For David. Because stories should always be finished.

So, despite Dr Watson's reservations, despite Mr Holmes's objections, keeping its tongue firmly in its cheek (and a fig leaf handy to spare our blushes), finally unleashed on the world is (with certain of the facts changed to protect the innocent and embarrassed)…

The Shocking Case of the Nude Cyclist of Treperro

Chapter One

"Are you aware," said Sherlock Holmes as we sat one fine morning in the spring of 1899 relishing an after-breakfast smoke, "that the last man who could claim he had read every work published in his lifetime was the polymath, Thomas Young?"

I regarded him warily over the top of my paper, alert to the fact that I was about to receive a lecture about the shortcomings of the press, the world at large and possibly my own failings as a biographer. I had expected as much for he had been restless all morning, and when a cursory perusal of the day's news had provided little diversion, he had turned his ever-active attention to the nearest thing at hand, a penny dreadful I had bought in a moment of weakness at Victoria Station and had never had the heart to finish.

"Imagine the wealth of knowledge and the breadth of talent at his disposal," Holmes went on, puffing thoughtfully at his long pipe. "The intellect of the man was formidable; there was not a subject on which he could not converse. And yet, sixty years on since Young's death and, despite all our alleged advances, the man who would attempt a similar feat today would find himself in a worse state than the fellow who had read nothing. Indeed, I contend that his intelligence would be fatally compromised by the exercise. Take this publication, for example, 'The Malicious Murder of Sir Lionel Swain'."

He sniffed with ill-disguised contempt as he held up the novel for my inspection.

"I would scarce call it work of literature, for to do so would bestow a sense of grandeur on a collection of words so loosely strung together that they would embarrass the gutter press. Why do you waste your time on such unmitigated nonsense, my dear fellow?"

"Idle curiosity."

"Idle indeed, if you had nothing better on which to waste your money than this."

I smiled to myself, certain that I knew the cause for this indignation.

"The identity of the murderer eluded you then?"

Holmes scowled. "It was perfectly obvious that it was the son-in-law from the outset. Had the author continued in such a vein, then one might have said that the story was not without merit. That the author chose to muddy the waters with the introduction of a band of scheming monks a few pages from the end reduced the tale to nothing more than a Gothick fantasy. To have the abbot masquerading as the fellow's butler to my mind was an insult to one's intelligence too far. And the reason for this slaying?"

He turned to the appropriate page, cleared his throat and began to read aloud as though an audience of thousands hung on his every word.

" 'I hate you'," he proclaimed in a shrill, imperious voice, clearly warming to the role. " 'Yes, I hate you all, every last one of you, from the tallest to the smallest. I've never been given the regard I deserved. You've all turned your backs on me, yes, you, my lord and you, my lady, with the pretty nose and lofty airs. But I, I am your equal, and I have brought you down, yes, down, sir! At my hand it was, because it was more than you deserved. I shall destroy you all, yes, me, I shall do it, me and no other!' "

By the time he had finished, I was quite insensible with laughter. I have noted elsewhere that Holmes would have made a fine actor, and his rendition of the piece, suitably pitched to make the most of its melodramatic pretensions, was a performance which would not have been out of place on a more prestigious stage than our poor rooms.

"Dear me," said he, as we struggled to contain our mirth, "it is as well for us, Watson, that all our cases do not feature such over-blown sentiment, or we should be never to be able to penetrate the mire of human existence."

"Do you not consider a universal hatred of mankind to be a plausible motive for murder?" I asked.

"I would not be so impetuous as to dismiss it entirely, but I contend that it is rare. The roots of many a crime are far more prosaic, however tortuous the route from cause to effect. A mere glance through those journals of yours would provide you with ample evidence that far more common are love, greed, and even fear as the criminal's primary considerations. As I have often told you, it is a capital mistake to confound strangeness with mystery. The more outré incident may prove to have the least interesting explanation, whereas the simplest may be quite the opposite and possibly all the more fascinating for it."

"From the point of view of the specialist perhaps," I remarked. "I doubt that the victims of these unfortunate crimes would agree with you."

Holmes tossed aside the book and sighed petulantly. "I dare say you are right. However, it is small consolation to me, becalmed as am I without a breath of crime to stir my sails. Yes, Mrs Hudson, what is it?"

The landlady entered to announce that a gentleman had called, desirous of an interview with Mr Holmes. At this, his eyes lit with an eager gleam and he leapt up from his chair to greet our caller.

The man who entered was some fifty years of age, stout of girth, spindly of leg and the proud owner of several double chins that wobbled from his jowls with his every movement to bestow upon him the appearance of a genial walrus. His eyes appeared to be half buried in the fleshiness of his round face, at which he dabbed and fussed to distraction with a copious handkerchief. He subsided onto the sofa at Holmes's behest with a sound midway between a sob and a groan and began to regale us with his unhappy tale.

