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“Steve,” Duck-Tective quacked, “I need your help.”
The detective-duck’s penguin partner looked up from his ice-scuttle, blinking. Bottles littered the room; they were all empty but still reeked of fermented anchovies. “Whazzit, Duck? A case?”
It was a horridly-hot July. The penguin suffered during London summers; Steve stayed in his scuttle full of ice, immobile, until autumn coolness let him once again join his duck partner on the streets – a reversal of the winter months when Steve raced about the icy city helping the police while Duck-Tective sank into a torpor by the Baker Street hearthfire till spring let them work together once again.
This season was different. The clutch of mallard ducklings they’d raised all last year had flown off to start their own lives. This year neither of them had had to shout at anyone to turn their terrible music down and pick up their snail shells.
“It is a case.”
“Can’t help you righ’ now.” Steve huddled back down into his sloshing ice-bucket. “Can’t help anybuddy. Horrible weather. Garum makes it easier.”
“Garum’s an expensive habit, old pinfeather.” Duck fluffed up his feathers in anticipation. “A Scottish noble wants us to investigate his ancestral home. Near the Hebrides.”
Steve squawked. North. Foggy and cold as autumn even now. “Yes! I’ll come!”
“Once you sober up,” Duck-Tective quacked, beaming.