Barry Day - Sherlock Holmes and the Alice in Wonderland Murders

As I stood by the closed carriage door, having loaded her with more of everything than she could possibly read or consume on the journey, she leaned out of the open window.

“Dear John, I can never thank you enough, so I am not going to even try. I feel like the little girl in that book who has had the strangest of adventures and then woken up to find that everything is really all right after all. Can you understand that?”

I nodded for I had no words.

“May I ask you one more favour? When I return — for I shall return — I must start my life again. While I am deciding what to do, I have a fancy to try my hand at writing an account of our exploits. I thought I might call it Alicia’s Adventures Under Ground . You’re a writer, John. Will you be my literary advisor?”

“Delighted,” I managed to say.

“I should warn you, I’m a slow writer. It may take some time.”

And with that she smiled. As the train drew slowly away, it was the smile that remained with me, like that of the most beautiful and benevolent Cheshire Cat in the world. Holmes interrupted my reverie.

“Well, old fellow, what do you say to a spot of lunch at Rule’s before you visit your bookmaker?”

“But how …?”

“Watson, when a man has a copy of the Pink ‘Un , otherwise known as The Sporting Times stuffed in his overcoat pocket, the deduction is hardly a difficult one. However, I do advise you most seriously not to wager heavily on the horse you have selected for the 3:30.”

“How can you possibly know what I intend to back in the 3:30?” I demanded. “The small snort over your Earl Grey at breakfast indicated that you had seen something that intrigued you and when I took the opportunity to glance over your shoulder, I could not help but notice that one of the runners was called The Snark. It seemed to me unlikely in the extreme that, in view of our recent involvement with the works of the late Lewis Carroll, you would be able to resist the coincidence of the reference to The Hunting of the Snark …”

“By Jove, Holmes, you’ve read my mind exactly,” I declared. “But the horse has got real form. What makes you think it won’t win?”

“It cannot win for the simple reason that it doesn’t exist.” And he began to declaim …

He has softly and suddenly vanished away — For the Snark was a Boojum, you see .

“Now, if there happens to be a horse called Boojum, I give you full permission to bet for both of us!”

As we continued walking, his repeated cries of “Come to my arms, my beamish boy! Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” caused several passers-by to turn and look at him as though he were demented.

And at times like these, I sometimes wonder myself.