A Study in Sherlock

Alan Bradley’s Flavia de Luce mysteries have been translated into thirty-one languages. Bradley has retreated to a Mediterranean island, taking with him only his wife, his books, and two cat assistants. As a boy, he was introduced to the Holmes tales by a favorite uncle, who faithfully reread them every fifth year. He is also the coauthor (with the late Dr. William A. S. Sarjeant) of the controversial Ms. Holmes of Baker Street, in which the authors prove that Sherlock Holmes was a woman. Bradley may have changed his view since.

The last official record of Holmes’s life is the story “His Last Bow,” published in 1917 in the collection of the same name. It tells of Holmes’s war service as an undercover agent and is written by an unknown author (although it appeared under the byline of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle).

AS TO “AN EXACT KNOWLEDGE OF LONDON”

Tony Broadbent

It was a crisp morning and quite bracing even for that time of year, the fog of yesterday thankfully consigned as if to distant memory, and certainly cold enough for my breath to steam in front of me and linger for a moment before it disappeared into the ether. I remember staring up at Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s magnificent iron-and-glass canopies, a sequence of all-encompassing spans that dwarfed everything beneath. And maybe it was the hour or my heightened sense of place, but I couldn’t help but notice that the diffused light from above reduced shadow and perspective to such a degree that people below were rendered as tiny indistinct figures in a landscape. It struck me then that the many diverse aspects that presented themselves to my gaze resembled nothing so much as a series of huge painted backcloths in some newly got-in production at Drury Lane or Covent Garden. But, as the immortal Bard once wrote, all the world’s a stage.

Indeed, the noise and bustle of the great terminus sounded for all the world like an orchestra tuning up and awaiting its conductor; all at once cacophonous, discordant, and deafening and yet even to my untutored ears, oddly comforting; a sonic harbinger of a symphony newly composed to celebrate a mighty capital city in constant reinvention of itself.

Maintaining British-army time, I stood there, fully five minutes early, both feet firmly planted, as wave after wave of blank-faced commuters streamed past me toward the exits and the entrances to the Underground. I took several deep breaths so as to help gather myself for the day ahead. I may have also rubbed my arms with my gloved hands and even stamped my feet, though I’m sure that was more from a simple desire for additional warmth than any undue display of impatience. But then as I’ve so often observed when in London, the very act of waiting, be it for taxi, Tube train, omnibus, or policeman, is a necessary part of one’s visit, and to fight against the inevitability of lost minutes or indeed lost hours would be as if to try and hold back the very times and tides, which is to say quite impossible. Not that that has ever stopped people from trying. I do remember I pulled back the cuff of my leather glove to glance at my wristwatch. “Times and tides, indeed,” I muttered.

“Er … you wanting a cab, are you, sir?”

“Well, yes, I have been waiting … I mean, yes, I do want a cab, thank you.”

“Very good, sir, where is it you’d like to go; that all your luggage, is it?”

“Ah … Baker Street, please, number 221B. And, yes, it is.”

“Need help with it, sir? Only, I couldn’t help but notice the walking stick.”

“Well, perhaps a hand with the suiter; it is a little heavy. I’ll keep my shoulder bag with me.”

“Right, you are, sir. Nice Brady bag, that. Got one myself and very handy they are, too. Going hunting, shooting, and fishing, are you, sir?”

“Yes, I rather suppose I am,” I said good-humouredly.

Suddenly there was a tremendous bang, in all probability nothing more than a luggage trolley or parcels van hitting a barrier, but it startled me no end and I may have uttered a cry of alarm, I can’t recall. For it was then I took a single step forward and stumbled over my ballistic nylon garment bag, lost my balance and went sprawling, dropping my walking stick and sending myself and everything flying. “Blasted leg!” I cursed aloud. “It’ll be the death of me yet.”

“Here, you okay down there, are you, sir?” the taxi driver called out.

It’s as much the embarrassment as the shock you have to contend with when you suffer an unexpected fall, and it took me a moment or two to gather my wits. “Thank you, I’m fine,” I shouted back, quickly waving away a passerby who’d stopped to enquire whether I needed help. “Just me being clumsy,” I offered by way of explanation. “Perhaps, Mr. Taxi Driver, if you’d be so kind as to store my suiter up front, with you?” I called out to the cabby.