The Illustrious Carrot

A Great Mouse Detective Pastiche

by Holmesian

Chapter I: Basil Retires

It was in 1903 that Sherlock Holmes retired from Baker Street, causing Basil great grief. He began having nervous breakdowns, and I believe (while I'm not boasting) that had it not been for my medical skill, he would have died. Not only that, but Watson moved to another house with his wife, and Mrs. Hudson moved with Holmes. The flat was left empty.

"Come, come, Basil," I had said. "Surely, though Holmes may have been the source of your deductive abilities, surely he was not actually them! Surely you still possess..."

But he raised his long hand. "Without the confidence Holmes is taking care of the human world, and will always be there for extra information, I am useless."

Inspector Vole, the shrew detective of Scotland Yard, tried to mask his true feelings of delight at Basil's retirement, but with a transparent hood.

I decided to turn to medical practice, and moved to Dr. Watson's house to start my trade. My popularity with Basil brought me many patients, but I took the weekend off each time to visit Basil. I also told many a customer that he had retired, to a scowl or moan. This went on for a few months.

One day, a Thursday, I believe, I was arranging some papers in my office. I didn't here the door open quietly, or the footsteps softly coming up behind me. The voice saying "Excuse me", startled me, and I turned with a start.

There stood a medium sized mouse, slightly plump, with a pair of spectacles on the tip of his nose. He wore a fashionable suit, like a lord might wear. His coat was bound together with golden buttons, and the rims of his spectacles were silver.

"Yes? May I help you?" I asked.

"Well, yes. Is it true that you once worked with Basil of Baker Street?" He had a pompous, arrogant voice, but it showed concern.

"Yes, and he still resides at 221B. However, he's retired."

Suddenly he turned pale and grasped me by my collar. He began to shake me violently.

"He must help me! I'm being blackmailed!"

"Blackmailed? For what?" I questioned.

He paused. "There is no point in telling you if Basil will not help me." He became worried again. "But this may concern Ratigan!"

"Ratigan!" I echoed the word with terror in my heart. The ruler of the rat underworld, he had scarcely been captured, and only by Basil, and he always escaped shortly thereafter. "Well um..."

"It will take you all the way to Sussex, Dr. Dawson," he continued, "but you must stop him!"

"Well- Sussex!" My face lit up. That was where Sherlock Holmes was living! "Certainly, old bean!" I burst out happily. "Basil would be delighted to see you."

First he calmed down, then howled with glee.

"By the way, my name is Reginald Caesar."

It didn't matter to me. We would be back in business!

End Chapter I

Chapter II: Someone Takes a Shot!

Caesar and I took a cab to Baker Street, both full of cheer. As we arrived, we hopped off the cab and continued. I knocked at the door, glanced at him with a grin, and waited.

Since Basil had retired, Mrs. Judson had rarely answered the door busy, like she
did when I first met him. However, I first heard her distinctively Scottish voice yell "Go
away!" before me and Caesar and I quietly slipped in.

To my horror, Basil’s armchair had been torn through with a bullet, near where
his head was usually rested. Clad in his dressing gown with an agitated face, he was
pouring himself some brandy. His back was to us, and he stiffened up and called,
"Hello, Dawson! What case have you got for me?" without turning around. My
mouth dropped, as did Caesar’s.

"Basil, how..." I began, but he spun around and said:

"Commonplace! I heard the knock and Mrs. Judson’s call, so I knew someone
was at the door. I did not hear footsteps leaving, only quiet ones behind me. I knew Mrs.
Judson would not walk softly, with the shock I’ve had, so I deduced that only you would
have quietly slipped in, knowing it was not natural for her to scream. Now, this is
Thursday, I believe, and you only come here on Fridays and Saturdays. So, I deduce you
have a case for me. Ah, and I see it does not concern you! Only this gentlemouse here!"

"Astounding!" I cried. Basil smiled. Caesar smiled, as well, knowing he would
have a detective genius on the case.

"By the way, sir," he questioned in his authoritative manner, "what did happen to
you?"

He gulped down his brandy. "I was shot at in my rooms."

Caesar gasped. I blanched, as well.

"Shot at, Sherringford!" I cried, in my surprise calling him by his first name. "Yet
you take it so lightly!"

