17
JACKSON REPORTS
Deep beneath the River Thames there was indeed a network of tunnels. The most famous one was built by a man named Marc Brunel in 1843 and ran from Rotherhithe to Wapping. However, there were other secret passages that ran like rabbit warrens beneath the city. The type of people who used these tunnels were mostly disreputable folk who had secrets to hide or stolen goods to smuggle.
But besides the tunnels, there was something even darker and more secret below the river. Underground compounds flourished and had been occupied by some of the most fearsome criminal lords in England over the course of history. The most famous of these masterminds was Professor James Moriarty. Like that of a great spider, his web of criminal activity was woven throughout all of London and extended to remote parts of Europe and even as far as America.
But the Professor needed help—trusted assistants who could carry out his plans. And none was more trusted than his cousin Nigel. Nigel Moriarity sat, hands folded across his lap, staring at a blazing fire. His headquarters, an opulent underground bunker, was richly decorated.
Deep walnut paneling with gold filigree, rich leather couches, and expensive oil paintings were tastefully positioned around his gigantic office. If his cousin were the Napoleon of Crime, then Nigel was his La Salle. He was the commander of the Underworld, the king of thieves, and as he sat, pondering the great task to which he had been trusted, he smiled.
Staring into the flames, he saw the future of London. It burned as the logs burned; the embers were the screams of thousands that floated upon the night air.
Once the bomb is in place, my cousin’s greatest strategic move will be accomplished. And then, finally, we’ll checkmate our most troublesome enemy.
Nigel’s thoughts were interrupted by a light knock at his door. A man dressed all in black opened the door and slipped into the room. It was the same shadow that had been following Griffin Sharpe a few hours earlier.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” the hulking man said.
“Not at all, Jackson. What have you discovered?” Nigel asked.
The man removed his large-brimmed hat and held it nervously in his hands. His face was a mess of scars, pitted and lined from countless fights.
“The boy, sir. The one from America.”
“Go on.”
“He’s a clever one, he is. He and that Snodgrass bloke are onto us. They plan on diving into the Thames tomorrow to see if they can locate Dent.”
Nigel Moriarity didn’t say anything for a long moment. So long, in fact, that Jackson began to get nervous and wondered if he should leave. Like a dog that knew its master well, Jackson was smart enough to know that bad news was often accompanied by terrible outbursts.
But this time there were no tantrums. Instead, Nigel turned and gave Jackson a cold smile.
“Then we shall be ready to greet them when they arrive. Notify the frogmen.”
18
PREPARATIONS
Griffin and his uncle were up well before dawn. Neither one had been able to sleep soundly. They were too nervous and excited. But they wouldn’t be able to see anything in the river until daylight, so they were stuck with a couple of hours of anxious waiting.
Thankfully, Snodgrass had sent Watts out for groceries the night before, and he and Griffin were able to enjoy a decent cup of early morning tea.
God bless Mrs. Dent, Griffin thought as he sipped the hot liquid and munched on the last of the leftover scones from Mrs. Dent’s basket. His eyes were puffy from lack of sleep, and he felt nervous and jumpy. The tea helped calm him a little, and he was grateful for it. If it weren’t for the money Mrs. Dent had provided when they’d taken the case, he’d probably be sipping the horrible, watery stuff that his uncle had been drinking for weeks. And he didn’t even want to think about what he might be eating.
Snodgrass looked up from the newspaper he was reading. He was dressed in his usual attire, an old tweed jacket and trousers. Griffin noticed that today he wore an unusual tiepin that looked like it had tiny metal gears welded to it.
Snodgrass noticed Griffin’s glance and, pointing to it, mentioned, “It was given to me by the Edinburgh Engineering Guild. I used to be a charter member before I, er, embarked on other pursuits.”
Griffin realized that there was much about his uncle he didn’t know. He wondered about his uncle’s past—like why he’d decided to become an investigator and how he’d learned to make such incredible inventions. But he wasn’t sure that it was proper to ask such personal questions. I wonder what happened between him and my mother? And why did he say that they weren’t close?
His musings were interrupted by the sound of Watts clanking into the kitchen with a pot of freshly boiled tea. Griffin held out his cup and watched as the butler expertly poured him a steaming cup. He still couldn’t get over how amazing the machine was.
“Thank you,” Griffin said. Watts’s blue eyes glowed in response, and he nodded politely.
“Oh, Watts, please bring us the pastries you bought at Tottingham’s yesterday,” Snodgrass said. “There’s a good fellow.”
The robot dutifully set down the teapot he was carrying and disappeared into the pantry. At the sound of the word pastry, Griffin glanced up from his teacup, giving his uncle a surprised look.
