A Study in Sherlock

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.

“Righto,” he shouted, and I heard him exit the cab and saw him fully for the first time as he came round to where I was still lying on the cold concrete. I slowly got to my feet, holding on to the side of the taxi for balance, and bent down and after a little scrambling around managed to retrieve my tweed cap, my walking stick, and my shoulder bag. As I brushed myself down, the cabby shook his head in sympathy. “You took a right tumble, but as long as you’re alright?” I nodded and waved a hand as if to wipe away the whole incident. “Very good, sir. I’ll get this garment bag of yours stowed up front. Need help getting in? Only, I’ve got a ramp I can pull out if you can’t manage the step?”

I shook my head, thanked him profusely for his concern, opened the passenger door, and climbed gingerly into the back of the taxi. The cabby nodded and returned to the driver’s seat. I have to admit I was a little shaken by the incident and I took no small comfort in hearing the door-locks engage as the cab drove off, up towards Praed Street. And I settled back in my seat, let out an audible sigh of relief, and then reached for my mobile telephone.

“Stop! Please stop! Please pull over,” I called out. “I think I dropped my phone, back there, when I fell over. If I can possibly get out and take a look?”

“Blimey. Righto. Hold on.”

The taxi skidded to a halt and the moment I heard the doors unlock I grabbed the door handle and was out and onto the pavement and off like the proverbial rabbit. “Thank you,” I called over my shoulder. But I hadn’t gone ten feet when I stopped dead and spun slowly around. “No, no, wait a minute. Fool me.” I returned to the taxi and bent down to be at eye-level with the driver. He lowered the window. “Sorry to be such a bother, but could you open up so I can take a quick look inside my garment bag before I go scuttling off like an idiot? As now I come to think of it, I’m sure I put the damn thing in one of the pockets.”

The cabby smiled, but I noticed his eyes were a tad wary, out of long habit, no doubt, but he nodded and opened the door to the front luggage area. I pulled the door fully open, nodded my thanks, and began feverishly unzipping the outer pockets of my garment bag, in my haste all but upending it and sending everything flying again: paperback, Moleskine notebook, spectacles case, tin of peppermints, ballpoint pen; there seemed no end to the contents of those deep pockets, but alas there was no mobile phone. I stuffed everything back, without regard to order or placement, zipping up the pockets and refastening the straps as fast as I could, although I’m sure I must’ve still appeared unduly clumsy. “I was so certain I put it in here,” I said. “Not at all my usual place for it, though; silly of me really.” Then I had a sudden thought and felt along an upper seam of the bag and pulled open the hidden pocket. “Here it is, of course, in the so-called handy secret pocket. Thank heaven for that; I’d so hate to have lost another iPhone. Don’t seem to know where my head is these days.”

The cabby nodded in seeming sympathy and gave me another look. “Right then, sir, now we’ve got that … er … sorted, Baker Street, you said?”

“Ah, no, look, on second thought, I think I better head straight over to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, Giltspur Street.”

“Barts? Right you are, sir.” He paused, and I’d swear that for a brief moment a shadow flickered across his face. “That new Cancer Centre, is it, sir?”

I shook my head and gave him a reassuring smile. “No, no, nothing so serious; just a visit to the museum, the north wing; the Henry VIII gate will do.”

“With the one-way, I’d best drop you on West Smithfield Road, if that’d be okay?” I nodded. “Right you are, then, sir. If you’d just hop back in.”

So off we set again, my mobile phone now safely in my hand, my canvas shoulder bag by my side. London sped by at what a good and dear friend of mine had deduced was no faster than ever it’d been in the time of horse-drawn hansom cabs. I shook my head. Times and tides, indeed. I have to admit I felt not a little silly about the whole wretched incident and I could only imagine what the cab driver must’ve thought about it all. I took more deep breaths to help calm myself and looked around the interior of the cab. It was bright, airy, and clean, everything one expects of a London taxi, but there was something else besides.

“Excuse me, is this one of those new-style London cabs?” I asked, in a voice loud enough to attract the taxi driver’s attention.

“Yes, very well spotted,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Haven’t had it long, coming up on three or four weeks, now; the LTX4, top of the line, all mod cons, lovely little job; still got that lovely new cab smell.”