He spun around abruptly, brandy in hand, and stared at me coldly with his grey
eyes and penetrating glare.

"I certainly do not, Dawson!" he cried sharply. "There was a knock at the door,
which Mrs. Judson opened. A darkly gloved hand reached in and seized her face with a
sponge in it's grasp. I strode over quickly to save her, but her assailant dashed into the
fog. As I stepped outside, our landlady groaned, and I helped her into a chair, leaving the
door foolishly open. As I stepped past it, I noticed the mouse hole at Camden House, the
empty building across the street, was open, and, further, the same black-clad hands were
reaching out and clutching an air pistol, aimed straight at my heart! It fired before I could
grasp the situation, or even dodge, and, had Mrs. Judson not slammed the door shut,
giving me time to duck to the floor and hear the bullet shatter open the top of the door."

"But it has already been repaired!" observed our guest.

"I have spare doors, like everything else," Basil retorted. I later went over to
Camden House to investigate, but it was empty, as usually, with no trace that a rodent
had EVER lived there."

"You didn't see him at the door, when he attacked Mrs. Judson?" I asked.

"No, not past her, with all due respect," he told me, carefully speaking.

"Have you any suspects?" I asked.

His grey eyes lit up, and he pointed up his index finger. "Indeed. My attacker,
supposedly in a swamp on Dartmoor, is the ex-spy and traitor to the Queen, who was
involved in the case of the Nasal Tweeting and Psychotic Rat of Sumatra, right-hand man
of Professor James Ratigan, Captain Sebastian Doran!"

Caesar shuddered at his tone of voice, and I at the name.

End Chapter II

Chapter III: Bolting for Sussex

"Doran?" inquired our visitor slowly.

"Indeed," returned Basil. "He has made several attempts on my life, with an
interesting variety of guns. After the supposed demise of my nemesis, Ratigan, he is
unemployed, and spends most of his time slaughtering the blameless and aiming to do so
to me. But whom," he added, swooping down on our client, "might I have here?"

"My name is Reginald Caesar," he told Basil, somewhat hesitantly and after a
short pause. "And I am being blackmailed."

"Oh?" Basil raised an eyebrow. "Whatever for?"

Caesar scowled. "You are retired. Will you take the case?"

Basil snorted. "Normally, I would. But my assault was not coincidence, I
perceive. Perhaps our nemesis suspected you may call on me. How long had you been
planning this visit?"

"Well, shortly after the matter came to a point of interest. I learned you were
retired, so I went to the Paddington district to consult Dr. Dawson."

"H'm! Could anyone learn about this?"

Our visitor scratched his chin. "Yes, I publicly made plans. I've read Dr. Dawson's
accounts of your adventures, which was also well known."

"So it's possible the blackmailer could have tried to stop me from coming to your
case by shooting me and preventing my interference! Do you mind if I smoke? Ah, that's
good. However, despite the singularity of all this, without Mr. Sherlock Holmes in Baker
Street, I am quite helpless."

Caesar paled. "But you must, Mr. Basil! It will take us to the Sussex Downs, and
you may see your hero!"

Basil had lowered his eyebrow. Now he raised them both.

Basil stood silently for a moment, puffing at his odious pipe. Then he sunk into a
chair, and smiled up at our visitor.

"Pray take a seat, Mr. Caesar. I can deduce little about you, either than you live in
Devonshire, have been in the Orient, where you had a job, and suffer from coughing
spells."

Caesar had been getting into a seat by the fire, when he leapt up, startled, nearly losing
his balance. "However did you know?" he asked, bewildered.
Basil, in return, smiled. "Devonshire is filled with moors, which me and Dr.
Dawson know well. The sole of your boot is stained with excessive dark, yet greenish,
mud. Surely you live in the countryside and have tramped about outside. You are slightly
bent, from bowing to many figures of authority- or an authoritative employer. Your
handkerchief if stained slightly dark from coughing, and I noticed your throat swells
when you have a period of mum. My studies into the like show you have had a stage of
coughing."

"Why," stammered the shocked Caesar, "it's so simple- so absurdly, childishly
simple!"

"How often I hear those words," mused Basil comically. "But pray, both take a
seat. Mrs. Judson will stroke up the fire and make her world famous cheese crumpets.
Now then, explain the nature of your case."

