No Place Like Holmes (3 page)
“Uncle Holmes?” the boy asked.
Rupert Snodgrass glared down at him, unable to process the question. His sleep-addled brain couldn't imagine who the boy was or what he was doing on his doorstep.
“Uncle?” Did the
boy say, “Holmes
”? Well, he certainly wanted nothing to do with any children, especially a child related to Sherlock Holmes.
Without a word, Snodgrass slammed the door shut and wandered back to bed. But his head had barely touched the pillow when the knocking began once more. Whoever this rascal was, Snodgrass thought, he evidently had no idea of the danger he was putting himself in.
This time Rupert Snodgrass practically tore the door from its hinges.
“What?” he demanded. He was furious.
“My name is Griffin Sharpe. I'm looking for my uncle, Sherlock Holmes. I thought he lived at this address.”
“You're wrong. He lives next door.”
Griffin stared at the man, looking confused. “Then this isn't 221 Baker Street?”
“It is. But Sherlock Holmes lives at B, and I live at A.
He
is upstairs, and if you're looking for
him
, then you've come to the wrong place. Stop bothering me.”
Griffin was about to turn away when something caught his attention. It was the distinctive color of the man's eyes. They weren't quite blue and not quite green, and their size and shape reminded him of someone else's, someone he knew very well . . .
Mother's eyes!
Griffin's heart sank as his eyes darted over the man, taking in the tiniest details. Now that he looked, he could see several family resemblances. In addition to the eyes, his uncle's hands, his jawline, and the color of his hair told him everything he needed to know. It was hard to accept, but the visual evidence suggested that this horrible man was his uncle!
Griffin stared up at the slovenly figure in the doorway and frowned. The man looked like he hadn't slept in weeks, and Griffin was pretty certain the smell of cheese that wafted toward him wasn't cheddar. But there was one last question he needed to ask to be sure. He hoped that somehow, his observations had been wrong.
“Um . . . sir, can I ask one other question? Does the name âSnoops' mean anything to you?”
“W-what? Snoops? Where did you hear that?” Snodgrass blustered. “Who told you that name?”
“Never mind,” the boy said meekly. His eyes hadn't deceived him. The great Sherlock Holmes was not his uncle after all.
“I, er, see that your real name is Robert Snodgrass. I'm sorry; I should have noticed it sooner,” Griffin said.
Snodgrass looked startled and then annoyed. After a moment, he said, “What, is that some kind of magic trick? How did you figure that out?”
“I simply noticed the initial
R
monogrammed on your dressing gown pocket. Robert is the most popular name that begins with that letter. And when I glimpsed the Snodgrass coat of arms hanging in your parlor, I figured that it must be your last name.”
Observant. Snodgrass realized that the boy had determined all of this after his having had the door open for only a few moments. But he was tired and hungry, and he wasn't in the mood to be lectured in the fine art of observation by some arrogant child.
“Well, you're wrong. My name's Rupert, not Robert. And just who do you think you are, boy? I don't have time to stand here arguing with you. I'm a very busy man!” he said.
A look of regret flickered across the boy's face. “I-I'm sorry. I assumed that I wouldn't be an intrusion, being that we're family.”
“Family?” Rupert Snodgrass barked. He gave the boy a ferocious stare. “I don't have any family. I thought you said Holmes was your family.”
In answer, the boy reached into his pocket and removed a small envelope. Snodgrass snatched it from his outstretched hand.
The detective's eyes darted over the paper, taking in the contents. It was from the same address as a letter he'd received weeks earlier. He hadn't bothered to open the first letter, because he had mistakenly assumed it was from a bill collector.
Rupert tore open the envelope and found that it contained some money and a note from his sister who lived in America. After a moment he realized, to his horror, that the letter's intention was to introduce him to his nephew. His sister had sent the boy to stay with him for the entire summer because she said it “would be a valuable cultural and character-building experience for Griffin to learn about my homeland.”
Character building experience
? Obviously his sister, whom he hadn't spoken to in years, had underestimated her brother's aversion to children. As far as Rupert Snodgrass was concerned, he would rather forget that he had ever been a child himself.
As if reading his uncle's mind, Griffin Sharpe turned and gave his uncle an awkward smile.
“I'm looking forward to getting to know you, Uncle,” the boy said quietly. And then, indicating his suitcase, he added, “I hope I won't be a bother.”
