No Place Like Holmes (11 page)
A rusty knife!
Griffin snatched the knife from the grimy cobblestones. Wheeling around, he faced his pursuer.
But to his surprise, there was no sign of anyone behind him. The fog had cleared enough for him to see a good way down the street, and it was empty. He stared for a few seconds, his breath coming in loud, ragged gasps.
Then a welcome sound suddenly echoed from behind him. It was the unmistakable
clip, clop
of horses' hooves! He jerked his head around and saw a hansom cab winding its way up the street.
“Hello! Wait!” Griffin shouted, dashing after the retreating vehicle. It stopped as the driver looked to see who was yelling.
Griffin raced forward as fast as he could and leapt inside the cab. After slamming the door firmly behind him, he breathed a quick prayer of thanks and sat back in the cushioned chair. Looking down he noticed that his hand still clenched the dagger and seemed unable to let it go.
The cabbie opened the trap and gazed down at him. “What are you playing at, boy, running around the Limehouse Docks at this time of night? It's lucky I heard you, or you might have found yourself dead by morning!”
Griffin gazed up at the portly driver while fumbling in his pocket for what was left of his money. He pulled out all his remaining coins and, handing them to him, said, “Baker Street, please. And hurry!”
The cabbie's eyes grew wide when he saw the fear on Griffin's face. He asked no more questions and hurried the horses forward. Griffin's pounding heart was finally slowing down to normal when he glanced back for one last look behind him. What he saw standing there chilled him to the bone.
There, about fifty meters away, was the shadow of his pursuer. Griffin stared at it, his eyes wide with fear, trying to take in any details he could. But it was too dark and foggy for him to make out anything other than the general size and shape of the man.
As the carriage made its way up the street, the fog rolled back in and hid the mysterious shadow from sight.
Mr. Jackson stared after the departing cab for a second or two. Then he stepped into a nearby alley, hopped on his waiting horse, and took off after the retreating cab. He moved carefully, staying out of sight, but following nonetheless.
But what Jackson didn't know was that there was another shadow who watched them both, a long, thin shadow that, as it stared after them, lit the bowl of a curved, meerschaum pipe.
The flame flickered briefly, and as it did, it illuminated the hawk-like face and high forehead of Sherlock Holmes. Then the great detective pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders and lowered his deerstalker's hat.
Holmes's intelligent eyes glittered in the darkness as he considered what he'd just seen. Then, with hardly a sound, the great detective disappeared down a side alley, his long legs striding into the darkness, like a bloodhound hot on the trail of some new scent.
U
ncle, Uncle!” Griffin gasped as he raced into the parlor at 221A Baker Street. Snodgrass, who was welding his latest invention, doused his torch and raised his welding mask when he noticed Griffin's frightened expression.
“What is it? What happened to you?” he said.
“I was at the Limehouse Docks,” Griffin said. “I was investigating some clues. But while I was there, somebody tried to follow me. I barely escaped.”
“Clues? What clues?” Snodgrass said. He set down his welding mask and torch and gave the boy an irritated glare. “What is this all about? You shouldn't have gone to Limehouse without telling me first! Have you any idea how dangerous it is? What were you thinking?”
“I'm sorry. I didn't know,” Griffin said. “But look . . . look what I discovered . . .”
Griffin reached into his pocket and removed the small, red scraps of paper. After handing them to him, he proceeded to tell his uncle where the woman in the fireworks shop said they were from.
Snodgrass clenched his forehead, trying to process the information.
“So what you're saying is that these papers belong to a special type of highly explosive firework, the same kind that was stolen from the Chinese ship. And it's all because someone is planning to makeâ”
“A bomb!” finished Griffin. “Yes, Uncle. I believe that the reason Frederick Dent was kidnapped was because he's an expert clockmaker. Whoever the culprits are, they intend to make a time bomb so huge that it could devastate London.”
Snodgrass stared at Griffin, looking skeptical. “But why Dent? There are hundreds of clockmakers in London. Besides, time bombs are commonplace. It wouldn't take an expert clockmaker to make one.”
“That's exactly what I wanted to ask your Information Processor. I suspect that there's something special about Frederick Dent that we don't know about.”
Griffin went over to his uncle's machine and turned it on. Snodgrass followed. After the screen began to glow and the familiar text appeared, Griffin typed in the words,
Who is
Frederick Dent?
The machine emitted several puffs of steam while it worked. Griffin bit his pinky nail, waiting for the result. Finally, after what seemed a full minute later, the answer appeared.
Frederick Dent, clockmaker, who, with his father, Edward, was
famous for building the Westminster Clock in which the famous bell
called Big Ben resides
.
