No Place Like Holmes

by Jason Lethcoe

  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!

  12

  THE PROFESSOR

  In 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 boy—he had been told Griffin Sharpe was his name—would 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.

  13

  TEA AND SCONES

  After 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’v
e 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 . . . my—”

  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.”

  14

  THE PLAN

  So 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.

  “How come nobody knows what you’ve created in here?” Griffin exclaimed. “Or do they?” He gave his uncle a questioning glance. Snodgrass looked uncomfortable.

  “I have, er, had a few run-ins with the British government. Let’s just say that they don’t approve of what I’m doing.” He gave his nephew a forced smile, but Griffin could see the anxiety beneath it.

  “I see,” Griffin said. “So I take it that if they found out about the weapons you have here, there could be trouble?”

  “Of one sort or another, yes,” Snodgrass grumbled. “That’s why I’m swearing you to secrecy. Assuming that I can trust your rather overly obsessive need for absolute truthfulness, that is.”

  Griffin overlooked his uncle’s somewhat insulting comment. Instead Griffin replied sincerely, “Of course you can, Uncle. I give you my word.”

  Griffin walked over to the bookcase, his attention now diverted by the boxes covered with switches and gray screens. “And what are these?” he asked.

  Snodgrass brightened. “Ah, those. Well, I call those the Snodgrass Special Information Processors.”

  Snodgrass stood up and strode over next to Griffin. Lifting one of the wooden boxes from the shelf, he brought it to a cluttered tabletop. After moving several old teacups and a newspaper out of his way, he set it gently down and turned on a switch.

  Griffin stared, unable to believe what he was seeing. Somewhere inside of the boxes, a steam engine whistled and puffed. Then the small, gray screen began to glow, and seconds later an elegant script appeared.

  How may I be of service?

  “What on earth?” Griffin whispered.

  Snodgrass plugged the back of the box into a small typewriter. Then, turning to Griffin, he said, “Ask it any question you’d like.”

  Griffin stared up at his uncle in disbelief. “But how does it work?”

  Snodgrass held up his hand and said, “It would be much too complicated to explain. But the most brilliant thing about its design is that it takes its information from every reliable news agency in the world by twenty-four-hour telegraph. It’s usually fairly accurate.”

  Griffin stared down at the keyboard. He was reminded of the story of Aladdin and the genie, where the humble boy was given the chance to ask for three wishes. The funny thing was, now that he was able to ask the machine any question he wanted to, he couldn’t think of a single thing to ask.

  But then something that he’d been pondering entered his mind. Ever since the day before, when he’d seen the tracks on the shoreline, Griffin had formed an idea about what exactly might have kidnapped Frederick Dent. He typed his question, and seconds later an answer scrolled across the screen in the same elegant typeface.

  “What have you got there?” Snodgrass asked, peering over his nephew’s shoulder.

  “I typed a question about submersibles,” Griffin replied.

  Now it was Rupert Snodgrass’s turn to look confused. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he said. “What are submersibles?”

  Griffin turned excitedly to his uncle. “Ever since I saw the tracks leading to the river, I’ve been wondering if the thing that took Mr. Dent was some kind of submarine, a vehicle capable of traveling underwater. I read about them in a science journal back home. They can run both on steam and electric motors!”

  Griffin’s uncle looked thoughtful. He scratched at his scruffy beard and stared out the window.

  “Hmm. I’m surprised I haven’t thought of such a thing before. A Snodgrass Submersible Carriage. Pity. I could have done great things with such an idea . . .”

  Griffin’s uncle wore a faraway expression. Griffin
interrupted his thoughts, excitedly pointing to the Snodgrass Information Processor. “Listen to this. It says that as recently as six months ago, there was an article in a German newspaper about someone remaining underwater for a period of five hours in such a machine.”

  Griffin paced around the table, his thoughts whizzing around in his head. “And if that’s the case, perhaps what we’re dealing with is a submersible machine capable of being under water that much time or more. Maybe, to keep it secret, it was designed to look like a monster. Maybe there’s a criminal mastermind at work!”

  Snodgrass snorted and gave Griffin one of his characteristically skeptical looks. “By ‘mastermind,’ are you are referring to Professor Moriarity in those Holmes stories? Well, I, for one, remain unconvinced that such a person exists.”

  Before Griffin could reply, Snodgrass held up his finger for silence. “However, I do think that your notion of a submersible machine has merit. I believe that in order to discover more about this mystery, I shall have to devise something that will allow us to travel underwater ourselves.”

  His uncle’s brow furrowed, and his expression turned thoughtful. “Yes,” he said in distracted mumble. “There have been rumors of hidden tunnels beneath the Thames. I wonder . . .”

  Griffin decided that he’d asked his uncle enough questions for one evening. It was probably a good time to withdraw from his uncle’s workroom and allow him some time to think.

  Griffin’s mind was filled with exciting questions, both inspired by his uncle’s miraculous inventions and the strange mystery that was starting to unravel. Who was behind the disappearance of Frederick Dent, and why had he been kidnapped? Griffin felt certain that it had something to do with the mysterious client whom Mrs. Dent had mentioned was asking about a clock. But who he was and what he’d really wanted with the clockmaker were still a mystery. After all, it didn’t make any sense that someone would want to kidnap a clockmaker when you could hire one in every neighborhood.