East of Ealing (5 page)

“So,” said he, rising with difficulty from his leather chair. “Visitors at such a late hour. And to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Sorry to interrupt your work,” said Omally, who was now at the vanguard. “But we have, well, how shall I put it…?”

The tall man in the dressing-gown thrust his way past Omally and stood framed in the doorway. A broad smile suddenly broke out upon his bleak countenance. “Professor,” said he. “We meet again.”

“My word,” said the other. “This is a most pleasant if unexpected surprise.”

The tall man stepped forward and wrung the ancient’s hand between his own.

“You mean you know who he is?” asked Omally incredulously. Pooley was supporting himself upon the door-frame.

“Have you not been formally introduced?” enquired the Professor. Omally shook his head.

“Then allow me to do the honours. Soap Distant, John Omally, Jim Pooley, gentlemen, it is my pleasure to present Mr Sherlock Holmes, formerly of 22b Baker Street.”

“Your servant,” said that very man.

Professor Slocombe closed and bolted the long shutters upon his French windows. When his guests had seated themselves, he moved amongst them, distributing drinks and cigarettes. Sherlock Holmes lounged in a high leather-backed fireside chair and accepted a Turkish cigarette. “My thanks, Professor,” said he. “I see that you still favour the same brand.”

The Professor smiled and seated himself. “I think that we have much to speak of, Sherlock. Your arrival here, although bringing me untold joy at the pleasure of meeting once more a noble friend, is, to say the least, a little perplexing.”

Holmes drew deeply upon his cigarette and blew out a plume of light blue smoke. “It is a singular business and no mistake.”

Pooley and Omally, who had been shaking their heads in disbelief and generally making with the rumbles of suspicion, gave the thing up and slumped in their seats sipping liquor.

“It all truly began,” said Holmes, “one foggy November night back in Eighteen-ninety. The previous month had been a successful one for me, having solved the remarkable case of the Naval Treaty and been more than adequately rewarded by Lord Holdhurst. I was experiencing a brief period of inactivity and as you will recall, such spells are no good to me. My soul as ever ached for the thrill of the chase, the challenge of pitting one’s wits against some diabolic adversary, the blood coursing through the temples, the rushing of…”

“Quite so,” said Professor Slocombe. “Your enthusiasm for your work is well-recorded. Upon this particular evening, however?”

“Yes, well, Watson and I had, I recall, just partaken of one of Mrs Hudson’s most palatable tables of roast beef, and were setting towards consuming the last of a fine bottle of Vamberry’s Port, when there came a violent knocking upon our chambers’ door.”

“Probably the raven,” said Omally sarcastically.

“Do you mind?” said Professor Slocombe.

Holmes continued. “I had heard no rappings upon the front door and knowing that Mrs Hudson was below in the kitchen was put immediately upon my guard. I had many enemies at that time you must understand. I counselled Watson to open the door whilst I remained at my chair, my revolver upon my knee, covered with a napkin.”

“Exciting so far isn’t it?” said Pooley, yawning loudly.

“Riveting,” said Omally.

Holmes continued once more. “The two figures who revealed themselves upon the door’s opening were quite unlike any I have before encountered. I pride myself that I can accurately deduce the background and occupations of any man set before me, but those two left me baffled. They were tall and angular with almond-shaped eyes and oriental features. When they spoke I found their accents totally alien. Watson permitted them ingress into our rooms and although they refused both food and drink, saying that such were impossible for them, what they had to say was precise and to the point. They had come from the future, they said, naming a year well in advance of this. The world they came from was vastly different from that I inhabited, but they were adamant in offering few details. They were perplexed by a problem of utmost import which required the deductive reasoning of a mind their century did not possess. They had read in their history books of my humble exploits and felt I was the man to tackle the task. Was I willing?

“As you can imagine, I was more than doubtful and demanded some proof of their claims. What they showed me was more than adequate to convince me that they told no lie.”

“So what are you doing here?” asked Professor Slocombe. “You should surely be away into the future by now.”