"Forgive the intrusion so early in the day, Mr Holmes, but a matter of the utmost importance brings me to you. Your name is spoken of with the deepest esteem by greater men than my poor self and I knew that if you could not help me, then none could. I throw myself upon your mercy, sir. Without your assistance, I am a ruined man!"

Holmes is as susceptible to flattery as the next man and I could tell from the beginnings of a smile that twitched the corners of his lips that he was suitably intrigued by the little he had heard.

"Calm yourself, sir," said he, looking over the gentleman in that searching fashion of his. "Watson, a brandy for our guest, for the journey from Cornwall is a long one and liable to induce that regrettable nausea that is the curse of the infrequent traveller. Now, how may I be of assistance? I trust it is not solely on account of your rivalry with the chairman of the Treperro parish council that you are here today?"

The man near choked as he took a sip of the alcohol I had given him. "Good heavens, Mr Holmes!" he cried. "Do not say that my unhappy circumstances have come to be known even here in London?"

Holmes eased himself into his chair and favoured him with a tolerant smile. "My dear sir, you have a copy of The Cornish Messenger protruding from your pocket. Although a worthy publication, the news contained within its pages holds little fascination for anyone who dwells beyond the borders of that county. That it has been much read suggests that you have brought it with you. Your accent too confirms your Cornish roots, which remains as strong as ever, despite your legal work requiring your tenure until recently in the capital."

"It is true," said our guest, now quite aghast. "I am a Cornishman, born and bred, lately returned to the village where I spent my childhood and have moved my practice to the nearby town of Looe, although for many years I was a solicitor here in London. My name is Henry Ewart Tregrehan and I am indeed a member of the parish council of Treperro. As to the rest, Mr Holmes, I am quite baffled as to how you know so much about me."

"Your hat, Mr Tregrehan, bears a distinctive maker's mark, unique to Harris of Piccadilly, a favourite with the legal profession. Since they went out of business some three years ago, you must have made your purchase before then. As fine as their reputation was, few would travel over two hundred miles simply to purchase a hat. Therefore, you must have been resident in London at the time. When I see your watch-chain bearing the London hallmark for 1878, there can be no doubt as to the length of your tenure being a long one. As to your travel sickness, you have a few specks of ginger on your lapel, Mr Tregrehan, which if memory serves has long been recommended in the annals of country lore for the treatment of the delicate stomach."

"Upon my word, that is indeed the case! I have always had an aversion to travel because of my unsettled constitution. Even when the sea is as calm as a millpond, the effect upon me can be most unfortunate. Ginger, however, has often proved to be my deliverance from such malaises."

"There is often much truth in these old wives' tales," said I. "That would also account for your being an infrequent traveller."

"That, and the fact that Mr Tregrehan had an inadequate quantity of reading material to keep himself amused during the journey," Holmes remarked. "I note that your boredom turned to mischief, and led to the defacement of the picture which is captioned 'the Chairman of the Treperro Parish Council'. Only the holding of so deep a grudge would account for such treatment of his image. "

Tregrehan extracted the paper from his pocket and stared at the face rendered somewhat ridiculous by the pencilled addition of a bushy beard, twirling moustaches, glasses and big ears.

"He is an odious fellow," said he, regarding his handiwork with some little satisfaction. "And coarse with it. Well, what is one to expect when a butcher is promoted to such rank? However, it is not my doing. I did not vote for him. And there's the rub, Mr Holmes. He knows of my dislike and has appointed me to this task in the sure and certain knowledge that I must fail. Then he will have me ejected from the council and who then will stand against his excesses?"

"My dear Mr Tregrehan," said Holmes with a tone of weary patience, "I fear you have adopted the approach of my friend and associate, Dr Watson, in telling your tale backwards. Please, sir, let me have the facts, unencumbered by these rambling irrelevancies."

Tregrehan mopped glistening droplets from his brow and a little of his former earnestness returned to his voice. "It does have a bearing on the case, of that I am sure. But, as you say, I must stick to facts. Well, sir, Treperro is not a large village, and I dare say you may think that it's all much ado about nothing, but we have pride, sir, pride enough to have created the position of mayor to represent our small corner of the world and raise our standing above our neighbours. It's a pretty place, Mr Holmes. Fishing is our main industry, and it's a hard life in the winter, but come the summer, when the sun gleams on the whitewashed cottages and the wide blue Atlantic runs up to the—"

"Most charming," said Holmes, never one to enjoy the word-painting of the English coastline. "Some great cloud now hangs over this idyll, I take it?"

"Indeed it does, Mr Holmes, indeed it does. As I say, the village is most attractive and in recent years we have played host to many painters, both amateur and professional, who have endeavoured to capture the ambiance of the place. Many of them are ladies, of the most upright and genteel nature. One especially, Lady St Juliot, has favoured us with her presence for these last five summers and would not think, so she has told us, of spending her time anywhere else. Should news of this reach her ladyship's ears, then she would be most displeased and I fear our loss would be our neighbours' gain."