We both sat down, and Caesar leaned forward slowly to begin his story.

"Well, Mr. Basil," he said, with an air of authority, "I am from a Japanese family.
For generations, we have worked for a family of carrot dealers. My father, on vacation,
visited England looking for love. Fortunately for yours truly, he found it. He married his
English wife here in England."

"Her name?" inquired Basil suddenly.

"Well, sir," he answered pompously, "she died a week after I was born. On the
ship back to Japan. I was born in Sussex."

"H'm," said Basil quietly. "How did your birthplace result there?"

"My father was heading for a ship in the South, and went through there."

"Where was the ship?"

"At a dock just off Sussex."

"When was this?" inquired Basil sharply.

The mouse flushed. "1858, sir," he responded.

"Making you 53?" asked Basil quickly. His dapper mathematical genius never
ceased to astound me.

"Yes, of course," returned Caesar, brushing it away. "Anyhow, my father died at a
ripe old age working for the same man his father had. And I did, as well. That is, until
1874."

"This grows interesting," muttered Basil, taking down the stocking from above the
mantle and filling his pipe. "I urge you to proceed."

Inhaling, our visitor continued. "I was a slim, healthy man towing wheelbarrows
of carrots about. All the wheelbarrows were scattered about on his land, and I was
arranging them into two straight rows."

Basil leaned back and closed his eyes. "Yes?"

"Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a darkly clad mouse wearing black leather
gloves sprinkling something on one of the carrots in a wheelbarrow I had already
arranged. The he picked one carrot out, and sprinkled the rest. He placed that carrot on
the top of the pile. Before I could do anything, he was off like a shot."

Basil's eyes shot open. "Like the gloves I had described?"

"Yes, much like them."

"What else did you notice?"

"Only that he was wearing a black cape and black hood."

"Ah. Pray continue."

Inhaling again, Caesar continued. "Well, at the end of the day, I was worn out and
tired so that I snatched a carrot of a wheelbarrow and greedily devoured it. My employer
stepped out, also tired, and ate another carrot off of the wheelbarrow. I noticed a twinkle
coming from the vegetable as he ate it, but before I could do anything, he went wild-eyed,
choked, waved his arms, and collapsed, dead."

I had leapt from my seat, startled, at his recollection of his employer's death, but
Basil merely puffed harder on his pipe. He leaned back, closing his metallic grey eyes.

"H'm. This is really most singular. But, please, continue your narrative."

Caesar began to dab at his brow with a blue handkerchief, yet continuing to
maintain his pompous air.

"Well, of course, I was startled. But I managed to round up the courage to check
his pulse. He was stone dead, and very quickly, at that. His body was already cold."

My friend's face twitched, showing interest, but he kept his eyes closed. However,
suddenly we heard the door burst open and a short, wiry shrew with a well manicured
mustaches strode into the sitting room. Mrs. Judson hurried up behind him with her
busybody manor and objected, but the intruder's speed outdid hers. Before we really
grasped the situation, Inspector L. Vole was standing in front of Caesar’s chair.

"Hullo, Mistur Basul," he greeted grimly, his eyes pasted to the client by the fire.

"Ah, Mr. Vole," responded Basil warmly. "What brings you to my humble flat?"

"Humble!?" cried Mrs. Judson. Basil shooed her away with a wave of his long
hand.

"I'm here to apprehend a murderer, whom you have so graciously trapped for us,"
responded Vole, and a grin lit up his rat-like face. His favourite part of the job was
arresting villains.

Caesar gave a small cry. "I'm innocent!" he shrieked.

"I highly doubt that, sir," Vole retorted with his nasal voice. "The evidence has
been mounting for years now. It's all quite obvious."

"What charge is being used against him?" questioned Basil sharply. I tried to stay
calm, being very startled by the whole business.

The Scotland Yard detective spun sharply on the consulting detective. "I was
under the impression you had retired, SIR. You've cut it startlingly short."

Both the detectives had could be very irritating at times. Basil was visibly
frustrated.

"What charge do you intend to arrest Mr. Caesar on?" he inquired, very sharply.

Vole gave a small snarl.

"The murder of Mao Ling," he answered slowly. Caesar started again.

