No Place Like Holmes (9 page)
I
n a stately house in one of the most posh neighborhoods of London, an old man in a wheelchair stared out of an upstairs window. He stroked his unusually high forehead and gazed with sunken eyes down at the darkened streets, his mind ablaze with wicked ideas.
“Professor Moriarty, sir?” came a voice.
The professor pulled a lever on his steam-powered chair and swiveled around to face the newcomer. “What is it, Mr. Gordon?”
The shabbily dressed man removed a small envelope and handed it to Moriarty. “Someone's been tampering with camera 29. Your cousin insisted that I deliver the photographs to you immediately.”
Moriarty opened the envelope with a yellowed fingernail. He removed the contents and held them up to the gaslight. The fuzzy image of a sad-eyed boy and a grizzled man wearing a tattered bowler were imprinted on the photographic paper. Moriarty's eyes glittered with recognition. He chuckled softly and handed the photos back to Mr. Gordon.
“Inform my young cousin that I am putting Mr. Snodgrass and his nephew on twenty-four-hour watch. I seriously doubt their capabilities, but it is always better to be safe than sorry.”
Mr. Gordon nodded. “Should I inform Mr. Jackson?”
Moriarty considered for a moment and said, “Yes, Jackson would be perfect. But tell him that I expressly forbid violence at this stage. Doing so could draw unwanted attention.”
Mr. Gordon bowed and exited the room. Moriarty swiveled his chair back to the window. He parted the elegant drapes with his clawlike hand. A few minutes passed before he saw a large, shadowy figure in a broad-brimmed hat exit from a nearby alley. The figure moved with animal-like agility down the street with his long cloak billowing behind him.
Moriarty smiled, observing Mr. Jackson as if he were a well-trained dog. He was confident there would be nothing that would escape his henchman's watchful gaze. Rupert Snodgrass was an amateur and would be easy to keep tabs on. His mental capacity was nowhere near the professor's supreme adversary, Sherlock Holmes, whose ability to anticipate his every move made his life so difficult.
Professor Moriarty felt reasonably certain that everything was still proceeding unobserved by Holmes and Snodgrass. When Holmes was on a case, the professor was usually alerted by one of his numerous spies and, so far, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. And when Snodgrass was on a case, well . . . he was usually foiled by his own lack of imagination. With the exception of the careless McDuff leaving those small scraps of paper in his cab, everything had progressed with utmost secrecy. He doubted that the boyâhe had been told Griffin Sharpe was his nameâwould have the kind of experience to know how to draw any conclusions from such a seemingly trivial clue.
But sometimes, he had to admit, even amateurs got lucky. So if Snodgrass or his American nephew should accidentally stick their nose where it didn't belong, he would make sure that his dog Jackson was there to bite it off.
A
fter a long day scanning the shoreline and finding no other clues of significance, Griffin and his uncle traveled by cab to Mrs. Dent's home. On the way, Snodgrass informed Griffin that she had specifically asked them to report their findings that afternoon over tea. Griffin had heard of English teatime and had always wanted to try it. His stomach was certainly more excited by tea at the Dents' home than anything they'd discovered by the shoreline that day.
Soon the cab pulled up to a stately section of London where some of its wealthier businessmen lived. Mrs. Dent's home was a lovely two-story building with a well-tended flower garden at its entry. They were greeted at the door by a young housekeeper. Griffin observed that the girl couldn't be more than two or three years older than he and was quite pretty. She smiled shyly at him as he and his uncle were shown inside to the parlor.
Griffin looked eagerly around the beautiful home and its elegant furnishings. He noticed the delicate, feminine touches that Mrs. Dent had placed throughout the house and was reminded of his mother. Pushing thoughts of home aside, Griffin focused on the delicious smells coming from what he guessed must be the kitchen.
As they entered the parlor, Mrs. Dent rose from the sofa and motioned for them to take the two chairs positioned near the fireplace. Although it was June, it was chilly in London, and Griffin was eager to warm up. He sat down, extending his hands toward the crackling flames. This was what he'd imagined it would be like when he'd read about Sherlock Holmes's apartment and Mrs. Hudson's hospitality!
The housekeeper appeared bearing a silver tray laden with a steaming pot of tea and several plates of small sandwiches, succulent-looking pies, and heaping piles of scones and cookies. Griffin's stomach growled loudly at the sight of so much food, and he blushed.
Mrs. Dent smiled. “Please help yourself, dear. You look like you haven't eaten a thing in weeks.”
