PART FIVE

THE TUMBLERS

‘From the point of view of the physicist, a theory of matter… ought to furnish a compass which, if followed will lead the observer further and further into previously unexplored regions.’

—J. J. Thomson

CHAPTER 23

The Story Collector

In just under an hour, Holmes – refreshed, perfectly groomed and impressive in his summer city suit of impeccable linen – emerged from Baker Street, looking as though he could easily stop en route to our next destination to take tea with the Queen or confront an errant MP in Whitehall. In fact, when not lounging about Baker Street in his dressing gown, this sober, conservative elegance was his natural presentation. The transformation was both rapid and profound, but I had to remind myself that I had seen it before, and regression could be swift. With my precious box stowed in a small satchel, I hailed a cab and we made our way to Hackney.

The address was hard to find even for Holmes, who had as clear an image of the London map in his head as I had of the human skeleton. At last we narrowed it down to one building. It was missing a number on the door, and there were no signs outside.

However, it was there, on the ground floor of an ancient Tudor construction of plaster and timber, on Durham Grove near a paint factory, that locksmith Knut Lossop ran his business. We entered the shop and squinted in the dim light. The windows were small, and a few candelabra provided the only illumination.

We had stepped back in time.

The proprietor emerged from the murk and in a moment we stood before the strange, gnome-like man. Lossop faced us in the flickering light over a long counter, on which were displayed a number of locks of varying sizes, shapes and levels of complexity. He was wizened, somewhere between forty and sixty years old, but lined and greasy, with long, thin blond hair plastered to his skull and draping limply down the back of his neck. An equally desultory moustache hung down by either side of moist pink lips, but in contrast to this lacklustre presentation, a pair of rheumy, pale blue eyes focused with pinpoint intensity on whatever they found.

At this particular moment, those eyes were riveted on Sherlock Holmes, who had just said something to him in a language I could not make out.

Lossop stood very still and chewed on one side of his moustache.

‘Have I got that right, Mr Lossop?’ asked Holmes.

‘Speak only English here,’ growled this pestiferous individual.

Holmes smiled. ‘I gather, then, that your name is your own choice. Knut is common enough – it means “lock” in Norwegian, Watson – but Lossop? That sounds like an anglicization of “låse opp” – which means “unlocked”. Therefore, a kind of self-advertisement in your choice of a pseudonym.’