The Illustrious Carrot

A Great Mouse Detective Pastiche

by Holmesian

Chapter VII: The Stumbling Block

"Basil...." I choked.

He did not respond. He stared silently onto the glistening surface, studying the scene and theorising. Finally, he replied quietly, and without turning to look at me:

"Yes, Dawson?"

"Well," I began slowly, sorting through my vocabulary for a proper wording, "who do you--think--committed..."

Now Basil cranked his head around towards me and glared. "Dawson, I suspect the same mouse who attempted to shoot me. The same mouse who was working for his blackmailer. The same mouse who used the Nasal Tweeting as a signal of death toward his victims." He narrowed his eyes. "Captain Sebastian Doran."

"Good Lord," I whispered. "What will we do?"

"We can't recover the body, that's for certain," Basil replied. "Nor the cigar. But perhaps a chemical examination of the carrot will prove constructive."

I agreed, and we set off backwards. Basil still possessed the eager look of a chase, but I could not keep my mind off the fact we had acted downright uncivilised by not even doing anything with the corpse. Certainly, it would be impossible to recover it, but Basil seemed to treat it as merely another clue in the investigation. The impact of him darting forward suddenly made me aware of the body laying before us. We still were a way from the village, I noted, so no one could help him, and his assailant would go undisturbed and unnoticed.

Basil was already leaning crouching by the body, a grin upon his mug. "Dawson," he said excitedly, "Doran has struck again. But he has not killed. Look!" And he pointed at the unconscious rodent's face. He was a shrewd, rat-like mouse with a large, protruding nose and a well-manicured French mustache.

"Vole!" I ejaculated.

Indeed, the Scotland Yard detective lay, his eyes tightly shut, with an oversized lump on his forehead. There were, strangely, almost no signs of violence other than that.

"Yes, Dawson. Hullo, what's this? H'm!" Basil rolled the body over. "The employed weapon, I perceive?" There was a short stick that could fit snugly in a fist, with a rounded, wooden head on the top.

Basil picked up the weapon carefully and fit it on top of Vole's head, examining it carefully. "Yes, he was struck with this. But how did it get under him? If he had been moved to hide that underneath him, I would find traces. My word! Dawson, look!"

A half-circle of constables were stepping forward, surrounding us. The largest, stiffest one said, "Well, there, is that where the Inspector went? What might you blokes be doing with him?"

"Dawson," whispered Basil. "This is the exact spot were the carrot lay. I just realised the weapon that bludgeoned Vole was laying in the space it originally occupied. It was all cleverly planned! Now, it seems like the major stumbling block in our case- will be prison walls!"

End Chapter VII

Chapter Eight: Basil's Plan

Vole had been carefully carried back to town, while Basil and I were apprehended
and roughly dragged back to the police station. My facial expressions must have loudly
announced my feeling of protest, for Basil laid his paw on my shoulder and whispered,
"Never mind, old bean." His reassuring voice assured me he knew how to escape
the situation- with brain and not brawn.

While Vole was taken to a small hospital to be tended to, my companion and I
were showed to a dank, dusty prison cell with cold stone walls, a bench filled with
splinters, iron bars dirty and rusted, and barely enough room for three people. It had
obviously been purposely designed for discomfort. Two beefy coppers stood as guards
outside the heavy stone door.

Basil took off his Inverness, laid it on the floor, and relaxed as much as possible,
for he was physically long-suffering. I sat on the bench, shivering in the cold, breathing
the stale air, and realising that at least two eyes were always staring at us through the tiny
window, making conversation uncomfortable, like so much else.

My cellmate looked up at me weakly and smiled. "Come on, Dawson, old chap,
can't you see the irony? We've been sharing rooms for years now, and as soon as you
move out, we're sharing a cell for who-knows-how-long."

I couldn't understand my friend's cool behaviour. "Basil, don't you realise we've
been framed for assaulting and possibly attempting to murder a Scotland Yard
Inspector?! And you're taking it so light-heartedly?"

(And, as I said this, I never forgot the eye of the beholder was upon me, an
emotion which shook me.)

