A Study in Sherlock

“All the necessary tools of the trade,” I said, handing back my empty cup. “Thanks for the coffee and food for thought.” And with that we resumed our clockwise traverse of London, visiting all the remaining Holmesian points of interest as itemized in my little Moleskine notebook. As I’d done throughout the morning, I sent a short text message to confirm each point visited. And within two and a half hours we’d completed the tour and arrived at my final destination.

“Right, then, here we are, 221B Baker Street, not that any of the so-called experts even agree to this day exactly where it is or was.”

“Just here, at the corner of George Street, will do fine,” I said, quickly looking around me to ensure I wasn’t inadvertently about to leave anything of mine behind. I gathered my overcoat, tweed cap, woolen scarf, and canvas bag and even double-checked to see that I had my mobile phone with me. “Thank you for a most illuminating ride,” I called out. “I learned a great deal.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. Then to my surprise he exited his cab and came round to retrieve my garment bag himself. As I stood there on the pavement, he looked me in the face and shook my hand. “Very pleased to have made your acquaintance,” he said. “You be sure to go safe, now.”

I nodded my thanks and stood there as he returned to his cab and drove off, soon to be lost in the steady flow of traffic down Baker Street. I turned and quickly walked back up Baker Street and within minutes had come to my lodgings. I let myself in with my key. I closed the front door, locked and bolted it, dropped the walking stick in the rack in the hallway, the garment bag on the floor, and raced up the stairs, removing my leather gloves as I did so.

My companion hardly glanced up as I entered and all I received by way of a greeting was a single nod of acknowledgement and a long bony finger that pointed toward the much-abused, oversized partners’ desk, covered as it was with stacks of produced and yet-to-be produced screenplays and TV adaptations; piles of books, book proposals, and uncorrected proofs; and boxes galore of graphic novels and video games; even the latest action figures of Downey and Law as they appear in Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows. Transmedia to the max, as the trade papers would have it. I let slip my overcoat and dropped my shoulder bag onto a chair, hurriedly retrieving my Canon EOS 600D digital SLR camera and attaching it to the USB cable already plugged into the iMac, so that all the photos and video clips I’d taken of the taxi driver could upload while I was attending to everything else. As I sat down, the iMac computer’s twenty-seven-inch display had already refreshed the IMDb page devoted to Jared Harris, the actor cast as dastardly Professor Moriarty in the new Warner Brothers film. I closed it, quickly scrolled down to the appropriate application in the Dock, launched it, selected “Audio” from the drop-down menu and immediately heard the now all too familiar voice coming from the external loudspeakers. One odd thing, though: the accent seemed to have undergone a remarkable change, with all traces of “Mockney” now fully expunged.

“Of course, I had him picked out in a trice, what with his off-the-rack British warm, ghastly tweed flat cap, cheap brown leather gloves. On sartorial grounds alone, I think we can definitely discount this one; the very idea of him being the real thing is just too fanciful by half. Not sure where you got your intelligence about him, but to my eye he’s a rank amateur who doesn’t know his Conan Doyle, his Sherlock, or his Shakespeare. And limp or no limp, you’d have thought his walking stick was made of rubber; as clumsy a person as ever I’ve met; dropping things, simply everywhere. I tell you, the quality of target candidates has most definitely gone down.”

I took the proffered glass of sherry and continued to listen in as the cab driver reported the day’s events back to his lord and master. The sound quality was rather good, even if I say so myself, and despite the slight static it was clear I’d managed to get all the miniature microphones positioned to optimum effect. My colleague leaned forward and tapped the desk with a long finger to attract my attention. “He deduced you were RAMC?” he asked, quietly.