And now, another installment of Mr. Pigglesworth and Mr. Gimpson!

Mr. Pigglesworth looked over the body of a tall man, with a top-hat crushed under his head. He had a dark beard, and a long coat covering expensive clothes.
"I say Gimpson, he's dead!" He said to his companion, who was busy taking a snort out of a hammered pewter hip-flask. After he finished his sip, he placed the cap back on it, and put it into his coat.
"Perhaps he was a spy, and deserved death."
"A spy?!" Pigglesworth said incredulously.
"Yes. A person in the employ of a foreign power, paid to discover and pass along sensitive information."
"Gimpson, I know what a spy is. What makes you say that this man is a spy?"
"Well, look at his shoes..." Gimpson pointed at the shoe-souls with a silver-capped cane. "They're from France. And examine his pocket-watch" He pointed again with his cane at the timepiece, which was flung away from the body, but still attached to the man's vest with a chain. "It's Swiss. Obviously we're dealing with a continental. And since he still has his watch, and it appears as though his pockets have not been searched, then we can assume he wasn't killed by a common mugger. Therefore I speculate, it's a matter of National Security!"

Mr. Pigglesworth looked concerned. He scratched his chin, and exhaled - his nostrils making two jets of steam below his moustache. "Well, following your logic, he could just have easily been killed in a crime of passion, or perhaps he ran afoul of a demonic cult. I say!" Pigglesworth exclaimed excitedly as he saw buried in the man's side, the handle of a knife...it's hilt was studded with rubies and gemstones."Look at this! It appears more like the work of a Demonic Cult I should say!"

"Or perhaps it's a weapon from India, where there are known to be forces working against Her majesty's government. I'm of the belief that the man was a spy for one of these forces, and either betrayed them, or somehow ran afoul of their bizarre and secret rites - and was then slain by them!"
"That seems a little far-fetched old man, if I do say so myself. Either way, I suppose we should fetch a constable."
"Surely, if you wish to contaminate the scene with the bungling incompetence of provincial detectives."
"Provincial!" Exclaimed Pigglesworth. "We're in London! The largest, and most cosmopolitan city on the planet!"
"Yes, but how well is Scotland Yard acquainted with the ways of international intrigue? Not very, I should hazard to guess."

Pigglesworth put his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, and looked at his friend.
"Gimpson, I can't for the life of me understand why you've taken so strongly to this obviously fanciful theory."
"Because my good Pigglesworth, if it is a matter of national security, the only way we can truly help, is to walk away until the real authorities arrive - which I'm sure they will. If not, we'll be bogged down by police interviews for hours, and thereby missing the curtain for Macbeth. Now Sterling Smythe is in the starring role, and one of the most powerful actors to take the stage of the 19th century. And, as I might add, I also paid a pretty sum to acquire box seats for."
"Oh, I see." Said Pigglesworth, "I'll admit, I was anticipating the performance until we came across the body of..." Pigglesworth paused for a long moment, "This international spy. You are correct Mr. Gimpson in suggesting we leave it up to the Queen's agents, in order to not befoul an already very complicated situation."

Gimpson nodded his head, and began walking down the cobblestone street. Mr. Pigglesworth cast a last look at the corpse, and hurried after. By the time he had caught up, Gimpson had once again taken out his flask and uncapped it.
"To her Majesty's Defender's!" And had a long pull from it. Then he handed it over to Mr. Pigglesworth.
"To her Majesty's Defender's!" He repeated as he had a shot. Then he asked a question. "I say, Gimpson?"
"What?"
"Do you think we're patriots?"
"Of course Pigglesworth, no ordinary citizen would have done what we just did for the crown."
"Quite right." Said Pigglesworth.