Sherlock Holmes The Case of the Exploding Christmas Pudding

Comedy - A holiday comedy podcast, Dr. John H. Watson recounts a delightfully absurd mystery that tests Sherlock Holmes' renowned deductive skills and Watson's digestive endurance. Set in the bustling streets of Victorian London, Holmes and Watson are thrust into a baffling case involving the spontaneous detonation of Christmas puddings across the city. As London’s festive spirit is marred by explosive desserts, the duo must unravel the bizarre occurrences before the holiday season crumbles into chaos.

Holmes, ever the eccentric genius, is distracted by philosophical musings on pudding explosions and the deeper meaning of Christmas cheer, while Watson struggles to convince him that he might be more involved in the case than he realizes. Between sarcastic banter, off-key violin solos, and a crescendo of chaos, the pair find themselves navigating a convoluted plot involving a taxidermied peacock, botched seances, and a villainous Professor Moriarty, who has set his sights on London’s left shoes.

As the puddings continue to explode and Holmes' theories grow more elaborate, it becomes a race against time to save London’s Christmas from a culinary catastrophe. Full of witty repartee, hilarious misunderstandings, and absurd twists, The Case of the Exploding Christmas Puddings is a fast-paced comedy caper that serves up a hearty helping of festive fun—complete with an extra dollop of chaos, custard, and a side of mystery.

Radio Reborn's Mindstream Players Christmas Special.   Written, edited, mixed and directed by Tom Konkle     Starring Kurtis Bedford and Dr. John Watson, Tom Konkle as Sherlock Holmes, Stephanie Stearns Dulli as Mrs. Hudson, Lady Arabella, Penelope Chutney-Featherstone, Pete Lutz and Barnaby Winklethorpe, Jude Gerard Prest as Figgy, Gino C. Vianelli as Humphery Carruthers, Bob Clendenin and Algernon Butterworth, as ? as Madam Zepyra.

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/TomKonkle

If you're enjoying the show, please leave us a review on Apple Podcasts or any place you're listening, and subscribe now for future episodes.

Transcript

Opening Music.
SFX: Sound of bustling London streets, horse carriages, and distant chatter. The sound
gradually fades into the background as Dr. Watson begins to speak.
Dr Watson : I am Dr. John H. Watson, the faithful chronicler of the most extraordinary
and enigmatic figure of our times - Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It is I who have the dubious
honor of recounting The Case of the Exploding Christmas Puddings.
Musical sting. Followed by an explosion and wet sound of pudding splat.

Dr. Watson: A holiday mystery that tests not only the remarkable deductive powers of
my esteemed colleague, but also the endurance of my own digestive system. It was a
chilly December in the year of our Lord, 18-something-or-other, and London was aglow
with the festive spirit, a spirit that was, I must confess, was rather dampened by the
sudden and inexplicable detonation of Christmas puddings. Here in the modest yet
chaotic abode of 221B Baker Street, Holmes, in his usual fashion, was deeply
engrossed in an activity that, to the untrained eye, may have appeared as mere
indolence but was, in fact, a rigorous exercise of his unparalleled intellectual faculties.
SFX: Sound of a violin playing off-key, followed by the abrupt stopping of the music, as
if someone has just had a realization.
Dr Watson: Yes Holmes?
Holmes: Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Thinking. (beat) Hmmmmmm.
SFX: Sound of a violin playing off key again.
WATSON: Holmes, I implore you, can the violin endure a respite? It's Christmas, not a
druidic pagan death ritual.
HOLMES: Well spotted, Watson. I am in fact playing The Dismal Dirge of the Dusky
Druids for Christmas! Ironically, a time of cheer, goodwill, and the perfect cover for the
most ingenious of crimes! This cacophony is but a metaphor for the chaos of the human
condition.
WATSON: If the human condition had a volume knob, now would be a splendid time to
turn it down.
HOLMES: What is this “volume knob” you speak of my dear Watson?
WATSON: I am currently engaged in a rather groundbreaking investigation of my own
design. Upon its completion, all that remains is to wait for someone to invent a suitable
phonograph with an adjustable acoustic horn to which I’ll connect the knob.
Revolutionary, don't you think?
Holmes: Ah, Watson, your unyielding faith in the necessity of this so-called volume
control is as touching as it is hopelessly optimistic. I dare say the only time you'll ever
use that knob is in a moment of sheer auditory desperation.
Watson: The only 'knob' in this room, Holmes, is invariably the one offering unsolicited
critiques of my avant-garde scientific endeavors.

SFX: Urgent rapping at the door. Violin stops. Mrs. Hudson bursts in
MRS HUDSON: (cockney older) Mr. Holmes, there is a chap outside and his
appearance suggests he's been wrestling with more than just his conscience. He's a
whirlwind of urgency and tweed.
WATSON: What is his name, Mrs. Hudson?
HOLMES: No need to ask Watson as the man in question is no doubt a Barnaby
Winklethorpe of 29 Copperfield Street, London and the owner of The Spotted Dick
Pudding Pantry.
WATSON: Good lord Holmes. How did you know all that?
Mrs Hudson: It’s on the card I just handed to Mr. Holmes.
Holmes: Yes. Yes...a card in my hand that I hope to find the splattering upon it is only a
very distressed custard and not the ardor of its owner. One does prefer one's desserts
without the added zest of human exuberance, Watson.
Watson: Taste it, Holmes. Lick it to discover its nature.
Mrs Hudson: Dr. Watson, love, I've told you more times than I can count, don't go
wagglin' that tongue of yours around these parts. Here I am, sweatin' buckets to keep
this place spick and span, and there you are, tastin' every mystery spot like it's
afternoon tea. One of these days, you'll get a taste of somethin' not even your fancy
doctorin' can cure!
Holmes:. Watson, while I commend your enthusiasm for empirical research, I must
assert that the utilization of one's tongue as a primary investigative tool is both
unsanitary and, dare I say, completely disgusting especially vis a vis things that only
might be custard. To lick anything unknown is as scientifically unsound as your mind,
Watson. The discernment of a substance's properties requires a far more refined
methodology than the haphazard application of some dimwitted taste buds, however
keen they may be.
Watson: Thank you, Holmes, for taking my side on this. It's refreshing to see you
appreciate my methods for once
Holmes: Now speaking of methods, I might add Barnaby Winklethorpe always carries a
taxidermied peacock with him as a “plus one” at parties and is obsessed with plums.
Watson: Good Lord, Holmes. How did you ever guess that from his card?

Holmes: Mr. Winklethorpe has been standing behind you in the doorway, my dear
Watson. Ever the keen observer of the human condition, I see. Your remarkable talent
for overlooking the glaringly obvious is, as always, a source of both wonder and, I
confess, a modicum of unmitigated repugnance, the likes of which are rivaled only by
the most loathsome of societal blights.
Watson: Cheers Holmes! Mr. Winklethorpe, do sit down old chap.
Winklethorpe: Uh, yes, Mr. Holmes, as you know, I own a bakery and I was catering a
charity carnival to raise money for better dental care for the poor this Christmas.
SFX Chair scrape and a vase falls and breaks.
Winklethorpe: Sorry. That’s the peacock I’m afraid. It gets a bit unwieldy strapped to me
like this.
Mrs Hudson:Oh, dearie me! Your peacock's more of a bull in a china shop, ain't he, Mr.
Winklethorpe? I'll sort this mess, don’t fret. Maybe next time we can pop a broom in his
tail feathers – make him useful around here!
Watson: Winklethorpe! Yes, I read about you in the newspaper. I know that you have
worked for years in charity to bring children’s dental hygiene up to the high, English
standard

Winklethorpe: Indeed. Well, this year, just as they were unveiling the figgy-
Holmes: Tell me, Winklethorpe, what has brought you here with such

haste yet you allowed time for stopping by a social gathering for charity
attended by your in-laws? Couldn’t even find a cab, could you?
Winklethorpe: Holmes, how on earth did you know I’d been to a party at my in-laws?
Holmes: All too obvious, even elementary. That you’d been unable to find a cab is
simple enough – your pants legs have the splatter pattern of a man that alternately ran
and walked a good distance. The mud splatters vary in hue, the driest being mud I
recognize as being found in the Piccadilly area, where, I believe your in-laws reside.
The newest being the darker mud that is found around Baker Street. Unless you caught
a cab after running around Picadilly, then took it the three blocks to Baker Street, got out
and ran the rest of the way, I would say that you caught no cab whatsoever.
Winklethorpe Remarkable Holmes, but that does not explain how you knew that I had
been to a party at my in-laws.

