Kenny’s filthy notebook (with a frustrated looking smiley pulling out his own hair) legible page #10: Scotland Yard? I’m seriously disappointed with you guys. Don’t you solve crimes, serve the community & protect the people? Do I pay you taxes just so that I can say “Officers, arrest that man!” (even though that statement is totally badass and worth every penny to do it)?
Following up with my misadventures earlier, I have finished the game. There are things that I would do differently on my next play-through to win the game but I won’t be blogging about it. It was definitely longer than what I had expected and what you desired. I should have blogged about The Sex Olympics or one of those Japanese Adult Adventure Visual Novels or Hentai Eroge.
Since Scotland Yard could not do anything to help, I went to Fisher’s house to find something that could get him off the hook that Hemingway had so brilliantly set him up for. I may not be able to incriminate the killer but I could still try to vindicate the innocent.
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| Hey! This wasn’t here before! |
Dammit. This game is so time-sensitive; it worries me to no end that I may have missed out some time-specific events, clues and/or items. I’m sure that my waiting-around for things to happen in the last couple of days will come back to bite me in the arse and probably stick its long spiky tongue into my tender rectum.
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| Whoa! How does a housekeeper staying in a run-down hovel manage to pay off 500 big ones back in the 1920s (about US$3,700 today) in full without selling her own body parts is anybody’s guess. |
I took a trip to Brighton and boarded the bus to Jumbles where Gladys lived to ask her about it but she remained tight-lipped about it. Beeyotch. Wasted 2 hours of my life. So, I just went back to sleep.
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| The powers of my clairvoyance know no bounds. |
After a good night’s rest, I took a cab down to The Morning Star to meet up with Inspector Smart to see if my clues up till now are enough to warrant an arrest of Hemingway.
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| Dammit! I missed a key event last night! |
I guess I’m too early since Smart’s still not here. Might as well pick up the papers for the day while I’m at it.
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| Tracey, Oh Tracey! Wherefore art thou? |
Arthur Potts is linked with drug smuggling, eh? Explains the amount of money he earns. Just as well that he’s promised to grant me an interview today. I’ll talk to him later. But, what’s this?
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| Yoink! |
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| Hmm… Who’s G? |
With time to spare, I made my way to Beryl’s home to check out if I could find any clues.
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| Nope. |
Maybe her neighbor?
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| What the?! |
Oh Fisher, you sure act fast for someone so fat. Girl-on-top-like-bouncing-on-trampoline as usual? What does the girl have to say for herself?
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| An all-nighter, eh? Guess the Beryl-Beater ain’t here. |
Seeing that I could get nothing done here, I left for Southampton to meet up with Potts for the interview. Finally, I caught him at home around 9am and began questioning him.
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| Who and where the hell is he?! Why doesn’t even the brother know?! |
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| So would I, that beeyotch. |
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| Yeah. Now she’s Amethyst Fatmanwaring. |
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| That’s not the kind of expression I was expecting when talking about a recent dearly departed. Fishy… |
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| That, I did. You certainly didn’t kill Geraldine but Johnson? |
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| Oh, really! Does business include Johnson-stabbing? Wait, that came out wrong. |
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| And I’m sure you won’t need glue to stick it up there, eh? Eh? Eh? |
Having exhausted all I could ask of Potts, I went to the pub in the vicinity and found a new NPC. Dammit.
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| It’s Leisure Suit Larry in a hat! And facial hair! |
He certainly looks like an undercover Sonny Bonds-type.
See the following picture to prove that I ain’t bullshitting about that, mate.
Is it a nod to Police Quest? I don’t know but I’m gonna talk to this guy anyway.
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| Teehee! Smallpiece |
Oh, so he’s the cop who has been hunting Potts. Don’t worry. I may be a Master Thief but I ain’t no drug peddler. I may hail from part of the UK but
I ain’t no colonial drug pusher |
| Whoa! You followed Potts’ trail all the way from Egypt? Commendable! |
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| So, what’s this then? A side quest? |
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| A drug trafficking sister-lover! Do his sins know no end? |
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| Yes, that’s what reporters do: solve crimes. Games like Police Quest got it totally wrong. |
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| Yeah, I got that. But Johnson? |
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| Sounds like a total perv. |
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| Odd. Potts didn’t have much to say about her though. |
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| Ah… a World Heritage Site. |
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| Yeah, yeah. Potts didn’t kill Geraldine, I know. |
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| Damn, what?! So, this letter is just a coded message for dirt merchants and not some hot sibling incest thingy? |
After finally unravelling my longtime suspicion of Potts and Geraldine, I made my way to Pyecraft to find out more about that crumpled note that Hemingway wrote
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| Not covering for your friend, are you? |
Once again, dead-ended, I went back to the Morning Star to meet up with Smart at the entrance.
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| For f*ck’s sake, do your job already! |
Not sure if I could achieve anything, I showed him the Promissory Note I found in Fisher’s Office.
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| Yup. |
That definitely did not achieve anything. Perhaps if I confronted Hemingway directly in his own office?
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| It’s a deal! Remember that, Hemingway! |
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| Whoa! Easy does it! |
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| Yeah, typical Agatha Christie style. |
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| Mayhaps I should talk to Redman? |
Still nothing. I’m at my wit’s end. I made my way down to The Cheshire Cheese pub beside The Morning Star to drown my virtual sorrows. Redman was in there too, also drowning his sorrows.
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| Why aren’t you called Greenman? Y’know, since London Bobby is a London Bobby and Flower Boy is a Flower Boy… |
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| What? This isn’t even at Victoria’s Secret level of flesh exposure! |
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| Johnson’s a nasty bugger with a naughty name, ain’t he? |
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| Baubles? I’m a goddamn Master Thief! You? You’re just a Baiter! A Master Bai- uh… next item! |
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| Oh, I’d like to see you try, old man in green. |
And immediately after leaving that conversation, I suddenly received a telepathic message directly from my useless boss with a pathetic newspaper running with a financially unsound business model:
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| Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll be at The Morning Star. Harhar! Loser. |
And that concludes my play-through. I might not have caught the killer, but I got a better job at The Morning Star with Hemingway as my boss and a pouch filled with gemstones. All in all, I’m set for life. Until I get stabbed in a phone booth in the (hopefully, far far) future.
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