“Can’t quite put my finger on it,” I offered, by way of observation, “but it seems so much nicer, all round, somehow.”

“The makers would love to hear you say that,” he chortled. “Take this intercom we’re speaking over, most people don’t even realize the plexiglass partition isn’t open between them and me and they just start talking, normal like. You just press the button back there or I do in here; works a treat. So there’s no need for any more of that looking-back-over-my-shoulder-and-shouting-my-head-off malarkey. Even with a full complement of five passengers, everyone can clearly be heard. There’s even an induction loop for the hard of hearing.”

“How very thoughtful,” I said, surreptitiously checking my iPhone for any e-mails or text messages.

“It is,” he said. “On top of which the cab’s specially designed to accommodate a wheelchair if need be. Add individual head restraints, a child harness, air-conditioning with separate climate controls for the passengers, plus directional spotlights if anyone wants to read a newspaper or catch up on office work, and it’s a real step up in creature comforts. Same goes for me: lumbar support, coil-spring suspension, powerassisted steering, anti-lock braking, the lot. I can even hook my MP3 player in for a bit of music if I want. It’s got a computer and a navigation system, too, should ever I have need.”

He chatted on, amiably, about his new pride and joy and before I knew it we’d arrived at Barts. “How fascinating,” I said, “the continuing evolution of the London taxicab; always the same, only different.” I paused. “Look, I say, I only need ten minutes or so, to take some photographs. Would it be possible for you to wait for me while I go inside?”

He wrinkled his nose. “Yes, I don’t see why not. I’ll just keep the meter running; you take all the time you want. It’s all the same to me.”

“Thank you,” I said. Then, clutching my canvas shoulder bag, I got out of the cab, crossed over the pedestrian divide, slipping between the bollards as I did so, and went to stand in front of the archway. I took photographs of the statue of Henry VIII, turned and waved at the taxi driver, and pointed through the arch. I held up a hand with fingers splayed. “Five minutes,” I mouthed. He nodded back, pulled out a newspaper, and began reading. I, meanwhile, went in through the archway, changed camera lenses, peered at the digital display, and took some more photos. Then I sent a quick three-word text message. After a few more minutes I glanced at my watch. Time enough. I stepped out from beneath the archway and walked back across the median to where the taxi was parked. I got in again and expressed my thanks.

“I’ve had the heater on, so it’s nice and toasty for you,” the cabby said over the intercom. “Off to Baker Street, now, is it?”

“Look, I know I said 221B Baker Street was my ultimate destination, but there are a few other places I’d really like to visit before that. I have a list.”

“A list of points of interest? And I suppose you’d like me to wait for you at each one?” I nodded and he tapped his chin with a finger, as the meter ticked on in the background. “Yes, I suppose I could do that, sir,” he said, nodding. “It still being kipper season and things a bit slack on account of winter weather.”

“It’d really be most helpful,” I said, hurriedly turning to the appropriate page in my Moleskine notebook and holding it up for the cabby to see. He opened the tiny window in the glass partition and I pushed the little black notebook through to the driver’s compartment and he took it and glanced at the list, then he looked at it again even more closely. He turned and looked at me, with eyes narrowed, an inquisitive smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“If I’m not mistaken, sir, all these points you’ve got listed feature in stories by Conan Doyle; specifically the adventures of one Sherlock Holmes?” He paused. “Would I be right in presuming you’re one of them ‘Holmesians’; ‘the game’s afoot!’ and all that malarkey?” He smiled openly, then. “Although of course it was you wanting to go to 221B Baker Street that really gave the game away. You’re not the first, you know; I’ve had lots of people like you in the cab—Yanks mostly or ‘Sherlockians’ as they call themselves over there. Though you’d be surprised at the number of people who come all the way from Japan just to say they’ve trodden in the footsteps of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. In full regalia, some of them: deerstalker and Inverness cape; magnifying lens; meerschaum calabash pipe; the whole blinking kit and caboodle; even had a person bring a violin along with them, once, although I couldn’t say whether it was a Stradivarius or not.”