Holmes: Indeed, my observation was less a product of deduction and more an intimate
knowledge of Christmas puddings. I couldn't help but notice that curious brown stain on
your right hand. One fervently hopes it's the result of an encounter with a festive plum
pudding dessert, rather than, say, a clandestine expedition into your trouser pockets to
quell the trembling anxieties brought on by tonight's public charity event attended by
in-laws?
Winklethorpe:: Ah, you've caught me, Sherlock. It is indeed pudding, albeit a rather
unfortunate casualty of my culinary enthusiasm. Far more palatable, I assure you, than
any scandalous tale of trouser-bound escapades one might concoct under duress of
social anxiety with my in-laws.
Watson Good lord! Holmes, you never fail to astound me.

Winklethorpe: Now, as to why I raced over here. Sherlock, the most violent of explosion-
Holmes cuts Winklethorpe off.

Holmes: Watson, do you realize that in all the time we have known each other, sharing
the same rooms, facing innumerable perils, we have yet to address each other by our
given names.
Watson: Is that so, Holmes? I never really thought about it. I wonder why
that is. Anyway, Holmes...
Holmes: Difficult to say, Watson. It could be any of several reasons.
Watson: Really, I can't think of one.
Holmes: Come, come, Watson, surely something comes to mind.

Winklethorpe: Er...about the exploding christmas puddings-
Watson: Perhaps it has to do with the singular nature of your name. Sherlock does not

seem to be an easy epithet to use.
Holmes: (Chuckling a bit) Most assuredly it isn't. But at best that can be but a partial
explanation, your name, John, is an easy name to say, and my brother Mycroft has no
trouble addressing me as Sherlock.
Watson: True, I hadn't thought of that. What other reasons can you see?

Holmes: Two, mainly. First, and I suspect foremost, is the repressive nature of Victorian
society itself.
Watson: Eh?
Winklethorpe:(awkwardly) So. Eh, gentlemen, would you like to come ‘round the bakery

and see what’s happened? There’s figgy pudding splattered all over the place-
Holmes cuts him off.

Holmes: Yes, Watson, the world in which we live is extremely formal. Indeed, I
would venture so far as to say that we live in a time that is appalled by any display
of familiarity. There, alas, I fear that the lower classes have one up on us. Their
lives are not nearly so regimented as ours, and they do not follow the same
restrictive rules of society as we do.
Watson: Fascinating, Holmes, truly fascinating. And your second reason?
Holmes: Repressed homosexual feelings.
Watson: I'm not sure that I'd heard you correctly, Holmes.
Holmes: Come, come, Watson. There is no need to look so surprised. Surely all the
signs are there. You must really learn to see with your mind as well as with your eyes,
Watson.
Watson: Holmes?
Winthorpe: Perhaps we should, uh, return to the matter of the exploding Christmas
puddings?
Holmes: Let’s apply my celebrated deductive methods to myself, shall we? Observe: I, a
solitary man in my prime, cohabitating exclusively with another man – you, dear
Watson. I possess a palpable disdain for the fairer sex, an unbridled passion for
theatrical disguises, and a peculiar fondness for opera. And let us not forget my troupe
of juvenile informants, the Baker Street Irregulars.
Watson: Yes, well I did wonder about that lot. And the showtunes.

Holmes: Here I am, a man full grown, and I have any number of prepubescent street
urchins at my beck and call night and day to help me in my endeavors. Does that not
bespeak of anything to you, Watson?
Watson: I've always felt that you were a might eccentric, but never homo...
Holmes: Watson, I am surprised that a medical man would be so shocked. Surely you
realize that it is a natural enough occurrence. All manner of animals have there quota of
non-heterosexuals, why should man be any different, eh?
Watson: Holmes, I don't know what to say. Surely you know that... , I mean, you have
met my wife, Mary, I uh ...
Holmes: Watson, set your mind at ease, my old friend. It is not your affections which I
seek. In fact, I don't seek any, I am very much involved already, and have been for
some time.
Watson: Really Holmes? I had no idea. Who the lucky la..., uhm, cha..., person? Do I
know them?
Holmes chuckles.
Holmes: You do indeed, Watson, you do indeed. The lucky fellow is none other than
Inspector Lestrade.
Watson sounds shaken.
Watson: Lestrade? Holmes, he’s so beneath you. Surely you could do better than that
bumbling bobby.
Holmes: Dear, dear sweet Watson, always looking out for my interests. No, Watson, he
may not be my peer in analytical thought, but he is unmatched in other, equally
important areas.
Watson: Holmes, I think that this conversation has reached its conclusion, I don’t want
any, (beat), details, I’m not sure that I could handle it.
Holmes: Watson, Watson. You do so underestimate me, my dear old thing. The
intricacies of my private existence are, and shall remain, an enigma wrapped in a
mystery, swathed in tweed. But, I’ve been rude, Mr. Winklethorpe, I seemed to have

been so bent on telling Watson my secret, that I completely forgot that you came here in
earnest. Pray tell, what is it you wanted to see me about?
Winklethorpe: Mr. Holmes, it's worse than a rebellion! It’s an uprising! My bakery, The
Spotted Dick Pudding Pantry, is under siege by its own Christmas puddings. They're
exploding with a ferocity that rivals Krakatoa! Mr. Holmes, you are needed!
Watson: I’m here too...I'm also part of this conversation, you know. I’m not just your arm
candy.
Winklethorpe: Ah. Yes. Of course, you can come too, Dr. Watson. We may encounter
a... medical emergency involving pudding.
Holmes: Watson, bring a spoon – we may need to negotiate with custard.
Watson: Of course, Holmes. Shall I also bring a napkin for the inevitable truce?
Music transition cue. SFX: Victorian London streets.
Watson: On this brisk and fog-laden morning, the streets of London were awash with
the muted clatter of carriages and the muffled footsteps of the early risers. Barnaby
Winklethopre guided us to one of the city's less frequented quarters despite Holmes
exclaiming that he already knew the way and getting us lost for some time. Upon
ignoring his insistent directions we arrived where the air was redolent with the rich,
yeasty fragrance of freshly baked bread. It was in this quaint corner that lay our
destination — a bakery of some repute, known far and wide for its delectable
confections and, most recently, for a matter most perplexing.The bakery, a charming
edifice of aged brick, stood modestly adorned with an elegantly painted sign that read
'The Spotted Dick Pudding Pantry'. Its windows, though small, beckoned the passerby
with a display of culinary delights that could tempt even the most abstemious of souls.
As we approached, the bell above the door announced our entry with a cheerful tinkle, a
sound that seemed to momentarily lift the gloom of the London morning.
SFX: Door bell tinkles
Watson: Inside, the air was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the damp chill that
clung to the city’s streets. Shelves lined with an array of baked goods, from hearty
loaves of bread to the most delicate of pastries, surrounded us. Yet, amidst this bounty
lay the heart of our inquiry — the Christmas puddings, which, as of late, had become
the unwitting agents of chaos. Holmes, with his usual alacrity, wasted no time in
acquainting himself with the scene. His keen eyes darted from one corner of the shop to
the other, absorbing every detail, every nuance. The baker, Crispin Oglethorpe-Snoot

a rotund gentleman with a countenance as warm as his oven, greeted us with a mixture
of trepidation and relief. I could discern from his manner that our presence was both
anticipated and welcomed.
Snoot: Gentlemen! I am so glad to meet you, Mr. Holmes and it’s good to see you again
as well Dr. Watson. I am Crispin Oglethorpe-Snoot.
Watson: I know. I said it in the narration.
Snoot: Most call me, Figgy.
Holmes: I must say, Figgy, if we graciously overlook the rather exuberant pudding
eruptions that appear to have festooned your décor, this establishment exudes an air of
tidiness. Watson, observe the arrangement of the goods, the meticulous organization,
the precision — this is a place where disorder is a stranger.
Watson: Indeed, the shop was a testament to the baker's art, each item placed with
care and consideration, a harmony of culinary discipline. Yet, in this very orderliness lay
the seeds of the mystery we were to unravel — a mystery that had its roots in the very
essence of the Christmas spirit. And then, of course, the puddings that exploded
everywhere.
Snoot: This is the site of a Christmas calamity of the highest order!
Holmes: However, Mr Winklethorpe, Spotted Dick is not considered a Christmas
pudding. It's a traditional British dessert, but it's distinct from what's typically referred to
as "Christmas pudding.”
Winklethorpe: Yes. I know. I own the bakery.
Holmes: Ah. You are the owner of this bakery and you named it the Spotted Dick
Pudding Pantry. Now, we are getting somewhere.
Winklethorpe: Spotted Dick is a simple steamed suet pudding containing dried fruit like
currants or raisins that gives it its "spotted" appearance. It’s the name because it's
served throughout the year, not just at Christmas. If the name of the bakery implied I
served only Christmas puddings it would have to be closed for eleven months out of the
year.
Holmes: However, I find it peculiar that puddings, typically docile by nature, have taken
to exploding with such enthusiasm under your care.

