No Place Like Holmes (4 page)

And now, as he walked down the hall of his uncle's apartment, Griffin not only counted the number of floorboards (eighty-three), but also the number of flowers patterned on the carpet runner (one hundred thirty-six). But even with all those numbers rattling around in his head, he couldn't calm himself down. He could tell by the tone of his uncle's voice that he was in trouble for something, but he had no idea how he could have already offended him. After all, he'd barely unpacked! What could he have possibly done in so short a time? It didn't make sense. And things that didn't make sense made Griffin feel very uncomfortable.

Upon entering the parlor he saw his uncle slouching in front of the blackened fireplace, staring down into the empty grate. Griffin scanned the room and was surprised to see that this did not look like any parlor he had ever seen before. Magnificent-looking gadgets, all in various stages of assembly or repair, were piled high upon every available surface, and the walls were covered with weapons. Griffin counted fifteen futuristic-looking brass pistols, seven long rifles with elaborate brass scopes and clockwork sights, three strange looking helmets with goggles of green glass, two armored vests, and the stuffed head of some exotic animal that looked as if it had come from another world entirely.

Gazing around the parlor, he noticed that on the bookcase were several polished, wooden boxes, each with a glowing gray glass panel on one side. Next to the sofa was something that reminded Griffin of an Edison phonograph, but instead of a turntable, it had a wheeled cabinet positioned beneath its large, conical horn. And piled in every corner were pulleys, ropes, gears, rods, switches, wires, domes, hinges, and wheels.

Griffin wanted to examine all the objects to figure out what they were and how they worked, but his uncle's stern gaze stopped him before he touched anything. Old newspapers and moldy teacups were stacked on every space not occupied by mechanical things, and Griffin had to work his way carefully through the room, hoping that he wouldn't accidentally break anything.

“Sit,” Rupert commanded. And Griffin, seeing no other spot, cleared away a rusty oilcan and promptly sat down upon the floor. His uncle glared at him, snatched up the oilcan as if it were made of gold, and set it gently atop a pile of other cans. However, as soon as his uncle let go, the entire tower of cans toppled to the floor with a crash.

Snodgrass sprang into action, chasing down the cans as they rolled in every direction. He tried awkwardly to snatch one of them before it rolled underneath the sofa and slipped, landing unceremoniously on his rump.

Griffin bit his lip, trying hard not to laugh. His uncle attempted to get up gracefully, but as he did, he knocked over a bin filled with nuts and bolts. The parts flew into the air and ricocheted off of the ceiling, showering down upon him.

As the last of the nuts and bolts hit the ground, Snodgrass straightened his tie and cleared his throat, trying desperately to look dignified. But his hair was messy, and he looked so frazzled that Griffin could barely contain his laughter. Snodgrass sniffed and, after brushing imaginary flecks off of his rumpled suit, said in a pompous voice, “You have disrupted my work, young man.”

“Sir?”

“My work. This!” Snodgrass made an irritated gesture at the many gadgets. “Your very presence in my house jeopardizes
everything
.”

“I'm afraid I don't understand, sir,” said Griffin.

“This is my working room, and you—have—disrupted —my—ability—to—concentrate,” his uncle stated, biting off each word.

Snodgrass's face had grown increasingly red and blotchy as he spoke. A large vein pulsed on his forehead and tiny beads of sweat gleamed on his forehead, making his damp, unshaven face shine like a polished apple.

Griffin squirmed uncomfortably.

“I'm a very busy man and have no time for children. Sending you here without any advance warning was presumptuous and rude. My sister and I haven't spoken in years!”

Griffin had to hold his tongue to keep from reminding his uncle that his mother had sent several letters to him about the situation.

Snodgrass spat into the empty fireplace. “However, the fact that I am living on limited resources makes it difficult to refuse the money she sent. In order to make this situation work for us both, you will have to obey my rules.”

Griffin was quite sure the rules wouldn't be easy to follow.

“Rule number one: you are not allowed, under any circumstances, to enter this room. This is my private workspace where I do my most important thinking. The devices displayed around you have been designed to help me solve crimes. Important cases vital to the safety and security of the British Empire depend on my ingenuity. In other words, this is a place where children do not belong.”

“Oh, are you an Enquiry Agent?” Griffin blurted out in excitement. “Is that what these devices are for . . . detective work?” Once again he'd been unable to resist the urge to ask a question and, after the words had left his mouth, he winced. When would he learn to control his tongue?

His uncle stared at him, his lips twitching with anger. After a visible struggle, he answered his nephew's question.

“Yes,” his uncle said. “I am a private
investigator
.”

“I see. Just like Mr. Holmes next door! How wonderful!” Griffin exclaimed.

“I am nothing like Mr. Holmes!” Snodgrass barked. “My machines provide a far more practical method for solving crimes than his so-called ‘deductive reasoning.'”

Snodgrass paced in front of the fireplace, growing more agitated. “I haven't had a client in weeks! Everyone automatically assumes that he is the greatest detective in London, but they're wrong! My neighbor is nothing more than an arrogant, self-important, pompous . . . ,” he spluttered, trying to find words. He finally continued with, “Do not ever mention his name to me again! Do you understand?”

Surprised by his uncle's reaction, Griffin didn't know what to say. “Understood,” he replied hesitantly.

“Right,” said his uncle sternly.

Snodgrass pushed a lock of his thinning hair back on his scalp and gathered his composure. “Now, let's get down to business. Rule number two: you are to stay out of my way. I don't want to see, hear, or smell you, understand? You are to leave the house every day by eight o'clock in the morning. You may return for dinner at six o'clock. Do I make myself clear?”