“No,” said Holmes. “You must understand that their sophisticated equipment enabled them to traverse the fields of time in an instant, but it was not possible for them to take a being from the past forward into the future with them. I would have simply crumbled to dust upon my arrival. They were more subtle than this. They arranged for a secret place to be built for me where I might be placed in suspended animation. They would then travel forward in their time-eliminating conveyance, and unearth and resuscitate me almost on the instant.”

“Ingenious,” said the Professor, turning towards Soap Distant.

“How was I to know?” complained Soap.

“Well,” said the Professor, “simply consider this a pleasurable stop off along your journey.”

“I think not,” said Holmes. “Mr Distant here has broken the seal and disabled the means of my travel through time. Unless you happen to know of someone who can reset the apparatus, I would appear to be trapped.”

Professor Slocombe scratched at his head. “That might present some problems,” said he. “Although there is always the thought that your visitors are already in the far future discovering your loss and even now are setting back to search for you.”

“Such is, of course, the case, but they might search for a century and not find me.”

“What a load of old rubbish,” said Omally suddenly rising from his seat. “Come, Jim, let us away to our beds.”

Pooley climbed to his feet. “Be fair, Professor,” said he. “This is all a bit too much over the top. I know that the world is always ready and waiting for one more Sherlock Holmes story, but this is pushing credibility to the very limit.”

“Do you doubt who I am?” Holmes rose to his full height and stood glaring at the deuce of Thomases.

“Be fair,” said Pooley, “this is very far-fetched. You are at the very least extremely fictional in nature.”

“I am as fictional as you,” said Sherlock Holmes.

“Ha,” said Pooley. “If you are the legendary doyen of detectives, answer me some questions.”

“Proceed.”

“All right then, what are the thirty-nine steps?”

“Wrong story,” said John Omally.

“Ah, well… In
The Red-Headed League
how did you know Vincent Spaulding was actually John Clay the murderer, thief, forger, and smasher?”

“By the white splash of acid on his forehead and his pierced ears.”

“Who lost his hat and his goose in
The Blue Carbunkle
?”

“Henry Baker.”

“What was the Musgrave Ritual?”

“Who was it? He who is gone. Who shall have it? He who will come. What is the month? Sixth from the first. Where is the sun? Over the oak. What was the shadow?…”

“Right, right, under the elm, we know.”

“Who was the Norwood Builder?” Jim asked.

“Jonas Oldacre.”

“And the Three Students?”

“Gilchrist, Danlat Ras and Miles McLaren.”

“And the plumber engaged to Charles Augustus Milverton’s housemaid?”

“Myself,” said Holmes.

“Well you could have read them. I always believed that Holmes really did go over the Riechenbach Falls with Professor Moriarty. Those later stories were the work of a stand-in, I thought.”

“Bravo,” said Holmes. “You are, of course, correct. You must understand that a certain amount of subterfuge was necessary to cover my disappearance. My exploits were chronicled by Doctor Watson, through an arrangement we had with a Mr Conan Doyle. I left it to him to continue with the stories after my supposed death.”

“Hang on,” said Pooley. “Not that I can make any sense at all out of this, but if you went below under the pretence of dying in the Riechenbach Falls how could you possibly know about the Norwood Builder and the Three Students. That was four years later in
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
.”

“Ah,” said that man.

“Ah, indeed,” said Professor Slocombe. “And Milverton’s plumber?”

“Detective’s license?” Holmes suggested.

“I give up,” said John Omally.

“Me also,” said Jim.

An inexpensive veneer of sunlight was thinly varnishing the rooftops of Brentford as Norman Hartnell took up the bundle of daily papers from his doorstep and hefted them on to his counter.

The early morning was always Norman’s favourite time of the day. The nights were hell, for whilst his body slept upon its Hartnell Mark II Hydrocosipit, his brain went on the rampage, plotting, planning, and formulating, driving him on and on towards more preposterous and unattainable goals. But in the early mornings he could find just a little peace. He could peruse the daily papers as he numbered them up for delivery. He was in the privileged position of ever being the first in the parish to know the news.

