suddenly snapped forward, and her eyelids flicked open, to reveal two blood-red eyes.

“LET THE BLOODENING…COMMENCE!” she growled.

“Oh dear,” I said to Spunkleford. “Either it is her time of the month, or she is planning to feast on our throats…either way, this is going to be an unpleasant experience for all concerned…”

“And so, my children!” Helena gestured to the vampires below. “It is coming to pass, just as the prophecy foretold! In the age of steel and smoke, on the night of the Blood Moon, a new queen shall rise in God’s house, and lead her followers into a new era of blood and darkness!” She paused as her blood-thirsty audience whooped and cheered their approval. “All we need now is the blood of a virgin, and the blood of a nobleman..” she smiled, turning to look at me.

“Well, I can certainly supply the noble blood, but if it is virgin’s blood you want, then I am sorry to report that you’re rather barking up the wrong tree. In fact, I’d go so far to say that you’re not even in the right ruddy forest…”

“Oh, we have our virgin, your lordship!” Helena grinned. “BRING THE WOMAN!” she cried, at which point two burly vampires appeared from the vestry, dragging a rather stout woman along with them. She was kicking and screaming quite loudly, demanding that she was unhanded immediately, and loudly proclaiming that the entire affair was such an outrage that she was going to write to her Member of Parliament post-haste to complain in the strongest possible terms.

“A-Agnes?” gasped Spunkleford, recognising his wife as she was led to the altar.

“ALBERT?” snapped Mrs. Spunkleford. “Is this your doing? Who are these people? Friends of yours, I suppose…”

“Hold on,” said I. “Mrs. Spunkleford is…a VIRGIN? Good heavens, Spunkleford! No wonder your dear lady wife is filing for a divorce!

“Well, I…ahem…I’ve been…busy,” Spunkleford blustered.

“BUSY? For twenty-three years?” screeched his wife. “Honestly, I think he’d have rather married the job than me, you know.”

“Now now, Agnes, do not be silly! One cannot marry an intangible entity…or at least that is what the registrar told me.”

“See?” Agnes snapped. “This is what I am talking about! It’s all work, work work with this man! He never treats me, never takes me out…”

“I beg to differ!” Spunkleford replied indignantly. “I took you out only last week!”

“Albert, it may shock you, but a trip to the morgue to examine a corpse is not every lady’s idea of a dream date, you know.”

“Well, that’s gratitude, all I – ”

“Ahem!” coughed Helena, who was still floating in mid-air. “Sorry to interrupt this little marriage guidance session, but might I remind you that I AM trying to bring about a new era of darkness and terror here?”

“Oh yes,” said Spunkleford sheepishly. “My apologies. Do carry on.”

“SO! Who’s blood shall I take first?” smiled Helena, nodding towards me. “The nobleman’s, or the virgin’s?”

“Well, as a gentleman of impeccable breeding, I have to say ladies first,” I replied, motioning at Mrs. Spunkleford.

“Likely!” hissed Spunkleford.

“‘Tis just the booze talking, Spunkleford!” I beamed, removing a hip-flask from my coat pocket. “Of course, I shall go first.”

“Excellent!” Helena grinned. “Soon, the world shall be mine…”

“Do you mind if I just finish this first?” I asked, waving my hip-flask gently in the air. “A dead man’s final wish?”

“Likely! What are you doing?” whispered Spunkleford. “You are already stupendously sozzled – I hardly think this is the – ”

Spunkleford’s protests were cut short as Helena nodded her approval of my proposition. I duly raised the flask to my lips, and chugged back the last of the whisky therein. As I did so, I felt the booze flow through me, causing every part of me to relax (yes, even THAT part) until, as the last drop slid down my throat, I was completely calm, and really rather drunk.

“Now, my dear,” I said as the warming whisky began to course through my veins. “I believe you were talking about sucking something, were you not?”

Helena drifted gently back down to the ground beside me. “Indeed I was, my lord,” she grinned.

And then, she sunk her fangs right into my noble neck.

~ Part Ten ~

From the Diary of Inspector Albert Spunkleford.

I WATCHED, horrified, as that damned vampire woman plunged her fangs into Likely’s neck, and began to drain the very lifeblood from him. Likely did not resist in the slightest, and simply  stood there with a rather sloppy grin on his face. Poor fool, I thought. The beggar’s too drunk to realise what’s going on. Either that, or he is getting some sort of pleasure from the whole exchange.