I marshaled my case. “I was thinking, I know the meter’s running, and I can settle that with you now, but could I perhaps hire the cab for the entire morning? Certainly be much more relaxing for me, possibly a little more profitable for you. At whatever rate you think would be appropriate, of course.”

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.

But the taxi driver hadn’t finished with me yet. “Then of course there’s what’s left of that suntan of yours, which incidentally is so engrained a child could see it never came from just ten days in Torremolinos. Add the sweat-stained NATO watchband on your rather, if I may say so, somewhat worse for wear Rolex Oyster Perpetual. Add to that the limp when you walk. And I’d say you got yourself banged about a bit, maybe as the result of coming into too close a proximity with an IED, and subsequently you had a couple of months’ hospital and physiotherapy, before finally being invalided out back into civvy street? That’s about it, though, given no more than a cursory look.”

“But that’s extraordinary,” I spluttered. “How on earth … how could you deduce so much from so little, the improvised explosive device and everything?”

“As I said, it’s just a little hobby of mine, sir, seeing as how I come into contact with so many strangers during my working day. And what with one thing and another, I’ve found it pays not just to look, but to try to really see.”

“You most definitely have a touch of the detective about you,” I said.

“Comes from being blessed with a ceaselessly inquisitive nature and an eye for the telling detail. Take that posh new Cancer Centre at Barts. I’ve heard rumour people there are embarking on stem cell research. Yet another attempt to further the brave new world that began some fifteen and more years ago when the very first mammal, Dolly the sheep, was cloned in a laboratory up near Edinburgh. Now, according to the BBC, over in Japan they’re going to try and get some poor elephant to give birth to a prehistoric giant woolly mammoth. You ask me, they’ll be cloning people next, the most dangerous bloody mammal of all. After which, there’ll be no telling who they’ll try bringing back to life. I tell you, there’s always been a lot more goes on than they’ll ever let on to the likes of you and me. So it wouldn’t surprise me if secret experiments had been going on for years and the scientists were just waiting for the right time to tell the public the truth of it: that they’ve already got real live human clones ready and raring to go.”

“What an outlandish thought,” I said, but there was little stopping him after that, as we’d obviously touched upon a hot button of some kind. It happens, of course; social barriers become lowered because of some unexpected shared experience, there’s a precipitous lessening of reserve, and for a time perfect strangers are suddenly conversing together like old friends. Even though it is true that, in our case, he did most of the talking while I did most of the listening.

After Barts, we fairly flew round to Aldersgate, the Stock Exchange, Liverpool Street Station, and Aldgate Underground station, with me exiting the cab at each stop so as to snap off some digital photographs. And we were on our way to the next point of interest on my list when the taxi driver asked me over the intercom whether I’d like some coffee when we reached the Tower of London. “Got a whole thermos flask full here, up front; black, no sugar, good-quality beans that I ground myself. Got a spare clean cup, too.”

“How very kind,” I said, and within minutes he’d pulled over close by the main entrance to the Tower and had poured the coffee and handed me a tiny cup through the equally tiny opening in the plexiglass partition and we sat there, very contentedly, for a good five minutes and more, he up front, me in back.

“Had them all at one time or another,” he said, sipping his coffee.

“I beg your pardon?” I said, desperately trying not to spill mine.

“Holmes and Watson—we’ve had almost all of them, over the years; by which I mean, me great-great-grandfather, me great-grandfather, me grandad, me dad, or me; we’ve had nearly all the actors in the cabs at one time or another. Great-great-grandad had William Gillette, a real gent by all accounts. Great-grandad had Eille Norwood and that Yank with the famous profile, John Barrymore. Grandad had Clive Brook and Arthur Wontner and once even conveyed the inimitable Basil Rathbone around town.” There really seemed to be no stopping him and, all reserve now dispensed with, he continued to rattle off name after name, a veritable Who’s Who of the acting profession, from the dawn of the twentieth century through to the present day. “Then of course Dad went and did him one better by picking up Orson Welles, who did Holmes on the radio, over in America; huge, he was, almost filled the entire backseat.”

I thought it only polite to show interest so I took a chance and interrupted the flow and offered up my one and only Wellesian quote. “Orson Welles said of Sherlock Holmes, ‘that he was a gentleman who has never lived and yet who will never die,’ which was really rather clever of him, don’t you think?”

