Two smartly dressed Victorian gentlemen are making the way through rough ground, trying to reach a windmill.
Watson: This way Holmes. Not much further.
Holmes: Yes, I can see that.
Watson: Don’t be snippy, Mister You-can’t-top-my-IQ-on-a-dartboard.
Holmes: Why in the name of evidence and deduction is this internal contraption stuck out in the depths of beyond?
Watson: I believe this is Norfolk. Just be glad we’re in the bits above sea level.
Holmes: Gah! Nettles. I’ve been stung in places I didn’t know I had places. Do you have my medicine, by the way?
Watson: Here, rub this on it.
Holmes: Rumex obtusifolius, Watson? Really?
Watson: Rufus who-it-wotsit?
Holmes: A dock leaf!
Watson: Yes, I know it’s a blooming dock leaf. Apply gently to the area you’ve been stung.
Holmes: Muh. I was hoping you’d brought my pipe and some of the finest Marrakesh Medicinal Relaxant.
Watson: No, that’s back at the hotel…. and under lock and key. If you were any more relaxed, you’d have been bobbing around like a tweed air balloon. Hey, who’s that fellow by the gate?
Holmes: Gentleman? Yes, you. We require assistance.
Giles: Alroight, thur boi?
Holmes: What?
Watson: I speak a bit of Rural. He says “hello”.
Giles: Ah, seemsyur maan be keepin’ in wid it.
Watson: Yarp.
Holmes: We need directions.
Watson: Ah, un cock nez, be a wander. Err, bin searchin fer Ol Maan Wilkses.
Giles: Mil-uh? Daaft ol’ spoon, nat un.
Holmes: What are you two church bells blithering on about?
Watson: I am asking where we can find the miller. I said we were two gentlemen from London, out on a walk, and looking for the miller, Mr Wilkses.
Giles: Urr. You bes barkin at a nart thur.
Watson: He says it’s a waste of time.
Holmes: Come come, man. We can see the mill. How do we reach it? What’s wrong with the miller.
Giles: Oh be bi laang gahn. Sum nu felluh gaat it noo.
Watson: Yarp. Deadun?
Giles: Aye. Laast Witsuns. Note tuh put in aah box. Shame.
Watson: He says the man is deceased and passed last Whitsunday. Apparently a terrible accident and there was barely much of him left to inturn. Furthermore, a new person has taken ownership.
Holmes: Excellent work, Watson. Now, directions?
Holmes and Watson are in a noisy part of the windmill. The milestone grinds away, competing against the rumble and clank of the wooden gears.
Holmes: Hullo?
Murray: Ah, Mr Holmes and…. Doctor Watson. I’ve been expecting you.
Holmes: Moriarty?
Murray: No. Murray Harty; distant cousin.
Watson: Did you know we were coming?
Holmes: Yes, I look forward to your deductions and investigative reasoning.
Murray: Well, my first clue was two toffs getting off the train and asking about the local grain mill, loudly. Then, some hours later, said clumsy toffs blundering about in the nettles, making more noise than a pig that had sat on a firework.
Holmes: Intriguing, and how did the aforementioned ne’er-do-wells help you ascertain our locale?
Watson: *cough cough*
Holmes: Yes, this floury air is doing nothing for my lungs, either. In fact, I deduce that –
Watson: Come on, Sherlock.
Holmes: Ah. I see. Now, to task. Murray, if indeed that is your name, we’ve discovered a plot. Someone has been poisoning the good folk of London.
Murray: How so?
Watson: The working classes are almost incandescent with rage. Why they are brain addled and some are almost red in the face. Like… like…
Holmes: Something very red!
Watson: I was going to say as if they’d been poisoned.
Holmes: Yes, poisoned! By the flour from this very mill.
Murray: Ah, well you are right –
Holmes: Excellent! It is so much easier when they confess. If we take a seat, Lastrade will be along soon.
Murray: – but you can’t arrest me.
Watson: Why in Heaven’s name not?
Murray: I’m a Steam Bro, innit. I’m just the carrier for the flour. I might process the grain and facilitate the delivery, but it’s them peasants out there. They’re the ones who grow and share the corn. ‘Sup to then to mind what they send into the system via the post bags. Just like that new telegraph system; they ain’t liable for what goes over their network neither. The Post Office isn’t either and they’re delivering the goods.
Watson: So you freely admit that there is substandard corn – likely infected by some hallucinogenic organic compound –
Holmes: Fungus that gets you off your box.
Murray: Cheers, Mr Holmes.
Watson: to which you happily grind up and the ship out. How is this not your problem?
Murray: Well, I don’t think it is feasible for me and my staff to check the contents of every bag posted to us. Think of our profits! Not to mention the delay and inconvenience that would cause to our valued posters. Besides, folk are free not to eat it.
Holmes: Your product is everywhere. In schools, homes, factories…. even, even – the stately abodes of the upper classes!
Watson: Why our landlady, dear Mrs Hudson was caught in the street, waving her arms in repetitive patterns, nearby the nearest organ grinder and pie merchant. On her arrest, she could only shout “I’m ‘aving it large!”. My God, man, the cruelty!
Murray: Look gents. You have nothing on me, so you can both be on your merry way. The government are letting us Stream Bros step it up. Transport, coal, industry, food, manufacturing; it’s all go. We make the Empire what it is. You can’t do without us.
Holmes: Ah, you are absolutely right. Off we shall indeed, pop.
Watson: What? Have you gone mad, Holmes?
Holmes: Oh yes, some time ago. I think it was the specimen preservative I drank. Thought it was gin.
Murray: Oi oi. I’ve been putting the hours in down the ring. Working on my technique. I was expecting fisticuffs. Queensbury rules and all. You just going to walk off?
Holmes: Yes, you carry on.
Holmes and Watson descend the stairs. Murray leans out of the window, gesturing rudely.
Holmes: Do you have a light?
Watson: Really, Holmes? I hardly feel that a long draft of Beckington’s Rich Shag is in order.
Holmes: No, and thank you for the Lucifer. You may want to stand back.
Watson: Wait, that’s my and also your medicinal hip flasks.
Murray: Oi! What are you doing! You’ve set the blooming mill on fire, you drug addled toff doddy!
Holmes: No, no. I have merely posted my incendiary comment and the alcohol is aching as the carrier to your system. It’s not my concern if that comprises of coal, oil, and wood; all upon which lies a dusty atmosphere of finely milled dust, likely to be flam…. Look Watson, he appears to have gone into orbit.
Watson: I’m sorry, Holmes. My ears are still ringing from the explosion.
Holmes: Ah, another case solved by the dynamic duo. Do you think we should trademark that name?
Watson: Nah, no-one will use it. Now what shall we do about the infected grain?
Holmes: Oh, what we usually do with dodgy British produce. Say it’s artisan and sell it to the hip.