The Mysterious Messages

By the time we arrived in Salisbury, it was late at night. Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson had made arrangements to stay with a friend of theirs. They decided the best course of action was to get some rest and begin the case early the next morning.

"What a charming cat!" Dr. Watson remarked.

"We have no cat," our host replied.

"So the white creature outside is a stray?"

Our host looked out the window. "I've never seen it before in my life. I suppose it's a stray, for my neighbors certainly don't care for cats. They raise wolfhounds."

Mr. Holmes began puffing on his pipe. "Do you by any chance know how your neighbors make their living?"

"They inherited a large sum of money. They need no jobs."

"I'm not entirely sure I feel comfortable staying near such large dogs," Dr. Watson confessed. "It puts me in mind of the case at Baskerville Hall."

"It's all in how the dog is trained, Doctor," Mr. Holmes responded. "If the wolfhounds were vicious creatures, would that stray cat be so at ease here?"

"Unless the cat was unaware of their existence."

"Hardly the case, Watson. As a stray, the animal would have a sort of sense for which areas were safe and which were potentially dangerous."

"But, Holmes, it looks too well fed for a stray!"

"Nevertheless, I was summoned here as a detective, not a naturalist. Let the cat do as it pleases; it is none of my concern. My business is to investigate the disappearance of Miss Manumit."

I tried to sleep, but I had a terrible case of insomnia. I was worried. Was there a way I could help my human catch his villain while still helping Basil rescue Dawson? Why was that white cat still outside? It was as if the cat were watching me. Was it a spy for Muricide, Dawson's captor? Would the neighbor's wolfhounds be angry if they saw me too close to their yard?

Oh! I understood now. This was why Felicia had so much trouble sleeping at night. She had her own worries and questions.

It seemed I had barely closed my eyes when I smelled sausages cooking. I yawned and stretched.

Mr. Holmes looked up from his paper. "Did you sleep well, Toby?"

Sleep? I doubt tossing and turning on the floor all night counted as sleeping well.

"Watson and I have to meet some people at their hotel this morning, so we must leave you here for a few hours. Try to behave yourself. We shall return by lunch; hopefully by then, we shall have a lead for you to trace."

I whined to show I would miss him, but I slowly wagged my tail to show I would be a gracious guest. During breakfast, Mr. Holmes "accidentally" dropped half a sausage and an egg.

"My most sincere apologies," he told our host. "I'm not typically this maladroit."

I'll say this for our host: He sure knew how to cook!

Not long after Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson left, our host opened the door, suggesting that I stretch my legs, but warning me not to wander off too far. I explored the yard and wandered down the street, trying to catch every smell I could in case I had to track down any of the scents later. When I arrived at the back door of my host's home, I saw a small piece of paper, which I began to read.

Fi uoy era S'lisab dnuoh, uoy lliw eb elba ot daer tahw I evah nettirw. Netsil, Ybot. Uoy evah ot evas Noswad erofeb gnihtemos dab sneppah ot mih. Eht slanimirc lliw tcejbus mih ot ereves serutrot. Tsurt em. I wonk.

-Eht Eurt Retsam fo Edicirum

What a pity Basil had never taught me to read Latin! Or was it Greek? Russian? Sanskrit?

I sniffed at the paper, trying to figure out who had written the note. It smelled like flour. A baker perhaps? But why would a baker leave a note like that on my host's back porch? Furthermore, the penmanship was too small to be a human's but too large to be a mouse's. A rat's? Whoever it was must have known I was here. Otherwise, why would they have written in a foreign language?

Where was Basil?! He could have deduced everything within seconds!

Realizing there was nothing I could do, I tucked the note into my collar so I could read it again later when inspiration hit me. I put my nose to the ground to try to catch more scents.

Flour? Was the note's author really so close? I followed the trail more by sight than smell, for traces of flour nearly covered the ground like a thin blanket of fresh snow. When the flour was no longer visible, I found myself standing before a pub too small to serve humans.

"Chardonnay!" someone ordered. "Bring me your finest! Money is no issue!"

"Yes, sir," the bartender replied meekly.

"Your sign says smoking isn't allowed here, but I'm having a cigar! I trust that won't be a problem!"

"No, sir. No problem at all."

The voice sounded familiar. Of course! It was Muricide, the murderer who had kidnapped Dawson!

What?! He was here in Salisbury?! Why wasn't he in London?!

What did the flour have to do with anything?! Muricide was a mastermind at plotting diabolical schemes, but I seriously doubted he could bake anything if his life depended on it.

Where was Basil when I needed him?!

I sniffed around the pub, trying to get Muricide's scent so I could follow it to where he was hiding Dawson. Instead, I saw another trail of flour leading to a narrow alley, where I found another note:

Ih, Ybot!

Os uoy dnuof Edicirum! I wenk uoy dluow! Hguohtla a suineg, eh si a erutaerc fo tibah; eh sah a yannodrahc yreve yad ta net kcolc'o. I t'nod wonk yhw, tub ti si enon fo ym ssenisub! I lliw kcehc lla sih etirovaf stuoedih dna evael erom seulc rof uoy.

-Ruoy dneirf (Nac I yas "dneirf"?)

Eht Eurt Retsam fo Edicirum

These notes were beginning to frustrate me! It was becoming obvious that whoever wrote them was trying to leave clues for me (or perhaps warnings?) As I was contemplating what they could mean, I caught sight of a sinister figure, a white cat, who beckoned for me to come closer.

"You Basil's dog?" the cat asked in a gravelly voice.

I nodded hesitantly. "Are you the cat I saw last night?"

Ignoring my question, the cat continued, "You're lucky Muricide plotted his scheme in Salisbury. A strange coincidence, but certainly a welcome one."

"Why are you disguising your voice?"

The cat frowned. "I don't follow."

"I'm a detective. I can tell when someone isn't using their real voice."

"I have a cold."

"Tell me something I'll believe."

"If you don't find Dawson by midnight, they'll kill him. They've already tormented him by keeping him without food or water, chaining him to the wall of a dark basement, and forcing him to watch brutal murders. I can't tell why they want to get rid of him, unless it's for revenge."

"Revenge?!"

"Not many criminals like Basil," the cat responded. "You've done an excellent job finding me. If you don't think too hard, you'll be able to deduce the meaning of the notes. You're a brilliant detective, Toby, but you need help."

"What kind of help?" I asked suspiciously.

"You need to ask someone where the best hideouts are for felons in Salisbury." The cat threw down a small jacket. "Can you track? I believe this belongs to Dawson."

"How did you get this jacket?!" I demanded.

"The same way I got the information: by stealing it. I can find a thief to steal the captive, but it will be risky. For your part, you must find the doctor after he makes his escape. If you don't, the felons will only capture him again. If you try to rescue him yourself, you'll be in danger. You don't understand how criminals reason."

I glared. "Are you a criminal?!"

"You catch on slow for a sleuth."

"Who are you, cat?!" I snarled.

"I'm the best of the worst around. No one can doubt what I know I can do. The rest fall behind to me, the world's greatest cat."

I continued to growl.

"That was a clue, sleuth." With that, the cat left.