Tuesday, October 28, 2008

A Letter to Sherlock Holmes

No, I couldn't write a letter to Sherlock Holmes. I couldn't even write a letter to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. So I did the next best thing.

Mrs. Andrea Plunket
408 Debruce Road
Livingston Manor
New York 12758

Dear Mrs. Plunket,

First, I apologize for interrupting you in this manner. Please know I would never call on you at this hour if I were not at my complete wit's end. As the administrator of the literary estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, I feel you may be the only person on this earth who can answer my question and end the frustrating madness I have endured these past few days.

Briefly the facts are these. On the evening of October 11th, I had just finished a late supper and was preparing to retire for the evening with a low lamp and a good book, when thrice I heard a strange scratching noise coming from the laundry room. Not expecting any visitors, I re-buttoned my boxers and investigated. Turns out it was the cat.

Upon returning to my book, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, I settled into reading the story of "The Five Orange Pips." A harrowing tale of Suspense and Murder, I could not put it down, even after my lady friend had settled in for some brief pillow talk and to romance her partner. My heart sunk low at Holmes' failure to protect the young Mr. Openshaw, and when it rose again it was tinged black with vengeance against the three perpetrators of this hideous crime.

Of course, as I'm sure you know, Holmes finds the killers and sends them a cryptic note containing five orange pips, which awaits them in America (along with the police) when their ship arrives. But then their ship sinks and the story ends! Do you call this resolution, madam? Do you call this justice?

I'm writing to you because I cannot live with the story in this state. Why did the Ku Klux Klan harass the Openshaw family? What secrets lied in the papers the elder Openshaw burned? What is the correct usage of "lay/lie" in the previous sentence?

As the last living connection I could find to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, I hope you will write me promptly with your answers so I may put this story out of my mind once and for all. If I cannot turn my brain from this puzzle, I fear I may seek relief in the milky depths of the cocaine needle!

Waiting In Anxious Stagnation,

The Correspondent

P.S. I see that this address also corresponds to The Guest House Bed & Breakfast in the Catskills Mountains. It sounds quite lovely; please send a brochure. I enjoy fly-fishing.