Basil chuckled. "Have you forgotten--my profession?" he asked. Suddenly, he
had seized both the guard's attention, and intentionally. I could see his plan unfolding.

"What was that?" asked one, with a Cockney accent.

"Pardon?" I quickly asked, forging a look of surprise.

"You, the skinny bloke," the guard answered. Basil turned around "nervously".

"Yes, sir?" he asked, a pale look on his face.

"What was that you just said?" asked the other constable.

"Well, umm," stammered Basil, very convincingly.

"Spit it out, or we'll get our superiors!" he demanded.

"Suddenly, Basil went very sly. "You do that," he dared.

The guards were very interested now. "Mouse, what are you saying?"

"Come close to the bars, so I can whisper," said Basil. The guards obeyed.

"Well, I'm a bit of an agent for the government. A special agent. My employer
works in Whitehall." Here Basil grinned wickedly. "He has enough power to
permanently close your pitiful profession at Scotland Yard. He can arrange that whoever
did this act is found, or even," he added, "arrange it to seem like it never happened."

Four eyebrows were hoisted in the air, and one guard was sweating so that he
looked more anxious than Basil had. Basil was still flashing his evil grin when one of
them managed, "Let’s go--get the Inspector," and they were off.

At the time, I didn’t understand his plan. That is, until he turned to me, his
snicker turning into a friendly smile, and asked, "Don’t you remember my brother
Myerricroft?"

End Chapter VIII

Chapter Nine: A Visit With Vole

For the minuscule quantity of time Basil and I continued to share a prison cell, my
intellectual partner and I were rather high-spirited. Once Myerricroft Basil saw us, he'd
set us loose to continue our investigation--for the time being.

"We'll need to watch our step, for Vole will doubtless put us right back in the dock for
the slightest offence, and it will get difficult for my brother to get us out of every jam I
land into," Basil had warned me.

Shortly, the two guards had returned with the stiff leader from our arrest and a rotund
detective in a trench coat. The latter had a stiff toothpaste mustache and an old hat. He
had a very stiff manner about him as he approached our cell door.

"So, yew're the two rotters causin' all this fuss?" he demanded it a very snotty voice.
"Well, this better have a very gude purpose, 'cause if it ain't, yew're sentence'll be a lot
longa!"

Basil, of course, could not stand this, and couldn't resist retorting, "I had considered that
possibility, Inspector. Perhaps if you stopped drinking so much coffee you'd bear a more
polite attitude."

The inspector, of course, showed an emotion of shock and answered (still keeping his
snottish voice despite his astonishment), "How'dcha blinkin' tell dat? Mah attitude didn't
giv' 't 'way, did 't? 'Cause if it did, then yew can just tell yerself that yer a failuah!"

"No, my good mouse," responded Basil calmly, "Merely your stained fingers, the cut
obviously caused from an old mug (if you wear such old headgear, why shouldn't you use
old cups?), and the lapels of your coat. However, it merely takes a glance to tell that
you've had quite a few cheese crumpets."

The inspector, of course, immediately began to fume at my friend. "Why, for insultin' me
ya might get'n even longa sentence! I'd shut it, if I were ya!"

Basil smiled. "I've done it many times before, sir, and gotten off pardoned rather quickly.
I don't think you will be an exception, despite how short your temper may be."

The inspector began to rave at us, and I noticed the strong scent of coffee in his breath.
"I oughta leave yew 'ere for the rest of yer pitiful lives! Ya ignorant..."

"Inspector," one of the security guards interrupted nervously, "Mr. Vole wanted to see
him, and he's just taking advantage of you. You need to appear calm and take our little
convict to him, regardless of what he says."

The detective paused, still looking angry and breathing heavily, before he slowly
stiffened up and unlocked our cell door. Basil leaped up merrily and excited, obviously
trying to frustrate the inspector. It was obviously working, for our escort's eyes were
narrowly til we could barely make out their colour. His grasp was beginning to tight on
the bars to our door.

