No Place Like Holmes (10 page)

“How come nobody knows what you've created in here?” Griffin exclaimed. “Or do they?” He gave his uncle a questioning glance. Snodgrass looked uncomfortable.

“I have, er, had a few run-ins with the British government. Let's just say that they don't approve of what I'm doing.” He gave his nephew a forced smile, but Griffin could see the anxiety beneath it.

“I see,” Griffin said. “So I take it that if they found out about the weapons you have here, there could be trouble?”

“Of one sort or another, yes,” Snodgrass grumbled. “That's why I'm swearing you to secrecy. Assuming that I can trust your rather overly obsessive need for absolute truthfulness, that is.”

Griffin overlooked his uncle's somewhat insulting comment. Instead Griffin replied sincerely, “Of course you can, Uncle. I give you my word.”

Griffin walked over to the bookcase, his attention now diverted by the boxes covered with switches and gray screens. “And what are these?” he asked.

Snodgrass brightened. “Ah, those. Well, I call those the Snodgrass Special Information Processors.”

Snodgrass stood up and strode over next to Griffin. Lifting one of the wooden boxes from the shelf, he brought it to a cluttered tabletop. After moving several old teacups and a newspaper out of his way, he set it gently down and turned on a switch.

Griffin stared, unable to believe what he was seeing. Somewhere inside of the boxes, a steam engine whistled and puffed. Then the small, gray screen began to glow, and seconds later an elegant script appeared.

How may I be of service?

“What on earth?” Griffin whispered.

Snodgrass plugged the back of the box into a small typewriter. Then, turning to Griffin, he said, “Ask it any question you'd like.”

Griffin stared up at his uncle in disbelief. “But how does it work?”

Snodgrass held up his hand and said, “It would be much too complicated to explain. But the most brilliant thing about its design is that it takes its information from every reliable news agency in the world by twenty-four-hour telegraph. It's usually fairly accurate.”

Griffin stared down at the keyboard. He was reminded of the story of Aladdin and the genie, where the humble boy was given the chance to ask for three wishes. The funny thing was, now that he was able to ask the machine any question he wanted to, he couldn't think of a single thing to ask.

But then something that he'd been pondering entered his mind. Ever since the day before, when he'd seen the tracks on the shoreline, Griffin had formed an idea about what exactly might have kidnapped Frederick Dent. He typed his question, and seconds later an answer scrolled across the screen in the same elegant typeface.

“What have you got there?” Snodgrass asked, peering over his nephew's shoulder.

“I typed a question about submersibles,” Griffin replied.

Now it was Rupert Snodgrass's turn to look confused. “I'm not sure what you mean,” he said. “What are submersibles?”

Griffin turned excitedly to his uncle. “Ever since I saw the tracks leading to the river, I've been wondering if the thing that took Mr. Dent was some kind of submarine, a vehicle capable of traveling underwater. I read about them in a science journal back home. They can run both on steam and electric motors!”

Griffin's uncle looked thoughtful. He scratched at his scruffy beard and stared out the window.

“Hmm. I'm surprised I haven't thought of such a thing before. A Snodgrass Submersible Carriage. Pity. I could have done great things with such an idea . . .”

Griffin's uncle wore a faraway expression. Griffin interrupted his thoughts, excitedly pointing to the Snodgrass Information Processor. “Listen to this. It says that as recently as six months ago, there was an article in a German newspaper about someone remaining underwater for a period of five hours in such a machine.”

Griffin paced around the table, his thoughts whizzing around in his head. “And if that's the case, perhaps what we're dealing with is a submersible machine capable of being under water that much time or more. Maybe, to keep it secret, it was designed to look like a monster. Maybe there's a criminal mastermind at work!”

Snodgrass snorted and gave Griffin one of his characteristically skeptical looks. “By ‘mastermind,' are you are referring to Professor Moriarity in those Holmes stories? Well, I, for one, remain unconvinced that such a person exists.”

Before Griffin could reply, Snodgrass held up his finger for silence. “However, I do think that your notion of a submersible machine has merit. I believe that in order to discover more about this mystery, I shall have to devise something that will allow us to travel underwater ourselves.”

His uncle's brow furrowed, and his expression turned thoughtful. “Yes,” he said in distracted mumble. “There have been rumors of hidden tunnels beneath the Thames. I wonder . . .”

Griffin decided that he'd asked his uncle enough questions for one evening. It was probably a good time to withdraw from his uncle's workroom and allow him some time to think.

Griffin's mind was filled with exciting questions, both inspired by his uncle's miraculous inventions and the strange mystery that was starting to unravel. Who was behind the disappearance of Frederick Dent, and why had he been kidnapped? Griffin felt certain that it had something to do with the mysterious client whom Mrs. Dent had mentioned was asking about a clock. But who he was and what he'd really wanted with the clockmaker were still a mystery. After all, it didn't make any sense that someone would want to kidnap a clockmaker when you could hire one in every neighborhood.

As he reached the top of the stairway that led to his room, Griffin's hand moved to his jacket pocket. He'd slipped a scone in his pocket during tea, knowing he'd be hungry later. But since they had the whole basket of goodies from Mrs. Dent waiting downstairs, he figured he might as well enjoy it now. When he pulled out the pastry, he noticed several of the tattered pieces of red paper he'd found earlier sticking to it. As he picked them off, he was suddenly struck by a thought.

His eyes grew wide. Why hadn't he seen it before? If what he thought was true, then everything suddenly made sense. It was all connected!

Seized by the sudden need to prove his theory, Griffin raced downstairs and paused only to tell his uncle that he would be back within the hour. Snodgrass was so deep into designing his latest invention, Griffin didn't think he noticed him leave.