“Right,” gasped Ms. Handbaskett, as she let Likely’s unconscious form drop to the floor. “Now it is time for the virgin’s blood…” she continued, advancing toward Agnes.

“Now, stop there!” I protested, holding a wooden cross in front of me. “And…erm…get back, you…uh, fiend!”

“Oh, Albert!” squealed Agnes. “You’re so brave!”

Ms. Handbaskett cocked her head and then burst out laughing. “HA! A cross? Ha-ha! We are in a CHURCH, you silly little man. Do you think we’d have come here if we were terrified of crosses? Ha-ha! Now please, move out of the way so I can – HIC! – ” Helena stopped short, taken aback by her involuntary hiccup. She put her hand to her chest, and looked rather embarrassed. “Excuse me,” she apologised. “I must have drunk his lordship’s blood rather too qui – HIC! ”

I observed with increasing curiosity as Helena thumped her chest in an attempt to stop her hiccuping, but rather than abating, they seemed to increase in frequency. In addition, she started to stagger rather wildly, almost as if she were…

I looked at the comatose from of Likely, now being looked after by his ever dutiful man-servant, and smiled. The sly old dog! For once, his lordship had not been merely getting drunk – he’d been formulating a dashed cunning plan! Either that, or he HAD just been getting drunk, and had gotten rather lucky.

“Musht…HIC! – musht have the virgin’sh blood,” slurred Ms. Handbaskett, wobbling uneasily towards Agnes and I. “Musht – HIC! – musht feed again!”

“Get behind me, Agnes!” I warned my wife, as I feebly tried to keep the decidedly sloshed succubus at bay with my crucifix while I tried to think of a suitable course of action. Fortuitously, my decision was made for me, as Helena attempted to rush at me, but in her inebriated state she instead tripped over her own feet, and impaled herself upon the very cross in my hand.

Ms. Handbaskett let out a blood-curdling scream as she pulled away from me, the cross wedged firmly in her chest. She began to writhe in pain, an act mirrored by the other assembled vampires, and then, one by one, they all exploded in a spectacularly messy fashion, until just Ms. Handbaskett was left.

“Currrrssssse you!” she snarled. “I curse you all to He – HIC!”

And then, with that final hiccup, she too burst apart before our very eyes, like an evil balloon, covering me in smatterings of gore and guts in the process. I picked a kidney from my hat, and then turned to check on the wife.

“It’s all over now, Agnes,” I said, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “There there.”

“Look at the state of you, Albert!” Agnes barked, wiping a lump of flesh from my collar. “This will take me an age to put right, you know! You really should be more careful!”

“Does…does that mean you aren’t going to…” I began.

“Well, I’ve been doing some thinking, Albert…I’ve seen you in a whole new light tonight, all dashing and brave and that. I…I think I’d like to stay, yes. We can give it another chance, can’t we?”

“Agnes,” I said, holding my wife’s hands in mine. “If you can spare five minutes in between washing bits of dead vampire from my clothes and cooking me a hot meal, I would very much like to attend to an oversight I have made on my part these past years…”

“Oh, Albert! I say!” blushed Agnes.

“Oh, Agnes!” I sighed, contentedly.

From the Journal of Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action.

I AWOKE to find Botter’s awful face baring down on me, concern etched all over his miserable little face.

“Milord! You are alive!” he beamed.

“So it would seem,” I said, disappointed not to find myself surrounded by comely angels in the afterlife. “Please, Botter, do stop fussing so!” I snapped as Botter tried to help me up. “One pain in the neck is more than enough, thank you very much.”

I hauled myself up to my feet and took a moment to get my bearings. “Eurh, how revolting,” I remarked as I looked about.

“I know, milord. They all just burst apart – it was really disgusting.”

“No, not that – THAT,” I clarified, pointing ahead of me where Inspector Spunkleford and his wife were currently locking lips. “Now there is a sight to turn one’s stomach! Egad, what a turn up, eh Botter? An adventure where Spunkleford winds up being the one to walk off with the lady! What is the world coming to?” I shook my head sadly and picked up my hat and cane from the floor. “Well, enough with the slaying, and on with the laying, I say! Let’s get out of here and find me a couple of whores, hmm? Everything seems to have been wrapped up nicely here…”

- Lord Likely.

From the Journal of Evan Hellsinger, Vampire Slayer

SO I woke up to find myself lying in among hundreds of tiny shards of colored glass, in a churchyard, in the early hours of the morning. Groggily, I got to my feet as the previous night’s events began to filter through my aching head. Oh God, I thought – the vampires!