Holmes sighed and glared at our visitor over his arched fingers. "Come to the point, Mr Tregrehan," he said.

"The point is…" Tregrehan glanced nervously at us. "The point is, Mr Holmes, that just recently our village has been terrorised."

"By?"

"By a man." A look of distinct unease had come to his face. "A man who rides about libelling the good people of Treperro."

"Libelling?" said Holmes with interest. "A most enlightening choice of words, Mr Tregrehan. Surely you mean slandering?"

"No," said our guest with decision. "For these lies are written for all to see."

Holmes's brow knitted. "Written? By a man on a bicycle as he rides? Come, sir, there is more to this than you are telling us."

Once again, the handkerchief was applied to his moist cheeks. "I hardly know how to describe it, Mr Holmes. It is somewhat awkward."

By now, I was perplexed and as desirous as Holmes to know the facts behind this case. "You may rest assured," said I, "that we shall treat whatever you tell us in confidence."

"Confidence, yes," said Tregrehan with a nervous laugh. "If news of this reaches the press, we shall be ruined." He swallowed and took to wiping the steam from his glasses while he spoke. "Very well, I see that I must be candid. These lies are written where one cannot fail to notice them. In short, they are written across the rider's back."

Holmes sat forward in his chair. "Most singular. Do you mean to say that this rider disports himself about the village…?"

"Quite naked, yes, sir."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed.

"You must forgive Dr Watson," said Holmes, rather amusedly. "The medical profession has yet to overcome its aversion to the human body in its natural state. Do go on with your narrative, Mr Tregrehan."

"It is a terrible thing to see," said he when I had refilled his glass and he had fortified himself. "He wears not a stitch, save for his shoes and a large straw hat pulled down low to conceal his face. If her ladyship was to see this outrageous spectacle, I fear the shock would turn her hair white."

"As remarkable as your story is," I said, "I fail to see how you expect us to help."

"But you must!" cried Tregrehan. "Bulstrode – the Mayor, curse him! – has given me the task of discovering the identity of this rider and I fear I am quite unequal to the challenge. Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, I appeal to you, if not for me, then for Treperro and the dear ladies who visit, please do not abandon us in our hour of need!"

"In my professional opinion, sir, it sounds more a case for a doctor than a detective. Isn't that right, Holmes?"

He had been lost in a brown study, apparently absorbed in a close examination of the toe of his boot. At my question, he looked up.

"Quite mad, this fellow on the bicycle, wouldn't you say?" I said.

"On the contrary, I would say there is a certain method in his somewhat eccentric behaviour," Holmes replied. "You were well advised in coming to me, Mr Tregrehan. This problem of yours presents some points of interest. I would not miss it for worlds."

The light of hope sprang up in our visitor's eyes. "Then you'll come?"

"Certainly I shall, and without delay. Where is my Bradshaw? Ah, the train for Looe leaves on the hour, I see. We shall journey together, Mr Tregrehan, that is, if I may prevail upon you, Watson, to join us?"

"By all means."

"Capital! Good day, Mr Tregrehan. Wait for us at the station."

While he spoke, he had been ushering the gentleman to the door. With a final farewell, he shut the door, regarded me with a gleam of mischievous anticipation in his eye and rubbed his hands briskly together.

"Well, Watson, what do you make of it?"

"A most unpleasant business, if you ask me. Are you sure this is wise?"

He swept past me into his room and I heard the clatter of falling objects as he slung the few things he needed for the journey into a case. "You think not?"

"A naked man on a bicycle, writing messages on his bare back – it's positively obscene, and, may I say, beneath you, Holmes. Solitary cyclists are one thing; nude cyclists quite another!"

A hearty chuckle came to my ears. "You imagine that my reputation, such as it is, shall surely suffer from my involvement in this adventure? If I were to tell you that this fellow is as far from being mad as either you or I, would that set your mind at rest?"

"I fail to see how you could have arrived at such a conclusion."

He emerged from his room bearing a small travelling bag. "The shoes, my dear fellow, the shoes. A man may forsake all else, but to ride without good shoe leather between one's feet and the pedal is unthinkable, not to mention uncomfortable. That, and the fact he has taken pains to conceal his identity is, I think, conclusive as to his sanity. Now, may I trouble you to pack? We do not want to miss our train."

"Should I take my service revolver?"

"No, I don't not think that will be necessary. Given the circumstances, had the gentleman been armed, I'm sure Mr Tregrehan would have noticed it."


Continued in Chapter Two!


If you're thinking that this story seems familiar, that's because it is. It was two chapters in when I made the mistake of deleting the whole story. Now, with the final chapters done, it's being reposted. Well, I couldn't leave you to wonder what happened to that Nude Cyclist, could I?