There are monsters in Mirkwood!

Growing up is hard, but it’s even harder when you are a dwarf, living in a small town in Nebraska, where other kids physically torment you and everyone else shuns you, leaving you as an outcast. If you’re Dr. Robert “Mongo” Frederickson, you might even move to New York City and get a PhD in criminology, becoming a university professor after giving up a highly successful career in the circus. It’d take a lot to bring you back to your home town… such as the death of a favourite nephew.

Tommy was a bright kid. He had an incredibly high IQ and was a veritable wizard with a computer. He was also a very big fan of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, and was part of a group of kids who played a game called “Sorscience”, where you score points by matching real-life phenomena to events from The Lord of the Rings. He and a fellow player were discovered dead, apparently a murder-suicide between two young gay lovers. The town is shocked and so nobody minds it when the whole incident is covered up as quickly as possible. But Mongo is then hired by an unusual person: Coop Lugmor, who abused Mongo when they were children, tries to hire the dwarf to investigate the deaths. According to Coop, his younger brother was no “fag” and he wants Mongo to prove it and catch the person who did this.

Tale as Old as Time

Inspector Alan Grant is sick in a hospital bed, through the magic of a plot device. (I believe it was a broken leg, but I don’t know why this would require such an extended stay in hospital.) Anyways, he is bored, bored, bored… with nothing to do, he is encouraged to take a look at some famous historical riddle and try to solve it from his bed. And so he becomes fascinated with the figure of Richard III, and decides to investigate whether the king really was the heinous killer of the Princes in the Tower.

It seems that everyone everywhere is in love with this book, and with Josephine Tey in general. Interest in Tey and this book surged with the discovery of Richard III’s bones. Because the ghost of Harry Stephen Keeler was still active in the blogosphere at the time, the news story hit just a few days after I’d finally purchased a copy of this book, intending to read it. But because a lot of people who had no idea what they were talking about suddenly became authorities on King Richard, Tey, and GAD in general, I decided to wait for a while.

I'm Just Wild About Harry

Meanwhile at the Internet State Penitentiary...

The clock struck four A.M.  and the moonlight shone dimly through the window of the prison cell, the one on death row at the Internet State Penitentiary. Inside, four men – of which I was a part! – were contemplating the inevitable destruction of three of their members within a few hours. The Irishman got up and addressed the group:

“Gentlemen,” he said, “if I know yew as I t’ink I dew, it seems probable that ye’re all contemplatin’ yer inevitable destruction in a few hours. But perhaps we’d best be getting’ on with yer contest?”

“Of course,” said I, “but before we do so perhaps it is best we review the circumstances under which we found ourselves here.”

The Adventure of the Haunting that led to the Riddle of the Travelling Skull

It was obvious, when I was stopped by the Russian, that no good would come of our encounter. For what good has ever come from a Russian stopping a person on the street, especially one of Polish descent? The person that is, not the street. But the Russian did stop me, and a conversation did take place. For I was not expecting anything out of the ordinary. Alas! At that time I knew nothing about Harry Stephen Keeler, nor the Dutchman, nor the mysterious Ramble House and the strange goings-on in the blogosphere.

“Ah, Patreek! Hit eess yew!” the Russian exclaimed. “Haff yew a meenit?”

I knew the Russian. Sergey, I believe his name was, and an informant he had become for everyone over the last several years. For he seemed to know everything. All one had to do was to stop him and ask him a question, and answer it he would. And over time, as these things tend to happen, people began to call him "the Russian" or "the Gogol." I knew not the reason for this nickname, but it seemed to fit him.

“Well,” I replied, “I suppose I could spare some time. For I wasn’t doing anything in particular. As a matter of fact, I was heading back home to read my brand-new book, The Purple Parrot by Clyde B. Clason. But if you want something, I suppose my literary endeavours can wait.” And with that, I tucked Mr. Book back under my coat.