I picked up my pistol and ran around the side of the church, and burst in through the front doors, my weapon primed.

“Everyone get down, I’m back and I’m ready to – oh!”

The place was empty, save for a few messy piles of guts and bones gently smouldering away on the floor. Damn, I thought, looks like I missed one helluva party.

I holstered my pistol and walked out of the church. What now for Evan Hellsinger? What does a vampire slayer do when the vampires have been slayed, I pondered as I sat up on the church wall.

As I sat in deep contemplation, I suddenly became aware of someone standing near me. The figure coughed gently to better attract my attention, and looking up I saw a smartly-dressed man stood on the street.

“Yeah?” I said wearily.

“Good day, kind sir,” said the man, doffing his hat. “I am Mr. Jonathan Harker. Sorry to bother you, but I wondered if you could help me…I am trying to locate this Count, and I -”

“Listen, pal – you want the police, okay?” I replied wearily. “I think there’s a station a few streets that way…”

“Oh, right…I…I see,” said Mr. Harker. “Um…thank you, sir.”

I shook my head sadly as I watched this Mr. Harker disappear down the road. Some people – they just don’t know how to find that which they seek. Damn fools…

The End.

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For the previous chapter, do please click here.

From the Journals of Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action

AND SO with the scent of Adventure in my nostrils (my favourite fragrance, and one which was doing a fine job of masking the wretched odour emanating from Botter’s general vicinity), we hopped into a cab and headed off to Scotland Yard, to meet this dead body that had decided to stop being dead.

After an uneventful carriage-ride, we arrived at our destination – Whitehall, and the rather unimpressive sight of Scotland Yard itself. As my man-servant and I disembarked from our cab, I noticed a hearse waiting outside the yard, with the driver trying to determine whether or not he was supposed to be picking up a corpse from a rather embarrassed-looking police-officer.

Botter and I strolled in to the cramped offices of the Yard, to be met by a rather perplexed Inspector Spunkleford. Spunkleford, of course, is often in a state of great perplexity, but on this occasion he seemed even more perplexitious than usual.

“Oh, Likely, you made it!” he flustered as he shook my hand gladly. “Oh, there is quite a hullabaloo about to-day, quite a hullabaloo indeed! You bring in one walking corpse and the whole place goes tiddly-pop! It is all a big old brouhaha, if you know what I mean.”

“I have positively no idea,” I replied. “I am not entirely sure half of what you said was even in English.”

“No! No I have nothing more to say, you parasite!” Spunkleford roared, as a seedy-looking gent with a notebook harassed him by the door. “Get out of here! Go on, hop it!…Sorry, Likely. You were saying?”

“Journalist?” I asked, indicating to the hawk-faced man now smarting from a sharp boot to the backside.

“Hmmm? Oh, him? No, no, no. Divorce lawyer. I am afraid Mrs. Spunkleford seems to believe our marriage has hit the rocks…um, care to see this body, Likely?”

“Well, I have no doubt that you are rather missing those moments of intimacy with your wife, inspector, but I hardly think offering yourself to me will – ”

“What? No! The body! The body we bought in! The chap who turned out to be not-dead! Care to meet him?”

“Oh, yes, but of course,” I said, coughing lightly into my hand. “That…that is precisely what I thought you meant.”

*****

FOR A deceased gentleman, Doctor Elton Whelkbladder was looking in remarkably rude health. Certainly, his skin had a rather pale tone to it, and his eyes looked so tired I feared that they might pop out of his head and go and curl up in the large bags just underneath. But in all other respects, Dr. Whelkbladder was exhibiting very few signs of bearing any of the afflictions usually associated with death. For one, he was moving about quite a lot, and secondly he was babbling away to us at ten-to-the-dozen, both traits one does not usually equate with a person who has shuffled off this mortal coil.

“I just don’t understand it!” exclaimed Whelkbladder, pacing the room in a manner most unbecoming of a fellow in his condition. “I simply don’t understand it!”

“And you say you cannot recall much of the events of last night, sir?” I enquired, while Spunkleford scurried over to converse with a rather serious-looking police constable.

“No, no…I went to visit a patient, and as far as I recall I prescribed him some medicine…and then…and then…GAH! It all goes blank, I’m afraid.”

“Hmm, how very…unhelpful,” I remarked.