He felt sure his uncle saw his expression, but Snodgrass pretended not to notice and continued to sip his tea and scan the headlines of the morning paper. Watts returned shortly, carrying a tray filled with some of the delicious-looking pastries Griffin had seen in Tottingham’s shop when he’d first arrived.
The mechanical butler set the pastries down on the table, and Griffin couldn’t help smiling. Piled high on the tray were little pies filled with raspberry jam, buttered scones with plump raisins, and flaky, moon-shaped pastries his uncle informed him were called croissants.
Griffin couldn’t decide which to try first. His uncle reached from behind the paper, took one of the scones, and with his face hidden behind the paper said casually, “If you’d rather have blood sausage, I’m sure Watts could manage it.”
Griffin chuckled. No chance of that!
He was beginning to understand his uncle. Like a cactus, Rupert Snodgrass was prickly on the outside, but hidden beneath the spines was a soft interior. Griffin knew that his uncle had specifically ordered this breakfast as a way of showing him that he cared.
And the gesture was not lost on Griffin.
“Thank you, Uncle,” Griffin said. Snodgrass replied with a friendly grunt from behind his newspaper.
They both ate in silence for a few minutes. In spite of the wonderful breakfast, Griffin was beginning to feel more and more anxious about continuing the investigation. Who knew how many lives were at stake, or when the villains would strike? It was terrible having to wait, but it also felt terrible to face unknown danger. Griffin just wanted to get started so that he wouldn’t have to keep thinking about it.
He glanced outside and saw that it wouldn’t be too much longer before dawn. There was no clock in the kitchen, but he guessed by the color of the sky that it was probably around five o’clock in the morning. He thought about the shadowy figure that had chased him at the Limehouse Docks and wondered what other dangers might be in store. It was obvious to him that whoever the criminals were, they had to be capable of extreme violence.
“Uncle?”
“Yes?”
Griffin nibbled on his pastry a bit before continuing. Then he asked in a worried voice, “What if we should have to defend ourselves? I . . . I’m afraid that I’m not very good at fighting.”
Snodgrass took a long sip of tea. Then, after lowering his paper, said, “Not to worry, lad, I’ve already taken precautions.”
Griffin fidgeted in his chair. All of the fights he’d ever been in had ended with him on the ground, nursing a black eye.
Snodgrass continued, “Being a detective is not for the fainthearted. When you stir up a hornet’s nest, you’re bound to get a few stings. However,
I have something in mind for you that might help you feel more confident should we have to fight.”
He led Griffin back to the workroom. Griffin noticed that positioned next to the two finished diving helmets was a plain-looking, wooden box. Snodgrass handed it to his nephew. Griffin opened the lid and saw that resting on a silken pillow was one of the futuristic-looking weapons he’d seen hanging on his uncle’s wall. The small, ornate pistol had a glass vial protruding from the top of its barrel. And inside the vial bubbled a glowing, green, viscous fluid.
“The Snodgrass Stinger is not a toy,” Griffin’s uncle said. Snodgrass pointed at the glass tube. “Inside that vial is a nonlethal chemical that will render an attacker inert for a period of twenty-four hours. Simply point the weapon at your adversary and pull the trigger; you don’t have to do anything else.”
Griffin lifted the weapon carefully from the box. It felt heavy in his palm, but fit his hand nicely. Looking at it more closely, he noticed the carefully crafted walnut handle and the etched filigree that decorated the gun’s barrel. He was glad that it wasn’t supposed to kill anybody.
“Thank you, Uncle,” Griffin said. “And please don’t think me ungrateful, but I certainly hope I won’t have to use it.”
Snodgrass nodded approvingly and said, “And that’s the proper way to approach the use of any weapon. It should only be used as a last resort.”
He spent another ten minutes carefully instructing Griffin in the proper way to fire and carry the unusual weapon, and, by the time they were done, Griffin felt reasonably confident that he could defend himself if he had to.
As the sun finally rose, throwing long shadows down the London streets, Griffin found himself wearing a waterproof diving suit over his clothes and heading back to the River Thames. He suddenly wished that he hadn’t eaten so many pastries at breakfast. His stomach flip-flopped awkwardly as they walked outside the Angler’s Club, and Griffin caught the now familiar aroma of spoiled mackerel.
Whatever happens, Griffin thought, after this case is done, I never want to see or smell another fish as long as I live.
19
WHAT LIES BENEATH
The plunge into the icy water of the Thames nearly took Griffin’s breath away. The waterproof suit that Snodgrass had fashioned the night before wasn’t as effective as he’d promised. Within moments of diving into the river, ice water seeped through the fabric, and Griffin was soaked and freezing.
