Basil and The Lost Colony Part 1

Basil and The Lost Colony
A Basil of Baker Street Mystery
by Eve Titus

Transcribed by Skye and edited by E. Grimes

{Ms. Titus's Dedication}
For Mr. Vincent Starrett
Dean of Sherlockian Scholars

Cast of Characters

BASIL an English mouse detective
DR. DAWSON his friend and associate
MRS. JUDSON their mousekeeper
EDVARD HAGERUP a museum mouse
THE FAVERSHAM SISTERS the finders of the clue
CYRIL a stoolpigeon
RELDA a mouse opera star
PROFESSOR RATIGAN arch villain
BIG TUPPY AND RUSSMER the villain's helpers
ELMO THE GREAT a kindhearted St. Bernard
THE ADORABLE SNOWMOUSE a shaggy mouse

Mouse Mountaineers (alphabetically):
LORD ADRIAN
MAHARAJAH OF BENGISTAN
ANTOINE CHERBOU
TILLARY QUINN
YOUNG RICHARD
VINCENZO STARRETTI*

VILLAGERS
GANGSTERS
TELLMICE

(*Named after Mr. Starrett, in Ms. Titus' dedication above. ~Editors' Note )

Chapter 1:
Ambushed!

An arrow with strange markings was the clue that sent Basil of Baker Street scurrying off to Switzerland in search of
the Lost Colony.

Some mice claim that the Sealed Mousehole Mystery best displayed Basil's genius. I beg to differ. The Case of the Lost Colony was clearly the most extraordinary exploit of this extraordinary detective.

Did it not take him to another land, to lead expedition of thirty-two mice up a towering mountain? Was he not pursued by Professor Ratigan, sinister ruler of the mouse underworld?

And what of the shaggy mouse? Were it not for Basil, the giant creature might never have-

But I fear I am scampering ahead of my tale....

It all began in London, England, on a chill April afternoon in the year 1891.

I, Dr. David Q. Dawson, sat alone before the fire. The cozy flat Basil and I shared was in the model town of Holmestead, erected on a high shelf in the cellar of Baker Street, Number 221 B.

Abovestairs lived Basil's hero, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. There my friend learned all his detective lore by listening as the great man discussed his cases with his associate, Dr. Watson. It was not surprising, therefore, that Basil came to be called the Sherlock Holmes of the Mouse World.

This afternoon he prowled the streets of London, tracking Professor Ratigan's gang. He had jailed all but the Professor and two gangsters. Suddenly I heard unsteady steps on the stair-could it be Basil? I flung the door wide--it was he!

Face scratched, clothes torn, he staggered inside.

"Ambushed! Ambushed by a starving Siamese!"

His whiskers twitched. "I turned a corner on Stilton Square, and two blue eyes met mine. A voice said, 'Basil of Baker Street, I presume?' I nodded.

"'I've been expecting you,' said the Siamese softly.

"Then it sprang, but I sprang faster, down through a crack in the pavement. Back and forth above me moved the kitten's claw. 'This cat-and-mouse game is not for you,' I told myself. I raced along underground and climbed up on James Street.

"But the Siamese spied me! My dear doctor, have you ever seen a kitten coming toward you at a full gallop? It's a sight I would sooner forget!"

He sighed, and sank back in his chair.

"End the suspense, Basil--how did you escape?"

He winked. "I didn't. The cat ate me."

"Stop joking, Basil. What did you do?"

"Dawson, I am always prepared for emergencies. In my pocket was a packet of catnip. I tore it open, tossed it at the monster, and fled. Clearly, the cat preferred catnip to mousenip, else I should not be here to tell the tale."

His eyes narrowed to slits. "That ambush was arranged! In all England, there is only one mouse who can bargain safely with cats, only one mouse who owns a suit of armor-the villainous Professor Ratigan!"

"Armor stolen from the British Mousmopolitan Museum," said I. "It's a pity that this brilliant Ratcliffe graduate chose a life of crime. You've been trailing him and his gang for weeks, and you're exhausted. Let the police finished the job. The International Society of Mouse Mountaineers meets in Switzerland next week. Climbing an alp of two will make a new mouse of you!"

"No doubt, Dawson, but the old one will have to do. I'll not leave London until Ratigan is behind bars. Meanwhile, I shall seek relaxation. Mr. Holmes relaxes with indoor pistol practice, but I prefer the bow and arrow."

