The Adventure of the Travertine Nose...Part Two: The Steeple Sweep Cafe

It's your own fault...

The Steeplesweep

You are feeling miraculously rejuvenated at the prospect of an English breakfast; the thought of a smiling pair of egg eyes staring up at you with a bacon smile seems to have immeasurable restorative properties.
The Steeplesweep is an atmospheric old hole in the wall with its buckling, plaster walls that appear to be restrained by the ancient Tudor timbers running across them like prison bars. The little, red-faced manager eyes you with interest as he scratches the stubble on his neck.
“Mind if we sit over here, guv’nor? Cheers.” Martin pushes your suitcases beside a cheery round table near the door.
“Wherever you like,” the manager nods. “Milky coffee, love?” he asks, approaching your table like an eager gnome.
“Yes, please,” you brighten. Your appetite increases with every glance around the pansy-papered room. You’re not really seeing pansies, but rather crumbling castles, medieval moats, sparkling lakes, and tea room windows stacked with Battenberg and shortbread.
“I’ll be right back,” you tell Martin. “I’m just popping to the loo.” Clearly you’re already getting carried away, but why not? “Can you order me a full English brekkie?” you ask him.
“How well-integrated you are already, my lass.”
You’re already enthroned on the loo when you hear the manager start shouting. It’s impossible to make out what he’s saying, but it seems urgent—frantic even. Moving as quickly as you can, you hurry back out to find the cheery corner table deserted.
“Was your chum supposed to leave in such a hurry?” the gnome asks you.
Profoundly confused, your eyes search the café. “Has he gone?”
“He’s gone with both your bags, love. Shall I run after him?”
“With my bags?” you parrot, fingering the purse still slung over your shoulder. “My suitcases!” you finally manage to shout. Light dawns on your marble head. As if on cue, the gnome runs out into the street, but you doubt his miniature legs will take him anywhere in a hurry. The dish towel tucked into the back of his belt is flapping like a tail. A few moments later, he returns panting.
“Sorry, love. He’s a right babbler.”
“A what?”
“A babbling brook.”
You hope you only look confused, but you probably look demented.
“A crook, lass. A crook.” Just then a bell rings in the kitchen. “Here we are then,” the gnome soothes, settling a plate down in front of you. “It’s on the house.”
Frowning, you look down at two eggy eyes and a bacon smile.

What an idiot you’ve been. A right arse. Best thing to do now is to get to the police station and file a report. You never know—maybe there’s a Hercule Poirot or a Miss Marple on the force. Choose ‘A’.

What good can a clutch of billy-stick wielding constables do? Martin is obviously long gone. A trip to the police station will only be an exercise in frustration and you’ll lose the entire day—in addition to your luggage. Best to just check into the Sleeping Bee. Go for 'B'.