THE PRINCESS FANNWOIRE

With apologies to all those who enjoy the tales of Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock Holmes was about to trip head over heels by walking into an obstacle half way down the stairs when he paused just in time.

“Watson! What are you doing there?” he barked, “for goodness sake, man, get up now or I’ll end up kicking you the rest of the way down.”

But the obstacle in front of him didn’t move. It couldn’t. It was Holmes’s friend and narrator of his genius, Doctor Watson, and he gave every appearance of being dead. That much was obvious because there was a very distinctive bullet hole in the centre of his forehead.

“What in the name of goodness has been going on here?” Holmes spluttered, “why are you dead, you silly man?”

“You’ll be next, came a coarse voice from the landing rail just to his right and above him.

“Right, Holmes, what have you done?” came the familiar voice of Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard from the opposite direction.

“Nothing, Lestrade,” he replied, “and there’s someone up here threatening to send me the same way as my dear friend Watson here! Looking at him I would deduce he was shot woth 22 calibre pistol equipped with a silencer and used by an educated left handed man with a grudge against both Watson and myself. But, Lestrade, my friend, I need to find cover before he unleashes his best volley at me. Stand well clear!”

And with a forward leap that doubled as a gambol and a pirouette that would have been more artistically achieved had he more time, Holmes twisted in the air and landed, feet first, on the bottom step just as he heard the whisper of the silenced gun firing and felt a rush of air as a bullet missed him by barely an inch.

“Not good enough, Moriarty!” he called, and anticipating a second attempt at his life he side-stepped neatly, grabbed hold of the banister rail where it ended in a wooden carved pine cone and ended up on his feet three yards behind Inspector Lestrade, who seemed to be at a loss as to what might be going on.

“Very athletic Holmes,” he grated, whisking away a cloud of pastel debris caused by the second bullet ricocheting off the plaster wall behind him, “now would you care to tell me what’s going on?”

“Finally Moriarty has decided to beard me in my den before I could stop him from assassinating His Majesty the king as he makes his way down the Mall to greet His Excellency the High Prince of Mannotovia when he lands his balloon on the lawns at Westminster,” replied Sherlock Holmes, “now, my dear Lestrade, we must make haste before the balloon arrives! Moriarty is no slouch and he will make every effort to arrive at Westminster before we do.”

“Mannotovia, you say? Where they say the Princess Fannwoire, said to be the most beautiful creature on the planet holds court in a high attic within the palace?” asked Holmes.

“The very same. And it has been rumoured that she is accompanying his Excellency on this excursion, holding on one finger of one hand the worth of all of Mannotovia a ring in which a unique to Earth crystal glistens day and night, and at night it is brighter than all the stars that shine in all the skies over every nation. It is even said that her Majesty the beautiful Princess Fannwoire can read the whole of War and Peace by its light in a single night.”

“So I have heard,” murmured Holmes, who had, in actual fact, heard nothing of the sort, “and we must go this moment to prevent a dire assassination before it happens. But first, Mrs Hudson!” he called in a stentorian voice, and the landlady of 221B Baker Street, the Holmes residence, skipped playfully into view from the kitchen where she was busy making a pile of dumplings.

“Mr Holmes, you called?” she asked.

“I did indeed, dear lady,” he replied, “will you be so good as to find the inert body of Doctor Watson half way up these stairs? I almost tripped over him, and I believe he needs some of your best brandy, or he may find waking up to be a difficult chore.”

“Yes, Mr Holmes,” she said with a broad smile, “will there be anyone for dinner this evening?”

“I would say yes, Mrs Hudson, “but I have work to do first. Lestrade may stay, and Watson if you can resuscitate him in time.”

“I’ll do that, Sherlock,” she said, and winked. “My brandy can bring anyone round, even if he has been shot.”

“As has Watson,” Holmes told her, dryly.

Mrs Hudson scurried off to attend to the inert Watson and Holmes turned to Lestrade,

“What are we waiting for?” he asked, “time is of the essence, Inspector,” he ejaculated.

“Come! I have horses at the ready!” the policeman replied eagerly.

“Then I can do better than that! I have a horseless carriage, and although Watson usually takes the wheel when we travel in such a contraption, I believe I can coax some speed out of it myself,” declared Sherlock Holmes, “come on, Lestrade!”

Holmes was as good as his word. He managed to coax a good ten miles an hour, peaking at twelve, out of the primitive machine and they skidded and jolted towards Westminster. And just in front of them, being urged with a whip and a bunch of bananas coated with a layer of sugar and enticingly balanced on a stick was the lanky figure of Professor Moriarty.

“We’ll pass him on the next bend,” Holmes assured Lestrade.

“But be careful, and I hope you’re insured to drive this thing,” gasped a somewhat frightened police Inspector.

“All legal requirements are in place,” Sherlock assured him.

“Then put your foot down, man,” croaked Lestrade.

They arrived at the lawned area next to Westminster just as a hot air balloon was settling neatly down, and Holmes could only admire the skills of the High Prince of Mannotovia as he cast a sandbag over the side, thus ensuring the gentlest of landings. Next to him was the beautiful Princess Fannwoire who had chosen to appear clad in very little but a lacy pleated miniskirt in gold with emerald trimmings, and a brassiere that looked as if it might have been crafted from spun and woven silver, though, of course, it did have a decoration of glittering gemstones.

“Beautiful,” sighed Lestrade.

“Take your eyes off her swellings, man, we have a criminal to apprehend,” snapped Holmes, who had never liked to be beguiled by female charms.

“Look!” snapped the detective, and he pointed at a huge paper dart created after the Japanese art of folding sheets of paper into sometimes fanciful and often useful creations, known to those in the know as origami. And sitting abreast it was the figure of Professor Moriarty himself.

“Hand me that pea-shooter!” shouted Sherlock, indicating a length of hollowed bamboo, “and the peas!” he added.

“Me made spectacularly good timing,” murmured Lestrade in admiration, but Sherlock Holmes was busy. Taking from an inside pocket of his cloak a slide rule on which he calculated wind speed, and the approximate velocity of the origami dart, and he fired one pea at the latter.

His aim was true as Lestrade expected, and when it struck the paper (a couple of copies of the Sunday Times) the craft paused in mid air, burst into flames and Moriarty was seen falling from it and splashing into the Thames, which at the time might have consisted of a great deal cleaner water.

“Great shot!” applauded the detective.

Meanwhile he Princess Fannwoire had stepped from the balloon’s basket and was clapping.

“Well shot!” she squealed, wriggling her hips, “you must have a reward! Is there anything you can think of?”

Almost dazzled by her silver brassiere he paused, just long enough for a familiar voice to call out, “Holmes, that brandy that Mrs Hudson used is truly marvellous! I really thought that I was dead, but see, I’m not!”

“Watson,” smiled Holmes, “I’m glad to see you healed and well. Go to the Princess and claim my reward for yourself.”

“Really?” grinned Watson, and it may be true to record that he spent the next hour in the company of the Princess Fannwoire, reputedly the most wonderful and beautiful woman on the entire planet, but it wouldn’t. It was at least two hours..

© Peter Rogerson 29.10.23

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