The target was an oil painting of a horned owl. A crack shot, Basil was also a walking encyclopedia on the history of archery.

PING! An arrow whizzed past my right ear. PING! Another shot past my left. PING! PING!

The arrows flashed by, faster and faster. I began to feel as though I might turn out to be the target, instead of the owl. I feared to remain in my chair, and I feared to rise from it.

"Really, Basil! Why don't you practice outdoors as William Tell did? Spare me! Next you'll place a grape upon my helpless head, and aim at it!"

"Splendid idea, Dawson, but it must wait."

He had put down his bow, and was peering intently out of the front window.

"A client approaches," he said. "Seems like a lively looking fellow. However, unless the case concerns the Professor, I shall decline it. Nothing must halt me in my pursuit of the ruthless Ratigan!"

Chapter 2:
The Mysterious Arrow

The bell clanged. Soon Mrs. Judson, our mousekeeper, rapped on the door and admitted a caller.

Basil rose to shake paws with a tall, muscular mouse.

"Good day," said the stranger. "You are Basil?"

"I am, sir. Your studies at the British Mousmopolitan must be fascinating. But do you not long for the colder climates of your native Norway?"

"I do indeed. We've never met--how did you know?"

Basil smiled. "It's unreasonably cold for April. The mice outside wear coats. You do not, yet your paws are warm. Your slight accent is Norwegian, and the envelope you hold bears the Mousmopolitan imprint."

The caller beamed. "What more did you deduce?"

"That you are Edvard Hagerup, from Tromsö, near the Arctic, an author who writes about the cat family. Your hobby is our national game of cricket."

"Amazing! Astounding! Astonishing!" cried Hagerup.

"Elementary, my dear author. I observed, I analyzed, I deduced. Dangling from your watch chain is the Award of the
Golden Cheddar. In 1888 Edvard Hagerup of Tromsö won it for his fine book, Our Feline Foes. I perceive a pamphlet
in your pocket entitled The Sticky Wicket in Cricket. This tells me your hobby."

"Remarkable, Basil! And your own hobby is archery. That is why the Museum sent me to see you."

He took a sheet of paper from the envelope he held.

"Be good enough to read this aloud, Basil."

The detective did so:

Dear Mice of the Mousmopolitan-

My sister and I are retired English schoolmistresses, now living in Switzerland. The subjects we taught were botany and zoology.

We enjoy mountain climbing. One day, rounding a rock, we came face to face with a giant shaggy mouse. He had a shovel-shaped tail, long white fur, and stood seven inches high!

In his arms was a little lost mouse! Thrusting the child at us, he fled, vanishing from sight above the snowline. The villagers say he often returns lost mouselings, fleeing before he can be thanked. He is of no known species, and they named him the Adorable Snowmouse.

In his haste he dropped an arrow, which we enclose. Its design is unlike any we have ever seen. Also enclosed is a sketch of the Snowmouse, which we did from memory.

What do your scientists make of all this?

Yours most anxiously,
Flora and Fauna Faversham

Basil rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Hmmm. May I have the arrow and the sketch, Hagerup?"

After inspecting them carefully, he said, "The Snow Lemming, or Dicrostonyx, lives in the Arctic. His fur turns white in winter and he grows an extra claw for shoveling snow. Mother Nature has equipped the Snowmouse in much the same way. The shovel-shaped tail is for shoveling snow, and the white fur makes him invisible to his enemies. But note the Adorable Snowmouse's low brow, the small head. The brainbox must be tiny, unlike the large brain of today's civilized mouse. In my opinion he is a throwback to primitive cavemice, probably the last of his species!"

"Brilliant thinking!" said Hagerup. "And the arrow?"

Basil took scrapings from the shaft of the arrow, and studied them under the microscope before he spoke.

"No cavemouse made this! An arrow has four parts-the head, or pile, the body, or shaft, the nock, or notch, and the feathers, glued and tied to the shaft.

"Turkish mice made the finest arrows known. The short feathers show this is of Turkish design, and it is inscribed with a quaint saying in Turkish, which I translate:

THIS ARROWHEAD WILL NEVER HIT A GOOD MOUSE

Hagerup and I leaned forward, keenly interested.

