Chapter 6 - The Next Vicious Clue.

Without explination, Basil seized my shoulder and yanked me roughly through the door. I remember bruising myself against the frame, but before I could protest to Basil, I was being pulled down the stairs, socking my forehead on the floor as we finished the stairway. I felt Basil kick me in the face, but he had already hurried outside, so I pulled myself up reluctantly and hurried outside. Basil was preparing to hop on a passing cab, and turned to me angrily with:

"Why didn't you come sooner, Dawson?"

"I've been abused," I began angrily, but the noise of wheels on the cobblestones betrayed the presense of carriage headed towards us.

"Ah, not now, Dawson," cried Basil, and he grasped his knees, ready to jump. I sighed, and walked up next to him. After we had leapt on, I demanded explination for his treatment.

"Sorry about that, old mouse," replied Basil, brushing the topic aside, "but, why did you leave Ceasar there?"

"I had nothing else to do," said I, rather hotly.

"What?!" Basil shouted, thrusting his head towards mine. "Dawson, you..." and he went into that manner he had when I had lost Olivia during our first case together. Fortunatley, he cooled sooner than he had then, and reluctantly threw himself into a corner.

Eventually, we got to the station, and Basil wasted no time in racing towards the schedueled departures. He then cursed in anger.

"We must take the train that will go as far south as possible, and then walk to Sussex!" he yelled, outraged. Stomping aboard, I could tell I shouldn't ask him of anything, and didn't. He did not speak except to himself, cursing, until we got to the countryside. In a long, silent hike, in which Basil was set with anger. I could not tell what was wrong.

Finally, we got to the nameless village where Ceasar had headed towards on our arrival. It was small, and slightly off the brink of one of the human villages. It had been built merely as a home for those who had money, but no-where to live, and for visitors to stay. The folks were kindly, but Basil was in a strict mood.

Strangley, no-one knew anything about him. Basil could not find any information, which greatly irritated him. He marched through the town and stepped out the other town, and headed towards a river.

I still didn't dare to ask questions, but when I noticed a small carrot on the ground, I thought I had found a sufficent reason. It was covered with glitter and was in a patch where it was easy to spot.

"Basil," I began, then winced, believing he would shout. But instead, he answered softly:

"I know you would not disturb me for an insignifagent matter. What is it?"

When I pointed it out slowly, he tensed and dropped to his knee, beside the carrot. Sniffing it, he raised his eyebrows and ejaculated:

"This is a death-sign, Dawson! We must find Ceasar, now!"

He bounded to his feet and ran towards the river. I could barely catch up, but I hurried up closely when he stopped on the banks and pointed.

"There, Dawson. We are too late."

There was the sinking body of Reginald Ceasar. The river was huge, and we could but look down at it sink until it was barely visible under the thickness.

Basil then gave a grim comment, apparently declaring his theory on the matter. He said, "Drowned like a rat."

And then, we saw it: something dark floating slowly on the surface. I had to strain to see, but Basil could instantly. It was an Indian cigar.

Chapter 7 - The Stumbling Block.

"Basil...." I choked.

He did not respond. He stared silently onto the glistening surface, studying the scene and theorizing. Finally, he replied quietly, and without turning to look at me:

"Yes, Dawson?"

"Well," I began slowly, sorting through my vocabulary for a proper wording, "who do you-- think-- committed..."

Now Basil cranked his head around towards me and glared. "Dawson, I suspect the same mouse who attempted to shoot me. The same mouse who was working for his blackmailer. The same mouse who used the Nasal Tweeting as a signal of death toward his victims." He narrowed his eyes. "Captain Sebastian Doran."

"Good Lord," I whispered. "What will we do?"

"We can't recover the body, that's for certain," Basil replied. "Nor the cigar. But perhaps a chemical examination of the carrot will prove constructive."

I agreed, and we set off backwards. Basil still possessed the eager look of a chase, but I could not keep my mind off the fact we had acted downright uncivilized by not even doing anything with the corpse. Certainly, it would be impossible to recover it, but Basil seemed to treat it as merely another clue in the investigation. The impact of him darting forward suddenly made me aware of the body laying before us. We still were a way from the village, I noted, so no-one could help him, and his assailant would go undisturbed and unnoticed.

