The Story So Far: Top Victorian Sex Crime Investigators Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson have their breakfast interrupted by the arrival of Inspector Lestrade. The Scotland Yard man brings news of a series of horrific attacks - all perpetrated in houses of ill-repute. An astounded Holmes and Watson learn that in each case the genitals were snapped off of a sexually explicit sculpture and smashed to pieces!
"Good God, that's astounding," I exclaimed. "You are quite right, Lestrade, it could only be the work of a depraved sex-maniac, possibly with a severe case of penis-envy!"
"Indeed, Watson, that is one explanation," mused Holmes, sucking on his long-stemmed pipe. "But tell me, Lestrade, were all of these sculptures identical, by any chance?"
"That they were, Mr Holmes," the Scotland Yard man concurred. "They were all plaster casts of an original sculpture."
Holmes leant forward intently, fingering the firm rounded bowl of his pipe, before asking: "And what exactly did these sculptures represent, Inspector?" The police detective fingered his collar uncomfortably, before replying to Holmes' enquiry.
"They depicted a pair of male youths engaged in cetain acts," he stuttered, his face reddening. "I've never seen anything like it before. Well, except maybe that time in the municipal steam baths at Bow. Come to think of it there was that time in the changing rooms after the Metropolitan Police-Royal Navy rugger match..."
"When you say 'certain acts', Lestrade, I assume that you mean that they were 'going Greek'? Holmes's question was met by a blank look from the Inspector. "Perhaps they were 'going up the old dirt road', Inspector? 'Building a log cabin?' Playing 'Jacksie Jockey'?"
Lestrade's face lit up in understanding at the last phrase. "That's it precisely! The shattered penises belonged to the one on the receiving end, so to speak. Moreover, both of the figures are masked, making identification impossible!"
"Masked, eh? Could it be that the original models are public figures?" I pondered. "The masks intended to shield them from scandal?"
"I don't know about that Doctor - they appear to be some type of fuzzy-wuzzy ceremonial masks. For all we know that could be standard dress code for these sodomites," Lestrade responded. "Besides I couldn't imagine any gentleman participating in such acts! Personally, I think the masks indicate they were filthy foreign perverts!"
"Perhaps, Inspector," I said. "But the masks surely preclude the possibility of these being personal
attacks directed at the model?"
"Not entirely, Watson. Perhaps the model can be identified by other means," observed Holmes cryptically. "Also the fact that the attacks are confined to this particular penis in this particular sculpture, would seem to rule out penis-envy or any other form of sexual madness. No gentlemen, I believe that this is the work of a highly intelligent individual with some sort of close connection with his victim!"
"Could he have contracted a dose of the arse-clap from the man in sculpture, and is symbolically taking his revenge?" I speculated.
"That is one possibility, Watson," said Holmes. "It seems to me that, as the models in the sculpture cannot be identified, then the next logical step is to locate the sculptor. I don't suppose you have any clues as to his identity, Lestrade?"
"Unfortunately not, Mr Holmes," the inspector replied, rising from his seat. "Apparently the sculptures were bought through a third party - some kind of wholesaler that the institutions in question are unwilling to name, for fear that we'll close them down! I'm afraid that we're at a dead end on these terrible attacks! It was too much for me to suppose you could do any more!"
"I fear you are correct, Inspector," said Holmes, rising and escorting Lestrade to the door. "By the way, out of curiosity, what were the premises at which these attacks took place?"
"Madame Whiplash's in Westminster, the 'House of Rubber' on the Edgeware Road and the latest was at Mrs Wackworth's 'Pleasure Palace' in Lambeth," volunteered Lestrade as he left.
"Get your hat and coat, Watson, the game's afoot," Holmes exclaimed as soon as the policeman had departed.
"But I thought you told Lestrade there were no leads?" I enquired, perplexed by my friend's state of agitation. "Is there some significance in the establishment's he mentioned?"
"Indeed, Watson! You will recall that last spring we had cause to visit the 'House of Rubber' in connection with the blackmailing of Lord Lanyard and ascertained that the strap-on used to fatally sodomise young Jenkins the Naval clerk was made of Indian rubber," said Holmes impatiently, adjusting his hat.
"Ah, yes," I recalled. "Lanyard was allergic to India rubber, proving that he could not have worn the murder weapon and that the photographs were faked!"
"Exactly, Watson! I also established that such strap-ons were supplied to the 'House of Rubber' by an importer and wholesaler in the East India docks, which also supplied virtually every other such establishment in central London," he continued. "That, my dear fellow, is where we are headed!"
Within the hour we were knocking on the door of a dingy warehouse in Codpiece Street. "Strange that there's no reply - the place is usually a hive of activity at this time of day," mused Holmes, pushing at the door, which appeared to be unlocked. As the door swung open we were greeted by a horrific sight: a cloaked figure stood over a prone body, with what appeared to be a blood-stained giant penis in one hand. "Quick Watson, we must stop him," cried Holmes, rushing through the door. As I followed I felt something brush past my legs, pushing me off balance. Struggling to stay on my feet, I saw the figure swing his priapic club at Holmes, catching him a glancing blow on the shoulder. As Holmes fell, his assailant turned toward me, and I saw that his face was covered by some kind of ceremonial African mask. Before I could react, the attacker was upon me, swinging his giant penis toward my head!To Be Continued...
Labels: Satire, Sherlock Holmes