"Earth and grass scrapings prove this arrow was recently used. My dating methods tell me it is a year old. Yet I know of no arrowsmith today who could duplicate its beauty. Think back to the thirteenth century, my friends! A traveling Turkish arrowsmith, Byzant by name, visited Switzerland. He married, has four sons, and joined the dwellers in William Tell's cellar. A Byzant arrow was as finely crafter as a Stradivarius violin. The Tellmice appointed him Official Arrowsmith. And this arrow--"

We could hold back no longer. "You mean--"

"Precisely. This arrow was made by a descendant of Byzant! This arrow is the clue mice have sought for six centuries! This arrow may solve the Greatest Mystery in Mouse History--THE LOST COLONY!"

Chapter 3:
The Detective's Decision

Deeply stirred, we stared into the fire, recalling the oft-told tale of the Tellmice.

They lived about six hundred years ago, in William Tell's time, when Switzerland was ruled by the cruel Gessler. The tyrant forced Tell to shoot an arrow at an apple on top of his young son's head. Tell's aim was true, and his son was unhurt. He escaped Gessler's men, and took to the hills. From there he led the Swiss patriots in their fight for freedom.

In Tell's cellar lived a tiny tyrant, Heddmann. Aided by foreign soldier-mice, he became a dictator.

He even set his hat on a pole, as Gessler had done, and imprisoned the mice who would not bow before it.

But one day Heddmann went too far-he proclaimed a fifty percent tax on cheese! The enraged mice packed their belongings and fled to the hills.

When Switzerland won its freedom on August 2, 1291, many climbers set out to tell the Tellmice, but no one was ever able to find them.

Basil broke the silence. "Breathes there the mouse who has not longed to find the Lost Colony? I'll take the case Hagerup. I'll question the Faversham sisters. They live in Käsedorf, where the mountaineers meet. I'll form an expedition there. And I'll leave the Professor to the policemice of London."

He paced the room. "The Tellmice of 1291 were probably helped by the Snowmice. Once I find today's Snowmouse, I'll find today's Tellmice. And I shall leave no stone unturned to accomplish this!"

"Would that I could join you!" said Hagerup. "Alas, I cannot, being engaged in highly dangerous research on my new book, Inside Cats."

"No doubt it will be a mousterpiece," said Basil.

After Hagerup had gone, Basil said, "I'd like one last stab at learning Ratigan's whereabouts--I'll consult a stoolpigeon. Come along, my dear Dawson!"

We were soon down at the docks, where scores of pigeons strutted about.

Basil called to one who stood apart. "Psst! Cyril!"

The stoolpigeon sidled over. "Good day, Guv'n'r. Needin' any information?"

Basil gave him a plum pudding Mrs. Judson had made.

"I'm interested in the Professor's whereabouts."

Cyril flew off. While we waited, Basil told me the bird had once been a carrier pigeon for the Crown. Caught selling secrets to foreign birds, he'd been dismissed in disgrace and had become a stoolpigeon.

He was soon back, with surprising news--he had seen Ratigan coming out of our own cellar, at 221 B Baker Street!

"'E gave me a message for ye, Basil. But it'll cost extra--I want your deerstalker cap!"

"Here, take it," said the detective impatiently. "I've others at home. Quickly, Cyril--the message!"

"Ratigan said, 'Tell that snoopy sleuth I stole the arrow and sketch by trickin' Mrs. Judson!"

"Heavens!" cried Basil. "I fear for our mousekeeper's safety! We must leave at once!"

A two-horse van came by, and we hitched a ride.

I looked back at Cyril, proudly parading in Basil's deerstalker. Poor pigeon! The others snatched it from him, passing it from beak to beak until it was torn to tatters.

Mrs. Judson was safe. A messenger mouse had come for the arrow and the sketch, saying we had sent him.

"THINK!" said Basil. "Did the messenger have a high, bulging brow, and deepset eyes?"

"The very one, Mr. Basil! He spoke the King's English, and he was so polite, too."

"My dear mousekeeper, that messenger was none other than Professor Ratigan, my mortal enemy!"

"Gracious!" She placed her paw over her heart.

"It is well that you did not oppose him. He is cruel and ruthless. Had he nibbled your excellent cheese soufflé, you would now be cooking for crooks!"

He heaved a heavy sigh. "I recall every last detail of the arrow and the sketch, but I regret that the Professor has them. I have broken up his gang. He is bent on revenge, and will do all in his power to keep me from finding the Lost Colony!"

End Part I
Continue to Part II
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