The detective sat with brier pipe.
Brooding over the denouement that he himself had so recently solved… with the Doctor’s help of course.
Ah yes. Ah yes.
How he had with chatoyant eye, discovered the hidden knife the Doctor had stepped on.
“How simple a knife really is. How something that glitters so brightly can be used for such a dark deed like murder, for example.” He mused as smoke swirled in an evanescent above his head.
He remembered it all, sitting there in heavy oak chair.
How the Doctor and he had walked in the petrichor of the slippery streets they had stalked for a man, only to find a knife glimmering with blood newly drawn.
Tretiorous city.
A pastiche he mused once more.
Big Ben chimed with lassitude.
He looked down now at the killers blade tightly in his grip.
The knife gleamed smugly up at him, as if surreptitiously saying “There’s more than meets the eye.”
He had said that time and time again, with woebegone air only to himself.
Then he stood with knife in hand and brier pipe clentched between his teeth.
The detective adjusts his cap and cape.
Peering over the city.
There is more work to be done, he knew.
He always knew.
The game is a-foot.
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