Winklethorpe: Quite right, Mr. Holmes. Puddings are generally known for their placid
nature. Least volatile of the lot, traditionally speaking, would be the Christmas pudding.
or 'plum pudding', which tends to be the least combustible of desserts.
Holmes: Ah, but of course, the Christmas pudding – is a culinary tapestry of dried fruits,
nuts, and the occasional splash of brandy. Aged like a fine wine, then set ablaze in a
ritualistic display of festive pyrotechnics. A veritable fruitcake inferno, if you will.
Watson : Good lord Mr Holmes I must admit that does sound delicious. Sometimes I like
to make a nice figgy pudding with saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur.
Holmes: Mr. Crispin Oglethorpe-Snoot, when did this pudding start exploding?.
Snoot: It must have been about three days ago. I was serving a pudding to Miss
Penelope Chutney-Featherstone there and it detonated.
Holmes: Just there? Where she is seated now?
Snoot: Yes, she hasn’t moved since that day.
Holmes: She hasn't moved?! Is she...dead.
Snoot: I don’t know. I was so mad about the pudding exploding I ran back into the
kitchen.
Watson: Figgy, you just left a body there in the dining area of the bakery...two days
ago?!
Snoot: That’s right. Sure, it might scare the other diners away, but that’s probably a
good thing given the puddings exploding violently all over the place.
Holmes: I see. I think I will examine Miss Penelope Chutney-Featherstone now.
Watson: Holmes, with his customary meticulousness, approached the figure of Miss
Penelope Chutney-Featherstone, who lay rather unceremoniously draped across the
wooden table in the midst of the bakery diner. The scene was one of curious disarray,
with the young lady amidst a chaotic spatter of pudding, her form as still as a statue
save for a mysterious scratching sound emanating from under her frilly dress. Holmes,
ever the observer, gently prodded at her and cast his keen eye over the peculiar
explosion of dessert that surrounded her.
Watson: It was through this keen observation that he deduced, with a certainty that
only he could muster, that Miss Chutney-Featherstone was very much in the land of the
living. Indeed, it appeared she had been so engrossed in her botanical sketching – a

task to which she dedicated her professional talents in the service of a popular men's
periodical on raw plants – that she had failed to register the tumultuous event of her
pudding's unexpected demise.
Such was her focus and concentration that the explosion had merely served to
reposition her, rather than rouse her from her artistic endeavor. Holmes then embarked
upon a startling series of deductions about the young lady, his mind weaving through
facts and fancies with the agility of a practiced acrobat. It was a cascade of reasoning
and conjecture that led him to a conclusion that Miss Chutney-Featherstone, a botanical
illustrator by trade, was none other than the infamous Jack the Ripper, the elusive
specter who had cast a shadow of terror over the Whitechapel district some years prior.
Holmes: Ah, Watson, cast your gaze upon Miss Chutney-Featherstone, artfully
obscured by her own sketchpad. Observe, if you will, the tenacious grip upon her pencil
– reminiscent, one might say, of a person engaged in far more sinister nighttime
pursuits.
Watson: Sinister nighttime pursuits? Steady on Holmes, you already told me your little
“secret.”
Holmes: Ah, Watson, observe! Look at the trajectory of pudding splatter, clearly
indicating a flair for the dramatic. its chaotic trajectory suggests a certain panache one
might employ in, oh, I don’t know, covering up a crime scene with dessert.
Watson: Dessert-based crime scene?
Holmes: Precisely, Watson! And let us not forget her botanical expertise – a veritable
trove of knowledge for concocting the most diabolical of vegetables. Look at her. She
appears as a vegetable now, in fact! Or, consider this – the humble celery stalk, an
unsuspecting vegetable, yet in the right hands, a formidable weapon for the
veggie-minded villain. It's elementary, my dear Watson, the plants, the pudding, the
pencil grip! Our Miss Chutney-Featherstone is none other than Jack the Ripper! A
conclusion so obvious, it's practically staring us in the face, smeared in pudding. Arrest
her immediately!
Watson: In the presence of Holmes's formidable intellect, even the most outlandish
theory seemed to take on a veneer of plausibility.
SFX: Feet come running in.
Holmes: Constables, this is none other than Jack the Ripper!
Constable: That’s Penelope Chutney-Featherstone. She’s of royal lineage, Mr. Holmes.

Holmes: Oh?
Constable: Oh yes. She’s descended from the Royal House of Chutney-Tart. Queen
Eclair the Elegant who married King Reginald Fondant the Fanciful and introduced
the kingdom to the art of pastry.
Penelope: Oh yes. I should have mentioned Sir Trifle the Tall is my distant cousin who
ascended the throne by virtue of being the tallest in the line of succession and he
instituted the annual "Festival of Layers" celebrating layered desserts.
Holmes: Ah. Nevermind then let her go.
SFX: Footsteps run away fast.
Winklethorpe: Now...about the exploding puddings...
Holmes: Yes? What of them?
Winklethorpe: That, Mr. Holmes, is precisely why I’ve summoned you to the Spotted
Dick Pudding Pantry. Just as my baker, a man of exemplary skill, mind you, was
arranging the new batch of puddings on the shelf – an endeavor he’s performed
countless times without incident – one of the confounded things decided to
spontaneously combust! And right as Miss Chutney-Featherstone, a regular customer
and botanical enthusiast, was served!
Snoot: And I assure you that is not what normally happens to my Christmas puddings.
It’s now rather unusual for anything I bake to explode.
Watson: Perhaps Holmes...since she is alive and witness to the event we should ask
Miss Chutney-Featherstone for the particulars.
Holmes: Talk? To a lady?
Watson: Yes.
Holmes: I suppose I could. Uh. Broach the subject. If the moment is right.
Featherstone: Since I am covered in pudding and still laying here, I should think this
would be a delightful time to converse about it.
Holmes: Ah! Miss...eh. Penelope. What is your recollection of the events...prior to the
pudding exploding on you?

Featherstone: The first thing I remember is my mother’s face, a portrait of maternal
affection, was framed by the soft glow of the oil lamp she held, casting a halo that
seemed to anoint her with an otherworldly grace. There was a mysterious awful scent I
thought was her, but I think it was emanating from none other than myself unwittingly
contributing my own distinctive fragrance to the room. A scent that spoke of the less
glamorous realities of early childhood.
Holmes: No need to recollect quite that far prior to the pudding incident, actually.
Featherstone: Oh dear. How far back should I have gone?
Watson: Miss, I think what Mr. Homes is interested in focusing on, any events
immediately prior to the pudding being served, not every event prior. Tell us anything
about recent events prior to today’s Christmas Pudding erupting on you and basting you
in custard-like sweetness and leaving you spread prone on the table.
Holmes: I don’t think you would have put it...quite that way, Watson. But, yes Miss
Chutney-Featherstone what events just...today or in very, very, very recent history do
you remember?
Penelope: I remember just yesterday I woke up and read in the newspaper.
Holmes: Yes.
Penelope: About the weather in London.
Holmes: Yes.
Penelope: Oh!
Holmes: Yes?
Penelope: I decided to wear my heavier green dress that day as the weather was to be

quite nippy-
Holmes: We seem to have fallen into a sort of redundant familiarity, Miss Penelope.

Penelope: Well, I am in distress, you know. It's not every day that one becomes the
unwitting target of an impromptu explosion of festive dessert.
Holmes: Yes. Again. Events actually related to the incident that happened. Here. With
you. And an exploding pudding.
Penelope: Ah. Of course. What can I recall?

