Murder in the Toolshed

The cold and rainy, miserable, in a non-judgmental way, London weather was in full effect. At 612 Putter Street, Lord Marbles Pissweather sat quietly in his drawing room, away from the nastiness outside, sawing eloquently on his instrument. Not at all a euphemism, he really had an instrument.

It was at this time I, his loyal assistant Cap'n Trails, called upon his abode. The sound of nipple-exciting music filled the abode. Doffing my hat, I leaned into the drawing room and nodded a greeting to Lord Pissweather.

"I say, Pissweather, good show with that violin."

He put it aside in disappointment, picking up his clever affectation, a Chinese fingertrap. "Yes, quite excellent violin playing, if I may say so myself," agreed Pissweather. "Unfortunately, I was attempting to play the fiddle. 'Shortenin' Bread.' Damn this infernal instrument! How I can play the violin at master concerto level and sound like a mental defect playing the fiddle confounds my exceptional logic."

"I wish we had more time to continue this conversation, Pissweather…"

"Really? I had grown quite tired of it already."

"But I'm afraid we have a case to investigate. The Lady Mohoward sexily requests your presence at her estate. I'm afraid there's been—ooo, dreadful to say this outloudly—a murder in the toolshed!"

"How titular," grumbled Pissweather. "Still, I presume we should be moving along right away. The lady awaits."

The Mohoward estate was full of lush greenage and primoweed, adorned foremost with a 3,010-room mansion with ornate pre-Caligula Roman architecture. Pissweather and I made our way to the front door via horse-drawn cart. The horse was homosexual.

"Odd, do you not think—how many rooms do you estimate are in this mansion, Trails?"

"3,010, according to Lady Mohoward, and my narration," I responded.

"3,011—nobody ever counts the guest room," informed Pissweather. "My point, however, is, of all these rooms, why murder someone in the toolshed?"

"Indeed, Pissweather," I kissed up. "It seems to implicate the gardener, Mr. Gardner."

"Yes, if you're easily taken in by deception," said Pissweather, removing his stuck fingers from the Chinese fingertrap. "Damn! Consider this, however: Several of these larger gardens contain the unique African vegetation Plottus Convenienus. It's a rare plant that actually eats blood and evidence. If you were the gardener—"

"Mr. Gardner."

"Correct—would you not be well aware of the evidence-eating properties of the very plants you brought to the estate?"

"Egad, I'm a dimwit! What exactly are you all but explicitly stating, Pissweather?"

"Simplicity, Trails," smirked Pissweather. "The murder was most likely not committed by the gardener—"

"Mr. Gardner."

"Correct—Not committed by him, but by someone who wanted to frame Mr. Gardner, and cover up their crime. One of the estate's more prominent residents."

"Shitcrackers, Pissweather!" I exclaimed.

For more of this great story, buy Albert Daddyton's
Murder in the Toolshed

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