Amock Comedy Magazine 2 HTML version

We met Sir Clifford again at lunch as planned and I was
determined to have the truth from him. His military
career, if he had any, and why he had failed to inform us
that his home was now a gambling den. But my plans
were thrown into disarray as the lord of the manor entered
the dining room in a wheelchair pushed by one of the most
(The second part of our thrilling Serial)
stunning women I had ever clapped eyes on.
“This,” Sir Clifford announced, “is Constance, Lady
Chetterley, my wife.”
My immediate reaction was to bow in obeisance to this
vision of loveliness but Holms gripped my cuff and kept
me erect. He strode forward, dragging me with him, and
struck a hand out to the lady.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Chetterley,”
he grunted boorishly, “I am Sherman Holms and this is
my colleague, Dr Wilson, who is here to investigate your husband’s medical condition.”
A brief frown flickered across her beautiful brow as she took the detective’s hand. “Sherman Holms, I know that
name,” she whispered and her voice was as sweet as her countenance.
“I have some repute as a criminal investigator,” Holms explained, “but I am here by way of a holiday as I imagine
nothing of a criminal nature happens in such a lovely part of the world.”
“Crime?” said the stunning creature, “No, we have nothing of that sort here. Please gentlemen, be seated.”
She gestured us to our chairs and as I took mine I ran my eyes over her and enjoyed every moment of the experience.
She had long, blonde locks that flowed down past her shoulders; grey, mysterious, eyes, high cheekbones and a
cupid’s bow of a mouth. She was dressed plainly, in a woollen cardigan and tweed skirt but had the shape and
deportment of an athlete. She caught me staring at her and blushed which, in turn, made me ashamed of my
behaviour. But, I excused myself, a woman as beautiful as she must be used to being stared at. Still, I was not
so besotted that I did not spare a mite of admiration for Holms and his claim that he was a ‘criminal’ investigator.
His emphasis on this criminal aspect would surely defuse any suspicion she might have that we were there to
investigate her own behaviour.
As was his wont we had no sooner finished the soup than he had begun his subtle interrogation of the lamed
“With the ethics of his profession the good Doctor has told me naught of your ailment, Sir Clifford,” he said
casually. “Perhaps, while retaining as much as you think necessary, you could enlighten me.”
I could swear that Sir Clifford’s pale skin reddened a little. “It is no great mystery, Mr Holms. I was serving my
country in Afghanistan when I was foolish enough to step on an IED, a primitive landmine, and was unfortunate
enough to have a quantity of shrapnel enter my legs.”
“You were in the army then?” I blurted, eager to catch him out in his falsehood.