Sorry to hear this. I shall miss these intriguing tales.

What? What?? Now what shall I read on the train to Tripoli?? Please don't make me read that Holmes fellow!!

The end of an era. Octavius Guy, I will miss hearing about your investigations but I’m sure that one day you’ll have your own detective agency. My very best wishes for your future.

Thank you for all your hard work entertaining us, -he will be missed.

Aw, loved the daily story. Wishing you all the best and have a wonderful weekend and enjoy your break. 👍💯🌟📚

Thank you so much for Mr Octavius Guy, Esq.'s daily journals. I had developed a great affection for him and the other characters. Will miss them and wish them the very best.

I will miss them

Thank you for entertaining us with these daily diary entries. They’ve been a highlight of this platform and will be missed.

❤️

These have been an absolute pleasure to read...a bonne bouche of literary loveliness, thank you. I do hope that inspiration might encourage you to one day do another.

Ditto!

So sad if this is the end. I always love reading the journals and make a point every morning after 8am of heading over here to find out today's installment. Thank you for the writing xx

Not a lot from the dead bird society has carried over & stood the test of time. But being introduced to your books has been the best of them. If this is the end of the road for Octavius then, to misquote the philosopher Seuss - I refuse to be sad it's over I'll be very happy it happened!

Thank you, O!

I have loved reading these - and if this is the end - then I am glad that it happened. Thank you

Here ends Octavius Guy's daily journals for now. Thank you to everyone who read and responded so enthusiastically to our boy detective's posts over the years. Have a great life. 🙏

Wednesday December 6, 1854. George scratched his head. "So you think Mr Peterson scarpered from the Diorama of his own accord then met up with Sir John...to do what? Blackmail him?" "That may have been the excuse. But I think he was already planning to murder him." "Why?" 1/2

Tuesday December 5, 1854. The wit of a clerk who led Sergeant Gray to my office poked his head round the door before opening it fully. "They've come to take you away," he jested, though no one laughed, not even the good sergeant, who seemed ready to cuff the fool's ear. 1/2

Monday December 4, 1854. Directly after yesterday's service I'd told Sergeant Gray all about the plan I'd hatched to unmask Sir John. He could hardly refuse to believe me since two officers of the court (Mr Death and my own employer) had been present. He didn't take it well. 1/2

Sunday December 3, 1854. The commotion occurred just as we were sitting after mumbling the Lord's Prayer. No less than the good Inspector Gray was forcing his way along the pew towards me. "A body was fished out of the Thames last night," he whispered as he sat down next to me. 1/2

Saturday December 2, 1854. As I worked my way through my breakfast kipper I wondered how many days it would be before Mr Peterson's body turned up. That he was complicit in his own disappearance seemed obvious. What had Sir John offered him? Money?

My commiserations. I had hoped there would have been something positive despite the challenges of your work.

Many happy returns of the day, Octavius. I hope you’ve had enjoyable day.

Cordial felicitations young sir.

Oh to be seventeen again! Happy Birthday!

Happy birthday! 🎂

Happy birthday sir. I hope your day gets better

Happy birthday! Wishing you a safe, successful, and prosperous new year.

Friday December 1, 1854. It's my seventeenth birthday, so I thought I'd be forgiven for doing very little to trace the unfortunate Mr Peterson. I was wrong. Both George and Mr Bruff had words with me. Telling them he'd signed his own death warrant would not have gone down well!

Thursday November 30, 1854. Frankly I considered my failure a slap in the face, a challenge to a duel that might as well have been delivered by Sir John himself. How could he have whisked Mr Peterson away before six pairs of watching eyes, choosing the perfect moment to do so? 1/2

Wednesday November 29, 1854. I calmed the timid Mr Peterson as best I could; Mr Bruff patted his shoulder. "We will be nearby and we will be listening," he reassured him. "You will be safe." "And I just have to pretend I'll keep quiet if he shares his inheritance with me?" "That's the plan." 1/4

Tuesday November 28, 1854. Mr Peterson, Sir John's third cousin once removed, looked astonished to hear my revelations. "So he murdered his wife?" he gasped. "I believe so." "And he can't be brought to book?" "My close contacts in the Metropolitan Police say not." "Oh. Oh, my..."

