Tales from Mingehampton: Sherlock Series 3 - Fear of the valley

This is not in any way related to BBC's Sherlock, but I am as usual being very clever indeed by preempting The third series of Sherlock, as they like messing about with original titles. The original title of the only novel with Moriarty in it, written after the epic dual that killed Holmes was 'The valley of fear', and I can just imagine the Moff or Mark (Gatiss) doing as I've done for Moriarty's possible return. I got there first... but feel free to use the name when you Google it and find this Mr. Moffat. I wouldn't have done it had you not given me the idea by doing it first with other titles.

Now I've just got to write a short story to go with it... Damn und blasten.

Locals had a strong fear of the valley. Instilled in them from time immemorial by the tales of myth, magic and mayhem that were passed from generation to generation. Some say the fear was totally unfounded, but they weren't local people, so their opinion counted for nothing.

Sherlock Smaug Sauron Cumberbatch and John Bilbo Freeman arrived at Mingehampton on the Why railway station on the 10:43 from London, King's Cross Station, Platform 9 or 10 (I forget which, but it wasn't inbetween the two because they didn't believe in fantasy) and disembarked the Virgin Class 390 Pendolino onto the quaint little platform, along with other disembarkees at Mingehampton.

"Look at the state of this bunch of inbreds and idiots," barked Sherlock.

"How can you tell that from just looking at them Sherlock?" asked John, who was obviously amazed.

"It's easy John. I saw them all licking the windows while we were on the train. I went to the buffet car and then on through second class and walked through a carriage full of them. They have gotten off the train just because it has stopped, basically... just like window lickers do... Every one of them, except their five handlers, was permenently smiling, and nobody in England has anything to smile about at the moment... dead giveaway... Ahhh, here we go...."

Four swarthy men and a very swarthy woman with taser guns and cattle prods got off the train and as the four men started rounding up the window lickers, the woman went to explain to the station master that their window lickers had got off at the wrong station... again.

The station master looked mightily relieved and help shoo them back on board with the help of John, whilst Sherlock just looked on, as usual, because there wasn't any scientific equipment or fridges on the platform to root through for erroneous body parts.

Less than twenty minutes later the train carried on its journey further north and Sherlock and John were alone on the platform with the station master.

"Buggerin' heck, that lot were a handful," said the station master as John nodded and Sherlock ignored him. "Hallo anyway, I'm the station master."

Sherlock already knew this because he had read the station master's badge. John didn't because he had been too busy helping round up the nodders and slaverers. Had we lived in a bygone age, the station master would have had some clout and been worthy of Sherlock acknowledging him, but now it is 2012, so he wasn't.

"Come on John, we must get going, no time for niceties," as he started running past the station master. John smiled, shrugged and winked as he quickly threw the suitcases on a cast iron trolley and made as if to run after Sherlock.

John immediately screamed in pain and stopped as he dislocated his shoulder on trying to drag the trolley.

"Heavy buggers them trolleys," offered the station master. "They've been here since Victorian times. We were due an upgrade to those new fangled ones back in the day, but I'm health and safety orifice too, and I decided best to have the old type trundlers you have to start of slowly with, rather than those new 'uns that will fling you onto the track in front of a train as soon as look at you."

John just stood there turning a slight green colour as Sherlock turned on his heel and ran back up the platform.

"Come on John... oh, I see you've dislocated your shoulder. Good job you're a doctor. You can pop it back in when we get to the hotel." Then grudgeingly turning to talk to the station master. "Get the cases dropped off at The Mingehampton Hilton; there's a good chap."

With that Sherlock grabbed John by his good shoulder and propelled him toward the exit. On her way in was a middleaged lady, puffing and panting.

"I say, have I missed the arrival of the train?" she spluttered."

"Only by about twenty-five minutes," said John helpfully while grimacing in pain.

"Oh, my eyes, I knew I was a bit late but I'm here to pick my nephew up."

"Well, there was only us two got off it, so your nephew must have caught a later one," said John.

Sherlock tutted. "Now John, that just isn't true. About fifty people got off as you well know."

"Yes, but they all got back on again."

"Of course they did... but it looks like one shouldn't have done."