S
o now, after traveling thousands of miles to London and being shown to a very shabby room that smelled of mothballs and mildew, Griffin felt a surge of regret. He realized that by blurting out the connection between the initial on his uncle's dressing gown and the painting of the Snodgrass coat of arms in the hallway, he must have made his uncle feel stupid. Like so many times before, he'd said his thoughts as soon as they'd popped into his head. And it didn't take a genius to notice that the minute he'd mentioned it, his uncle had thought him annoying and rude.
Griffin assumed that his Uncle Rupert would probably send him home on the next boat to Boston. And if he didn't, it was most likely going to be a very long and painful summer. He'd have to do his best to bother his uncle as little possible, to be as quiet as a mouse, and to never, under any circumstances, try to act “clever.” He sighed. As usual, he'd ruined his chances at making a friend because he couldn't keep his mouth shut.
Griffin began unpacking his suitcase for lack of anything else to do. A few hours earlier it had looked very much like he was going to be the nephew of the great detective he'd read about on the train. But now, here he was, alone in London with an uncle who was about as unlike Sherlock Holmes as he could possibly imagine. Griffin's fleeting hope of finding someone who understood him and would be happy to have him around had disappeared.
After placing his things in the shabby wardrobe, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared out the window. Although it was late, he could still hear the sounds of carriages rolling up and down the cobblestone streets. He was homesick. He had never wanted to see his mother and father more in his entire life.
Griffin's stomach grumbled. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. When he'd been living in the fantasy that had included being the nephew of a great and successful detective, he'd assumed he would be welcomed with a magnificent tea served by Mr. Holmes's landlady, Mrs. Hudson. The stories in the magazine had described her cooking so well that his mouth had watered.
So much for that idea
, he thought. Although Mrs. Hudson owned both apartments, apparently she didn't provide the same services for each of her tenants. Judging by the way he'd been welcomed, Griffin assumed that it was probably because Sherlock Holmes was nicer than his uncle was.
Griffin's hand strayed to his pocket. He had a little bit of spending money. If he had only known what was in store for him, he would have stopped at one of the vendors on the street he'd passed on his way to his uncle's apartment. But at the time he'd been so eager to meet him, he had rushed by all of the pie sellers and chestnut roasters without a backward glance.
Thinking back, he remembered one of the pastry shops he'd noticed on Baker Street. His quick eye had seen, even in passing, that it had been stocked with several varieties of pastry he'd never seen before, but all of which had looked delicious.
He pictured the blue sign with gold letters. He could clearly read the name,
Mrs. Tottingham's
, painted on the window with the
s
on the end of the name having a small chip out of the corner. There had been a woman inside dressed in a black-and-white striped dress, whose apron was covered with white dust . . . flour, Griffin assumed. She had a small mole on her left earlobe, bottle-green eyes, a lovely smile, and plump, rosy cheeks. He'd always heard the phrase “Never trust a skinny baker,” and thus concluded that the treats in this shop would be particularly tasty. Sweets had always been rare at the Sharpe home because of his father's meager salary, but Griffin thought that just this once it would be worth spending a little of his money on something delicious.
The thought of all those lovely pastries sitting uneaten in the bakery window made his stomach growl even more loudly. One of the downsides to having a photographic memory was that the images in his mind were so real, it almost felt like he was right there, staring through the shop window.
Griffin pushed his hands firmly against his growling stomach and made a mental note to visit the bakery tomorrow. He would go first thing in the morning, providing his uncle didn't take him to the train station to send him back to Boston.
He'd barely had this depressing thought when his uncle's voice floated down the hall, calling, in a not-very-nice-way, “Boy! Get down here!”
And Griffin, letting out a long sigh, assumed by the tone that it probably wasn't to call him downstairs for dinner.
W
hen Griffin felt nervous, he counted things. Counting helped him restore order to his troubled inner universe. Even though there were things that he couldn't control, numbers were a constant. They never changed and, when added together, they created an answer that was true.
And truth gave him comfort.
At school, he'd counted the nails in the classroom floor when the substitute teacher had unjustly accused him of cheating on his history exam because he'd answered every question correctly. Later that day he'd counted the spots of ink on the headmaster's desk when he'd been sent to his office for fighting. Even though Griffin hadn't thrown the first punch and was the one who ended up with a black eye.