My old friend Sherlock Holmes was fine-tuning his syringe when Mrs Bridges announced that Inspector Lestrade was downstairs. Was Mr Holmes at home? Holmes looked about him. "It appears so," he replied, a slightly distant look in his eye as he turned towards me. "Is this not home, Watson? It's certainly very familiar."
"I meant, Mr Holmes," Mrs Bridges began somewhat testily, but I stilled her explanation with a wave of my hand. "Thank you, Mrs Bridges. Tell Inspector Lestrade that Mr Holmes is indeed at home. Please to show him up."
The moment our good landlady had departed, I rounded on the celebrated detective. "Holmes!" I declared. "Pull yourself together, man! Your wits have been all over the place since the little affair of the Khatmandu sorcerer, the Australian igloo, and the nine-legged spider of Sumatra. Put them all behind you, there's a good fellow."
Holmes turned around and examined the space between himself and the wall before intoning gravely: "Can't. No room."
"Have you been drinking, Holmes?" I cried in astonishment, for it was but 9.30 in the morning. He replied with a long, slow wink. I was about to hurry down and inform Mrs Bridges that Holmes was now indisposed, but just at that moment she showed the inspector into the room. Mrs Bridges stared at Holmes closely, blinked, shook her head and withdrew.
"Empire in ruins"
Our visitor was pale and shaking. "Thank God, I've found you, Holmes," he declared feverishly. "We are at our wits' end. I think if I had not found you the game would be up, and the empire in ruins."
Holmes was staring intently at his guest. "Steady yourself, my dear fellow. Watson here will get you some brandy. Meanwhile, I observe that you are recently returned from a headhunting expedition in Malaya, that you have taken a second wife, a three-breasted Toureg girl you met in Alexandria, that you fought an alligator to the death on the Amazon before removing a still-living native child from its stomach, and that you have been conducting experiments into electrical induction using armatures."
Inspector Lestrade tottered in amazement, and drew heavily on the brandy which I had pressed into his hand. "No," he replied, having composed himself. "But I did take Mrs Lestrade to Margate for the day."
"A mere detail," crowed Holmes in triumph. "And yet another vindication of the powers of deduction, eh Watson? Now, Inspector, how may I help you?"
Professor Moriarty
"Sir," he said, "it is, once again, a matter to do with Ireland."
"Ireland," intoned Holmes heavily. "Land of my most deadly and brilliant foe, Professor Moriarty, and also ancestral home of that Conan Doyle writer fellow. He'll get nowhere, though, you mark my words. What seems to be the problem, inspector? Watson here will get you another brandy, and perhaps, Watson, you'd be good enough to top me up too?"
"Ireland is having a general election. And it appears that Fianna Fáil will sweep all before it. Or them. I'm never quite sure whether political parties should take the singular or the plural. What do think, Mr Holmes?"
A look of sepulchral gloom filled the noble detective's face. "I have solved the mystery of the giant mongoose of Greenland, and the strange case of the dog-eating witches of Tavistock. I triumphed when confronted with the banshees of the Dogger Bank and the Cannibal Nuns of Tibet. But as to whether Fianna Fáil should take the singular or plural, no, no, it is quite beyond me. But why does it matter whether Fianna Fáil gets, get - oh shag it, can acquire - an overall majority?"
"Well, yes it does. Because with overall majorities, Fianna Fáil is, are. . . confound it! Which is correct?"
"I have just solved that particular problem," Holmes announced triumphantly. "Try sticking to the future tense, or non-conjugal verbs, and avoid pronouns. That's the way to cope with collective nouns. Hello Watson, my glass appears to be empty."
"Thank you for your advice, Mr Holmes," said Inspector Lestrade. "With an overall majority Fianna Fáil will be unbearable, arrogant, insufferable, sleazy, strutting, sneering. It will be jobs for the boys at every turn. Can you imagine all those ministerial Mercs, their ministerial perks, and their ministerial smirks?"
At which point the gallant police officer broke down in uncontrollable tears and, as I repressed a sob, a warm trickle ran down my cheek. Sherlock Holmes turned round to collect himself, and I could sense an iron resolve enter his spirit. Then he faced me again, and - thanks heavens! - I could see the old Holmes was back, sober, alert and quick-thinking.
"Pack our bags, Watson. We are off to Ireland, to found a political party that will stop Fianna Fáil in its tracks."
"But how, Holmes?" I cried as I threw my striped pyjamas and Holmes's rubber duck into a Gladstone bag.
"One issue only"
"How? Simple! We will campaign on one issue only - we will promise to provide, free of charge, pig-slurry to promote smooth green swards the length and breadth of Ireland!"
I froze, my spare collars still in my hand, as I looked back at my old friend. The old wound in my shoulder from the Jezail bullet nagged as it always does when I am unsure of Holmes's sanity. I heard my voice say in low tones: "But what good will that do?"
Holmes slapped his thigh with joy. "We will sweep home to electoral victory. For we shall be the only party that stands for lawn ordure."
He was smiling still as Lestrade shot him neatly between the eyes.