Griffin nodded. Two very harsh rules. The first was understandable, but the second . . . He felt angry and struggled to control his temper. He couldn't believe his uncle would force him out onto the streets every day. It was no way to treat family!

“Now then,” his uncle continued in a tight voice, “if we keep out of each other's way, I'm sure we can get through this summer with as little conflict as possible. Those are my rules. You're dismissed.”

Griffin took a deep breath and fought the urge to tell his uncle how unfair he was being. Instead, he decided to turn the other cheek and be polite. “May I ask one more thing?”

Griffin's uncle gave him a withering stare. “What is it?”

Griffin had been about to ask whether or not he was allowed something to eat when the question froze in his throat. Someone . . .
something
had entered the room. It walked like a man, but was made entirely of brass. It was about the same height as Griffin, but it had a brass handlebar mustache and glowing blue eyes. As it walked it gave off tiny puffs of steam, and Griffin could hear the sound of gears clicking as it made its way into the center of the room.

It was so much better than anything Griffin had ever imagined.

“A mechanical man!” he said.

Uncle Snodgrass sniffed. “A mechanical
butler
. One of my more ingenious devices.”

Griffin stared at the robotic man, overcome with awe. The butler turned toward Griffin and bowed ever so slightly.

“Would Master require anything this evening? A pot of tea, perhaps?” the butler said in an electronic voice.

“Not necessary, Watts. You may retire to your quarters.”

With a respectful nod, the robot turned and marched slowly out of the room. Griffin felt hopeful again. Maybe the summer wouldn't be so bad after all. The butler was surely able to play games. Maybe he could even take the butler on outings for company. No one back home would ever believe it! But then his uncle's raspy voice yanked him out of his daydream and back to reality.

“And one more rule: you're to have no contact with Watts. He only obeys my orders, understand? Now, off with you.”

Griffin couldn't believe how unfair it all was. He couldn't think of anything polite to say, so, blinking back tears, he stood, bowed, and strode from the room as quickly as possible without running. When he returned to his small room, he shut the door quietly behind him with as much dignity as he could muster.

What had he ever done to deserve such treatment? It wasn't his fault his uncle hadn't read and responded to his mother's letters. All of his uncle's rules were frustrating and disappointing, but the rule about Watts just seemed cruel. If his uncle weren't interested in spending time with him, he could at least let Griffin play with the butler so he didn't have to be alone all the time.

He sniffed and ran his sleeve quickly across his eyes.
I'm not
going to let him get to me
, he thought.
I have to be strong
.

Then, not knowing what else to do, he got ready for bed, all the while grumbling to himself. Not that it did him any good. He just couldn't understand why his uncle seemed to hate him. Griffin had been so excited to come to London. And everything he had seen so far that his uncle had created was truly amazing. He would have loved to learn from him. But instead it looked like he was on his own, as usual. Griffin turned down the gas lamp and crawled beneath the thin quilt. He felt terribly lonely. He didn't want to cry. He was, after all, almost thirteen years old. But the situation with his uncle, his hungry stomach, and the disappointment of having to spend an entire summer away from his family was almost too much.

I wonder what Mother and Father are doing right now
. Griffin thought wistfully. He pictured the parsonage with its little stone fireplace. Father would be reading the Bible next to the crackling logs and his mother would be making supper. Maybe she'd be cooking chicken and dumplings, his favorite meal.

Griffin took a deep, shaky breath and willed himself to be strong. Giving in to feeling homesick would only make things worse. After murmuring a prayer, making sure to express his gratefulness for those things he had to be thankful for and trying not to just complain to God about those things he couldn't control, he closed his eyes.

He was more tired than he realized. And just as he was about to drift off to sleep, sweet music drifted down from up above. He was vaguely aware of a violin playing overhead, and its mournful sound soothed his troubled heart. As the boy slowly drifted into unconsciousness, he automatically counted the muffled notes, the time signature of each one, and exactly how many bow strokes were needed to produce each phrase on the musical staff.

And little did he know that as he played his violin, Sherlock Holmes, his uncle's upstairs neighbor, was doing exactly the same thing.

6
SUNDAY

I
t was a beautiful June morning. The sun shone down on the cobblestone streets, making the damp stones glitter like diamonds. Griffin, who had been up before dawn, stared down at the empty shopkeepers' windows and neatly painted signboards. He could see no street vendors setting up their wares or chatting with the other early risers.

For a moment, he thought perhaps people in England didn't get up as early as folks in America. Then he realized that it was Sunday morning, the day of rest. Shops were closed, and anybody not attending church would probably be at home, sleeping in. Unfortunately for his growling stomach, that also meant there would be no chance to visit the bakery he'd passed the previous evening.

But the day was cheery enough. It seemed impossible for anyone to be gloomy on such a wondrous summer morning.
Except for Uncle Snodgrass
, he thought. Griffin felt reasonably certain that it would take much more than a pretty day to warm up his uncle.

Griffin washed and dressed and then walked down the hall, hoping for breakfast. He found his uncle, wearing a frayed blue dressing gown, seated at a small table reading the morning paper. Griffin automatically counted the number of threads hanging from the sleeves of his uncle's robe (eleven on the left, three on the right). And he also noticed that Rupert's hair was sticking up in all directions, which meant that his uncle clearly had no intention of going to church.

“Good morning, Uncle,” Griffin said.

After getting no response, Griffin continued, saying, “It's Sunday, Uncle Rupert, and I was wondering, would you like to attend services with me? I'm unfamiliar with the churches in the area and was hoping to find a Methodist chapel.”