And Griffin realized that it wasn't that far from the truth. He had barely eaten anything since arriving in England. Seconds later Griffin was biting into a freshly baked scone covered with something Mrs. Dent called clotted cream. It tasted absolutely delicious. He was so preoccupied with eating that if it weren't for the fact that Mrs. Dent turned her attention back to the case, he might have forgotten about the entire investigation.
“Have you found anything yet?” she asked. “I'm absolutely beside myself with worry.”
Griffin paused between sips of Earl Grey tea, noticing for the first time just how distraught Mrs. Dent was. He felt slightly ashamed that he'd not noticed her distress sooner.
“We're making headway,” Snodgrass replied proudly. “With the help of my mechanical devices, we've been able to both authenticate the details of Mr. Dunn's story and the location of the actual event.”
Mrs. Dent leaned forward, her eyes wide with anxiety. “Do you mean that everything he said was true? A monster actually ate my . . . myâ”
Snodgrass interrupted. “Now, now, I don't believe that there is a monster or that anyone was
eaten
, Mrs. Dent. After conducting a thorough investigation of the shoreline, I believe that something else was at work, something mechanical. At this point, I'm suspecting that what we're dealing with might simply be a kidnapping.”
“Kidnapping? But why would anyone abduct my husband?” she said.
“We have yet to establish a motive,” said Snodgrass coolly. “But I'm convinced that with further investigation we shall.”
Mrs. Dent began to breathe more heavily and quickly. And as Griffin watched, the color began to drain away from her face, leaving her pale and trembling. Griffin knew she was relieved that her husband had not been eaten, but kidnapping seemed to scare her almost as much. Snodgrass didn't seem at all aware of her condition as he helped himself to a small mince pie and another cup of tea before consulting his notes again.
Moved with compassion, Griffin went to sit next to Mrs. Dent and took her hand. “I'm truly sorry, Mrs. Dent,” he said. “I'm sure what you're feeling right now is terrible. My uncle is very good at what he does. I've witnessed his amazing inventions at work, and they are truly remarkable. I promise you that we'll do all we possibly can to find him.”
The woman looked up at Griffin with tear-filled eyes. She nodded and gave him a small smile as she tried to compose herself.
Snodgrass watched the two of them closely as he chewed. In all the years he'd been trying to build a reputation as a great detective, he'd never once truly thought about a client's feelings. A case was nothing more than a puzzle to be solved. Besides paying the bills, a new client mainly served as a chance for him to prove himself a superior investigator to Sherlock Holmes and make a name for himself, or at least that's what he had always thought.
But seeing the grateful look on Mrs. Dent's face gave him pause. For the first time, he saw her as she looked through Griffin's eyes. She was a person, not just as a client, and he could almost imagine the terror and anxiety she must be feeling at the loss of her husband.
He gazed at his nephew, wondering if he'd been judging the boy a bit too harshly. Although Griffin certainly possessed some of the same traits he despised in Sherlock Holmes, Snodgrass couldn't deny that there was something different about Griffin Sharpe.
Finally Mrs. Dent squeezed Griffin's hand and let it go, wiping the tears from her eyes and rising to show them out.
“Don't worry,” Griffin assured her. “We will do everything we can to help.”
Mrs. Dent pulled Griffin into a hug and called in her maid. She had the housekeeper pack a basket filled with the leftover pies and scones for tea so that they could “snack as they worked.”
After a few moments of waiting, Griffin and Snodgrass climbed into a hansom cab and rolled away toward Baker Street. Griffin was staring out the window when his uncle cleared his throat to get his attention.
Snodgrass said, in a voice that was not unkind, “Do you remember what I said earlier about my set of rules?”
“Yes,” answered Griffin.
“Well, I've changed my mind about a few of them.”
S
o it was with some surprise that Griffin found himself in his uncle's forbidden “working room” and was allowed to ask as many questions as he wanted. If Snodgrass had known what he was getting into, he might have thought twice, for Griffin had an inquisitive mind filled with questions. And, of course, he had an endless supply about the workings of his uncle's various gadgets and inventions.
“And what does that one do?” Griffin asked, pointing to one of the many futuristic pistols mounted on the wall.
“That is the Snodgrass Polysolar Transmogrifier,” his uncle replied with a sigh. “It utilizes the sun's rays to produce a piercing beam of light, capable of destroying a target at over five hundred paces.”
Griffin whistled. Could it be true? If the criminal underground mentioned in the Sherlock Holmes stories knew this stuff existed, he was sure they would waste no time in trying to steal every last item in the room.