“I think I might be able to shed some light on matter!” beamed Spunkleford, marching across the room while waving a small, brown book in his hand. “My men found this among the late doctor’s possessions. Well, latterly late. Early? The right-on-time doctor’s possessions…”

“Oh, do get on with it, Spunkleford,” I sighed.

“Right. Yes. Ahem, this is the diary of the good doctor…I think you shall find it rather interesting reading…”

“I say! You can’t read my private diaries!” Whelkbladder interjected.

“You’re dead, sir – I cannot see how it is of any concern of yours,” I snapped, taking the diary from the inspector’s hands. “Now, let me see…”

From the diary of Dr. Elton Whelkbladder.

Miss Mary Spimbuffet called by my surgery to-day. Oh! How my heart misses a beat whene’er I see her, her soft blonde locks cascading over those creamy white shoulders – heavens! I can barely suppress my glee when she arrives.

To-day, Miss Spimbuffet was complaining off a slightly ticklish cough. Naturally, I asked her to disrobe completely, as I do when examining all of Miss Spimbuffet’s maladies, no matter how big or small they may be. Oh! How my heart and loins twitched upon seeing her in all her naked, curvaceous beauty! Barely able to steady my trembling hands, I took my stethoscope and –

“No! Not that page!” Spunkleford interrupted, grabbing the diary from my hands and flipping forward a few pages. “This one!”

“But it was just getting really interesting!” I pleaded, receiving a withering look form the inspector in return. “Fine! But this had better be at least half as interesting as the part I just read,” I mumbled, returning to the diary.

From the diary of Dr. Elton Whelkbladder.

The bat stopped short beside me, and seemed to hover, as if it were watching me, staring at me with its beady little eyes. Then, there was a puff of acrid-smelling smoke, and in place of the bat stood Mr. Strix, looking considerably healthier than when I had checked upon him mere moments earlier.

“Good heavens, sir!” I exclaimed. “You gave me quite a start! Why, that is a rather impressive piece of trickery, I must say! How on earth did you ever squeeze yourself into that small bat costume?”

Mr. Strix smiled at me, a smile which sent chills running through my bones: for when Mr. Strix smiled, I saw a set of fangs so fearsome that I almost dislodged last-night’s supper into my undergarments.

And then, as I stood transfixed with terror, Mr. Strix lunged at me.

I lowered the diary slowly, an eyebrow arched in a quizzical – and undeniably handsome – manner.

“Are you trying to tell me, Spunkleford, that our dear doctor has been attacked by a…vampire?”

Spunkleford nodded silently.

“Bloody hell!” I remarked.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances: ‘Tis Strix O’Clock!

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7:05am

After the exciting development of the exciting development of a series of photographic images which seemed to depict Lord Likely very much alive and not-dead, I decided to prepare a series of missing persons posters making use of these invaluable pictures.

But first, there was the small but terribly important matter of some breakfast – jam and muffins.

I breezed into the kitchen and greeted Mrs. Spunkleford with a quick peck on the cheek before sitting down at the table to eat.

Or at least that was the plan.

“You shall have to excuse me, my darling,” Mrs. Spunkleford said as she placed a plate of distinctly unjammed muffins before me. “But I have run out of jam again…”

“Again!?!?” I spluttered. “Good heavens, woman! How is this possible? What sort of kitchen are you running here?”

“I’m sorry, my love…I shall run down to the shops this very instance and buy some more,” she continued.

“I should bally well hope so,” I barked, standing up from the table. “I am going off to the Yard now, and when I return I fully expect to see a jam-packed pantry. Quite literally packed with jam, you understand!”

With that I swept up my hat and coat, and marched out of the house.

10:22am.

My stomach was growling with jam-less discontent as I set about putting up some of the missing persons posters up around town later that morning. Nevertheless, being the absolute professional that I am, I continued with my work.

Here is a copy of one of the posters which I was putting on display:

“Oh, I’ve seen him about!” said a voice beside me as I affixed one such poster to the wall of a greengrocer’s shop.

“Pardon me?” I exclaimed, turning around to face the speaker. He was a tall, thin man with a rather unkempt suit and unkempt hair to match.

“Yeah, I’ve seen him. At the zoo, last Tuesday,” the man continued.

“Really? And what was he doing at the zoo?” I enquired.

“Not a lot. Sort of lying on his back, mostly.”

That sounded typical of Likely, I thought.

