A Christmas Mystery: The Mysterious Case of the Curse at Crapper Castle; or; Put a Lid on It; or; No Shit, Sherlock

It was a dark, foggy night in December. Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson were enjoying a pipe and some intravenous cocaine in their flat in Harley Street when there was a sudden knock on the door.

Outside in the smog was a beautiful woman. Beautiful, but very wet. And enfeebled.
A splendid specimen of Victorian womanhood.
"Help!" she gurgled. "Murder! Witchcraft!

In front of the fire, gulping at a hot whisky toddy, the ravishing beauty,
whose name was Lady Rebecca Armitage de la Marlborough, told her story.

"We were getting along splendidly at Crapper Castle when suddenly people started dying. They'd just collapse in the middle of a conversation, a marathon embroidery session or a posture-correction exercise.
They'd get a sudden fever, and embarrassing bodily excretions - and die! It - it was like witchcraft!
Like a curse had come upon us! And just before Christmas - it was awful! Awful!"

Lady Armitage de la Marlborough broke down into hysterical, womanly little sobs. Dr Watson put his arm around her - silently, strongly. "We must help her, Holmes," he said, with clenched teeth. He was that kind of man.

At Crapper Castle, Holmes did his stuff magnificently. He strode about, interviewing survivors,
inspecting the drains, and always, always, washing his hands carefully.

Dr Watson, meanwhile, concocted a hopeless theory about a family curse,which proved to be entirely illogical
and not in the slightest evidence-based, and fell desperately in love
with Lady Armitage de la Marlborough, only to be painfully rebuffed.

After three days, Holmes had his solution. As he explained to Dr Watson, patronisingly and at length, the toilets at Crapper Castle had no lids. "So you see," he droned, "somebody with a nasty stomach bug, no doubt caused by the cook's negligent handwashing, sprayed disease-causing bacteria all over the bathroom when flushing."

Back in their cosy armchairs in Harley Street, Holmes reflected on the sad business of the tragic, and entirely preventable, deaths at Crapper Castle. Shaking his head sadly and injecting some cocaine, he said, mournfully,
"Toilet lids and handwashing. Elementary hygiene, my dear Watson."
"No shit, Sherlock," replied Watson, drowning his sorrows in gin.

Related Reading

Another mystery: The Body in the Bathtub: A Poirot Mystery
Want more? See all Toilet Tales

Thanks to Canadian Friend for knitting such a spiffing Sherlock and whacking good Watson.

Remember to buy Oxfam Unwrapped for loved ones this Christmas, to help combat preventable diseases casused by poor hygiene!