Out of Time

by Steven Allinson

Neil arrived in Holborn about thirty minutes later. Stepping from his vehicle, he looked up at the public house to his left. This stretch of High Holborn road had buildings that were a mix of styles. The sixties construction across the street looked like an NCP car park, and the structures next to it were clinically clean, limestone and redbrick Georgian masterpieces. To either side of the pub, modern offices, all steel and glass, reflected the winter sun and made him raise a hand to block out some of the glare. However, the strangest building on display was the pub itself. It stood out from the rest, a limestone monument to structures from a bygone age. Its bottom floor was wood panelled, the bay windows protruding from its four-storey construction studded by leaded windows. Half way up its front, a large carriage clock hung from a brass holder, and below it, a sign proudly boasted that the beer served within came from Yorkshire’s oldest brewery. So out of place was its façade, Neil could almost imagine it being here since the great fire.

  As he entered, Neil realised the outside was nowhere near as quirky as its innards. A long curved bar sat lengthways through the doors, fed by ironwork arches at either end. Above the bar, empty barrels reached high into a vaulted ceiling clearly produced from the internal structure, but made to look like the outside. Rich wooden booths ran opposite coated in leather upholstery, the room lit by dangling orbs of glowing glass that melted the wonders into an orange dance of history.

  As Neil made his way to the bar, he noticed a sign above it stating that the pubs on this spot had been around since fourteen thirty. Smelling the air as he walked, he surmised that was also when it last saw a deep clean.

  The barman was strangely out of place. He was tall, with a green jumper covered in holes that his belly poked out of, his hair a straggled mess of knots. He looked more like a farmer than a publican.

  “I’m here for Artimus Crane.” Neil said, as he showed the barman his credentials.

  “Ee’s over there.” said the man, with a broad Somerset twang, motioning with a nod of the head to a booth on the far side of the bar. “E know y’ur comin’?”

  “Why?” said Neil, heading off. “Do you think it matters?”

  Without the requisite energy to engage in any more conversations, Neil made his way down to the booth and peered inside. It was about five feet wide and eight deep. Either side of an oaken table, two benches of deep red leather gave the area enough space to seat at least six people. However, only two were present. A large man, probably a good sixteen stone of fat and beer gut, slumped over the table on the right, as another man, dressed in an expensive looking tweed jacket rubbed his back.

  “Come on George.” said the man in the jacket, continuing to apply pressure in long swirls. “Far better out than in.”

  In response, the man let out a growled belch that made his entire body shake. “I’m fucking done. No more.”

  Neil coughed, attempting to grab their attention, as he pensively held his position outside the booth. “Hello. I’m looking for Artimus Crane?” It was supposed to be a statement rather than a question, but the smell now issuing from the booth raised the final part to a squeal as the pungent odour forced Neil to gag.

  “Ah, Mister Townsend.” said the man in the jacket, turning to face him with a broad smile and checking his watch. “Half an hour exactly. I do so hope Mister Blackwater did not give your ears too much of a bashing.”

  Neil remembered Artimus’ prediction from the phone call. A good guess at best. However, one thing did surprise him. If this was Artimus, the slur was gone. “You’re Artimus?” he asked, unsure how it was possible.

  “I am indeed my good man. Please sit.”

  Artimus motioned to the free bench on the far side of the table, and Neil found himself holding his breath. He paused, every fibre of his being telling him to run and hide from the mess scattered in the booth. He looked round, hoping some invisible assistant might help him make the decision, before his duty won over his ailment and he slid in opposite, grimacing.

  “You sounded drunk not long ago.” said Neil, trying to measure the man before him and take his mind from where he was.

  Artimus was probably in his mid-sixties. He had a warm and friendly face, with bushy eyebrows and a shock of untidy, but relatively short white hair. His nose was red at the end, and his cheeks were a little puffy, but other than these minor signs, there were no obvious markers of intoxication.

  “Will power and control, Mister Townsend. I have both in abundance.” said Artimus, extending a hand exuberantly. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  Neil avoided the array of empties scattered about the table and accepted the hand, Artimus’ grip strong and true. “I’ve never been in the Cittie of Yorke before. It’s quite the venue.”

  “It is the last bastion of London as it once was.” said Artimus, glancing round. “It is always good to remind oneself that progress for progress’ sake is not always as beneficial as the salesmen would have us believe.”

  Neil looked over at the slumped man, as a rumbled snore began to emanate from him.

  “Don’t mind George.” said Artimus, patting the man on the back. “He’s never been able to take his ale. We’ve only had eight or nine!” He began to laugh, reaching over to the empties and deftly picking up all ten between individual fingers. “Can I get you anything whilst I’m at the bar?”

  Eight or nine? thought Neil, staggered. If he had tried to drink that many, he would be out cold too. “I’m on duty.” he offered, with a shrug.

  “I offer nothing alcoholic Mister Townsend. I know of police policy. A cola perhaps?”

  Neil nodded. “Thanks.”

  Artimus returned a few moments later with a half a cola, and a strange, cloudy drink in a glass that appeared more like a flower vase than something you would serve beer in. As Artimus tucked in, Neil continued to stare.

