“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.

The two were now nearly amongst the gables of the great house, and the final staircase debouched into an extraordinary room, perfectly round, and some ten or twelve feet in diameter. It was bare of furniture save for a large, circular table with a white marble top which stood at its centre and an assortment of cranks and pulleys which hung above it. The walls were painted the darkest of blacks and there was not a window to be seen. Holmes nodded approvingly, and the Professor said, “Of course, a camera obscura. This simple device enables me to keep a close eye upon most of the parish without the trouble of leaving my house. Would you be so kind as to close the door?”