On this particular morning, after a very rough night with his capricious cerebellum, Norman sliced away the twine bindings of the paper bundle with his reproduction Sword of Boda paper knife, eager to see what the rest of the world had been up to. As he tore the brown paper covering aside and delved into the top copy a singularly interesting piece met his eye, almost as if it had been simply waiting there to do so: GOVERNMENT GIVES RIGHT-HAND PLAN THE BIG THUMBS UP, he read.

An all-party-sitting last night gave the Lateinos and Romiith scheme for personalized account enumeration the go-ahead. This scheme will eventually make all previous systems of monetary exchange obsolete. Through laser implantation of a personal intromagnetic computer bar code, upon either the forehead or right hand of each individual member of society, it is thought that all crimes involving monetary theft will henceforth be made impossible. Also the need for passports or any other form of identity paper will be eliminated.

Linked with Lateinos and Romiith’s master computer now currently in production, the system is expected to be instituted nationally within the next six months.

Norman whistled as he weighed up the concept. It was certainly ingenious: no-one could steal your money if you never carried any, or use your banker’s card if they found your wallet in the street. With your own personal number printed on your forehead they’d have to cut your head off and pass it across the bank counter to get at your wealth. And with no money there would be no paperwork. No more monthly accounts, the money would pass invisibly, simply at the wave of a light-pen. The more Norman thought about it the more impressed he became. And the more miffed that he hadn’t thought of it first.

He scribbled “15 Balfour” on to the first paper and turned it aside without giving the rest of the news even a cursory once-over. As it happened, there was little else but for wars and rumours of wars and a continuance of the black fly plague, so he certainly hadn’t missed much.

In the curtained alcove in the kitchenette his duplicate sat staring into space and thinking absolutely nothing whatsoever.

Neville the part-time barman stirred in his pit. He blinked open his good eye and stared up at the ceiling, which unaccountably appeared to have lowered itself by a couple of inches during the night. Drawing back his continental quilt, he set a monumental foot upon the worn Axminster. He yawned, stretched and considered his hands. “Gross,” he thought. The wrists appeared massive, swelling from his pyjama sleeves to join great five-pound hams with pork sausages glued on to them. Whatever was happening to him was doing it at an accelerated rate of knots. “It’s getting out of control,” said Neville, as to the accompaniment of groaning floorboards, he arose from his bed. He would give up eating, he told himself, live exclusively on scotch, crispbread, and the occasional lime to stave off scurvy.

Neville staggered across the floor; pictures rattled upon the wall in time with his tread, and the entire upper storey of the pub seemed dangerously near to collapse. Why would nobody admit to seeing the state he was in? It had to be part of some enormous conspiracy aimed at ousting him from the Swan. Neville pawed at his swollen skull with a preposterous forefinger. Was that it? Was it the brewery having a go? That nest of vipers? Most horrors which befell him were directly attributable to them. Possibly they were bribing his patrons to ignore his plight? Or possibly they were hypnotizing him while he slept? Neville had read of slimming courses you got on cassettes and played while you were asleep. He’d never quite figured out how you turned the tape recorder on if you were fast a-kip, but it was a thought. He would search his apartments for hidden speakers as soon as he’d had his morning shower.

He struggled to squeeze himself through the bathroom doorway. Whatever it was, he would have to suss it out pretty rapidly or the entire building was going to come down about his ears.

Old Pete ambled along the Ealing Road, his tatty half-terrier, as ever, upon his heels. He had just paid his weekly visit to each of Brentford’s two sub-post offices, in order to cash the two pension cheques the post office’s errant computer chose weekly to award him. “God bless the GPO,” the old reprobate had been heard to utter upon more than one occasion.