Basil was already leaning crouching by the body, a grin upon his mug. "Dawson," he said excitedly, "Doran has struck again. But he has not killed. Look!" And he pointed at the unconsious rodent's face. He was a shrewd, rat-like mouse with a large, protruding nose and a well-manicured French mustache.

"Vole!" I ejaculated.

Indeed, the Scotland Yard detective lay, his eyes tightly shut, with an oversized lump on his forehead. There were, strangely, almost no signs of violence other than that.

"Yes, Dawson. Hullo, what's this? H'm!" Basil rolled the body over. "The employed weapon, I perceive?" There was a short stick that could fit snugly in a fist, with a rounded, wooden head on the top.

Basil picked up the weapon carefully and fit it on top of Vole's head, examining it carefully. "Yes, he was struck with this. But how did it get under him? If he had been moved to hide that underneath him, I would find traces. My word! Dawson, look!"

A half-circle of constables were stepping forward, surrounding us. The largest, stiffest one said, "Well, there, is that were the Inspector went? What might you blokes be doing with him?"

"Dawson," whispered Basil. "This is the exact spot were the carrot lay. I just realised the weapon that bludgeoned Vole was laying in the space it originally occupied. It was all cleverly planned! Now, it seems like the major stumbling block in our case-- will be prison walls!

Chapter 8 - Basil's Plan.

Vole had been carefully carried back to town, while Basil and I were apprehended and roughly dragged back to the police station. My facial expressions must have loudly announced my feeling of protest, for Basil laid his paw on my shoulder and whispered, "Never mind, old bean." His reassuring voice assured me he knew how to escape the situation- with brain and not brawn.

While Vole was taken to a small hospital to be tended to, my companion and I were showed to a dank, dusty prison cell with cold stone walls, a bench filled with splinters, iron bars dirty and rusted, and barely enough room for three people. It had obviously been purposely designed for discomfort. Two beefy coppers stood as guards outside the heavy stone door.

Basil took off his Inverness, laid it on the floor, and relaxed as much as possible, for he was physically long-suffering. I sat on the bench, shivering in the cold, breathing the stale air, and realising that at least two eyes were always staring at us through the tiny window, making conversation uncomfortable, like so much else.

My cellmate looked up at me weakly and smiled. "Come on, Dawson, old chap, can't you see the irony? We've been sharing rooms for years now, and as soon as you move out, we're sharing a cell for who-knows-how-long."

I couldn't understand my friend's cool behaviour. "Basil, don't you realise we've been framed for assaulting and possibly attempting to murder a Scotland Yard Inspector?! And you're taking it so light-heartedly?"

(And, as I said this, I never forgot the eye of the beholder was upon me, an emotion which shook me.)

Basil chuckled. "Have you forgotten- my profession?" he asked. Suddenly, he had seized both the guard's attention, and intentionally. I could see his plan unfolding.

"What was that?" asked one, with a Cockney accent.

"Pardon?" I quickly asked, forging a look of suprise.

"You, the skinny bloke," the guard answered. Basil turned around "nervously".

"Yes, sir?" he asked, a pale look on his face.

"What was that you just said?" asked the other constable.

"Well, umm," stammered Basil, very convincingly.

"Spit it out, or we'll get our superiors!" he demanded.

"Suddenly, Basil went very sly. "You do that," he dared.

The guards were very interested now. "Mouse, what are you saying?"

"Come close to the bars, so I can whisper," said Basil. The guards obeyed.

"Well, I'm a bit of an agent for the goverment. A special agent. My employer works in Whitehall." Here Basil grinned wickedly. "He has enough power to permanently close your pitiful profession at Scotland Yard. He can arrange that whoever did this act is found, or even," he added, "arrange it to seem like it never happened."

Four eyebrows were hoisted in the air, and one guard was sweating so that he looked more anxious than Basil had. Basil was still flashing his evil grin when one of them managed, "Let's go- - get the Inspector," and they were off.

At the time, I didn't understand his plan. That is, until he turned to me, his snicker turning into a friendly smile, and asked, "Don't you remember my brother Myerricroft?"

TO BE CONTINUED...