Little progress so far in the case; Don Quixote and I are having some difficulties.
To put it simply, I deduce that our difficulties emerge from a poor sense of authority in our relationship; I require a competent observer and witness, who is humble enough to be subdued when he is ignorant and doesn’t understand – much like my old roommate Dr. Watson. Quixote, on the other hand, seems to require a sort of reverent squire, obedient and who eagerly cares to hear Quixote’s next sermon while being competent enough to keep the man out of trouble. He compares me to some figure named Sancho, a man who apparently fits the role, and whom I must pity terribly. Don Quixote, I must note, is also quite distressed with the murder; right now he has run off to witness the ‘Creatures of the Lord’ at some nearby zoological garden. I do have the benefit of experience to keep sternly to my method in the face of such obscene darkness.
However I have hit something of a dead end, and while I am in waiting I ponder the occurrence with the book. I understand this now as a consequence of being ‘fictional’ by your words, but I am quite curious about it. I realize that because of my unique circumstance I am obliged to provide you with something of a mystery that occurred to me back in London which I have since remained silent about out of fear, confusion and necessity. Nevertheless, now that I am revealed I wonder if you will find some use in it, and if it is related to the phenomenon of the book.
‘Twas back in London, several weeks ago when I was staying with James in the City. I had just begun my detective services and had opened myself up to new cases, being disappointed with their quality, when I received a most absurd message contained in an envelope with my name on it. Well, I say my name; it did not actually have Hugh Hefner written on it but… let’s just say I knew that it was sent to me. Yet it congratulating me on my acceptance to some nonsensical school for witchcraft and, after a list of items and preposterous names, gave me a directional instruction to an entirely made up platform in the real King’s Cross station (the only sensible inclusion I fancied). Yet written on the back was written a dare:
“Well, ‘Just H. Hefner,’ has anything ever happened to you? Anything you couldn’t explain?” Why don’t you come to the aforementioned platform, and find out who you truly are and what you are capable of?
And what should I do? I accept a challenge. So I head out from Blackfriars to King’s Cross, and obviously I head directly to the platforms 9 and 10 per instructions, but what should I find? The blood things are separated by a god damn track! There is no brick barrier between the two, even if one were to believe the nonsense in the instructions. Yet though I must have appeared mad I built up enough courage to ask a guardsman of a platform between 9 and 10. Lo and behold, he rolls his eyes and tells me to go to the western departures by the bookstore, and that I should find what I’m looking for! Madness!
And I go to the western departures, and there is a sign saying – I do not lie – Platform 9 ¾! And next to it, a Watermark Bookstore. But in the pane of the shop I see amidst the multiple books for a character Harry Potter a single leather bound copy of the The Complete Works of Sherlock Holmes! I moved to enter the store, but the door was locked. Fortunately, as among my talents is the art of lock picking I had just the materials on me to contrive a device that would allow me to open the door. I put it into the door and I was not surprised to find that it worked.
It was at this very moment that a pain of indescribable intensity rushed through my entire body, devoid of cause, encapsulating my very soul. I staggered to me knees, a victim to its awesome might. And the next moment, I was as before! It was as if my very existence were questioned in the first, and in the second that the pain had almost been some sort of dream. Unfortunately the commotion attracted the attention of one of the guards and I had no time to investigate the mystery further; I had to escape. I managed but my opportunity seemed to be missed. I returned the next day and there was no book; it was gone.
Was it this Cabal that sent me the letter? Or was it someone else? Why? And what opportunity did I miss in not entering the shop that night? And what happened to me outside of the shop? I wonder if I will ever know
P.S. I am trying to arrange a meeting with a local Ballistics effort so that I can understand if the mechanisms of a compressor could account for the rather poor power shown by Tara’s body. If nothing comes from this resident of Baskerville Commons, this is what I will have to resort to.