Holmes: Just that. Did you notice anything unusual?
Penelope: Yes.
Holmes and Watson: What?
Penelope: Well, the pudding exploded.
Homes: Yes?
Penelope: {helpfully} That seemed a bit odd to me.
Holmes sighs frustrated.
Watson: In a voice tinged with both astonishment and a certain unshakable composure,
Miss Chutney-Featherstone recounted the events as she had experienced then.
Penelope: I was seated at a quaint table in the corner of the bakery, adorned with the
customary linens and silverware befitting an establishment of such standing, and I then
had ordered a serving of Mr. Snoot’s Christmas pudding – a dish renowned, until that
fateful day, more for its palatable qualities than for any pyrotechnic tendencies.
VOICE FADES into MUSIC TRANSITION AND UNDER
Watson: Miss Chutney- Featherstone continued her story saying Figgy himself, with the
practiced grace of a seasoned purveyor of fine baked goods, had delivered the pudding
posthaste to her at the table. No sooner had the dish been placed before her, an
occurrence most extraordinary and unsettling transpired. The pudding, devoid of any
visible ignition source or external provocation, erupted in a most dramatic fashion, much
to the shock and consternation of all present.
Music ends.
SFX: Wet explosion and crowd scatters.
Watson: Miss Chutney-Featherstone, with remarkable recall under the circumstances,
then mentioned a detail that piqued Holmes’s interest considerably.
Penelope: Just prior to the pudding’s unexpected combustion, I discerned what could
only be described as a high-pitched, nonsensical utterance, seemingly emanating from
the vicinity of the dessert itself. It said, (in high cartoonish voice) “WATSONDIDIT”!
Winklethorpe: (high-pitched) WATSONDIDIT? Yes, I think I heard that too!

Holmes: Just before the explosion?
Winklethorpe: No. Just now, when she said it.
Holmes: Stop helping, Winklethorpe.
Watson: This utterance, though brief and muddled amidst the chaos of the moment,
suggested an element of intentionality behind the event – a clue that, I observed, set
Holmes’s keen mind into a state of intense contemplation.
Penelope: The next thing I know I am covered in figgy pudding...
Snoot: No, I never!
Penelope: Not you, Figgy! The food. The pudding.
Snoot: Right. Of course. I mean, I’m a gentleman baker.
Watson: As Miss Chutney-Featherstone concluded her account, Holmes’s eyes
narrowed in thought, the gears of his prodigious intellect turning rapidly. It was evident
that this was no ordinary case of culinary misfortune, but rather a mystery that
beckoned for the unique analytical prowess of Sherlock Holmes.
Holmes: Interesting story, Miss Chutney-Featherstone.
Watson: Good lord. “Watsondidit”. Er. What could it mean, Holmes?”
Holmes: That’s not remarkable. Neither is the explosion.

Watson: No? But..um-
Holmes: Things explode every day, don’t they my dear Watson?

Watson: Not really.
Holmes: Watsondidit.
Watson: Indeed.
Holmes: Yes. Hmm. “Watsondidit,” unless I am very much mistaken, is a little-known
term deeply embedded in the arcane lore of British Christmas pudding making.
“Watsondidit” refers to a unique quality, achieved only through a process as mysterious
as it is rare. It is said that a Christmas pudding possesses the ‘WatsonDidIt”’ when it has
been steamed under a very specific set of conditions that align only once a decade.

Watson: I think you are very much mistaken, Holmes.
Holmes: Shh. Once mixed, the pudding is wrapped in a cloth spun from the silk of the
rare Hibernian Spindle Moth, a creature that, according to legend, feeds only on holly
leaves and mistletoe berries. This cloth is said to infuse the pudding with the very spirit
of Yuletide. The steaming must be done over a fire kindled with wood from an oak tree
that has witnessed at least a hundred winters, ensuring the heat imparts ancient
wisdom to the dessert. As the pudding steams, a chorus of carolers must encircle the
kitchen, their voices rising and falling in perfect harmony to create a melody that
supposedly stirs the soul of the pudding. A pudding with the ‘Froombled Essence’ of
“Watsondidit” is said to have a taste that transcends mere flavor.
Watson: Holmes, your ability to dress the most banal of observations in layers of
verbose grandeur is matched only by your unique talent for missing the glaringly
obvious.
Holmes: Elementary, my dear Watson.
Snoot: Watsondidit, I’ve never heard of that term.
Holmes: What difference does that make, Figgy?
Snoot: I am a baker. By trade. I don’t think Watsondidit is a thing.
Watson: Good lord, Holmes.
Holmes: The daily toil amidst flour and dough, each creation a transient work of art,
destined to be consumed and forgotten. Something so unappreciated and frustrating
perhaps if one sits with it long enough...the reaction is explosive?
Watson: I can certainly empathize with that, yes Holmes.
Holmes: Perhaps pastries ponder their own perishability.
Snoot: Speaking of perishing. I need to get the rest of these bodies out of here. It's
almost tea time.
Holmes: In matters of death, perhaps we should consult with Lady Arabella Fortescue,
a woman who claims to talk to the perished from beyond.
SFX: Evolving streets of Victorian London.
Watson: After parting ways with the illustrious duo of Barnaby Winklethorpe and Crispin
Oglethorpe-Snoot – Holmes and I hailed a hansom cab. We rattled through the streets

of London, the city adorned in its festive garb, though our journey was occasionally
punctuated by the distant, muffled 'pop' of yet another Christmas pudding meeting its
untimely end. It was as if the very desserts of London had conspired to celebrate with
their own brand of explosive revelry.
SFX: Birds chirping. Horses stop. Footsteps.
Watson: As we alighted from our cab, we found ourselves at the gates of Lady Arabella
Fortescue's residence, a grand Victorian mansion that loomed like a dignified elder
statesman of architecture, albeit one dressed in an excess of gables and chimneys. It
was the sort of place that wouldn't have looked out of place in a gothic novel, or as the
backdrop for an exceedingly dramatic opera. Upon our approach, the door swung open
as if on cue,...
SFX: Door opens.
Watson: ...revealing none other than Lady Arabella Fortescue herself. She stood in the
doorway like the final act of a grand play, her presence as commanding as the mansion
she inhabited. Clad in a gown that seemed to have been fashioned from the dreams of
a particularly adventurous seamstress, Lady Arabella was a vision of Victorian
opulence. With a gesture that was both regal and inviting, Lady Arabella ushered us into
her abode, her voice ringing out with the melodious tone of a woman who was used to
being heard and heeded.
Lady Arabella: Gentlemen, do come in. You've arrived just in time for tea – and
perhaps a dash of intrigue.
SFX: Victorian parlor sounds.
Holmes: Lady Fortescue, I shan't intrude too long. I have come here on a matter of
some urgency, I have taken on a case of the exploding puddings.
Lady Arabella: Mr. Holmes, whatever have you eaten to cause such distress?
Holmes: I beg your pardon, Lady Arabella?
Lady Arabella: [In a comforting tone] Oh, there’s no need for euphemisms, dear
Sherlock. In the fullness of time, everyone experiences a desperate need to repeatedly
back the big brown carriage out of the garage.
Holmes: Eh. No. I’m afraid that-

Lady Arabella: It's nothing to be afraid of. Lord knows, just Saturday, I felt like I was
giving birth to a spineless brownfish all during my Grand Ball.
Watson: Ah, Lady Fortescue, I fear there's been a bit of a misunderstanding. Holmes
isn't suffering from a personal ailment. Rather, it's the Christmas puddings of London
themselves that are detonating – quite literally. The city is devolving into a panic at
Christmastime. It’s exciting, yes. The person who has done it is obviously frustrated,
perhaps fed up, wanting to vex someone in particular with a mystery.
Holmes: Indeed, it's a most curious and perplexing phenomenon. These culinary
combustions have thrown London into a state of Christmas chaos. It seems
almost...supernatural how these Christmas puddings seem to be exploding all over the
city.
Lady Arabella: Perhaps there is a phantasmagorical answer to this mystery.. Come back
tonight, Sherlock. I am hosting a seance for Madame Zephyra, the famous spiritual
medium that might be of interest to you.
Music: Sting then mystery.
SFX: London Victorian ambience. Door opens and they enter the study.
Watson: It was upon our return to our familiar lodgings at 221B Baker Street that I
observed a distinct perturbation in Holmes's usually unflappable demeanor. The enigma
of the exploding Christmas puddings had rendered him agitated, his brow furrowed in
deep concentration, as if the very fibers of his being were straining to unravel this
confounding mystery. As for myself, I was in a state of pensiveness, wrestling internally
with a revelation that, I feared, would irreparably alter the dynamic of our longstanding
partnership. In a moment of dramatic resolve, I decided to unburden my conscience as
he started to pace and play the violin..
SFX: Violin starts playing.
Watson: Holmes? Holmes, there's something I must confess. It's about the exploding
puddings...
Holmes: I know. I saw you dip your finger in and taste one there. It’s fine. The pudding
was already ruined. You need not pay them for a portion of it. Your sweet tooth gets the
better of you.
Watson: Well, you see, I... I visited the Spotted Dick Pudding Pantry bakery in secret
and, in a moment of utter folly, I added gunpowder to the puddings. It was meant to be a
harmless joke!