John suddenly remembered the lad who had been the hardest to round up. He had grabbed him personally after pistol whipping him into submission and sticking gaffer tape over his mouth to stop the ensueing filthy obscenities he shouted when he struggled to get away.

"I take it your son looks a bit gormless?" said Sherlock.

"I wouldn't say that, he was coming back from his studies at university," harumphed the lady.

"Like I said, he looked a bit gormless," responded Sherlock. "You will find he has been spirited away to some sort of institution further up north. If you wait for the next train you should catch up to him by Carlisle because the train we just got off will be stopping at every station between here and there for a minimum of twenty minutes because it has a carriage full of window lickers on it."

"Oh great, thanks very much for that," said the lady and went to buy a ticket from the station master.

Sherlock and John left the railway station and went to the taxi rank. There wasn't one. Sherlock tutted and walked over to the only car there, an Austin Allegro, whose engine was still warm, so he deduced it was the lady's, put his fist through the drivers side window and made as to hotwire it as John looked on mortified. Still, it was better than walking, so he said nothing. He was also glad that the first half at least of the story was over, as it never had anything to do with the case.

Just then a voice shouted, "What the flipperty flick flack do you think you are doing to my car you bastards!?!?"

A man appeared from behind the bushes zipping up his flie hurredly, not trapping his manhood in anyway, though a wet patch was blooming there.

"Ahhhhh," said Sherlock, "That's a stroke of luck. You are the man who emailed me and enticed me to come all the way here by your ramblings. You had better tell John who you are and what you are about so he can put it on his blog later."

"Hello Sherlock, you are prompt to start your enquiries. I'm very impressed. I am Caswallawn Gwalchmai Twrch Trwyth," said Caswallawn Gwalchmai Twrch Trwyth."

"Hang on a mo, you're going to have to spell that for me," said John, who decided to record this conversation on his smartphone as his dislocated shoulder stopped him from holding his notepad and fountain pen at the same time whilst stood up.

"C-a-s-w-a-l-l-a-w-n G-w-a-l-c-h-m-a-i T-w-r-c-h T-r-w-y-t-h," spelt Caswallawn Gwalchmai Twrch Trwyth.

"Thanks," said John, as he wiped the man's spittle from his held up smartphone.

Sherlock smirked, "You should have spelt T-h-a-t out to him you numpty... for a laugh. Anyway good sir, carry on."

"I moved here from my Welsh village which goes by the name... err... I don't know the Eengleesh for it.... I call it Y Dyffryn. Anyway you Eengleesh have an RAF base there....

John butted in excitedly, "RAF base!!! this is starting to look good. I wonder if Prince William and Kate are involved in this at all... even if just by a tenuous link?"

"Shut up John, this could give me clues to solve the case." said Sherlock. "Please carry on Caswallawn."

"I have a morbid fear of those loud fighter jets that take off and land all the time and thus had to move to Mingehampton...."

Sherlock raised his hand to stop the man mid ramble.

"Right John, I've solved the mystery. We can go straight home after I give my for once short, fastly spoken explanation because I know you can't be bothered writing more than exactly seventeen hundred words on your blog on this occasion. Good job our suitcases are still on the station platform, saves loads of arseing about," said Sherlock somewhat smugly.

"Bloody hell Sherlock, that was quick," said John as he got ready to pop his shoulder back in now he would have time.

"Here we go.... Caswallawn Gwalchmai Twrch Trwyth is Welsh, I can tell by his name... and accent..." said Sherlock quickly.

"...and the fact he said he comes from a Welsh village," added John, just as quickly.

Sherlock continued spouting, ignoring John. "The fear of Y Dyffryn... and Y Dyffryn is sheepshag... I mean Welsh Speak for 'valley' so that means he has a fear... THE fear of Valley."

Sherlock took a quick breath so the long placename fits on a line and looks ok:

"Thankfully he doesn't have a fear of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch as I don't know how to say it. I can't wait to see you quote me in your blog John and make a right royal balls of it."

"I will just Google it Sherlock... and if need be will shorten it to Llanfairpwll like everybody else does," sighed John.

"Oh," said Sherlock.