Travels Through An Imaginary Landscape

Fortescue's Fictional Detective Agency, Part Three

          We were just joining in the smattering of applause that greeted the climax of the latest number from the band when Mario reappeared and deftly steered a tall dark man into the vacant seat at our table. Mario leaned forward and murmured, “Senor Holmes” in a low tone by way of explanation. Then, straightening up he cheerily added, “More drinks now?”

          I distractedly waved him away as I concentrated my attention on the newcomer. He presented a figure that was far from the one I had anticipated. I was well aware that since his creation there had been numerous versions of the original (there were probably a hundred Sherlock Holmes roaming the landscape of the imagination) but in all my experience I had never come across an incarnation that looked quite so well fed. He was appropriately tall but his build could only be described as chunky and the face, which I was conditioned to imagine as lean and ascetic looking, bore the contented plumpness of a family butcher. His dress, a sharp grey suit, was pretty nondescript. The only definitively Sherlock-esque item was a deerstalker hat which he carried rather awkwardly as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.

          I glanced across to note that Michael was regarding our Sherlock with an equally uncertain expression.

          The man himself, having finally opted to set his deerstalker down upon the table, appeared oblivious to our doubts. “Mr Redgrave?” he said, addressing Michael. “I believe you have some information for me.” His voice sounded more than a little strange.

          “Sorry, but who are you?” asked Michael uncertainly.

          “I’m Sherlock Holmes,” replied the detective, looking rather aggrieved by the question.

          “Really?” I said.

          “Really,” he insisted.

          I glared at him suspiciously.

          “I am Sherlock Holmes,” protested the interloper. “Didn’t you hear the waiter introduce me?”

          “Come off it, you’re no more Sherlock Holmes than I am,” I retorted. I was quite sure the real Sherlock Holmes - or any Sherlock Holmes of legitimate provenance at least - would never resort to such a pathetic and frankly illogical argument.

          The imposter’s face ran hastily through a gamut of emotions, from indignation to disappointment, but finding no encouragement to his mute appeal, he eventually slumped his shoulders and sighed heavily. “Sid Hitchins, pleased to meet you,” he finally announced, his voice settling comfortably into a cheery cockney accent. “What was it give me away? Is it the hat? I’ve tried wearing it but the bloody thing makes my ears itch.” He glared unhappily at the offending deerstalker.

          “Why are you pretending to be Sherlock Holmes?” I asked, ignoring his question.

          “I need the work, don’t I? It’s not easy going legit. I mean, who’s gonna hire Sid Hitchins for a detective job? I ain’t got no track record, have I? Sherlock Holmes on the other hand…”

          “Going legit?” queried Michael.

          “I used to run with a gang out of a crime caper film,” explained Sid. “Bank jobs, jewel heists, that sort of thing. Nothing heavy, you understand.” Sid paused and Michael and I nodded obligingly. “But that’s a young man’s game. It ain’t good for the nerves, I tell you.”

          “So you thought you’d try life on the other side of the law?” I suggested.

          “Exactly,” Sid nodded enthusiastically. “There was a bit of bother, the gang was splitting up anyway. I decided the time was right to move on.”