Monday November 27, 1854. I removed my bowler hat and knocked respectfully at my employer's office door. "Come!" came the immediate response. "Sir," I said upon entering, "I have a pressing question to ask." Though I saw him roll his eyes, I was determined to stay the course. 1/3

Sunday November 26, 1854. The service was over. "I have a question," I said. "You do?" Annie looked at me expectantly. "Is there a difference in biblical terms between killing someone yourself, or asking a friend to do it?" When she frowned, I immediately regretted my words.

Saturday November 25, 1854. "If you knew who attacked me, what would you do to them?" Bertha took a sip of her sherry, readjusted the black veil to hide her face, then sat back to speculate. "I'd bleedin' get 'em alone on a moonless night," she chortled. Well, at least I had a last resort!

Friday November 24 1854. "I wasn't expecting another visit." Mr Death looked surprised to see me. I steeled myself to broach what promised to be a thorny conversation. "Good sir," I began, "you must be aware that for some time now I've suspected you of being something...*more*." 1/2

Thursday November 23, 1854. "He what?" asked George. "He outright refused to believe me," I repeated. "And after all we've done for him!" I might have taken solace in George's vehemence but, honestly, I feared Sir John would go free. Mr Tibbles sensed my mood and gave my calf a butt.

Wednesday November 22, 1854. With my options dwindling by the second, I sought out the good Sergeant Gray. I can't say he was pleased to see me. "This is the scene of a crime," he snapped, not that his singsong Welsh vowels aided his annoyance any. "You cannot be here!" 1/3

Justice arrives in many forms. Sometimes it's slow. Patience.

Don't do it Sir- consult with Bertha x

👀

😲

Tuesday November 21, 1854. Over the years I have killed three people, and have sworn to myself not to do it again. Yet Sir John Geeson killed his wife and did his best to kill me. My arm proves a constant reminder. I could ask Bertha, I reflected...but my soul yearns for my own justice.

Monday November 20, 1854. The office felt dark, much like my mood, for the day was overcast and grey. "George, what are the chances the police might investigate Sir John?" "A gent like him?" he said, not even looking up from his paper. "Next to none." "That's what I thought too."

Sunday November 19, 1854. George's wife Mary rounded on me after the service. "How dare you keep my husband working late last Friday night!" she railed at me. "I was cooking a boiling fowl!" "I didn't realize, miss," I stuttered. "Do you know how often George's mother lets me cook?"

Saturday November 18, 1854. The pigeon man, the only member of the gang that broke into Sir John's residence not to be caught, seemed resigned to answering our many questions. Spending even an hour with Alex and Charley will do that, I reflected, as I watched the man squirm. 1/2

Friday November 17, 1854. When Bertha arrived bearing a third letter, briefly stating that Alex and Charley would be arriving back in London this very evening, George insisted that we both accompany her to Kings Cross Station to greet them. I think he likes watching the trains. 1/4

Thursday November 16, 1854. If Sir John's young cousin set him up to take the fall for murdering his wife, I'll eat my hat! After two hours in his wholesome presence, having learned that he knew next to nothing of the man, I wanted to roll around in the dirt just to feel normal again. I didn't.

Wednesday November 15, 1854. The gullible wide-eyed young chap who let me in beckoned me to sit. His sparsely furnished apartment contained a good many books. "You are related to Sir John Geeson, sir?" I asked. "I must verify this before we can proceed further." 1/2

Tuesday November 14, 1854. "You're back. I thought you would be." Mr Death smiled ghoulishly. "I need to see Sir John's will, sir." "I expected you might so I looked it up. He never made one, in which case everything goes to his next of kin." "Who is...?" "Pass me down the Debretts."