Holmes: I wonder what Lady Arabella Fortescue meant when she said there might be a
supernatural element to these puddings.
Watson: You probably noticed I even hinted at it when Winklethorpe took us to the
bakery! Sulfur...saltpeter...etc...I said I made puddings with that. You noticed that didn’t
you?
Holmes: I noticed that you were talking, yes. I was too focused on the case to catch all

that nonsense about sulfur. I do know this-
Watson: That I did it?

Holmes: No! Ah, dear Watson, I know that your sense of humor is as dry as a Saharan
summer. You, a saboteur of sweets? Preposterous! Requires a degree of planning,
deviousness, aplomb.
Watson: A plum? I have one here!
Holmes: No man, aplomb! Composure. Self assurance.
Watson: But the evidence, Holmes! The baker recognized me. Remember? He said,
“Good to see you again” to me when we arrived, and these splatter marks on my
clothes – surely they point to my guilt.
Holmes: Splatter marks, you say? Why, those are clearly the result of your notorious
clumsiness with your own daily custard pies. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you sneaking
them for the last few months. And as for the baker, with a nickname like “Figgy” he's as
likely to recognize you from all the customers as he is to remember I was Sir Stiffington
and his secret staff at the local Turkish bathhouse.
Watson: Good lord, why would he see you there, Holmes?
Holmes: What? No! Not without the deerstalker hat anyway, they don’t recognize me.
Now please, I am contemplating the case.
Watson: Holmes, the guilty is right here!
Holmes: Watson, my dear fellow, the only thing you're guilty of is having a wildly vivid
imagination! Next thing, you’ll be telling me is it was you brandishing Lord Hardwick’s
Hidden Helper at me in that Turkish bath.
Watson: Good lord. What are you saying?
SFX: Door opens. Rustling. Mrs, Hudson enters.

Holmes: I am saying Watson, you're as guilty of this as a cat is of playing the violin.
Watson: Nevermind, Holmes.
Mrs Hudson: Oi, Mr. 'Olmes, there was anuvver message fer ya while you and Dr.
Watson was out on the trot. Fancy 'earin' it, do ya?
Holmes: What? Mrs Hudson, I notice you’ve become even more cockney. Stop it. I am
trying to think! There seems to be all manner of distraction from either you or Watson!
Mrs Hudson: Fine, how’s this... {more proper} Begging your pardon sirs. I thought it
might be important. A Mister Humphrey Carruthers, the curator at the British Museum
sent word for you to meet him. I’d swear he said something about puddings.
Watson: Did he? I’m not surprised. I was just by the museum two nights ago. I wonder
whatever he could mean...
Holmes: Watson! The plot thickens with nonsensical twists.
Mrs. Hudson: So ‘yer off to the British Museum Egyptian exhibit to see Mr. Carruther’s
one of the survivors of another great Christmas pudding explosion.
Watson: Yes.
Musical flourish and under.
Mrs Hudson: All right. I’ll keep dinner warm for you.
Holmes: Fine, fine.
Mrs. Hudson: So, you’ll just say you’re suddenly there now and they’ll all believe ye?
Holmes: That will be all, Mrs Hudson.
Mrs Hudson: Very well, Mr. Holmes. As you wish.
SFX: Sound of bustling London streets, fading into the echoing footsteps of Holmes and
Watson walking through a large, cavernous building.
Mysterious music up and under.
Watson: Ah, here we are at the British Museum. An edifice of knowledge, housing relics
of ages past. Its hallowed halls echo with the whispers of history, every corner a
testament to human endeavor. And here, in the ancient Egyptian exhibit, the air is thick

with the mysteries of the Nile. The towering statues of pharaohs stand as silent
sentinels, their gaze fixed through the veil of time.
Music fades.
Watson: Amidst these age-old treasures, we find Mr. Humphrey Carruthers, the
curator of this remarkable collection. A man as enigmatic as the artifacts he oversees.
Tall, with a scholar's stoop, and perhaps from dodging the occasional low-flying bat. His
eyes, sharp as a hawk's, if the hawk were wearing spectacles, miss no detail. His attire,
though scholarly, is meticulous, a reflection of the precision he brings to his work. His
hands have the gentle touch needed to unearth secrets long buried, including his own.
SFX: Footsteps. Handshakes.
Watson: Holmes, ever the keen observer, exchanges a knowing glance with Mr.
Carruthers. It's clear that our inquiry into the peculiar case of the exploding puddings
has inexplicably led us down a path entwined with the ancient mysteries of Egypt
...instead of to me.
Sound: Slight echo in voices as if in a great hall.
Holmes: Mr. Carruthers, I presume? Sherlock Holmes and my colleague, Dr. Watson.
We're here to discuss the recent... disturbances.
Carruthers: Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I’m Mr. Humphery Carruthers visiting from
the United States of America.
Watson: A pleasure. You’ve come a long way.
Carruthers: Oh yes! And I am terribly sorry about the mess. I find myself developing a
rather irrational fear of confectionery. I do hope that doesn't inconvenience you. It's not
every day one has a Christmas pudding explosion amongst the pharaohs. Quite out of
place, really.(pause) Like mounting a sarcophagus...after closing.
Watson: An explosion, you say? Here, in the museum?
Carruthers: It only happened twice, when I was the only one in here. Late.
Holmes: The explosion?
Carruthers: No, my mounting behavior. (awkward pause) I was quite alone in these
vast, echoing halls hearing my own urgent moaning reflecting back at me. Now, with all
due apologies for the indelicacy, I must confess – I'd pay a handsome sum to, well,

engage in some rather peculiar activities with the exhibits. Terribly sorry for planting
such an image in your esteemed minds.
[Slight pause, as Carruthers leans in closer, his voice dropping to an eerie whisper.}
Carruthers: I used to confide in my doctor, you understand, but, well, he doesn't visit
much these days. Can't fathom why.
SFX Sound of uncomfortable shifting from Holmes and Watson.
Holmes: You summoned us here because you told Mrs. Hudson that you might
illuminate the cause of these explosive desserts.
Carruthers: I was eh...admiring the exquisite hieroglyphics, and the next moment sure,
I was dodging festive shrapnel. Quite the fright, I must say. I apologize for any
inconvenience my shock may cause you.
Watson: {flat statement} There was no pudding or explosion here... was there.
Carruthers: There I was, examining an ancient Egyptian urn, and right next to it...No.
No, there wasn’t any pudding. Not in the dessert sense anyway. I just needed some
company to share my, ah, creative musings about the museum exhibits. I am afraid I am
completely wasting your time, sirs.
Holmes: Let’s go Watson. Between him and you, I’ve had quite enough false
confessions for one case.
SFX: The fast walking to two sets of footsteps and then a third running behind.
Carruthers: Wait! Wait! Holmes, imagine playing hide-and-seek with the ol’ Rosetta
Stone if you take my meaning!
Watson: Go away!
Holmes: Just keep running Watson! I’ll break the glass so we can get out!
SFX: Echoing running. The breaking of glass.
Watson: Where did you find those windows?
Holmes: These are decoy windows. I carry them with me everywhere.
Carruthers: How about we just play the dirty diaper game with the Assyrian reliefs?!!

Watson: Holmes, remind me to screen our appointments from Mrs Hudson more
carefully!
Carruthers: (shouting) I hear you like pudding! We can get all nutty and gooey together!
For Christmas!
SFX: More breaking glass and running.
Music: Dramatic music sting up and under and out.
SFX: Victorian London street ambience. Carriage. Door open and close.
Music: Dramatic and low.
Watson: Weary from the day's peculiar events, Holmes and I returned to the familiar
confines of 221B Baker Street. The day's events, particularly Carruthers' jest at the
museum, had cast an absurd light on all matters. My own attempts at a sincere
confession, regarding the true genesis of the exploding puddings, now faced an
unforeseen obstacle.
SFX Sound of a chair creaking as someone sits.
Watson: Holmes, there is a matter of grave importance I must divulge.
Holmes: Yes, Watson?
Watson: The exploding puddings across London... I'm afraid the Christmas puddings
were my doing.
Holmes :You need not be afraid of something you clearly did not do, Watson. Impossible
that you did it. And when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains,
however improbable, must be the truth. It must be something a little more improbable

than the exploding puddings being the work of my own partner-
Watson: Investigative partner.