“I heard that he mauled a zoo-keeper on Wednesday night, though. Poor fellah,” the man added.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yeah, the poor bloke was trying to feed him, and the creature swiped at him with one of his giant paws and then – ”

“You blasted fool!” I cried. “I am not looking for the bear, man! I am looking for him,” I explained, pointing out Likely in the photograph.

“Oh,” the man said, peering at the poster closely. “Nah, can’t help you there, mate. Ain’t seen him at all.”

I sighed and rolled my eyes in despair as the man sauntered off. This was going to be a very long day, I thought, at which point my stomach growled again. I would have to eat something, else the day was going to seem even longer.

10:41am.

I strode into a nearby bakery, where I promptly placed an order for some muffins coated with jam. The baker – a rather stout fellow with a pencil moustache – was only too happy to oblige. If only Mrs. Spunkleford was as efficient, I mused.

As the baker prepared my order, I decided I may as well continue my investigations while I waited, and so I unfurled one of the posters and began questioning the baker.

“Sorry to bother you, but have you seen him around at all?” I asked, proffering the poster towards the baker.

“Hmmm,” the baker mused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Let me see…ah, yes! I do believe I have!”

“Oh? And where did you see him?”

“It would have been….let me think…ah, yes! It would have been at the zoo, last Wednesday. Mauled a zoo-keeper, don’t you know?”

“Heavens above!” I wailed. “I am not referring to that blasted bear! I mean the man! Lord Likely! The one I have helpfully high-lighted in a great big red circle!”

“Ah, right,” the baker said, turning his attention to the picture of his lordship. “Oh! Well, what do you know? I have seen this gentle-man!”

“Really?” I said, cautiously. “That man there? The one with the moustache and the hat? The one who is most definitely not a bear?”

“Yes! Yes! He came in….let me see…yes! He came in last Monday, just as I was closing up. Said he needed some jam rather urgently, which I thought was a bit odd. I mean, how many jam-based emergencies can there be, you know?”

“Well, actually I…” my words trailed off as sudden realisation realised itself to me, all of a sudden.

“Here’s your muffins, sir,” the baker interjected.

“BASTARD!” I roared.

“What? Too much jam, is it?”

But I did not reply, for I was heading out of the shop and straight to Scotland Yard.

11:24am.

I breezed through the doors of Scotland Yard at quite a pace, almost knocking several officers over in my wake.

“I say, Spunkleford, what is the meaning of all this breezing?” demanded Chief Inspector Wiltwick as I marched up to him.

“Do we still have the sample of that blood we found at the Likely Estate?” I asked.

“Why, yes, but we are not expecting any results back for at least three months yet…” Wiltwick began.

“I think I can give a fairly definite analysis right now!” I proclaimed, as I headed to the forensics laboratory.

“Now, listen here, Spunkleford…” Wiltwick bleated as he followed me, but I chose not to listen there, and instead I strode into the laboratory and began rifling through the various items stored within, until I came upon that which I had sought – the so-called blood sample.

“Chief Inspector, not everything that glitters is gold,” I said as I uncorked the test-tube. “And not everything that is red is blood.”

“What on earth are you babbling about, Spunkleford?” Wiltwick snapped. “I think you need a jolly good rest…it would appear that this particular case might be causing you undue stress and…and…what the hell are you doing now?”

I was busily dipping my finger into the test-tube and extracting some of the red substance from within. Once I had accomplished this, I then put my finger straight into my mouth.

“Oh good God!” Wiltwick baulked. “I fear I may vomit…”

“No need, Chief Inspector, for it is just as I feared. This is not blood at all, but is, in fact, jam. Strawberry jam, no less.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“Here, try it yourself,” I offered, passing the test-tube to Wiltwick. He eyed me with suspicion, smelt the tube carefully, and then dipped his finger into it. He drew out some of the substance, sniffed it cautiously again, and then popped his finger into his mouth.

“Blow me!” the Chief Inspector exclaimed, rather crudely. “You are quite right, Spunkleford! It is strawberry jam! Well, huzzah! Does that mean Lord Likely is not dead after all, then?”

“Not yet, at any rate,” I growled, and breezed back out of the building again.

12:54pm.

I arrived back at the Likely Estate an hour later, my very soul consumed with murderous rage. It was all so clear to me now. Likely had been having an illicit affair with my dear lady wife, (with and without condiments), and had deigned to cover up the entire depravity by faking his own death. Unfortunately for him, he had not reckoned with my great powers of deduction, which would quite possibly be the last mistake he would ever make, if I had my way.