The ancient shuffled cheerfully along, rattling his stick noisily across Mrs Naylor’s front railings in a manner calculated to rudely awaken the insatiable lady librarian from her erotic dreams. Young Chips chuckled to himself and gave the lampposts a bit of first-thing nasal perusal. Norman’s new paperboy bustled out of the corner-shop, the heavy bag upon his shoulders, and mounted his bike. Chips momentarily bared his teeth, but it was early yet and he hardly felt up to making the effort.

Pete steered his way between the posts supporting Norman’s shopfront and thrust open the temporary door. “Morning Norman,” said he. The shopkeeper tucked away the copy of
Donkey Capers
he had been ogling and turned to seek out Pete’s weekly quota of tobacco.

“How’s the bed, Pete?” he asked. “To your satisfaction I trust?”

“Magic,” said Old Pete.

“I’m so glad. Two ounces of Ships is it?”

“And a copy of the
Mercury
.” Old Pete pushed a crisp fiver across the counter.

“Ever had a credit card, Pete?” Norman rang up the sale on his cash register.

Old Pete shook his head. “Don’t think so. I have a membership card for the British Legion, and a special doo-dad which lets me travel free on the buses, other than that…” Old Pete scratched his snow-capped head. “Had a pack of nudie playing-cards I bought in Cairo during the last lot. What does it do then?”

Norman did his best to explain.

“Oh no,” said Pete. “Never had one of those. Mind you, I’ve never had a bank account. You selling them now, then?”

Norman shook his head. “I was just reading this article. It seems that they are now obsolete. The Government are taking to stamping the numbers on people’s heads.”

“Don’t talk rubbish,” said Old Pete. “Here now, what is this?” He pointed to his tin of tobacco.

“What is what?”

“This.” Old Pete indicated a series of little lines imprinted upon the lid. “They weren’t there last week. What are they?”

Norman took the tin and examined it. “That’s the lads,” said he. “Computer bar coding, it’s called. That’s what I was trying to explain. All commodities are now being printed with them. They tell you the price and the date you purchased the item and all that sort of thing. You pass a light-pen over them and it logs all the information straight into some master computer. The Government are simply taking the process a logical step further.”

“I don’t like the smell of that,” said Old Pete. “After all, you know when you purchased it and how much it costs, what do you need the lines for?”

Norman shrugged. “Progress,” he said. “We must all move with the times you know.”

“You must.” Old Pete snatched back his tobacco. “For myself, I say a pox on the times. Now don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against computers, one in particular there is which I hold in the highest esteem. But for progress in general…” Old Pete made the appropriate two-fingered gesture, snatched up his paper, which unbeknown to him bore a not dissimilar set of lines upon it, and shuffled from the shop.

“Daft old fogey,” said Norman to himself; but squinting around it did occur to him that every item he had ordered during the last few weeks possessed similar markings. No doubt it was all for the common good. There could not possibly be anything sinister at the back of it, surely? No, it was all part of a great masterplan to free society of crime and bring prosperity to all. Norman went off about his business, whistling, “The Rock Island line is a mighty fine line”.

Jim Pooley was already upon his favourite bench. He had accosted Norman’s paperboy and wrung from his clammy grip a copy of the
Sporting Life
. Yesterday had been a total disaster. His life savings, in the biscuit tin on the mantelpiece, were sadly depleted. In the dubious excitement of the night before, he and Omally had actually forgotten to ask Soap for the thirty quid. Such events were wont to dash any hopes Jim had for the future. He would simply have to pull off The Big One today and that was that.

Pooley scanned the pages in search of inspiration. Almost at once he spied out a little series of lines printed on the lower left-hand corner of the sixth page. “Aha,” said Jim, “a code, possibly masonic.” He recalled a discussion he had recently had with Professor Slocombe about what the ancient termed The Science of Numerology. The scholar was convinced that the answer to most if not all of existence could be divined by the study of numerical equivalents. It was all down to breaking the code. The Professor had, of course, said a great deal more at the time, but that was the general gist which Jim managed to take in. No knowledge was ever wasted upon the lad, for as his father, like Omally’s, had told him somewhat obscurely when he was a lad, “a dead bird never falls out of the nest.”