  “Are you wishing to ask me some questions, detective?” said Artimus, placing the beer on the table and crossing his fingers; the accent on the word nearly as unsettling as his piercing gaze. “Let’s get the formality of your curiosity out of the way, so we can get on with the business in hand shall we?”

  Neil leant back and took a sip of his cola. It was awful. Not even close to the real thing. Artimus grinned as Neil put it back on the table.

  “It’s one of the cheapest pubs in London; it’s not renowned for its quality.” said Artimus, apologetically. “I’ve never tasted the soft drinks myself, but I hear truly terrible things about them.”

  “Those people are understating the truth.” said Neil, coughing.

  Artimus laughed again and Neil found himself smiling. There was something familiar about Artimus’ chuckle. A playful kindness bounded out of it, lowering the defences of those who could hear it.

  “Can I ask why my superiors might want you involved in police matters?” asked Neil.

  “My area of expertise, I suppose.” said Artimus, looking Neil up and down. “We all have one.”

  “And yours is..?” said Neil, pressing.

  “Divergent thinking.” said Artimus, returning to his beer.

  “Sorry, that doesn’t help much.” said Neil, confused.

  Artimus considered his response, drumming the rim of his glass with his fingernails as he mused. “I take it you’ve heard of lateral thinking?”

  “I have.”

  “Ah, good.” said Artimus, with a broad smile. “Then divergent thinking is the next illogical step from there.”

  Artimus seemed pleased with his response, and went back to his beverage. However, the answer made no more sense to Neil than the entire day to date.

  As Neil continued to stare blankly, Artimus placed the beer down again and sighed. “Consider this question then: How many uses are there for a light bulb?”

  “Other than lighting a room?” asked Neil.

  “That’s one, detective.” said Artimus, holding up a finger. “Not an auspicious start, but a start none the less.”

  Neil thought for a moment. What was this question about?
How else could you use a light bulb? “I’m not sure. You could unscrew the filament housing and use it as a small water jug.”

  “Good one!” said Artimus, holding another finger aloft. “That’s two. Any more?”

  “If I had more time, maybe I’d get a few. But it’s been a long day.”

  “That’s fine Mister Townsend.” said Artimus, leaning back. “Light bulbs in their primary use, creating light, have thousands of applications. Lighting fridges, cookers, cars, roads, mobile phones, bikes have them, street lights, crawlspaces; the list is endless.”

  “They are all effectively the same thing though.” said Neil, rebuffing the statement.

  “Ah, but what about the glass of the bulb? You said you could use it as a storage vessel. Think about the total number of items you could store. Water, peas, fruits, oil, sand; again endless. Then there’s the secondary effect of light bulbs; heat. I could use light bulbs to heat stuff, lots and lots of different stuff; on spaceships to warm electronics, on plants during winter, to heat pipes to stop ice forming; yet more possibilities. Then there’s the wire of the filament. Think about the total number of electrical applications for it. I could roll it to different thicknesses to make different types of resistors, or I could wire intricate and diverse devices. I could smelt the metal housing into various coins, or even make models from it. There are billions upon billions of uses for a light bulb.”

  “That’s not divergent uses, that’s just toying with the details of the original question.”

  “Aha!” said Artimus, delight crossing his face. “Now I think you see. The question is actually the most important thing. True ability in divergent thinking doesn’t mean trying to conceptualise the largest number of answers to a given question, it is a fundamental understanding that the question should itself be questioned, perhaps re-envisioned, made suitable for purpose, allowing new answers to be formulated.”

  Neil stared at Artimus, his passion for his topic overflowing. His eyes were wide, and a gleeful mischief made them twinkle with energetic thought as he spoke. Without knowing fully why, Neil found himself captivated by the words flowing from Artimus’ mouth.

  “That’s why your superiors request my involvement from time to time.” continued Artimus, as he took another gulp. “Because I will not only see the answers to the questions surrounding certain cases, I will formulate new questions, the ones that ultimately solve them.”

  Neil knew that an ability to see the relevance of minor details was an essential trait of all good detectives, but something in Artimus’ methods seemed too haphazard to be of any real assistance. “Surely, with all these questions and answers floating around, you have way too many investigation pathways open to make any headway. I was always taught that chasing too many leads at once was counterproductive. I have to say, after all the time I’ve spent in the job, that assessment is probably the most helpful I’ve ever come across.”

  Artimus studied Neil and nodded, as if the question had never been posed before. “Are you seriously trying to suggest you perform no statistical reconciliation activities when you conduct your own investigations?”

  “Pardon?” said Neil, confused by the language used.

  “I mean to suggest that when you are chasing down your leads on other cases, that you, even if you are unaware on a conscious level you are doing it, rationalise your possibilities based on a probability assessment of likelihood. Meaning you investigate based on priority, rooted in an assessment of the chances of success.”

  “I would say that’s fair.” said Neil, his brow furrowed as he thought.

  “Then you will find dear boy,” said Artimus, finishing his drink and standing, “that I do exactly the same. My probability assessments are perhaps more refined than yours, but time will grant us the ability to test the verisimilitude of that statement. Are we ready?”

  Neil stood, peering quizzically at Artimus. “Ready for what?”

  “To go to the scene of the crime my boy.” said Artimus, his red cheeks pushed wide. “I will find nothing of interest to the case by sitting here any longer.”

  Chapter 7

  Four Possibilities