No Place Like Holmes (8 page)

The fisherman broke off, his voice cracking. After a moment, he continued,

“The beast swallowed him whole. One minute Mr. Dent was there on the shore, and the next”—he swatted his hand through the air for emphasis—“gone, he was. Then it weren't but two seconds later that I heard gunshots. Whether someone was firing at me or at the beast, I didn't know. I ran as fast as I could from the shore to get help. But, shameful as it is for me to admit, I didn't know who to talk to, about what I'd seen. The police would have thought me mad and anyone else, well, fishermen are well known for exaggerating their stories.”

He took a deep drink from his cider mug and, after finishing, wiped a gnarled hand across his bushy, white mustache. “After a sleepless night, I decided to go see Mrs. Dent and tell her the terrible news,” he said, then quickly added, “That's my story, gentlemen, and I stand by it.”

The old fisherman glared down at the Falsehood Detector as if defying it to find any inaccuracy in his story. Snodgrass switched off the machine and nodded. Griffin wondered just how the machine worked and what his uncle had been able to hear through the modified earflaps of his cap. Snodgrass seemed satisfied with whatever the fisherman had told him.

He removed the strange cap and, replacing his moldy bowler on top of his head, said, “Thank you, Mr. Dunn. Now, if you don't mind, could you lead me to the exact location where the event happened?”

11
THE SCENE OF THE CRIME

M
inutes later Griffin and his uncle were striding along the shore where James Dunn had indicated the attack had taken place. Luckily, the air was crisper and didn't smell as fishy as it had near the Angler's Club.

The boy's mind was buzzing with unanswered questions. The fisherman had seemed to be telling the truth. He'd noticed none of the little details in his manner that might have pointed to his lying.

“This is the spot,” Snodgrass said.

Griffin stared down at the muddy bank. A deep trough was in the dirt, leading from the water's edge into the river. It looked as if it had been left by something extraordinarily large and heavy.

“I don't think Mr. Dunn was lying,” Griffin said. “He didn't display any of the mannerisms most people use when they're not telling the truth.”

“Such as?” Snodgrass said.

“Well, I've noticed that when people are lying they're usually reluctant to make eye contact, the pitch of their voice changes, and they act restlessly. Often their stories are filled with inconsistent details. It didn't seem to me that Mr. Dunn did any of those things.”

Snodgrass snorted. “Deductive reasoning like that,” he said, “is prone to speculation and error. I arrived at
my
conclusion by other, more scientific means.”

Rupert puffed out his chest in a self-important gesture.

“The data I gathered showed that Dunn believes what he thinks he saw, whether it actually happened that way or not. You see, my Falsehood Detector measures a person's heart rate. When a person is lying, their pulse quickens. I am alerted to the change by an electronic tone that is conducted through the wires into the earflaps of my cap.”

Snodgrass grew more excited as he described the workings of his invention. “Because his heart rate remained consistent, my machine detected no attempts at falsehood whatsoever. Those are the facts, boy, and
facts
don't lie. It's
elementary
!”

Griffin was impressed by the brilliance of his uncle's engineering ability. The man truly was a gifted inventor! But while they had each used different methods, he and his uncle
had
arrived at the same conclusion.

Even so, Griffin was able to admit that what his uncle had said about deductive reasoning had a lot of truth to it. Human observation did have limits, and sometimes observations could be wrong. There were people out there who, with practice, could hide their gestures when lying and fool the experts.

“You know, you have a point there, Uncle,” Griffin admitted. “Perhaps a device like that should be implemented in more investigations. I'll bet your machine is something that the police would love to see. It could greatly improve the way cases are handled.”

Belatedly, he realized that instead of calling him Mr. Snodgrass, he'd accidentally called him Uncle. Griffin winced, wondering if Snodgrass would reprimand him for the slip. But to his surprise, Snodgrass didn't correct him at all. Instead, Rupert Snodgrass seemed surprised and pleased by the compliment. “Yes, well. It might be worth considering at that,” he said, sniffing with self-importance.

Griffin realized that Snodgrass was so absorbed in talking about the case that his attitude toward his nephew had thawed a little. Perhaps if they could stick to conversations about the investigation, they might actually get along.

Snodgrass removed one of the heavy bags he was carrying on his shoulder and began to rummage through it. Griffin looked down at the bank and examined the deep furrow in the earth that led to the water's edge. After studying it for a moment, he noticed something strange. Spaced evenly within the deep depression were several barlike tracks, each about twenty-five centimeters across.

Taking advantage of his uncle's distraction and willingness to talk, Griffin said, “There are tracks here, but they don't appear to be made by any kind of beast that I've ever seen. Perhaps they have been made by a machine. What do you think?”

“My thoughts exactly,” replied his uncle. “But I'll know better after I measure the area for evidence.”

Snodgrass, armed with a new device, walked over to his nephew's side. He was wearing green goggles and carried a long pole with an ornate metal bowl on the end of it. His uncle waved the bowl near the earth, back and forth in a sweeping movement just a few inches above the ground.

“What is it?” Griffin asked, indicating the device with a nod of his head.

“The Snodgrass Super Finder. It is a finely tuned instrument for locating and detecting hidden metal. The goggles I wear act as a filter, helping me to observe the slightest glint of reflected light off of metal surfaces.”

Griffin smirked, resisting the urge to ask if everything his uncle had created contained the words
The Snodgrass
in the name. It seemed to Griffin that his uncle was very particular about getting credit for his work.

