The Case of the Demented Diasporia

My dear Holmes,

It is your most humble petitioner, Inspector Lestrade. It has been some time since I have stopped requesting assistance in the troubling matter of the salon frequented by Lady Chatterley and her merry band of sycophants, lickspittles and refugees from Bedlam. That curious case had dragged on and on but is now considered dead. It seems to have escaped the notice of so many who at one time claimed the deepest interest and concern, but seems that den of iniquity has sunken into irrelevancy and is no longer our concern. However now it seems that new developments in different precincts lead me to believe that we must concentrate on more immediate concerns.

As I had previously noted in one of  my prior missives, I or my agents had at one time or another have attended many of the salons of the noted conversationalist and dilettante Lady Chatterley where Lord Douchebag was a frequent and much valued guest. In fact it has been told to me that the Lady in question has often referred to him as wonderful. What is most striking is that his name has not passed the lips of any of the many participants for lo these many months and it is as if he never existed. He is never referred to or referenced in any way which is passing strange since so many professed an acute admiration for his talents such as they were.  This place is now deserted and lonely most of the time as so many of the participants have fled to what they must feel are more salubrious environment.

The Yard has ceased its inquiries into the doings of this perverted salon as contact has soiled the reputations and the very psyche of any agents we have sent to observe the untoward activities of these demented sybarites. It seems that this group has scattered to the four winds never to be gathered together in its disreputable glory. Several have decamped to a pestilence filled tavern run by a drunken Latin sailor who has not two wits to rub together. It had some currency for a while but now it seems to be have been mostly deserted as most have been chased away by the ranting conversation of the chef who never lets one word do the work when fifty could be shouted at the top of his lungs. His discourses on politics and society are loudly and emphaticly shouted and most ignore it as best they can because they wait his discussion of the proper preparation of spotted dick which is his specialty.

Some others of these poor souls have decamped for all places a solicitor’s office where conversation is carried on in muted tones subject to rules and regulations that are beyond my keen. The level of discourse seems quite banal yet soothing to many of a limited intellect and diminished sensibility similar to that of a toad or turtle. How this has come to pass is a mystery but it is to be hoped that these people will amuse themselves sufficiently so that they will not trouble the rest of society.

My question to you is do you know of a way to ensure that this rabble will be contained in these various sinkholes and kept away from any social intercourse with the rest of our society. I feel that the safety of her Majesty’s realm depends upon it.

I hope all is well with you and Doctor Watson and I hope that he has recovered from that strange malady that struck him last December. I note that he has not returned to the club since he lost all of his hair and the little finger on his left hand. I trust that this was the result of a case and not a more serious malady. I can suggest certain exercises that might ensure the return of certain hirsute characteristics but it would only be effective for his palm and not help him with the loss of a finger so to speak.

In any event give him my regards.

I remain as always,
Your obedient servant,
Inspector G. Lestrade
Scotland Yard
December 15, 1899