Abruptly, there was heard the sound of footfall upon the spiral staircase and the two stalwart defenders of law enforcement turned to witness the arrival onto the bus’s upper deck of a rather curious looking gentlemen. Miss Marble's eyes were drawn to the final tangled strands of a string of wool the fellow held between the thumb and index finger of his right hand whilst winding it haphazardly about the index and middle finger of his left hand.
   “Do you know I’ve been following this for the last three miles. It’s amazing just how much wool they can manage to fit onto one little ball these days!” The man offered an imbecilic grin and turned his head to gaze upon the prone form of the black youth. “Do you realise that it’s at times like these that someone usually exclaims 'Is there a doctor on the bus?' Although, it would appear that it’s far too late for this poor chap. Does anyone know who he is?”
   “I might ask you the same question,” suggested Nabresina Marble.
   “And indeed you have, dear madam, indeed you have. I’m a doctor. Better late than never, aye?”
   “A doctor?” questioned Detective Tomms as he studied the stranger - eyeing him intently from head to toe. The ‘doctor’ sported a panama hat over cropped blond hair and a bright yellow ruffled dress-shirt - about the collar of which was hung a turquoise and tangerine polka dot cravat. Over the top of the shirt he wore a white cricket jumper and a long black greatcoat - about the collar of which was hung an impossible long multi-coloured scarf. On his left lapel was pinned a stick of rhubarb while from his right pocket protruded a gaily-coloured recorder. Completing the ensemble was a pair of black leather trousers and a pair of plain white pumps.
   As if sensing Detective Tomms incredulity the doctor declared, “Ah, yes… I know what you’re probably thinking. You see, when I got up this morning I just couldn’t decide on what to wear.”
   “Indeed,” agreed Tomms stiffly.
   “A doctor of what?” asked Miss Marble.
   “Precisely, dear madam. Doctor Wot at your service. Now, how are the inquiries coming along?”
   “I’m on my way to visit my mother in Fulham,” wailed Agnes Rowe and cast off. Seated directly behind would-be entrepreneur Richard Pilkington, twenty-seven year-old Caroline Vine realized that she had missed a stitch and began to unravel the last line.
   Doctor Wot fingered his clean-shaven chin. “I’ve never seen so many people knitting at the same time. Knit, knit, knit, knit, knickety-knit. So, about the dearly departed. Have you found out who he is yet? Checked his papers have you? No. Not yet. Of course you haven’t. Let’s have a look then, shall we. Back pocket. Wallet. What’s he been listening to I wonder?” he said, enquisitively depressing the ‘play’ button of the ghetto blaster.
   ♪♪ -‘You're a pink toothbrush, I'm a blue toothbrush, have we met somewhere before?’
   The doctor raised an eyebrow. “Max Bygraves if I’m not mistaken. 1954. Ruvin, Halfing and Irving. Lot’s of ‘ings’. Rather a strange choice of music for a young streetwise ragamuffin, wouldn’t you agree? What year is it?”
   “Year? Why, it’s nineteen seventy-three, of course,” replied Nabresina Marble.
   “Biba and a ghetto blaster! Max Bygraves and cashmere! In Clapham! In the seventies! The plot thickens!” The doctor opened the youth’s wallet and plucked out a holographic identity card. “Well I never. Martin Loofah! The already thickened plot thickens further! Loofah, loofah, Martin Luther.”
   The doctor's muse was broken by fresh footfall resounding from the bus’s spiral staircase. He turned - along with the two stalwart defenders of law enforcement - to witness the arrival of a stout gentlemen dressed in a long grey herringbone-pattern trench coat and deerstalker cap who carried with him a magnifying glass and calabash pipe.
   “Hello, I’m doctor Watson. I don’t suppose anyone could tell me if this bus stops at Baker Street?”
   “Isn’t that typical,” exclaimed Detective Tomms. “You wait all morning and then two come along at once!”

*

   Inspector Jocque Cluedo strode out of the Pink Pussycat Turkish baths in Battersea and hailed a bright red hackney carriage. He produced a white cotton handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and blew his nose vigorously before climbing into the back of the cab.
   “Where to, guv’nor? asked the slightly-built cabby as he flipped the flag on his taximeter.
   “Klah-perm-yoonk-shern,” mumbled Cluedo.
   The cabby half-turned his head and offered a practiced smile to his fare. “You’re a cockney, ain’tcha? There’s no mistakin’ yer sultry tones, me ol’ mate.
   “Connard…ah erm Frinche.”
   Keeping one eye on his passenger and one eye on the road ahead, the driver depressed the accelerator. “Course you’ll know that th’ term cockney has both geographical and linguistic associations. Geographically and culturally it often refers to working class Londoners, particularly those in the East End. Linguistically, it refers to the form of English spoken by this same group of Londoner’s. Course you’ll know that, according to traditional definition, a "true" Cockney is someone born within earshot of the Bow Bells, that is to say the bells of St. Mary-le-Bow church in Cheapside. Although the church itself is, of course, not itself in the East End.”
   “Putain de merde. Petit con! Ah erm Frinche.”
   “Nah, yer can’t fool me, old son. You’re a cockney thru an’ thru. I c’n tell juss by listenin’ t’ yer bantah.”
   “Sacrebleu,” sighed Cluedo and shook his head resignedly. When he received the call from Miss Marble on his Interpol-issue two-way radio transmitter cunningly disguised as a fountain pen, he’d been sampling the delights of a Turkish belly dancer’s digit dexterity. It had had all the makings of a rather splendid breakfast-time arousal.
   “Course you’ll already know that th’ a true cockney would never -”
   “Sacredieu… shirt urp. Con de merde!”
   “I’m takin’ the scenic route, guv’nor. Not much longer now.”