Snodgrass continued moving the large bowl back and forth over the unusual tracks. After a few moments, a small beeping noise sounded from the device. With a yelp of triumph, Snodgrass knelt and pawed around in the earth for a moment or two. Seconds later he drew an ornate pocket watch from the sand.

“Not exactly what I was looking for,” he said, disappointed. “I was hoping to find some evidence of mechanics, perhaps a bolt or a discarded bit of wire. But I'm sure it's a clue nonetheless!”

Griffin moved closer to peer at the pocket watch. To his surprise, his uncle handed it to him. After studying it for a moment, Griffin noticed some words etched on the inside of the watch's cover.

To F, with all my love, S
It didn't take long for Griffin to deduce who “F” and “S” were. Frederick and Sarah Dent! He drew his uncle's attention to the inscription. Snodgrass brightened perceptively at the discovery.

“Well, that confirms that Frederick Dent was actually here. Good observation, boy.”

Griffin felt quite proud upon hearing his uncle's praise. Glancing up, he could tell that Snodgrass was so completely preoccupied with studying the watch that he had probably delivered the compliment unconsciously. But to Griffin, it was one more small step on the road to friendship with his uncle.

“Thank you, Lord,” Griffin prayed in a whisper.

“What's that?” Snodgrass asked, overhearing Griffin.

“Er, nothing,” Griffin said, smiling, and turned back to examining the ruts on the muddy ground.

While his uncle scanned the beach with his contraption, Griffin walked along the shoreline, looking for more clues.

He didn't find anything of interest for several minutes until, about thirty feet from the shoreline, he spotted something strange. Kneeling down, he noticed several tiny scraps of red paper. They seemed familiar to him, but he couldn't think why. Then, in a flash, he remembered the scraps he'd found in the cab the day before.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he removed the bits of paper and compared them to the ones in the dirt. They matched perfectly.

Griffin felt sure that there was some strange connection between the tracks on the shoreline, the paper on the shore, and the same unusual red paper he'd found in the cab. His heart beat with excitement as he considered the puzzle. After pocketing the paper, he turned his gaze to the rest of the shoreline. He walked around for several minutes, inspecting every bit of discarded fishing net, piece of glass, or anything else that might yield a clue. But he didn't find anything of interest.

The sun was starting to go down and the air was turning clammy. Griffin hunched up in his jacket and thrust his hands into his pockets.

“I guess that's all there is to see,” he murmured. His fingers brushed the little scraps of paper in his pocket, and he turned over possibilities of what they might be in his mind.

Stationery?
he wondered. But he dismissed the idea almost immediately. The texture of the paper was rough, and its red color would have made unusual material for correspondence.

He was about to turn back and go down to the shoreline where his uncle was scanning the beach when his attention was drawn to a group of nearby boulders. Several gulls were perched on the huge rocks, squawking loudly. But there was something that didn't look quite right. Griffin couldn't immediately place what it was, but then he noticed that there seemed to be something wrong with one of the birds. His expert gaze had picked it out from the group of others, noticing that it seemed unusually still.

Is it dead?
he wondered.

Griffin walked over to the big stones, scattering all of the birds as he approached except for one. He reached out to touch it, and to his surprise he saw that it still didn't move. But it wasn't dead . . . It was something so cleverly designed that anyone not knowing about it would have thought it just one of the other birds.

Griffin lifted it up and found that it was unusually heavy. It was made of metal and painted so beautifully that even up close it looked like it was covered in real feathers. Looking closer, he saw that the eyes of the bird were made of clear glass. And as Griffin scrutinized them, he saw that they were actually tiny lenses.

He gasped. The thing was a camera! The most cleverly designed, smallest camera he'd ever seen!

“Uncle!” Griffin shouted.

Snodgrass's head jerked up when he heard Griffin's cry. Seconds later he was standing next to him, peering at the mechanical bird with an expression of awe.

“This is magnificent!” he said. “I've never seen the like . . .”

Snodgrass turned the bird over, and Griffin could see a tiny slot where photographic paper could be inserted between its metal feet. He also noticed that a pair of initials was etched into a metal plate right next to the slot.

“Who's N.M.?” he wondered aloud.

Snodgrass shrugged. “I don't know. Probably the inventor. But the more important question to ask is why was this put here? Someone wanted to take secret photographs of this area. I would bet my hat that whoever put it here had something to do with the disappearance of Frederick Dent.”

Griffin glanced at his uncle's horrible bowler hat and grinned. Even though it was just a saying, he felt certain nobody would take his uncle's hat in any kind of bet.

“Should we take it with us?” Griffin asked, eyeing the amazing bird. Snodgrass pondered the question for a moment and then shook his head. “No, I don't think so. Whoever put it here will notice its absence.” Snodgrass set the bird back down on the rock.

“Suffice it to say, we're dealing with a very sophisticated criminal mind. We must tread very carefully from now on.” He gestured at the bird. “Whoever created this might have many other such devices planted around London. We must be vigilant. He could be watching our every move.”

As they walked back down the beach, Griffin's mind raced. Perhaps this was how it felt to be Sherlock Holmes when he was on a case. If so, Griffin could think of no greater thrill. Remembering a quote from the great detective in one of the stories he'd read in the
Strand Magazine
, he whispered it softly to himself, just to hear himself say the famous words.

The game's afoot!