The taxi driver threw me a rather disdainful look. “An all too memorable utterance whose very theatricality only serves to misdirect, if not utterly confuse. If only he knew the half of it.” He paused to sip his coffee. “Who else, now? Carlton Hobbs. Douglas Wilmer. Oh, yes, Peter Cushing. He was a very good Holmes, who oddly enough also once played Conan Doyle himself. As for Watsons, we’ve had Robert Stephens and his Watson, Colin Blakely; Christopher Plummer and his Watson, James Mason; and Mr. Jeremy Brett, of course, God bless him, with his two dedicated Dr. Watsons, Messrs. Burke and Hardwicke. We thought Granada Television really nailed it, Brett especially. Tell the truth, we thought we’d nailed him, himself, he was that good. Who else? Well, Dad had Michael Caine and Ben Kingsley, but so have I since they’ve been knighted.” I nodded, encouragingly, so as not to distract him. “I’ve had that Yank, Robert Downey Jr., as a fare twice now; in town, for films one and two; mad sod, but pleasant with it; nothing like the real Holmes, of course, but great fun; lots of adrenaline and all that indefinable star power the tabloids are always going on about. That last time, he even had his Watson with him, our very own crumpet catcher, Jude Law. Girls chasing them both down the street, grown women, too, like they were a pop group or something, remarkable to watch, it was. My most recent Holmes was from the Beeb’s Sherlock, their modern take on it all, starring that bloke Benedict Cumberbatch. Odd bloody name for an actor, if you ask me, but it seems to stick in the mind, even if people can’t ever pronounce it properly. I also liked his Watson: Freeman, Martin Freeman; very believable and very down to earth, and a Hobbit now, so they tell me. Anyway, add it all up and there’ve been hundreds and hundreds of films. And dozens and dozens who’ve played Holmes on celluloid and TV, on radio and on the stage. And all over the world, too, even Russia and Japan. It fair boggles the mind, it does.”

“Who would’ve ever thought there’d been so many?” I agreed.

“All roads lead to Rome and all Sherlocks to London,” he said.

If you only knew the half of it, I thought, but I said: “You’re so right, the BBC’s Sherlock series is excellent and produced with real affection, I thought.”

“Yes, very clever, although, as you can well imagine, I didn’t much fancy all that business in the first episode about the barking-mad taxi driver as played by Phil Davis, an otherwise excellent actor. I ask you, why on earth tar the noble fraternal order of London taxicab drivers with such a nasty brush? London cabbies as murderous villains, I should cocoa. Where would visitors to London be, or Londoners themselves for that matter, without the honest, upstanding, supremely knowledgeable London cabby at their constant beck and call? Nowhere, that’s where. They’d have to lump it on the buses and Tube or put up with all the nonsense and malarkey of dealing with all those unlicensed mini-cab drivers, none of whom are required to have an exact knowledge of anything, let alone London. No, that whole rotten business spoiled it for me. I blame the writers, myself: character assassination of a respected hardworking guild, for easy plot gain, showed real lack of imagination on their part.”

Of course, I had to speak to that. “I didn’t at all take it as an ad hominem attack on all London taxi drivers; merely the portrayal of a single, terminally ill individual with a sick and twisted mind who just happened to drive a black cab. I’m sure the writers didn’t intend that it reflect on the entire profession.”

“Nevertheless, the damage is already done, isn’t it? Our reputation’s been scarred. Simply putting the thought in people’s minds is bad enough. And I tell you, it’s not easy being a cab driver; it’s hard work having to recall all twenty-five thousand streets within a six-mile radius of Charing Cross Station. And it’s not just about having an exact knowledge of London, and a green badge to show for it; with me it’s about having an exact knowledge of the Canon, as well.”

“The Canon? You mean, all fifty-six short stories and all four novels of the adventures and exploits of Sherlock Holmes as recorded by Dr. John Watson?”

