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“There's a chap at the door, wants to see you,” she informed us.
We were expecting no visitors, so I asked who the intruder on our solitude was.
“Wouldn’t say,” Mrs Houston replied curtly.
“Did he give you a card?” Holms asked.
“No, he's definitely not a postman.”
Holms blew an angry plume of smoke from his thin lips. “Have you been at the gin, Mrs Houston?”
“Only medicinal, Mr Holms, only medicinal. There’s a nip in the air.”
Holms gestured with his pipe. “Oh, show him in.”
Mrs Houston left us and returned accompanied by a man swathed in a long coat, hat and scarf which covered his face. He approached and shook hands with Holms and myself.
“Please, take a seat and tell me how I can help you,” Holms volunteered.
“Feel free to remove your coat and scarf,” I offered.
In answer the man mumbled, “I'd prefer not to reveal my identity.”
I was unsure if I’d heard him correctly, “What?”
Holms, of course, was already ahead of me, “He said that he would prefer not to reveal his identity. I have honed my sense of hearing, Wilson, through years of listening to the recordings of Mr. Harry Lauder. But come, sir, I have already surmised that you are Fergus Alexander, manager of Manchester United football club.”
The stranger stiffened but slowly began unwinding his scarf to reveal his face. It was indeed the legendary Scots manager.
“But how?” he asked, once his lips were uncovered.
“Elementary,” the great detective replied, “For a start there was the way you shook my hand.”
The Scotsman shook his head woefully, “Damn that handshake.”
I, for my part, was still covered in confusion. “But that would only have revealed that he was in the craft.”
A thin smile played over Holms’ lips. “Who but a football manager would be able to afford such expensive shoes, yet have mud on them from the training ground?”
“An architect?” I ventured, not wishing to appear totally obtuse, but Holms ignored me. “I can also tell you that Mr Alexander's wife is losing her affection for him and that he had spaghetti carbonara for lunch.”
This time Alexander positively started. “But this is amazing. I was informed that you had great powers of deduction, Mr Holms, but this goes beyond reason.”
Holms waved away the compliment. “Not at all, you wear your club's tracksuit top under your coat. I
caught a glimpse of it with your initials. This gave me your identity. That it is unpressed informs me that your wife no longer cares for you, and your garlic breath displays your dining habits.”
The deduction was so incisive, yet simple, that I could only mutter admiringly, “He's brilliant isn't he?”
Holms tapped out his pipe and reached for his tobacco pouch to refill it, “Come, Mr Alexander, tell me your woes.”