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"Counterfeit caviar!" I ejaculated.
"Quite," Sherlock Holmes ejaculated in reply – in much more impressive fashion as the range of his blowhole drenched our room. "The jars show Cyrillic lettering, but contain not the roe of Caspian Sea beluga but that of Icelandic lumpfish. Perhaps you've read my monograph where I identify 128 species of fish eggs."
Our landlady's cat prowled round the large crate in the middle of the Baker Street parlour, miaowing plaintively at the delectable smell within, until she was flattened by a casual dorsal roll from my immense cetacean friend.
I remonstrated with the vast detective. "Holmes! Mrs. Weatherington will evict us both if you keep squashing Tiddles!"
"Tush, Watson, it's good for the creature – it'll teach her to be more careful around me." Holmes righted himself, and the flattened feline fled the flat. "In the meantime, old fish, we need to stake out the docks to-night and see who arrives to collect the shipment."
The culprit, whom Holmes subdued kicking and cursing under his weighty abdomen, was Marcel Plaice, executive chef at the Savoy Hotel. His gambling debts had led Plaice to sell his stock of genuine Caspian caviar, planning to serve the cheaper lumpfish to his elite clientele.
"Speaking of which…" I looked around the dock. "Where are the other crates?"
"Cheaper. But delicious." Holmes belched.