“Of course, what else could I mean? I’m certainly not referring to all that fake Holmes nonsense that gets cobbled together on a depressingly regular basis by all them would-be authors. No, there’s nothing compares to Conan Doyle’s original stories. ’Ere, I’ll show you. You cop hold of this list of points of interest you want to visit.” He opened the tiny window in the plexiglass partition and pushed my notebook through to me. “Now you just shout out places on your list, in any old order, any which way around.”

“Very well,” I said, sitting back in my seat, “if it’s the complete Canon that you claim to have knowledge of, where does Cannon Street station figure?”

“Very funny,” he said, “but I can assure you Cannon Street railway station looms large in ‘The Man with the Twisted Lip.’ ”

“What about Euston Station?” I asked.

“ ‘The Priory School.’ Am I right, sir?”

“Very probably,” I said. “Very well, then, where do Liverpool Street, Charing Cross, Victoria, and Waterloo stations all figure?”

“ ‘The Dancing Men,’ ‘The Abbey Grange,’ ‘Silver Blaze,’ and ‘The Crooked Man.’ And while you appear to be blowing smoke, sir, Paddington Station, where I picked you up earlier this morning, figures in ‘The Boscombe Valley Mystery,’ as well as in The Hound of the Baskervilles.”

“Alright, then, where we just were: Aldgate Underground station?”

“Again, easy-peasy, ‘The Bruce-Partington Plans.’ Blimey, I’m really racking up the points here; you’re going to have to try harder than that, sir.”

“Bentinck Street, Bow Street, and Brook Street?”

“That’d take us to ‘The Final Problem,’ ‘The Man with the Twisted Lip,’ and ‘The Resident Patient.’ ”

“And Conduit Street, Covent Garden Market, and Church Street—Stepney, not Paddington?”

“ABCs, is it? Very well, then, in order: ‘The Empty House,’ ‘The Blue Carbuncle,’ and ‘The Six Napoleons.’ What next, D for Downing Street and ‘The Naval Treaty’? I’m telling you, I know every single point on your list to a T, so even if you were to throw the Temple, the Tower of London, and Trafalgar Square at me, you still wouldn’t catch me out.”

“Very well,” I said, trying not to show how truly impressed I was, for it was now all too clear he really knew the Canon and was a veritable Leslie S. Klinger, Esq., in the guise of a licensed London cabby, “do pray tell.”

“The Temple, the Tower of London, and Trafalgar Square will take you, respectively, to ‘A Scandal in Bohemia,’ The Sign of the Four, and The Hound of the Baskervilles, again. Had enough? Have I made my case?”

“Most excellent, I must say,” I said, but I wasn’t going to give up so easily. “Let me try another track, take me to that ‘vile alley lurking behind the high wharves which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge.’ ”

He simply chuckled. “Very well remembered on your part; you’re of course referring to Upper Swandam Lane and ‘The Man with the Twisted Lip’? I should cocoa. It doesn’t even exist and never did. I’d give him a twisted lip as soon as look at him, if I only had half the chance. He should’ve known better, a man of his intellect; I mean to say, he could just as easily have written Lower Thames Street and it would’ve been spot on, so to speak.”

“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, you mean?”

“No, Dr. J. H. Watson, who do you think? And as for him writing about Paul’s Wharf, again in TMWTTL, well it exists, of course, only not at all where he says it is … I mean was.”

“On purpose, do you think? To throw people off the trail?” I said.

“Wouldn’t put it past any of them, Holmes in the deducing, Dr. Watson in the writing, or Conan Doyle, himself, as agent, nom de plume, or whatever his preferred style of address. It’s always wheels within wheels with them three, mysteries and enigmas and riddles, always and forever in plain sight to catch you unawares. ‘The Politician, the Lighthouse, and the Trained Cormorant’? Do me a favour; it was never published. So who’s to say there ever was such a case? And what about his so-called monographs: ‘The Typewriter and Its Relation to Crime,’ ‘Upon the Tracing of Footsteps,’ or ‘Upon Secret Writing’? They’re all of them just titles as tittle-tattle, nothing but springes to catch woodcocks.”

“I must say your knowledge of the Canon is truly astonishing,” I said. “I’m sure it must be the perfect complement to The Knowledge—the official examination you had to undergo to become a licensed London taxi driver.”