Griffin and his uncle stared at the glowing screen, neither of them speaking about what they'd read. Griffin's mind raced. The implications were bigger than he'd ever imagined!
“Impossible,” Snodgrass said. “I refuse to believe it.”
Griffin looked up at his uncle with a worried expression. “But think about it, Uncle. If Frederick Dent designed the clock, he would be the one who knew it best. What if criminals are forcing him to convert the Westminster Clock Tower into the biggest time bomb ever made?”
Snodgrass's face twitched in annoyance. Griffin suspected that believing in something so grand and far-fetched was difficult for him.
“Speculation, boy. Pure speculation.” Snodgrass paced around the room, rubbing his forehead. “The two crimes are completely unrelated. Besides, transporting that many explosives to such a public place would be absolutely impossible,” he growled.
“I admit that I haven't figured everything out yet. But if I'm right, then thousands of Londoners could be at terrible risk,” Griffin said.
Snodgrass appeared to be pondering his nephew's words.
After a moment, he spoke, “This whole case bears further investigation before we form any conclusions. The first matter of business is to figure out where he was taken. We know he was transported underwater, and, since there have been no other Nessie sightings, he must have been released into some sort of cave or secret dock. I have heard rumors about there being underground tunnels beneath the Thames. Perhaps that's where he's being held.”
“But if Dent were just kidnapped, then why hasn't there been a ransom note?” said Griffin. “I would think that whoever did it would have expressed their demands in some kind of letter by now. So they must want something else from him.”
Since his uncle seemed to be considering what he was saying, Griffin pressed on, sharing his observations. “Also, James Dunn said he heard gunshots after the monster swallowed Mr. Dent.” Griffin pointed to the red scraps of paper in his uncle's hand. “And the red paper I found on the shore means that someone set off fireworks at the bank. Maybe the people who took Mr. Dent wanted to scare off any witnesses.”
Snodgrass scowled. “I admit those are things to consider as well.”
He directed Griffin over to the device he'd been welding when he walked in. As Griffin drew close, Snodgrass held up a large brass helmet for him to inspect. “Hopefully these helmets will help us gather the extra information we need.”
Griffin gazed at the huge brass helmet. It had a single glass window in its front, a small brass box attached to the back of it, and looked extraordinarily heavy.
“What is it?” Griffin asked.
“A diving helmet,” Snodgrass replied. Then after a moment he added, “The Snodgrass Submersible . . . er . . . Underwater Utility . . . oh, I'll call it something or other. I haven't figured out an official name for it yet.” He indicated the box on the back of the helmet. “I've created a small pump that will provide us with a constant supply of air. When connected to a hose that runs to the surface, we should be able to remain submerged indefinitely.”
“Wonderful!” said Griffin, clapping his hands. “Brilliant! Let's go at once!”
As Griffin turned to head back out, he felt his uncle's big hand grab the back of his jacket.
“Oh no you don't,” Snodgrass said. “It's no use going before dawn. The Thames is a murky river under the best of circumstances, and swimming in it at night would be completely useless.”
Griffin shifted his feet impatiently and scowled up at his uncle. It was hard to wait, considering what might be at stake. Even though it seemed Snodgrass remained skeptical, Griffin felt a nagging certainty that his theories were true.
Snodgrass released his nephew's coat. His expression softened, and he gave Griffin the barest hint of a smile. “Your courage is admirable, Griffin, and your theory, though a little far-fetched, might still prove itself,” he said.
Then he sighed and rubbed a hand across his eyes. “But I, for one, have a hard time believing that such a thing is possible. My own theory is that there could be something else at work. Perhaps Dent had problems with creditors or had made powerful foreign enemies.”
Griffin didn't think so, but didn't express his opinion further. His uncle turned down the gas lamp and ushered him from the workroom and off to bed.
“We'll leave at first light. I think it would be best if you got to bed and tried to sleep so you'll be prepared for tomorrow. Swimming is difficult work, after all.”
He poked Griffin in the shoulder with his forefinger. “And promise me you won't do any more sneaking about, running after clues without informing me first.” He gave Griffin an even look. “If your mother ever got word about what you'd done, she'd give me no end of grief!”
“Yes, Uncle.”
Griffin bade his uncle good night. But after getting ready for bed, he had a hard time falling asleep. After what seemed like ages, he drifted off to a fitful sleep, but he had nightmare after nightmare. Shadow men chased him through cobblestone streets, and Chinese fireworks, larger than buildings, exploded at his every footfall. Griffin cried out in his sleep, voicing his fears and rehearsing his theories, worrying through the night that he might be too late to stop the terrible tragedy at hand.
And little did he know that as he slept, a shadow, the same one that had followed him all the way from Limehouse and had been crouching under the window of the parlor, listening, was now creeping through the darkened streets.