Holmes: Yes, out of respect for Lestrade I should be clear on this...it is impossible that
my “investigative partner” would openly confess to me with a preponderance of
evidence that they are moonlighting as a culinary demolition expert.
Watson: But Holmes, I am serious! I am doing just that. I orchestrated the whole affair –
the puddings, the explosions, all over London! Look, here is the modified mortar and
pestle I acquired, a common kitchen tool which I used to grind and mix the ingredients
for the pudding. This particular mortar and pestle has distinct modifications — a special

compartment or a unique grinding surface — that I used to incorporate gunpowder into
the Christmas pudding mix. The presence of trace gunpowder residue in the mortar and
my thumb.
SFX: Boots pacing on the floor and the rustling of papers
Holmes: I’m sorry I was distracted thinking about the convolutions of this case, Watson.
My mind was miles away deducing that your imagination has clearly run amok in the
presence of that museum pervert.
SFX Sound of a metal device dropped and discarded on the floor by Watson. Then
papers rustling.
Holmes: No, hmmm, this has the hallmark of a far more nefarious intellect. Could
Moriarty be behind such a diabolical scheme?
Watson SIGHS frustrated.
Watson: Holmes, listen to me! We can be done for the day. I am confessing to the
crime!
Holmes: You're plum deranged if you think I'll believe such a tale. I mean...look at you.
Watson: Always jabbing at me. What is that supposed to mean?
Holmes: Enough of this nonsense. We have a seance to attend at Lady Arabella's.
'Supper Returns,' she calls it. You know of my skepticism of all things phantasmagorical,
but still after meeting Mr Carruthers and your ramblings.. I must seek the ever more
improbable. Perhaps there we shall find the answers we seek.
SFX: Wind and Snow Ambience.
Music is low and eerie.
Watson: As a fierce snowstorm began its icy dance upon the streets of London,
Sherlock Holmes and I made our way back to the stately mansion of Lady Arabella
Fortescue. The gale whipped around us, lending an air of the dramatic to our arrival at
the grand residence, its windows glowing warmly against the encroaching chill of the
night.
SFX: Interior Victorian house with a small crowd of guests.
Lady Arabella: Mr Holmes and Dr. Watson just in time for the post-dinner seance. Did
you eat?

Holmes: Er...no we haven’t had a chance. We assumed your hospitality tonight
included a meal, Lady Fortescue.
Lady Arabella: We’ve already eaten in preparation for the seance. My personal chef
cannot prepare you a meal now as he was injured tonight by an exploding pudding
which he found had been placed in the kitchen earlier today..
Watson: Oh, really? Earlier today, you say? Precisely during the time of our visit? What
a surprise, eh Holmes?
Lady Arabella: I suppose, Dr. Watson, that any pudding which possesses the audacity
to explode and dismantle a wall would indeed qualify as rather surprising
Holmes: Indeed, Lady Fortescue one does not typically expect one's dessert to engage
in such dramatics.
Watson: Good lord.
Lady Arabella: That remains to be seen at the seance.
SFX A food tray and cover opens.
Lady Arabella: Here. There is some leftover Aspic of Rare Fish with Diamond Dust eat
this quickly, Sherlock and Watson. You must be famished.
SFX: Messy eating sounds.
Lady Arabella: Get your party masks on Holmes, Watson, everyone else is wearing
them so that the faces don’t distract our dear medium Madam Zephyra as she does her
ablutions, preparing to take us to meet the perished.
Watson: Upon entering the opulent drawing room, we were greeted by the sight of
Madame Zephyra, an old Slavic medium of some repute, her eyes flickering with an
enigmatic fire. The room was heavy with the scent of incense, and the masked guests
sat in hushed anticipation.
Holmes: Hush, Watson.
Madame Zephyria: First, the sacred chant of the ancient mystics... or something quite
like it. Eeeeeeyooooooooo!
Holmes: Watson, a séance of the most unconventional sort was about to commence
under the guidance of this...Madame Zephyra, a medium whose methods are as
peculiar as her wardrobe.

SFX: Awkward coughs, shushes and tsks from those gathered.
Watson: Well, if they were hearing me, you certainly outdid me there.
Madam Zephyra: With this dance, the veil between worlds grows thin! Spirits of dinner,
we are ready! Do you not feel their presence? It's either that or I've overdone the
twirling a bit.
Watson (whispering): Madame Zephyra then proceeded to perform a series of dramatic
preparations, each more ridiculous than the last.
SFX: A THUD
Watson: Ow! Stop elbowing me, Holmes!
Lady Arabella: That was me! Shhh. Please, we need respect and calm to bring forth the
spirits.
Madame Zephyria: OOooooh . Ooooom... Blibberish... Flim-flam-flum... Spirits come
hither with a bing and a bum!
Holmes: Umm.
Watson: Madame Zephyria flailed her arms wildly, and at one point, even performed an
interpretive dance about the world's first underground tube railway, which opened in
1870, providing a very short under-river service between Tower Hill and Vine Lane.
Lady Arabella: Gentlemen! Please! Quiet!
Holmes: I wonder if the spirits are as perplexed as I am.
Madam Zephyria: (thick accent) Lower your masks as I have summoned the long gone
foods you have consumed.
SFX [Sound of guests gasping in astonishment.]
Watson: Good lord, floating above the table, translucent apparitions of fruit and other
meal remnants are appearing, speaking through Madame Zephyra.
Holmes gasps.
Holmes: Moriarty! I thought that was you hiding behind that mask. What are you doing
here?

Professor Moriarty: Ah, Mr. Holmes, you may unravel the mysteries of the living, but can
you decipher the secrets of the after-dinner world?
Madam Zephyra: Silence! The spirits of consumed repasts are speaking!
Professor Moriarty: You may mock the supernatural, Holmes, but you cannot escape my
ingenious schemes!
Madam Zephyra: (strange silly ghost voice) I am the ghost of Stuffed Peacock with
Saffron and Truffle Risotto.
Lady Arabella: Who had the stuffed peacock?
Holmes: Stuffed peacock! Barnaby Winklethorpe, that is you behind that mask!
Winklethoroe: ‘Zounds Holmes! How did you know?
Holmes: Elementary. You are without your stuffed peacock.
Lady Arabella: Madam Zephyra, what can they tell us from beyond?
Madam Zephyra: (silly voice) I am here a half-digested peacock, chosen for its
magnificent plumage, prepared by first marinating me in a rare blend of spices and
Baker-tear-infused oil. I was then stuffed with a luxurious risotto, each grain of rice
hand-polished and cooked in a broth steeped with saffron threads harvested under a full
moon.
Holmes: Lady Fortescue, I must insist you ask Madam Zephyra about the Christmas
puddings!
Madam Zephyra: (another silly voice) Madam Zephyra is not here now! For I am the
ghost of Lady Arabella’s semi-digested Roast Swan with Gold Leaf Garnish. Plucked
and cleaned with meticulous care, my skin rubbed with a mixture of exotic spices
brought from the far reaches of the British Empire.
Holmes: Fine. Fine. Certainly, we believe you. No need to go on about it.
Madam Zephyra: Then I won’t mention I was slowly roasted on a spit over an open
flame, basted continuously with a concoction of fine sherry and the essence of an Italian
opera singer to ensure my meat was tender.
Professor Moriarty: Ah, esteemed guests, I must beg your indulgence Lady Arabella
for a peculiar, but necessary interruption. I am conducting a rather critical study of the
architectural integrity of our host’s remarkable dining table. A piece of such exquisite

