Basil of Baker Street

And the Rogues of Madame Mussaud's

By Brinatello

Disclaimer: All of the characters are property of Disney and are from their 26th animated feature, The Great Mouse Detective as well as the Basil of Baker Street children's series by Eve Titus.


Chapter 1
24 October 1897
London, England

From the Diary of Doctor David Q. Dawson

A private consulting detective once said to me that crime never sleeps. Truer words could not be spoken after living with that same detective for over four months now. Basil of Baker Street had been putting criminals behind bars long before I shook his hand and took the role of his official biographer. This extraordinary mouse exceeded his fame after conquering the nefarious Professor Ratigan during the queen's Diamond Jubilee. The two fought to the death atop the clock tower of Parliament; we were certain the fiendish rat did not survive the one hundred and eighty foot drop.

Word of Basil's triumph over Ratigan soon rang out far and wide. There was not one mouse who would thank him on a street corner or, heaven help him, ask for an autograph. He despised this amount of attention and assured these folks that he was only doing his job. The praise did not cease, for the next unexpected honor appeared right in front of his face in the daily newspaper. Madame Mussaud's announced the creation of a new wax figure for their museum. I did not have to ask who it was they intended to make!

This news did not surprise Basil. He had known the museum's curator, Benjamin Loveur, for more than a decade. Preparations were already underway to start bringing his distinctive features to life. A letter to arrange a sitting with Mr. Loveur arrived on a cold Thursday in the late afternoon hours. Basil stared at the timid mouse who did not say a word or make eye contact as he delivered the message. From my point of view, I could see he was quietly observing this stranger from top to bottom.

"Urgent message from the Madame Mussaud museum, sir," I could hear the mouse say in a low stutter of a voice. Basil took the letter from the mouse and examined it carefully. I could almost hear the well-oiled wheels quietly spinning inside his head. Our visitor bowed once and skirted away before he could be further questioned. Basil closed his front door and stared down at the envelope's address. Marylebone Road was only one block away from us. He knew exactly where it came from and almost tossed it back outside the door had I not intervened.

"Basil, wait! You're not going to read it?"

"I already know what this is about, Dawson, and I am not going," said he in a finality tone.

"But, I thought you said the curator is a friend of yours."

"That he is, dear doctor. Loveur and I have been friends for quite a long time. I also know he would not allow some ruffian to deliver it." I went to ask what he meant by that, but Basil continued. "I have known the staff since the museum first opened. Therefore, I quickly deduced our messenger was not from his employee record."

"How do you know this-"

"Simple, Dawson!" Basil strode over to the center of the room as he explained his typical observation. "Although he wore pressed, clean clothes and neatly combed his fur, he could not hide his battle wounds from one too many street fights. I noticed a faded bruise from a black eye, healed scars on the same hand with the letter, he sported some deep gashes upon his rugged face, and he reeked of alcohol. His whereabouts come directly from the underworld. He is a thief, a drunk, and longs for lust after watching the flapper girls on stage in the Rat Trap." Pausing with a sigh, he finished in a softer tone, "I have no doubt in my mind that he is from Ratigan's gang of thugs and that this is all a ruse."

I shook my head in disbelief. "Oh, now you are jumping to irrational conclusions, Bas-" I cringed to the sound of paper ripping and dared to turn my head. He was not tearing the letter up, but rather sliding a finger across the envelope and pulling out the note. I watched him unfold the paper and clear his throat, preparing to read it out loud:

"To Mr. Basil,

Greetings to you! With the New Year arriving in a couple of months, we are setting out to create a brand new set of wax figures for our visiters, and it is with our greatest pleasure to welcome you into our home of famous mice from around the world. The vote was unannimouse unanimous, and we need your help in building a wax figure of you. All we ask in return is some donnations of your clothing and a bit of your time for measurements and fur samples to perserve your figure. Please arrive no later than 5 p.m. We are looking forward to your partisipation!

Regards,

Benjamin M. Loveur

I nodded after a long moment of silence. "And here I was expecting a bomb. There, you see? It is from your friend after all!"

"You only heard the contents, Dawson, now use your sense of sight," he said, smacking the letter harshly into my chest. "Mr. Loveur, a highly educated mouse, would never have sent such a message with dreadful grammatical errors."

Suddenly my heart sank as I held the letter and viewed the numerous mistakes.

"Oh, my...what are you going to do?"

