Picture the scene...
Your sibling has gone missing, and you bear in your hand a handwritten note in their handwriting from the hotel they're staying at. You call up said hotel... No Sir, no-one of that name stayed here sir!
Aha! So, you take it upon yourself to investigate the disappearance, and pack your bags. Hmmmm... what to take? Magnifying glass? Deerstalker? violin and opium?
Of course not - you pack the very things that are vital for your role as a private dick.
And those things would clearly be a candlestick and various ancestorial accoutrements, such as your great great great uncle's witchfinders kit.
Still, you can always rely on Andrew Eldritch to take a pot shot at you in the shrubbery, clearly mistaking you for a right old hussy. But, he saves the day!
Unlike miserable git in a wheelchair who, knowing all The Laird's evil plans, can't be arsed to do anything until a descendant of Labia returns to the village. All very well boasting you knew all along, but only decide to mention it when Christopher Lee turns into Grotbags in a ludicrous hat.
And we could have been watching a fly in the pointment.
C'est larvæ, or summat...