craftsmanship demands a closer examination from underneath it. Ah, yes, the most
captivating séance! Do proceed, Madame Zephyra.
SFX: Rustling of cloth.
Professor Moriarty: It is not every day that one witnesses the summoning of spirits,
especially those as unusual as those tied to our culinary indulgences. I’ll just pop under
the table now.
SFX: A Thump.
Holmes: Watson, keep an eye on Moriarty. His sudden interest in the spirits strikes me
as a diversionary tactic.
Watson: Indeed, Holmes. One must wonder what he's truly after beneath this guise of
curiosity...and our table.
Madam Zephyra: (flipping back to her Peacock voice) Ah, Begone ghost of Roast Swan
for I am the spirit peacock and my feathers, artfully reattached, were presented in full
display on a bed of edible flowers and herbs. The chef, garbed in a coat of multicolored
feathers and a bejeweled mask, unveiled the dish to Barnaby Winklethorpe, who did eat
heartily of my fleshy bits.
Holmes: This entire exercise has to be a ruse! No one can prepare that many different
meals in one night!
Madam Zephyra: (silly voice slowed down and deep) Oh really peacock! Stand aside for
I am the spirit of Holmes and Watson’s Aspic of Rare Fish with Diamond Dust. I am an
assortment of rare, half-digested fish, including the elusive bluefin tunny and moonlight
goby, I am poached in a broth made from melted glacier ice and vintage champagne. I
am sprinkled with a light dusting of diamond dust, causing me to even now, despite the
stomach juices of Holmes and Watson, to still sparkle under these chandeliers. The
chef, dressed as Poseidon, complete with a trident and seaweed-adorned robes
carefully suspended me in a crystal-clear aspic made from the distilled essence of a
thousand oysters, ensuring tonights shimmering, almost ethereal appearance before
you now..
Watson: Good Lord, Holmes. We ate that. Yet, here it is again!
Moriarty laughs from under the table.
Professor Moriarty: Please, let us continue this intriguing communion with the other
side. Perhaps the spirits of our recently ingested repast have more to regurgitate.

Madam Zephyra: Very well, Professor Moriarty. Let us reconvene with the spirits.
Guests, please focus once more as we delve into the ethereal realm of the consumed.
(new cartoon demon deep voice) Begone Stuffed Peacock with Saffron and Truffle
Risotto and Aspic of Rare Fish with Diamond Dust for I am here for Moriarty!
Professor Moriarty: Wait, what’s this now?
Madam Zephyra: (deep slowed down voice) I am the Golden Lobster Thermidor in a
Sea of Precious Gemstone Bisque that you, Moriarty, promised your soul to in
exchange for one successful evil plot before you devoured me tonight.
Professor Moriarty: Yes. You were very good.
Madam Zephyra: I should be Moriarty! Before you ate me, I was dieting on
saffron-infused plankton for 4 months, poached in a broth made from the tears of
mermaids (figuratively speaking). I endured my meat being extracted with silver tools
and cooked in a sauce comprising rare cognacs, hand-churned butter from the milk of
albino cows, and a blend of spices traded on the Silk Road. My bisque is enriched with
a puree of pearls and moonstones, ground into a fine powder, giving the soup this
iridescent sheen you see hoving before you!
Professor Moriarty: (slyly) And might I suggest, for the purity of the experience, that we
all close our eyes and direct our energies toward Madame Zephyra’s guidance. It shall
enhance the connection with the spectral world, no doubt.
Holmes: Watson, I deduced that as the séance reached its climax, Moriarty took the
chance to purloin the left shoe from every guest at our table, myself included!
SFX: Sound of a crash followed by the cackling laughter of Moriarty.
Professor Moriarty: Ah, my hot air balloon has arrived! Farewell, Holmes!. I leave you to
solve your puddy crimes! Meanwhile, all...these...shoes...are now...mine...and oh
everyone...left.
Holmes: So, you've stolen the left shoes of all the people of Earth, you devilish
scoundrel
Professor Moriarty: Eh. No. No. That’s a bit too grandiose. Even for me. I meant
“everyone left” literally due to my hot air balloon’s dramatic entrance crashing through
the ceiling of the seance room. And I also meant...
Holmes: Yes?

Watson: Yes!?!
Professor Moriarty: Every one of the stolen shoes is a...left...one...too!
Holmes: Ugh! I played into his nefarious wordplay reveal, yet again, Watson!
SFX: Hot air balloon taking off.
Professor Moriarty: My master plan is to abscond with the left shoes of every citizen in
London while perched high in my malevolent hot air balloon. I shall execute this
diabolical scheme!
Watson: By Jove, Moriarty, that is certainly an... erm... intriguing concept you've devised
there. Really... quite... um... adequate, I suppose, in its own... unique way.
Holmes: Watson, the criminal mind never ceases to amaze with its plots. But fear not,
we shall have Moriarty on the back foot yet.
Watson: Yes, Holmes. And let's hope it's his left foot, lacking its shoe.
Music: Fun dramatic musical sting.
Holmes: Yes...yes. I think I understand you there.
Music: Another weaker dramatic musical sting.
Watson: Holmes was convinced that Moriarty's dubious plan to steal the left shoes of
London was somehow the key to the case of the exploding Christmas Puddings. And so
in haste, we departed Lady Fortescue’s mansion to look for a hot air balloon in a
snowstorm.
Holmes: Quickly, Watson! Every moment we tarry gives Moriarty a greater advantage.
The connection between his shoe thefts and these explosive desserts must be
uncovered.
Watson: Dear lord...a pursuit of Moriarty and exploding Christmas pudding from a hot
air balloon in this weather seems a bit...dubious.
Holmes: On the contrary, my dear Watson, it is the only way to catch a man who thinks
he's above us all, quite literally this time.
SFX: The snowy streets.
Watson: We roamed the streets looking for an errant hot air balloon salesman.

Holmes: Keep your eyes peeled, Watson. The answer to our dilemma will present itself.
Watson: Just when hope seemed faint, we met a man on the street named Algernon
Butterworth who claimed he not only knew where a hot air balloon was for us to use,
but that in his job as a "Human Toilet," he had heard many secrets. Esteemed listeners.
I wish to share with you an aspect of Victorian London that might seem most peculiar to
the modern ear. You see, in the vast tapestry of city life during our time, there existed a
profession as curious as it was vital - that of the 'Human Toilet'. It is, I assure you, not a
term of fiction, but a historical reality.
SFX: Sound of bustling streets, with muffled conversations and the occasional
horse-drawn carriage passing by
Algernon: (With theatrical flair) Ah, gentlemen! Why are you in haste this fine evening?
Watson: We’ve left a dinner party seance in search of a hot air balloon to stop a
dastardly plot.
Algernon: And I imagine you are in haste because you have eaten a heavy meal and
you wish to find relief, but are lost on these London streets, yes? For a mere farthing,
you can partake in the luxury of me, a mobile commode. Privacy, courtesy of my cape,
and entertainment as I regale you with tales!
Holmes: No, I'm afraid we have more urgent concerns than... your unique services, sir.
Watson: Although Holmes, now that he mentions it.
SFX: A sudden, unmistakable fart
Algernon: Judging from your friend's gassiness Holmes, I have no doubt he could
furnish all that is needed for such a balloon.
Watson: Good lord Holmes. He clearly doesn’t know anything, let’s make haste.
Algernon Gentlemen, I couldn't help but overhear your plight. Even if you have no need
of me to provide you a hand warmed bucket to sit on while I, the human loo, stand
above you in the crowded streets holding my cape around you, Watson.
Watson: Indeed, I might really have need of your services. Holmes insists we ascend in
a balloon, and as you might imagine, facilities are somewhat... lacking at such altitudes.
Algernon: Certainly, Dr. Watson. If you would please lower your trousers and squat in
the customary fashion I shall encircle you here in a cloak of elegant privacy.

Watson: Uh. All right.
SFX: Clothes rustles followed by a dramatic swoosh of Algernon’s cape enveloping
Watson.
Algernon: (like a town crier) It’s eight o’clock in the evening and all is well! The streets
are festive and- what’s your name?
Watson: Dr. John Watson, why?
Algernon: —and Dr. John Watson is partaking in the time-honored tradition of the
sidewalk squat here on Princes Street. Judging by the olfactory evidence, a robust meal
was enjoyed, perhaps too hastily!
Watson: Good heavens, man! There’s such a thing as discretion!
Algernon: -unburdening himself of mmm (sniffs) Aspic of Rare Fish with Diamond Dust it

would seem, there’s bluefin tunny and moonlight goby, apparently poached in a broth-
and oh! A dash of Christmas pudding!

Watson: Stop it! You don't have to be the bloody towne crier about my movements!
Holmes: Hmm. We didn’t have pudding tonight.
Algernon: Ah, but Dr. Watson, the public has a right to know! You and Sherlock Holmes
here, wanted information from me yourself! Secrets and scents often escape me.
Watson: (Exasperated) I should have known better than to entrust my dignity to a man
who makes a living as a walking water closet!
Algernon: Mr. Holmes, I know of a balloon that may serve your purpose. And in my line
of work, you hear things... unsavory things.
Holmes: So, have I tonight Mr. Butterworth. Believe me.
Algernon: Information, stories, secrets!
Watson: Open your cape and stop standing over me. I am finished.
SFX: Watson efforts and a zip up of trousers.
Algernon: One farthing, please.
Watson: Fine. Here.