Of course, I would not actually kill Lord Likely. That would be rather too rash. But by golly I was going to have some strong words with the bounder.

I was preparing some of these strong words in my head as I walked up the path to the Estate, when all of a sudden this happened:

There was an almighty explosion, which sent me tumbling backwards with tremendous force. As I struggled back to my feet, I saw the Likely Mansion engulfed in flames, debris scattering hither and thither.

Either Likely was going out of his way to deceive me, or he was now well and truly dead.

- by Inspector A.R. Spunkleford.

February the Sixteenth, Eighteen Fifty-Eight.

08:00am.

After days of searching every house, outhouse and whore-house, I am still no closer to finding the ever-elusive Lord Likely.

Maybe it is time I faced the awful truth – that Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action, is completely and utterly deceased.

I muse upon this over a delicious breakfast of jam and muffins, provided by my delightful wife, Mrs. Spunkleford. It is almost delicious enough to forgive her for her earlier indiscretion.

09:30am.

Arrive at Scotland Yard to some excited commotion. I am summoned to Chief Inspector Wiltwick’s office, whereupon it is explained that a mysterious envelope containing a selection of equally mysterious photographic images was delivered to the Yard this morning, by persons unknown.

The contents of this mysterious package have caused a great deal of hubbub and hoo-ha at the station, for each of the picture-graphs enclosed seemed to show what appears to be Lord Likely in various guises.

I present the images below, along with my comments.

The circled figure in this picture does seem to be his lordship, getting his shoes shined by a street-urchin. However, after having recently put a vicious boot-black behind bars, would Likely really employ the services of these untrustworthy miscreants so quickly?

There had been fairly recent twitterings that Lord Likely recently got in a fight with a bear, or at least a man in a bear-skin coat. Could this be his lordship with the creature, now fully tamed and under his control?

While the attire is distinctly un-lordly, the proud smile, the luxurious moustache and the fact he has a lovely lady on each arm seem to suggest that this could quite possibly be his lordship in disguise.

I have no idea why Lord Likely would be parading through a park with an elephant. Unless he was drunk. Which, to be fair, he usually is.

I am still quite unsure what to make of all this, but it is the first positive lead I have had this week, and my spirits have been considerably buoyed by this breakthrough. Could it be Likely has slipped out of the public eye, to set up a new home for himself somewhere else? Did he fake his own death just to witness the great outpouring of grief first-hand? Has he become wed to an elephant?

I do not know the answers to these questions. But I do feel quietly confident that his lordship is not, in fact, deceased, and shall be walking among us all again very soon…

- by Inspector A.R Spunkleford.

February the Ninth, Eighteen Fifty-Eight
07:15am.

WAKE UP to terrible, shocking news – Mrs. Spunkleford had forgotten to purchase jam yesterday, so I have to forgo my usual breakfast of jam and muffins. Mrs. Spunkleford offers to fix me a breakfast of marmalade and muffins instead, but I refuse the offer, explaining that she cannot palm me off with marmalade.

Mrs. Spunkleford finds this terribly amusing for some reason, and breaks down in fits of laughter. I swear the woman is becoming demented.

08:00am.

Arrive at Scotland Yard dead on the hour, despite my lack of nourishment. However, before I have time to take my hat and coat off, I am informed by Chief Inspector Wiltwick that Lord Likely is dead.

At first I laugh, much to the Chief Inspector’s surprise. I explain my outburst, saying that I find the very notion that Likely has just gone and died to be completely and utterly preposterous. Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action would not go quietly into the night, I continue, but would expire at the hands of some dashed cunning fellon, or possibly syphilis. I suggest that this is probably Likely’s very bad idea of a joke or a jape, and that it shouldn’t be taken seriously.

Chief Inspector Wiltwick disagrees with my assertion, and counters with a brief summary of the events thus far:

It appears that a young prostitute was visiting the Likely Estate last evening, for reasons unknown (although I am sure I could hazard a guess, and that guess disgusts me to my very breeches). When she arrived, she found Likely’s mansion cloaked in darkness, which she considered to be rather odd as her arrival had been fully expected by his lordship.

Luckily, the girl had a gas-lantern with her, and so she pressed on, and found the front-door to be unlocked. This young strumpet then proceeded to enter the building in a North-Easterly direction, and called out to Likely in the hope that he might answer from somewhere within his darkened home.