"Thank you, sir," ejaculated Basil, shaking his paw heartily. "It is my greatest pleasure
meeting you, sir. Oh, how nice it is to be free of that ruddy cell! Ah!"

"Shut it," muttered the Yardie, when the beefy copper laid a paw on his shoulder.
However, Basil would not be content with just that. He stretched his arms and did an
Irish jog around the guards.

"My, isn't it a wonderful day?" he asked with a broad smile. "I hope nothing goes wrong
today."

Meanwhile I, trying desperately to hide my amusement, had quietly slipped past the
raging detective. "Come, Basil," I managed between my chuckles, "Vole wants us, and
we shouldn't delay much longer in seeing him."

"Ah, I suppose so, Dawson," responded Basil whole-heartedly. "Come on, let's go, all!"

"Oh, yesh," breathed the inspector through his teeth, "let's gow."

He staggered past us in front of the constables, turned and shot, "Well, what're yew
dogders waitin' fer? C'mon!" And he marched down the corridor.

He led us to a small, well-furnished sitting room. Inspector Vole was seated in a plush
chair, his eyes with a drooping look, and a bandage to his forehead, which he was
clenching. It obviously was making him hurt more. When he looked up and saw us, he
nearly jumped out of his seat, which he would have had he not gone dizzy and lost his
balance. With a weak gesture he motioned us to the couch opposite him over a coffee
table--"Greatly stained, too," Basil whispered with a wink.

As we all took our seats, Vole whispered, "Well, what took you so long?"

"They were reluctant to come along," the Sussex detective said quickly. "I had to
persuade them."

Basil leered at him.

"Good, good," snickered Vole, turning to us. "Well, Basul, I always knew we were
competition, but I never thought you'd take it that far. Resorting rather low, ain't it?
Eh?" The tone in his voice, combined with his nasal distinction, made his comment more
annoying than Basil had been to the detective.

"What kind of 'evidence' have you resorted so low as to consider evidence and use against
me, Vole?" responded Basil, calmly but spitting out the last word. "Describe how you
were attacked. And just why are you in Sussex?"

"Well, it took some time for my colleagues at the Yard to track me down to your flat,
sir!" snarled Vole.

"Well, that's typical of you blokes at the Yard," smiled Basil.

"Seay here!" The trench coat-clad sleuth outburst, but Vole merely sighed irritably and
said, "Get used to it, sir, that's Mr. Basul for you."

"Thank you, Vole," said Basil, sounding earnest.

"Enjoy yourself, sir," taunted the shrew, "I'll have the last laugh. We couldn't persuade
your mousekeeper to give us anything, so we tracked about your whereabouts, then
thought of where you might have run of to with your client, and there I found your
weakness." Here he gave us a twisted smile.

Basil whipped out his pipe, filled it, and lit a match. He was beginning to treat the matter
like one of his cases. "Hmm. So when did find yourself unconscious amongst the trees?"

"Well, when I arrived here in Sussex, I associated with my old friend, Inspector
Robinson, who helped me try to track down your whereabouts, based on your description.
Oh, you eluded us for a while, but I soon heard you'd been seen heading for the river. So
Robinson and I set off looking for you."

Basil dropped his match into the bowl of his pipe. "And, naturally, you went off boldly
by yourself, resulting in disaster."

"I'd watch it, Mr. Basul," cautioned Vole. Robinson was already clenching his fists tight,
and his face was heaving.

"Anyhow, I leaned over into that patch where I thought you might be hiding." Here
Vole's face turned into a twisted leer. "You were."

Basil was puffing at the pipe, when he looked up and asked briskly, "Oh?"

"Really, Mr. Basil, you should have concealed your height a bit better. And, Doctor," he
said, staring briefly at me, "you were a bit rough in checking me, weren't you? Then you
hit me with that stick, and I fell on it. It hurt, badly! Then I lost consciousness," he
finished, in the manner of adding something.

Basil continued to puff quietly at his pipe. After a few minutes, he rose.

"Come, Dawson. Let's return to our cell." He glanced at Vole. "We'll be out of here soon enough."

End Chapter IX