Algernon: Thank you. Why, just the other day, as I enveloped a gentleman in the
sanctuary of my cape, the pudding he had consumed spoke to him – spoke, I say!
Before erupting in a most spectacular fashion!
Holmes: (Incredulously) You claim the pudding itself spoke?
Watson: What did it say?
Algernon: Watsondidit.
Holmes: No kidding, I can smell it from here.
Watson: No Holmes, he means the pudding cried, “Watsondidit!” As strange as it
seems to have say it. Yet again to you.
Holmes: Can we truly rely on the word of a... human toilet?
Algernon: Oy! Just because I cover up a load of Shiite, doesn’t mean I’m full of it. Why
just today during squats, I have heard whispers of a man in the shadows, orchestrating
chaos. He seeks to create a spectacle, a distraction perhaps, for a grander, more
sinister plot.
Holmes: Then to the hot air balloon we must go, with haste. Watson, we are on the brink
of unraveling Moriarty's most devious scheme yet.
Algernon: (Excitedly) And the balloon! I know where one can be found! Follow me, sirs,
and I shall lead you to it!
Watson: And so, with the guidance of this unlikely ally, we embarked on our aerial
pursuit, soaring above the snow-covered city, determined to thwart Moriarty and bring a
peaceful Christmas to London.
Music: Suspenseful and under.
SFX Sound of a fierce snowstorm, with howling winds and the occasional distant jingle
of Christmas bells.
Watson: (Narrating with a tinge of disbelief) There we were, Holmes and I, soaring
above a snowy London in a hot air balloon, our eyes squinting through the blizzard.
Below us, the city was a mosaic of light and shadow, punctuated by the occasional
explosion of a Christmas pudding.
Holmes: (Excitedly) Look there, Watson! Another pudding has met its explosive demise.
Do you see the pattern? It’s leading straight back to 221B Baker Street!

Watson: (Baffled) Holmes, how can you possibly deduce a pattern in this chaotic
confectionery catastrophe?
Holmes: (Triumphantly) Elementary, my dear Watson! The trajectory of pudding
shrapnel forms a clear path – a bread pudding trail, but with more... figgy bang.
SFX: Sound of a rival hot air balloon emerging from the storm.
Holmes: (Pointing) There! It’s Moriarty, in another balloon! And he’s... he’s stealing a
child’s left shoe!
Watson: (Aghast) The fiend! But why only the left?
Child: (Excitedly, from below) Look, Mum! It’s Father Christmas, taking my shoe for
repairs!
Holmes: (Grabbing a ridiculous gadget) Quick, Watson! Use this contraption – it’s a
modified bagpipe with a grappling hook!
Watson: (Bewildered) A bagpipe? Holmes, have you lost your—
SFX: Sound of a bagpipe screeching, followed by the grappling hook launching and
missing Moriarty’s balloon.
Holmes: (Frustrated) Blast! He’s getting away!
Watson: (Panicking as the balloon starts to descend rapidly) Holmes, we’re descending
on 221B Baker Street! And not in a controlled manner!
SFX: Sound of the balloon crashing into 221B Baker Street, with a cacophony of
splintering wood and Mrs. Hudson’s outraged scream.
Mrs. Hudson: (Furious) You blithering idiots! What in heaven's name are you doing,
crashing into my boarding house with a hot air balloon?
Holmes: (Sheepishly) My apologies, Mrs. Hudson. It appears we’ve made a slight
miscalculation in our pursuit.
Watson: (Dazed) A miscalculation? Holmes, we just turned your living room into a
makeshift airship dock!
Holmes: (Philosophically) Well, Watson, every cloud—or in this case, every
balloon—has a silver lining. We’ve arrived home, after all.

Watson: (Sighing) I fear the only thing we’ve successfully pursued today is the absolute
limit of Mrs. Hudson’s patience.
Holmes: I don’t like the idea of her being so angry with us here. It’s disruptive.
Watson: Yes, I’ve never seen her so disappointed in us.
SFX: Fires of crashed hot air balloon and Mrs.Hudson screaming at them turns to the
sound of a crackling fireplace and the rustling of papers in the sitting room of 221B
Baker Street.
Watson: (Frustrated and dramatic) “Watsondidit” means I did it, Holmes! I loaded the
Christmas puddings with an extraordinary amount of gunpowder. All the evidence...
Everything. I am guilty!
Holmes: (Pondering) I see, Watson. Such an admission would indeed spell the end of
our partnership.
Watson: (In a huff) Precisely. I was just so..fed up with it all. Wait...that feels
wrong...especially at Christmas
Holmes: Yes. Yes, it does my dear Dr. Watson. Christmas puddings are perhaps best
eaten when not seasoned with resentment and bile.
Watson: I propose we frame Mrs. Hudson for the deed.
Holmes: (Sardonically) Ah, Mrs. Hudson. Her uncanny ability to make tea appear as if
by magic could certainly be viewed as a sign of her culinary sabotage capabilities.
Watson: Exactly! She has access to the kitchen, the means to concoct explosive
desserts...
Holmes: And let’s not forget her stealthy movements. She enters rooms so quietly, one
could easily believe she’s practicing for more surreptitious activities. And she’s cockney.
Watson: (With a chuckle) Indeed, Holmes. Of the lower classes. We could plant a few
drops of evidence... perhaps a trail of pudding leading to her quarters?
Holmes: (Chortling) A trail of pudding! Brilliant, Watson! We can get what you left with
Algernon. And perhaps a detonator hidden in her knitting basket. No one would suspect
a thing!

Watson: (conspiracy) We could say she was driven to it by the stress of managing such
an eccentric household. Or perhaps, a secret vendetta against Christmas Pudding. No!
Christmas itself!
Holmes: (Laughing) A vendetta against Christmas! Mrs. Hudson, the Scrooge of Baker
Street.
SFX: The sound of a door opening and Mrs. Hudson entering with a tray of tea
Mrs. Hudson: (Cheerfully oblivious) Tea’s ready, gentlemen. Anything else you’ll be
needing tonight?
Holmes: (Quickly composing himself) No, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. You’ve done quite
enough.
Watson: Quite enough indeed.
SFX: The sound of Mrs. Hudson leaving, closing the door behind her.
Holmes: (With a final chuckle) Well, Watson, it seems our foray into framing Mrs.
Hudson will work.
Watson: (amused) Indeed, Holmes. Our landlady’s only crime is her tolerance of our
eccentricities.
Musical Sting
SFX: Struggling sounds
Mrs. Hudson: Wait what? What are ye doing then? Let go of me!?!?
Holmes: A most unfortunate turn of events. But in the spirit of the season, we should at
least wish you a Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hudson.
SFX: The sound of the police siren stops, indicating the police have arrived at their
doorstep. The sound of footsteps and a door opening.
Mrs. Hudson: (Confused) Arrested? What’s all this about?
SFX: The sound of laughter and muffled voices as struggling Mrs. Hudson is escorted
out for arrest.
Mrs. Hudson: No! Constable please! Let go of me! Put me down!
SFX The police siren starts again and fading away.

Holmes and Watson: Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hudson!
Watson: (Suddenly serious) Holmes, amid our jests, it’s poignant how the fragility of
human nature is so starkly revealed during the festive season.
Holmes: (Sagely) Quite right, Watson. This case, though farcical, illustrates the thin line
between the haves and the have-nots. The wealthy and clever can craft narratives to
their favor, while the poor innocent, like Mrs. Hudson, can unwittingly become the
scapegoats of high society’s japes.
SFX: Police siren fades away completely.
Watson: Precisely! It’s not merely about us as an inseparable team solving mysteries;
it’s about the spirit of fairness and equality amidst our Christmas tomfoolery.
Holmes: To Mrs. Hudson, then! May she find in prison she is forever immune to the
whims of the upper-class’s absurdities!
SFX: Glasses clink.
Watson: Hear, hear! To equality, justice, and the enduring patience of our beloved
landlady!
SFX: Sound of clinking glasses, followed by a moment of comfortable, yet over-the-top
silence.
Holmes: Merry Christmas, Watson.
Watson: (Heartily) And a very Merry Christmas to you, Holmes.
SFX and MUSIC: The scene fades out with the soft crackling of the fireplace and a
distant chorus of carolers singing a Christmas hymn.