"It looks as though I will be accepting that invitation after all," Basil said while untying the sash of his housecoat and placing the garment wherever gravity allowed it to fall. Next he reached for his worn Inverness and slipped it on himself. While buttoning the coat and applying his deerstalker, he turned to see me remaining in the same spot. "Are you not accompanying me, Dawson?"

"Oh...oh, yes, of course!" I dipped my head, glad that I missed a smirk and a roll to the eyes such as he had done before with my tardiness. I placed the letter down on the desk, but a voice immediately instructed that I bring it along with us. Before I could retrieve it, a flash of a hand already had it refolded and back in the jaggedly-torn envelope. I tossed on my bowler hat, overcoat and lastly made a grab for an umbrella. I knew I was at his side within mere seconds, but the impatient mouse that he is still inwardly clocked it.

"Forty-eight seconds...not bad, considering it usually takes you longer than that!"

I huffed a little before asking, "Where exactly are we going?"

"To the museum, naturally," he responded half in and half out the door. "Before the game is afoot, thou still let'st slip!"

One block away was a simple man's journey. For us mice, we had to walk in a time frame up to at least a half an hour. It did not help with dodging puddles on the pavement, avoiding the feet of those giant humans, and worst of all, stray cats lurked in every possible corner. Basil gave Toby, his trusty hound, the night off, and opted to hop on the nearest hansom to our destination.

"We should arrive at the museum no later than four," I told him, holding up my pocket watch in one hand and hanging on to my bowler hat with the other. I received a minor nod in response, and that meant he was thinking again. He usually sat with a blank, outward squint of a stare, his pipe clenched between his teeth. Here, I was sitting next to a statue, one that would occasionally raise a hand to keep his deerstalker from falling off. "Are you all right?" This brought him out of his trance and he sighed a little, repeating his answer with a second nod.

"Dawson, remember when you said you were expecting a bomb when I opened Loveur's letter?"

"Yes, what about it?"

"You reminded me of the day when we really did receive a letter bomb. Do you recall it?"

I could recall it as if it were yesterday. It happened a week after the queen's Diamond Jubilee. Basil was still recovering from his injuries while I was settling in to my new quarters. We both had a trying day and retiring sounded like the best medicine a doctor could prescribe. As we turned off the lights, we heard small raps on the front door. Through the window, Basil caught sight of a mouse darting away toward the pavement. Whoever it was, he did not wait around for one of us to greet him. Basil opened the door and found an envelope left neatly on the ground. The bomb, intended to snuff all victims within range, only fizzled a few sparks after he opened it. The bomb was fortunately defected. Aside from the explosive, a single piece of paper was the only contents of the envelope with two words written upon it: 'Say Cheese.'

"Of course, Basil," I nodded after my brief memory visit into the past. "Why do you ask?"

"Premeditated murder is a persistent tribulation of mine, Dawson," said he, lifting a smirk. "Many wish to close the curtain on me a lot sooner. Heh. Meanwhile, there is a famous museum planning to create a wax figure of myself, therefore, opening a curtain on me instead! Ironic, is it not?"

"Quite," I smiled back, yet looked away with a frown. Basil may quip about such things, but I for one had a great fear of those death threats he received. The followers of the professor had not only become mourners, some of them wanted revenge on my friend. He had enemies long before crossing paths with Ratigan, but after defeating him and being hailed a hero, there were those who felt that he needed to pay. Why it was linked to this curator's museum, I was not sure at that point, but one thing was certain: we were getting ourselves involved in another intriguing case!

As we approached the museum, the cabbie was not stopping. We had to make a last minute jump for it. I hated disembarking this way, but Basil was in no mood for my usual griping. With a fastened hook around my wrist, we both landed safely on the cold concrete. The thought did not even cross his mind to count to three!

"Basil, you could have at least warned me you were going to jump-"

"True, but what would have been the fun in that?" His grin was back, only this time wider and much more mischievous. Saving himself a lecture, he gripped the same wrist again and tugged my poor self forward. "This way, Dawson!"


End of Chapter 1. Notes:

I can't remember where I came across the name, Benjamin Loveur, but it had some sort of tie to the real wax museum of Madame Tussaud's in London. I changed the name to 'Mussauds' to differentiate the two between the human and mouse world.

Basil tends to quote Shakespeare, such as this line: "Before the game is afoot, thou still let'st slip!" from Henry IV Pt 1 Act 1 Scene 3.

Basil getting a bomb in a letter was inspired by a scene in "The Sherlockian" about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. When he killed off Sherlock Holmes in The Final Problem, he received death threats including a bomb that went off in a letter. Fortunately, it was defected.