As he chewed his scone and flagged down a hansom cab, Griffin realized an important truth. If what he deduced turned out to be true, then the world as everyone knew it could be changed forever.

15
THE LIMEHOUSE DOCKS

T
he Limehouse Docks were a seedy, disreputable part of London that even in bright daylight seemed to be cloaked in shadows. Crimes that happened near the docks seldom saw police action, for even the law enforcement avoided the area as much as they could. It was a place ruled by criminals, and one of the few places in London where they had the upper hand.

Griffin, of course, knew nothing about it. He'd seen the area referenced in the newspaper his uncle had been reading as they'd traveled to the Angler's Club. When he'd realized something about the tattered red paper he'd had in his pocket, he knew the Docks would probably be the best place to get some answers. Unfortunately, as the cab stopped and he climbed out, he began to see that he might have made an error in judgment.

The docks were clearly not the kind of place for a twelve-year-old boy to wander around alone. The dark, twisting lanes and alleys that branched off of the main road were so creepy that it didn't take much imagination to picture what horrible things might be lurking down any one of them. Old men sat on crumbling stoops in front of weathered buildings. They cackled as he passed, commenting in Chinese. Like the area down by the Angler's Club, the entire place reeked of fish, and probably something worse. Griffin tried his best not to breathe as he hurried along, avoiding eye contact with everyone.

Fortunately for Griffin, the kind of place he was looking for was not in short supply. Near the water, next to a moldy wharf, was a shack of an old building with a sign lettered both in Chinese and English that read “LiuYang Imports. Fireworks a specialty.” Feeling nervous, but trying to keep focused on what he'd come there to do, Griffin pushed open the shopkeeper's door and entered the dingy, incense-filled shop.

“
Ni Hao
,” said a voice.

Griffin recognized it as the Chinese word for greeting. It had come from somewhere in the shadowy area in the back of the shop, and he couldn't make out whether the person who said it was male or female.

Griffin moved closer and saw a very old woman dressed in silk robes, perched behind a counter. Her fingernails were so long they curled back in upon themselves. Her face looked like a dried apple, and fifteen wispy hairs clung to her chin.

Stacked behind her were rows upon rows of fireworks. Griffin noticed twenty-six great rockets covered with golden dragons, thirty-seven Roman candles, and over five hundred twenty-seven tiny explosives no bigger than his pinky. He'd been so nervously counting things that he had to force himself to stop and answer the woman behind the counter.

“Excuse me,” Griffin said. “I wonder if you can help me with this.” He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out the tiny red scraps of paper. “Do you happen to have any fireworks that are covered with paper like this?”

The woman drew a kerosene lantern close and squinted at the paper Griffin held. He couldn't help wondering what would happen if the lamp tipped over. Judging by the amount of fireworks in the shop, he felt certain that the entire city would be blown to kingdom come.

The woman picked up one of the scraps and sniffed it. Suddenly her eyes grew very wide.

“Where did you get these?” she croaked. Griffin noticed that she'd switched from Chinese to perfect English.

“I found them near the river. Can you tell me what kind of fireworks they came from?”

“Very rare,” she said slowly. “This paper is used specifically for the Emperor's celebrations. These fireworks contain a secret mixture of black powder crafted by a special group of artisans. Highly explosive.”

She handed the scraps back to Griffin, who placed them back in his pocket.

“Do you have any I could buy?” Griffin asked.

“No, no, they are too rare and expensive. We almost never get them in,” the old woman answered and then frowned at him, shaking her finger in an admonishing way. “What's a boy like you doing here at this late hour? The Limehouse is no place to be after dark. Bad people roam the streets. You should go home!”

Griffin thanked the woman and promised that he would do just that. After leaving the shop, Griffin strode back the way he'd come, trying his best to stay near the well-lit area by the gas lamps. He was sure he could find a cab eventually.

Griffin's suspicion about the fireworks paper had proven true. But he'd had no idea how powerful the explosives were. If what the woman in the shop said was accurate, then the disappearance of the fireworks that had been written about in the
Times
was definitely related to the special paper he'd found.
After
all
, he reasoned,
the Chinese ship was filled with treasures from the
Emperor's palace. It makes sense that these rare fireworks came from
the same place
.

But thieves hadn't stolen just a few fireworks for a celebration; they had taken the entire cargo. Somebody was planning on blowing something up, and it was bound to be something big. Griffin also had an idea of why the criminals had kidnapped Frederick Dent, but he wanted to check his uncle's Information Processor to be sure. He needed to get back to Baker Street, and fast!

The fog had rolled in, blanketing the crumbling buildings and causing the gas lamps to glow eerily in the twilight. Griffin suddenly realized that he'd somehow strayed from the main road while lost in thought. Nothing around him looked familiar. Worst of all, he couldn't see or hear anyone else on the entire street. He walked faster, trying to make his footfalls as silent as possible.

Suddenly a figure stepped out of a dark alley behind him. Griffin caught a glimpse of the man's shadow in the corner of his eye and sped up. Seconds later he could hear heavy footfalls echoing his own, the stranger's quick stride easily keeping pace with his shorter legs.

Please, oh please, let there be a cab around here
, he prayed. But no matter where he looked everything was deserted.

He broke into a run and turned abruptly down a nearby street, hoping to lose his pursuer. Chinese lanterns overhead gave a reddish, fiery glow to the streets. Griffin was seized with a panic so profound that he almost couldn't breathe. He began counting every random thing he saw as he jogged, trying desperately to calm down. Three alley cats . . . fifteen shards of glass . . . twenty-six gin bottles . . . one rusty knife . . .