He did not.

The girl cautiously entered the building, and found herself standing in some sort of slightly goopy, sticky liquid. She held her lantern to the ground, and saw that she was standing in a pool of what appeared to be blood. Furthermore, it quickly became apparent to her that one of Lord Likely’s top-hats was sat in the substance which was apparently blood, apparently.

The harlot, naturally unnerved by such a sight, screamed and took to her heels, turning up at Scotland Yard in the early hours of this morning, looking rather bedraggled after her considerable journey from the Likely Estate to the Yard. She was currently being looked after by a great many concerned police-officers.

Upon hearing the account of the night’s events, I had to sit down, so rapidly was my head spinning. Could it really be? Was Lord Likely really dead? And if so, by who’s hand? And if it was not a hand, which appendage was it? And where in the name of Dickens’ beard was the body? Truly, this was a mystery of extraordinary magnitude, equal to the mystery of the Pyramids, the mystery of the Loch Ness Monster or even the mystery of the female orgasm…

10:15am.

Arrive at the Likely Estate. The place is already swarming with police-officers. I cannot tell if they are here out of an overriding sense of duty, or to say they were there on the day that Lord Likely died.

I take a while to conduct a thorough search of the premises, being sure to check everywhere – including all eighteen bedrooms, the Pornographic Library and even the Love Dungeon. My search turns up nothing, not even his lordship’s long-suffering man-servant, Botter. Have they both been killed, I wonder to myself. It seems unlikely…or rather, un-Likely.

My search of the Estate thus completed, I find myself no closer to a satisfying resolution. It is at times like this – when police-work draws a blank and we find ourselves utterly stumped – that we’d usually turn to Lord Likely to help us out. Of course, this time I cannot make use of his lordship’s excellent deductive skills, so I head back into London to discuss the case with the second-greatest detective – Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

12:42pm.

Visit Mr. Holmes at his home in 221b Baker Street. Very nice place, well-decorated. The housekeeper, a Mrs. Hudson, is quick to offer me refreshments. I ask if she has any jam and muffins, but she tells me she only has jam and crumpets. I send her away almost immediately.

I run the details of the case past Mr. Sherlock Holmes, making sure not to leave any detail out, no matter how insignificant it may seem. The great man sits silently in his chair, his eyes closed, his thin lips puffing on his pipe. Clearly, he is lost in deep thought. His friend, Dr. Watson, sits beside him, eager anticipation marked upon his face as clearly as if someone had painted the words ‘eager anticipation’ upon his countenance with a particularly large brush.

Suddenly, Holmes leaps to his feet, his angular frame suddenly animated with life.

“I have it!” he exclaims.

“What?” say I.

“Cramp. I have a terrible cramp. That chair really is frightfully uncomfortable, you know.”

“Oh,” I say, slightly crestfallen. “And what of my mystery?…”

“Ah, that,” Holmes says, taking the pipe from his mouth. “I am afraid I do not have a fucking clue.”

I sink in my chair, despondent, as Mr. Holmes exits the room. Watson leans over to me and apologises, explaining that Holmes is having ‘a bit of an off-day.’

Fat lot of good that is to me. I make my excuses and leave.

14:09pm.

R>eturn back to the Yard, thoroughly disheartened. I run a few questions past the young prostitute, but she has nothing further to add. No doubt at this point, Lord Likely would have had his wicked way with the slatternly lass, but I merely give her some money for a cab, and send her on her way.

16:52pm.

Having read and reread the case notes over and over, I decide to return home. I am thoroughly exhausted and terribly distressed – as much of a bugger as Likely was, he was a thoroughly good detective, a terribly fine swordsman and – dare I say it – a jolly good friend. I am beginning to miss the old blaggard.

Get in the house, only to discover that Mrs. Spunkleford still has not bought any jam. I collapse into my armchair. No Likely, no leads, no jam…truly, this was proving to be the most trying of days.

Blast it, Likely! Where the devil are you, you wretched cove?

- by Inspector A.R. Spunkleford.

Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action, is missing, presumed deaded. He is an impeccably dressed fellow of good stock, with a well-built frame and a handsome moustache. If anyone should see his lordship, or has any information regarding his possible whereabouts, please contact Scotland Yard IMMEDIATELY.

You can also leave a comment below, or send an electrical mail to hislordship@lordlikely.com

Thank you in advance for any help you may provide in helping us to solve this terrible mystery.