“Yes, three years’ hard slog that was, but a Knowledge of Holmes is the work of a lifetime; several of them, truth be told. And it’s funny you should put the two together like that, as there are many cabbies reckon the term originated with Sherlock Holmes and not, as some would have it, some nameless Victorian-era Commissioner of Police. Stands to reason, really; Holmes said it was a hobby of his to have an exact knowledge of London and an exact knowledge of London is the sine qua non, so to speak, of the London Hackney Carriage Act, which, I think, proves my point all the more. After all, who better to give it name than one who employed so many hansom cabs in the prosecution of so many of his famous cases? That’s why so many of us always have a well-thumbed copy of the Canon in the cab, along with a London A to Z and the latest edition of Time Out.”

“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.

I nodded. “The regimental tie, of course. He also identified the rod and serpent on the lapel pin. And as for the carefully contrived mufti, the badly scratched Rolex, and the suntan you had me work on these past many weeks, they all proved inspired.”

“So very cooperative of him to have seen what we wanted him to see.”

“Yes, and as you can hear, he’s rather pleased with himself about it. But as you’ve always said, ‘Blood will out.’ ”

My colleague nodded and I opened a second application that brought up a detailed map of London onto the screen. The red dot moving slowly across the display, as if directed by some unseen force, told us that the tiny Hitachi satellite navigation transponder I’d managed to get positioned up under the rear wheel arch was functioning properly. It remained to be seen just how effective the dozen or so specially colour-matched RFID tags of various sizes I’d secreted around the cab would prove to be, especially in conjunction with the Real-Time Location System we’d only recently acquired, but that was work for another day. Meanwhile, our once-friendly cab driver continued to vent his spleen.

“Why on earth the constant need to push Holmes onto an ever-gullible public? You’d have thought everyone would be sick to death of him by now, but there’s a never-ending stream of it and it’s only gotten worse of late. Every damn Tom, Dick, and Harry is dreaming up some new madcap scheme or other to do with Holmes and Watson. There are those dreadful big-budget Hollywood films, the damn TV series, seemingly multiple one-offs; books and audio books and bloody e-books, all coming out of our bloody ears; and that’s not counting those violent bloody video games and all those weird comic books intended for illiterate adults. For the life of me, I can’t imagine what it is everyone hopes to achieve with it all. And I absolutely dread to think where it’s all going to end. They should just bloody well leave well enough alone and stick with the Canon, plain and simple; surely that should be good enough? I know none of it’s still in copyright, but is that any reason for everyone to keep on taking a bite out of the old beekeeping bugger?”

There was a long pause and but for the continued background noise I would’ve thought there’d been a break in transmission. I held my breath, hoping against hope that the “cabby” hadn’t spotted any of the microphones I’d hidden inside his taxi. Thankfully, though, my worries proved groundless, as it soon became very clear he’d simply been gathering his thoughts.

“And you know what really gets my goat, it’s the fact that it’s us who’ve actually done the most to keep his reputation alive. I mean, where would the name of Sherlock Holmes be without your own particular brand of genius? He’d be a mere footnote to detective fiction, nothing more. The plain truth is, whenever his name is mentioned, people always remember you in the same breath; it’s you they remain most in awe of. So if, as they say, a man is truly defined by his enemies, then it’s you that’s most clearly defined him and that should rightfully take the lion’s share of any glory that’s going.”

It was then we heard the voice that once heard can never be forgotten. I glanced over at my companion, who nodded and removed the long cherrywood pipe from his mouth, his eyes suddenly as hard and as black as obsidian.

“My dear young Sebastian,” said the silken voice of the Napoleon of Crime, for it was he, undoubtedly, who was now speaking. “You should not judge by outward appearances alone. Our fiendish would-be nemesis is the very wiliest of adversaries, as too is his seemingly clumsy and bumbling partner-in-crime. Always remember that what is on the outside is always on the inside, but what is on the inside is not necessarily always revealed on the outside. We have no earthly idea when or where the real Holmes will return or in what guise. It could be as bookseller, ornithologist, apiarist, pathologist, or priest, or any one of a thousand disguises. That is why we must remain ever vigilant and seek out and examine each and every one who would play the role of consulting detective and each and every one who would then act as his fawning amanuensis. We must establish who is really who and then determine whether they might prove a future hindrance to our purpose and, if such be the case, to deal with them in the most severe, most expeditious manner possible.”