So here was a little offering, possibly a secret code, printed for the benefit of that dark order, The Bookie Brotherhood, who, as any good punter knows, are always tipped the wink in advance. Pooley turned quickly to the front page and his heart jumped for joy. It was true. He had Bob the bookie’s
Sporting Life
. Oh, happy day.

“I’ve cracked it,” said Jim Pooley to the assortment of Brentford wildlife which watched him from the surrounding trees. The squirrels shook their heads and nudged one another. The pigeons turned their beaked faces aside and tittered into their wings. They had seen all this many times before. “Eighteen lines,” Jim began, “three groups of six, thick ones and thin ones, now how exactly does this work? Six six six, what might it mean?”

Pooley ran his Biro down the list of runners for the first race, six horses. The first thick line in the first group was number four. It was an outsider, the odds were enormous. Still it was worth a try. If he got it wrong today he could always steal Bob’s paper again on the morrow. Jim scribbled the horse’s name on to a betting-slip and applied himself to the next race. For the fourth, fifth, and sixth races, he returned to the three groups of lines and selected the second thick bar in each sequence. Satisfied that, even if he was incorrect, he had at least performed this daily task with speed and alacrity, Jim took out his exercise book and made an attempt to calculate his potential winnings. The eventual figure was so large that the last row of noughts flowed off the edge of the page. Pooley folded his betting-slip into his breastpocket and tucked away his exercise book. “That will do nicely thank you,” he said, leaning back upon the bench to enjoy the air.

Professor Slocombe sat taking a late breakfast with his Victorian guest. Mr Sherlock Holmes ate sparingly as he studied the day’s newspaper. “I see,” he said at length, as he pushed the tabloid aside, “that very little has changed since my day.”

“Come now, Holmes,” said the Professor. “More strides forward have been taken this century than during the previous five.”

“I think not.”

“And what of technological advancement, telecommunications, space travel? We possess sciences now that in your day were undreamed of.”

“And what of poverty, squalor, and cruelty? What of injustice, intolerance, and greed? Has your age of wonder succeeded in abolishing those?”

Professor Slocombe shook his head. “Sadly, no,” said he.

“Then little has changed. If anything, these horrors have been intensified. Details which I read here would never have been made public knowledge in my time. But if what I see is typical, and such I have no reason to disbelieve, then I am appalled to find that with the resources you now possess, little has been done.”

Professor Slocombe was for once lost for words, and chewed ruefully upon a piece of toast.

“And so I am prompted to ask,” Holmes continued, “your reason for stranding me in this most dismal age.”

The toast caught in the old man’s throat and he collapsed red-faced into a violent fit of coughing.

“Come now,” said Holmes, patting him gently upon the back, “surely you did not think to deceive me with your display of apparent surprise at my arrival? My favourite cigarettes are in your case and my tobacco in the humidor. You serve me with a Ninety-two Vamberry, by now surely a priceless vintage. I could enumerate another twenty-three such facts regarding the ‘singular case of the reanimated detective’, but I do not believe it to be necessary. Why have you called me here, Professor?”

The scholar took a sip of coffee and dabbed at his lips with a napkin. He rose carefully from his chair and took himself over to the French windows, where he stood, his back to the detective, staring out into his wonderful garden. “It is a bad business,” he said, without turning.

“I have no doubt of that.”

“I am not altogether certain at present as to what steps can be taken. There is very much I have to know. I cannot face it alone.”

Holmes took out his greasy, black clay pipe from the inner pocket of his dressing-gown and filled it from the Professor’s humidor. “So,” said he, “once more we are to work together.”

“Let me show you something and then you can decide.” Professor Slocombe lead his gaunt visitor through the study door, along the elegant hall, and up the main staircase. Holmes followed the ancient up several more flights of stairs, noting well the narrow shoulders and fragile hands of the man. The Professor had not aged by a single day since last they met so very long ago.