No Place Like Holmes (21 page)
“What's the matter, Griffin?” Snodgrass asked. “You weren't impressed?”
“I would have been,” said Griffin, “if he hadn't cheated.”
What did Griffin know?
Turn to
Answers To Griffin Sharpe Mini-Mysteries
at the back of the book for the answer.
ANSWERS TO GRIFFIN SHARPE
MINI-MYSTERIES
ANSWER TO “THE COMPOSER'S WILL”
When Griffin saw the notes on the musical staff, he recognized exactly what they were: B E A. The letters formed the nickname Bea, short for Beatrice. When this was presented in court, the judge ruled in favor of Miss Thompson, and she was awarded the entirety of her father's estate.
ANSWER TO
“THE CASE OF THE TEXAS SHARPSHOOTER”
Griffin counted the shots. One at the pan, one at the bell, three at the plates, one at the target, and one at the card. Seven shots. Considering that the man held only a six-shooter, such a feat was impossible. Shortly after the contest, Griffin followed the clues and found evidence of a second shooter hidden behind a tree, the source of the extra shot.
MRS. TOTTINGHAM'S
 DELICIOUS SCONE RECIPE
Â
(Griffin Sharpe's favorite)
(The following is a recipe passed down from the original Mrs. Tottingham. Her great-granddaughter Eloise assures me that it is exactly the same one Griffin Sharpe loved so much.)
2 cups of flour
1 tablespoon of baking powder
1/2 teaspoon of salt
3 tablespoons of sugar
5 tablespoons cold, unsalted butter cut into cubes
1 cup of milk
Sift together flour, baking powder, salt, and sugar. Cut in the butter until the dough looks crumbly. Add in milk and stir gently.
Press dough onto lightly floured surface. Cut into squares and then half them into triangle shapes.
Bake on an ungreased cookie sheet at 400 degrees Fahrenheit for 15 to 20 minutes.
Lemon Icing
Juice of 1/2 of a squeezed lemon
2 cups of powdered sugar
Zest of one lemon
Teaspoon of vanilla
Milk to thin as needed
Mix together and drizzle over cooled scones. Serve with a pot of hot tea and your favorite Griffin Sharpe mystery book. Best eaten next to a roaring fire!
Don't miss out on more of
Griffin's exciting adventures
in book 2 of the
No Place Like Holmes
series.
PROLOGUE
London
1903
M
rs. Hudson wiped her hands on her apron as she hurried to the front door of 221 Baker Street. The delicious scent of roasting chicken and rosemary wafted from behind her as she rushed out of the kitchen to answer the persistent knocking.
“Half a moment,” she called irritably. If there were one thing she didn't like, it was being interrupted when in the middle of preparing a meal for her tenants. After pausing to tuck a few stray hairs back beneath her cap, she opened the door. To her surprise, a pretty young woman dressed in boy's clothing was standing on the doorstep.
“May I help you?” Mrs. Hudson asked suspiciously. She scanned the woman's attire, taking in her dyed wool jacket, trousers, and newsboy's cap. Somehow, in spite of the unflattering clothing, the girl still managed to look feminine.
“You must be Mrs. Hudson! My name is Charlotte Pepper. It's so very nice to meet you,” she said, extending her hand. Mrs. Hudson was taken aback for a moment, but then, seeing no other polite way around it, shook her offered hand. Women didn't usually shake hands. It was considered a manly gesture and indelicate.
“And what can I do for you, Miss Pepper?” Mrs. Hudson asked.
“I heard that you were looking for a new tenant and have come to inquire about the apartment. I don't need to see it. All that we need to discuss is the price. How much rent do you require?”
Mrs. Hudson noticed that when she spoke, Charlotte Pepper didn't make eye contact, but instead glanced everywhere else, including the hallway behind her. A smile played around the woman's full lips and her huge, brown eyes danced with excitement. Turning back to the landlady she said, “Is it indeed the apartment of the famous Sherlock Holmes?”
“Until recently, yes,” Mrs. Hudson replied with a hint of annoyance. Ever since her favorite tenant had departed, she'd had no end of “lookie loos” that had showed up, wanting to catch a glimpse of the great detective's apartment.
“Miss, ah . . . Pepper,” Mrs. Hudson said with a hint of annoyance, “I don't wish to be rude, but the apartment in question is quite expensive.” She glanced at the young woman's shabby, unflattering clothing. “Mr. Holmes was an accomplished detective with a reliable income, and I mean for my new tenant to meet the same qualifications.”
If Charlotte Pepper was offended by the remark, she didn't show it.
“Well, I assure you that money is no object,” she stated. “Simply name your price, and I shall pay it . . . ” Mrs. Hudson started to reply, but Charlotte interrupted her, holding up a finger.
“ . . . And as your newest tenant, you should know two things about me. First of all, I am exceedingly punctual. You could say that time itself is one of the most important things to me.”
She paused to smile even more widely.
“And second, I am absolutely without question, the biggest fan of Sherlock Holmes who ever lived. I am a bit of an amateur detective myself and will treat the premises with the utmost care and respect. I am clean, decent, and well-mannered. In other words, the perfect tenant.”
She reached into her jacket pocket and removed the largest wad of British currency that Mrs. Hudson had ever seen. After pressing it into the landlady's startled hand, she stepped past her into the hallway.
“I believe it's just down here to the left, correct?”
Mrs. Hudson, feeling completely flummoxed, followed in her new tenant's wake.
Another detective at Baker Street?
she thought. First, Mr. Holmes, then Mr. Snodgrass, and now, this precocious female? And just who did Charlotte Pepper think she was, bossing her around; not asking, but telling her that she was to accept her as her tenant automatically.
But Mrs. Hudson didn't express her feeling aloud. For one of the first times in her life, the landlady was left feeling absolutely speechless. And she couldn't help thinking that her old tenant, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, would have enjoyed seeing it happen for once.
As she closed the front door behind her, Mrs. Hudson failed to notice the disreputable character who was standing beneath the gaslight on the opposite side of the street. The lumpy man stared after the departing women with a twisted grin.
“Right on schedule,” he whispered. Then, with hardly a backward glance, the man hurried into the shadows to report what he'd seen to his waiting master.