The case of Bo-Peep and the missing sheep

This week, I’m glad to say, I’ve secured the services of a distinguished guest blogger, Dr J.H. Watston, M.D.

From the diary of Dr Watson

It is with a heavy heart I take up my pen – no, hang on, I think I’ll keep that line to use another time.  Here’s another opening line; I have never known my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, to be in better form than in the spring of 1894.

Yes, that’ll do.  It isn’t 1894, of course.   I only put that in to confuse the punters.  I had returned to Baker Street after my fourteenth marriage in a state of some ire (one of these days I’ll find a wife who can remember my first name) to update my website (www.mymatesbrighterthanme.com) a name that Holmes himself had suggested.

Holmes was in a good mood that day.  I knew he was feeling light-hearted when he suggested one of his jolliest games, the one where I stand against the wall and he picks out my outline in revolver bullets.  He has achieved several good likenesses of me in that way and the wounds take no time at all to heal.  He was just filling in the shading round my moustache when Mrs Hudson, our redoubtable landlady, burst into the room in a state of some agitation.

“Mr Holmes!” she cried, ushering in to the room a huge shepherdess.  “This is a friend of mine, Miss Little Bo-Peep.”

“Little?” asked Holmes, in his penetrating way.

“Get over it,” said the shepherdess, flexing her crook warningly.  “Anyone who’s called Sherlock shouldn’t make remarks about other people’s names.”

“I was entertaining Miss Bo-Peep in the kitchen,” explained Mrs Hudson.  “You know the sort of thing, sir.  I was balancing a cheese-grater on my nose and juggling pans as usual, but despite my best efforts, Miss Bo-Peep remained morose and distrait.”

At this point Miss Bo-Peep burst into tears. “It’s my sheep,” she explained.

“You’ve lost them?” asked Holmes.

Miss Bo-Peep nodded sadly.

“Good heavens!” I broke in, unable to restrain my admiration.  “You astound me, Holmes!”

“Why not try leaving the sheep alone, Miss Bo-Peep?” he asked, reaching for his violin.   Then, as the sound of a saxophone came from the street below, an expression of disgust marked his finely-chiselled features.  “Excuse me,” he said briefly.  “It’s that chap Gerry Rafferty again.”  And, walking to the window, he let off a fusillade of shots.  There was a yelp from below.  “It’s one of the problems of living on Baker Street,” he explained, shutting the window.  “If you leave your sheep alone, they will come home, and, unless I am much mistaken, they will be wagging their tails behind them.”

“But they haven’t come home!” wailed Bo-Peep.  She reached into her reticule  (which looked painful).“This is my only clue.” She drew out a knitted jersey. “It was left in the field.”

Holmes looked at it keenly.  “Ah-ah!  This explains everything, does it not, Watson?”

I shook my head, unable to follow the train of thought which was so evident to his keen mind.

“Have you, Miss Bo-Peep, seen a trampoline salesman in the neighbourhood?”

“Why, yes, Mr Holmes.”

“Find that trampoline salesman, Miss Bo-Peep, and you have solved your mystery.  Your sheep will be bouncing up and down on the trampoline.”

“Good heavens!” I broke in, unable to restrain my admiration.  “You astound me, Holmes!  But what is this villain’s fell purpose?”

“Elementary, my dear Watson,” said Holmes with a smile.  “The trampoline salesman is turning them all into woolly jumpers.”