It was very apparent that a particular hot button had just been pressed again and pressed particularly hard. And I admit I was moved to lower the volume somewhat.

“Fiend is right, the wily, scheming bastard should up, up and play the game and come out and fight like a real man. ‘Steel true, blade straight’? What utter tosh. He’s the one who ruined my family’s good name and brought us all so low, damn him to hell. All I’ve ever asked for, all any of us have ever asked for, is the chance to get a good, clear shot at Holmes’s head, which as you well know is all I really live for. As for the rest of it, as always, dear Uncle Morrie, when you hit the nail on the head, you hit it so very good and hard. And I hear you, I do. I know we have no choice but to continue searching for the cunning swine and I give you my word I’ll keep on doing that. I’m only sorry the day turned out such an utter waste, but there it is. We’ll get him, eventually, though, we will. Anyway, look, I’ll get the taxi garaged and the garb of London cabby put away in the props cupboard until next time. I’ll also make good and sure the VH-V2 air gun, telescopic sight, and hollow-point ammunition are all safely tucked away. After which, of course, I’ll take the usual precautions to ensure I’m not followed. One can never be too careful, as you’re always so very fond of telling me. I’ll report in again in an hour when I’m en route to my club. For now, Sebastian Moran, Holmes hunter, over and out.”

All we could hear then was the white noise of London as amplified from inside the taxicab. And the very last we heard that day was the latest in the long line of Moran progeny humming tunelessly to himself. I couldn’t for the life of me make out what it was, but then a long, thin finger reached out across the desk and, with a double click of the mouse, the sounds from the Harman/Kardon SoundSticks, sited either side of the computer, were eclipsed.

I turned to face the extraordinary man I’d known for what seemed several lifetimes, as his eyes flashed in triumph. “Know your enemies, my dear fellow. Know them with an exactness that renders them, their habits, their subterfuges, their weaknesses, and their strengths, as clearly as if they were life-sized pieces arrayed before you on a giant chessboard.”

I nodded and reached for the sherry decanter as my closest-ever male companion and dearest friend reached for his violin case.

“A good day’s work on your part, old friend,” he said. “Well done.”

I raised my glass. “Yes, cheerio. But, as you’ve always said, the only possible place to hide a secret is in plain sight.”

He paused before raising his beloved Stradivarius to his chin. “As Professor Moriarty is ever vigilant for our return, it behooves us to promote ourselves and our likenesses in any and every way possible. We needs must give continuous form, substance, and exercise to his worst imaginings; that we, his two most implacable foes, have risen, yet again, Lazarus-like, from the dead.”

“Give a dog a bone, Holmes?”

“Indeed, my dear Watson. And not just cupboards full of skeletons, but whole battalions, entire multitudes, if need be. All to ensure that Moriarty and his wretched gang simply cannot see the wood for the trees. For as elementary as the ruse undoubtedly is, the one indisputable fact in our case is that there truly is safety in numbers.”

I raised my glass again and sat there—with not a single thought of putting pen to paper—and sipped at my sherry and listened contentedly as the notes of Mendelssohn’s “Lieder ohne Worte” once again worked their very particular magic upon me and brought the day’s work to a more than agreeable close.

Tony Broadbent is the author of a series of mystery novels about a roguish Cockney cat burglar in postwar, austerity-ridden, black-market-riddled London who gets blackmailed into working for MI5 and is then trained by Ian Fleming. His first, The Smoke, received starred reviews. The follow-up, Spectres in the Smoke, was awarded the Bruce Alexander Historical Mystery Award in 2006 and was proclaimed by Booklist as one of the best spy novels of the year. The third, Shadows in the Smoke, is soon to be published. Broadbent was born in England, a short train ride away from Baker Street, and now lives in Mill Valley, California, with his beautiful American wife and a real cat burglar of a cat. He was introduced to the Sherlock Holmes Canon on the very Christmas Day he’d deduced for himself that Santa Claus was indeed his own father in disguise.