A Study in Sherlock

He tapped his chin again. “Bit unusual, but not unheard of. Happens from time to time. Americans, again, mostly, especially when the City was growing with a bang. Before that it was the Japanese, and before them the Arabs, all of them buying up the best properties as fast as they could. Now, of course, it’s as likely to be a Russian businessman or Chinese entrepreneur.”

I continued to press my case. “As you can see, all the destinations are in central London; there’s nothing farther west than Chiswick, north of St. John’s Wood, or east of Aldgate Underground, and the only place I’ve got listed south of the river is Waterloo Station.” I paused and it was then I played my trump card. “Of course, if you don’t happen to own your cab?”

He slowly slid his eyes in my direction. “I do, as a matter of fact, sir, and always have done, just like me dad and me grandad, and his dad and grandad before him. So, me being a musher, an owner-driver, I can do what I like.” He chuckled. “I take it you’re not a Yank or a Russian oligarch, are you, sir?”

It was my turn to chuckle then. “Nothing so exotic; English, through and through. I’m simply indulging in a little hobby of mine and hoping to use the photographs I get to illustrate a book I intend to write.”

“And that’d be a book about Sherlock Holmes, would it, sir?”

“Hope so, although I don’t have a publisher lined up for it yet.”

“Well, I couldn’t possibly stand in the way of literary endeavor or artistic merit. Alright then, clear what’s on the meter and we can go from there. I can do credit card, debit card, chip-and-pin, whatever you prefer.” I shook my head and handed through a twenty-pound note to cover the journey thus far and what I thought would be a suitably appropriate tip. He nodded. “Cash, is it? The poor man’s credit card, as it was once so described. Thank you much, sir, very generous of you. As for the next two-three hours, I reckon I’d normally do anything up to fifty miles, all told, so let’s call it two hundred quid, even.”

“Agreed,” I said. “And I’ll add a twenty-pound tip. And I’ll pay you now.”

“Again, very generous of you, sir.”

I opened my wallet again and extracted another crisp, new twenty-pound note, together with four crisp, new fifty-pound notes.

His eyes didn’t miss a thing. “No need to go to Cox and Co., near Charing Cross, then? Or Lloyds TSB, as it is now, of course.”

“I always prefer to pay cash, if I can,” I offered without any further explanation. “And, again, you’re sure it’s no bother?”

“As I said, sir, no bother. All in a day’s work.” He nodded and smiled and slid the banknotes inside his own commodious wallet. “Thank you.”

“Good,” I said, removing my overcoat as it was now rather warm inside the taxi. “Glad that’s settled. Now we can truly say: ‘The game’s afoot!’ ”

“And very appropriate, too, if I may say so, but before we step into the unknown, so to speak, would you mind if I ask you something by way of a personal question? Nothing intrusive, just me indulging a little hobby of my own, you could say, founded as it is upon the observance of trifles.”

“Yes, I see no harm,” I said, immediately putting up my guard. “I have rather imposed myself on you, after all. What would you like to know?”

“Are you a doctor, by any chance, sir, and more to the point, ex-military?”

“Well, yes, I am, as a matter of fact. I studied at Barts. Simply wanted to take another look at the old place before it’s changed out of all recognition.”

“After which you were a houseman, possibly a GP? Forgoing private practice until you joined the Royal Army Medical Corps; the old Linseed Lancers, In Arduis Fidelis, ‘Steadfast in Adversity,’ and all that? With whom you completed a couple tours of duty in Afghanistan? And from whom you’ve only very recently been demobbed—in all probability due to that leg wound of yours?”

“Well, yes, I was, I mean I did, but how on earth did you deduce all that?”

“Easy enough, sir. And please don’t mind me saying, but if clothes doth oft proclaim the man, then it’s highly unlikely you were ever in private practice. Tattersall-check brushed-cotton Viyella shirt, frayed at the cuffs; Harris Tweed jacket, leather patches at the elbows; cavalry twill trousers, well used; highly polished pair of tan brogues, recently reheeled and resoled; everything courtesy of Messrs. Aquascutum and Church’s, ergo Regent Street not Jermyn Street; all standard issue ‘home counties,’ not-so-well-off officers, for the use of. Then, of course, there’s the little matter of your regimental tie; alternate maroon and yellow, broad diagonal stripes against a dark blue field; not to mention your lapel pin featuring the RAMC’s rod and serpent cap badge, in miniature.”

I found myself fiddling unconsciously with my tie. I swallowed and endeavored to remain calm. One doesn’t come across such displays every day.