Regarding the place itself ...

If you want to find out where the Dangling Prussian is, re-read Vincent Starrett’s poem, 221B.

There are "ghostly gaslamps" just outside the Prussian’s door. "A lonely hansom" delivers patrons here through the swirling fog. And it is al-ways 1895 at the Prussian, not just in spirit, but in marvelous fact as well. No matter how long the tavern is in business, no matter how long the build-ing stands on Montague Street in the heart of Victorian London, it remains 1895. One fixed point in an ever-changing time line.

Some attribute this anomaly to the bar's former owner, a mathemati-cian/scientist of some genius. Others point to the mysterious cabman who conveys the patrons here from other years in his hansom cab. Whatever explanation you go by, the effect is quite bizarre — I myself was served liquor a full eighty-three years before I attained legal drinking age. Professor Moriarty has shown up at the Prussian even though he died four years previously. Doctor Watson has been known to drink here, as well, and personally, I think it’s where his sense of chronology got so screwed up.

The Dangling Prussian was renamed in 1881 after an event that occurred in 1914. John Watson lost his first wife there in 1889, only to find her again in 1902, at which time she became his third wife. It is a tender and moving tale, and I recommend it, provided you can persuade the innkeeper to tell the story. And all the clocks inside the Prussian tick from 12:20 A.M. to 12:23 A.M. in one swift tick. What happens to those three minutes that disappear on a daily basis, no one knows. But enough time trivia ....

The building that houses the Prussian also has some historical value in that it was the same building in which a young Sherlock Holmes found lodgings when he first came to London. We keep the exact address hushed up, but I’m sure you’ll recognize the British Museum around the corner. Some of our patrons have even wound up in glass cases there after a particularly wild evening. That’s not to say that drunken carousing and recreational mayhem are a common part of the Prussian’s ambience. Rest assured, those stories are ... well, some of them are slightly exaggerated. Emus on the premises are strictly forbidden.

When you come right down to it, the Dangling Prussian is a bar, plain and simple. It’s a place for libation and conversation, for music and laughter. It’s a place where friends who have not yet met come together, and a place where stories yet to be told find voice and a first audience. The kind of place where you can have a sherry with Doctor Watson or just chat up one of the barmaids. But Watson isn't the only person you're apt to find there. . . here's some others who found a place there over the years.

Arminius Detweiller: Okay. Imagine Hulk Hogan in his prime and with hair. Now imagine his big brother, the guy that musses what hair the Hulkster does have and calls him "Percy." Imagine that he’s widely travelled, well-mannered, intelligent. Imagine that this guy bought the Dangling Prussian from a certain mathematics coach. Done imagining? What you get is the owner and manager of the bar in question.

Earlier in his career he made ale deliveries to Newgate Prison (the whys and wherefores of we still aren’t sure) where he met many London criminals, including Sebastian Moran (another time-flux apparently).

Do: Just as 1895 is always the year at the Dangling Prussian, so, too, is it always Do that saves me from the occasional barroom skirmish. Do is what they call "rubinesque," "zaftig," or just plain "pleasingly plump." She's one of the Prussian's two waitresses, and I swear that it's all heart that fills her out so. Everyone likes her, which is what saved my hide more than once.

Angie: The daintiest thing under a drink tray. Angie is the Prussian’s other waitress. I’d write more, but all that comes out when I try to describe her is, ". . . sigh . . ."

Archie: The piano player. Lanky, redhaired, his piano playing has been described as "an avalanche of fingers on the keyboard." He knows everything from Gilbert and Sullivan showtunes to piano versions of the polyphonic motets of Orlando Lasso.

The Mysterious Cabman: He has grey eyes. He usually charges a shilling to bring a cabload to the Prussian. Beyond that, very little is know about this fellow and his time-travelling hansom cab. You may have heard it rumored in whispers that he is anyone from Sherlock Holmes himself to John Clayton to the ghost of Jefferson Hope doing penance for his sins.

Winters: The lanky, East Indian fellow behind the bar. A very polite, genteel sort, Winters can concoct anything from a cherry coke made with a gasogene to a Kitty Winter Fling (you don’t even want to ask). I’m taking lessons from him to help out with the APA crowd.

Signora Ricoletti: The bouncer. Why did a guy Arminius’s size hire a bouncer? You’ll find out the first time you see her deal with an unruly customer. Sometimes it takes a lady to handle a situation unsuitable for a gentleman. Rumor has it she’s an ancestor of both Sarah Connor and Daisy Clampett, and that the Ricoletti genes in both women are actually diluted from the original mix.

The Clientele: They can be whatever and whoever you need them to be. Loud, raucous crowds seem to be in there most times I’ve stopped in. I'm not all that familiar with Vic-torian seafarers, but I swear the Prussian gets its share of pirate roisterers. Or at least they act like pirates to me. To someone else they could be perfect English ladies and gentlemen. You make the call.

The Part-Time Bartender: His name’s Keefauver and he bears a strong resemblance to the fellow who’s typing these words. I suspect fictionalizing makes his head a lot harder when need be, and sometimes a bit more dense. But he means well, so everyone else usually puts up with him. Usually.

You, her, him, and the other one: These are the people that really make the Prussian a multi-faceted and unpredictable place. No two personalities are alike, and that’s what makes the old pub a great place to hang out every other month. Where else can you talk to ...

Holmes, Watson, Lysander Stark, Maud Bellamy, Baron Gruner, Toby, Irene Adler’s really good-looking sister, Porlock, Jacky the demon-child, Sir George Burnwell, Mycroft, Thurston the pool-hustler, anybody named Violet, and more: The whole Sherlockian Canon comes in here when they need to wet their whistle, and you can pester the heck out of them. Ask for autographs or find out just why they really did what they did. It’s all up to you.

Anyone else time and space and libel laws will allow....