"I am innocent!" he cried, weakly. Vole threw a dark glance back over his
shoulder.

"If we would be permitted half an hour alone before his arrest, we would be much
obliged," reasoned my friend, still intrigued by the case.

Vole shrugged. "Just waste y'r time, Mistur Basul, but go right ahead. I'll be in yer
kitchen." And with that, he ambled out of the room.

Caesar sighed and wiped his brow again. "Thank you. But you must get me out of
here before he returns! I must get to Sussex."

"Please, tell me the rest of your case," retired Basil. "I presume Mao Ling was
your employer?"

"Blast that Inspector, yes. I'll shorten this. The officials looked into the manner, I
was highly suspected in the manner, and an Indian cigar was found in the wheelbarrow. I
managed to flee and sail to Sussex, where I began a profession as a lawyer. Recently,
however, as my business begins to rise from the ground, I found an Indian cigar on my
desk when I came home from court with a note boasting the writer knows my true
identity and that they are the murderer, but that they could provide false evidence
that I had watched the work of the Japanese mob. It was signed Nagitar, but by chance I
read it backwards."

Basil already knew what the result would be. "Ratigan."

Even now, after having already heard the name, and even having been the one to
unveil it, our client gave a strong quake.

"Relax, good sir," eased Basil, but the look of the hunt was in his eyes. "This is
not the first time Ratigan has used that misleading phrase to his real identity."

"Now, see here, Basil," I protested. "We watched Ratigan die at Big Ben. You
yourself had the closest viewing to his departure."

"You also," he replied, still with the hungry look, "thought he had died at
Bachenreich Falls. And, on both occasions, it appeared I had died as well. On all counts, I
believe, the simpler solution was incorrect."

I had to confess his logic surpassed mine. But before I could, he had dashed to his
feet, thrown off his dressing gown, and donned his deerstalker and cloak.

"I will need the details from you in Sussex," he told Caesar, "but first we must get
there. Into your coats, lads."

"But what about Vole?" I asked. For, in fact, now we could hear him and Mrs.
Judson arguing. However, Basil merely smiled and called for our landlady. She hurried
into the sitting room with an irritated look on her face.

"Sorry, Mr. Basil, but that braggart is insisting on sampling my cheese crumpets.
He's probably sampling some as we speak."

"Then, Mrs. Judson," replied my friend with a smile, "could you kindly place our
friend under lock and key? Into a spare room? Perhaps you could bait him into the net
with some crumpets."

"An excellent idea," she agreed. Normally, she had a kind heart towards the
rodent soul, but because of the recent events occurring, in addition to the details of the
arrest of Moleverton Smythe, she was all too poised for such a deed. She scrambled out
for the kitchen.

"Now," announced Basil proudly, "into your coats. We're bound for Sussex, and
out to trap some formidable prey!"

Basil was outside long before I had begun buttoning my coat, hailing a cab as I
reached for my Derby. Caesar was clearly intrigued by my friend, as was outside before I
was. I hurried out to find Basil leaning out of a hansom, illuminated by gaslight, with his
hand cupped to the side of his mouth.

"Come, Dawson, it’s about to leave!" he was saying. He extended his hand for me
to seize, and pulled me on. Caesar was already seated when I was settled.

"Well, is it a train to Sussex, then?" he asked, raising one eyebrow curiously.

Basil, who had finished helping me up, turned around. "I will be stopping at the
opium dens," he responded curtly. "You go on. I’ll catch up."

We were both startled at this remark. Extending my hands, I asked what the
meaning of this was, but he waved it away as the cab took off. I sat, thinking, until I
heard a high voice saying:

"Dawson, what is your opinion on the matter?"

"Well," I began, "you yourself say it is a capital mistake to theorise before one
has data. And, in my opinion, we do not have all the data."

"Yes, yes," said Basil impatiently. "But I think it’s suspicious that Ratigan would
be recycling his methods."

"What do you mean?" I pressed, and noticed I had caught Caesar’s attention.

"Well, Nagitar is now unoriginal, and Ratigan’s methods are always original. Also, the empty house across the street. Not the first time Doran has used that in an attempt to cut my life short." He paused. "Nothing is as it seems, Dawson. Nothing."

End Chapter III