He gasped, and was thankful that when he did, he was able to draw breath. Fortunately for Griffin, his underwater helmet worked perfectly, pumping fresh air in and allowing him to breathe underwater. Doing his best to ignore the cold water, Griffin gazed through the murky depths around him. He marveled at being able to breathe as naturally as if he were on land. His father had taught him to swim at a young age, but the Atlantic Ocean was even colder than the Thames, so Griffin hadn’t spent a great deal of time practicing his strokes.
Through the murky water, Griffin could see his uncle swimming toward him. As he drew closer, Snodgrass waved his hand and, pointing downward, motioned for them to go deeper. As they swam toward the bottom of the river, Griffin noticed that his uncle carried a long spear with an unusual tip on it, something that Snodgrass said was electrically charged and would provide them with additional protection. It had a specially designed, insulated handle that protected the bearer while underwater.
Unconsciously, Griffin’s hand strayed to his side, ensuring that he had the Stinger securely strapped to his waist. He hoped that the waterproof holster he wore would keep the weapon from getting too waterlogged to work.
They swam downward, looking for clues. As they descended, Griffin could feel the water pressure mounting all around him, but it didn’t bother him too much. What did disarm him was the eerie silence, broken only by the tiny hiss of the steam-driven pump that forced fresh air into his helmet.
When they drew near to the bottom of the river, the murkiness vanished and Griffin was able to see clearly through the helmet’s window. However, being at such depths and relying on a hastily constructed piece of machinery to keep him safe made Griffin feel very nervous. He couldn’t help counting everything he saw. Three boulders, one old piece of pottery, two fishing lures, thirteen mussels . . .
He tried not to think about the long, delicate hose that was connected to his helmet, providing his only source of air from the surface. He forced himself not to worry about what would happen if the pump failed or a bird landed on the other end of his breathing tube.
He focused on numbers and tried to calm himself down. One old cannon, three rusty rivets . . . five men in diving suits . . .
WHAT?
He looked again. Sure enough, in the distance, he saw five figures approaching, swimming toward them and wearing suits of a similar design as his. Griffin stared, unable to believe what he was seeing, but quickly realized that these men were not out diving for recreation; they were obviously coming for them! His perceptive gaze instantly measured the size and strength of each enemy; the strange-looking, crossbow-styled weapons they carried; and who was leading the charge.
Griffin and his uncle were woefully outmatched. He fumbled at his waist for his pistol, ready to try using it in spite of being underwater. But because it had been strapped in tightly and his hands were so cold from the freezing water, Griffin couldn’t unfasten the buttons that held it shut with his numb fingers.
As the enemy divers approached, Snodgrass swung out with the long spear. The nearest diver was caught off guard as a bright flash shot from its tip, sending a cascade of electricity into his body. Seeing his comrade so easily dispatched, the leader, a ferocious brute, motioned for his other divers to surround Snodgrass and stay clear of his weapon.
Griffin didn’t know what to do. He wanted to help his uncle, but without the aid of his weapon, he felt completely helpless. He looked around, trying to find anything he could use to defend himself. Then he spotted a large rock on the river bottom. He dove down and scooped it up in his arms. The rock was big and slowed him down as he swam, but he was too panicked to notice. All he could think of was trying to rescue his uncle before the divers shot him with their underwater crossbows.
As he rushed forward, he couldn’t help counting the bolts on the divers’ helmets, the barbs on their arrows, and the unusual patterns painted on the sides of their black suits. He raised the rock, intending to smash the large brass tank that clung to the nearest diver’s back. But just as he was about to bring the rock down, the diver turned, pointing his deadly arrow at Griffin’s chest.
Griffin had no choice but to drop the stone. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it plunge down to the river bottom, and it seemed that as it went down, his hope went with it. He raised his hands above his head in surrender with only one thing on his mind, a single phrase that kept repeating itself over and over again. If I’m about to die, then, Lord, please let it be quick!
20
THE SECRET LAIR
They were escorted to a crumbling canal entrance deep under the water. As they entered the tunnel, Griffin felt the air in his breathing tube shut off. Because the line could no longer reach the surface, there was no way for him to get any oxygen!
He tried not to panic, knowing that if he did, he would lose even more air. Instead, he focused on the growing light in front of them and swam toward it with long, purposeful strokes. They emerged in a large pool in an underground cavern. Snodgrass hastily undid the clamps that secured Griffin’s helmet to his suit and then quickly undid his own. The two gasped for breath, taking in deep gulps of fresh air as quickly as they were able.
They’d hardly recovered before they felt rough hands shove them in the back. They were pushed out of the shallows onto a rough-hewn path. Griffin saw that the divers had Snodgrass’s weapon and, looking down, saw that they’d removed his pistol while he’d been trying to catch his breath.
“Now move!” the leader said, his voice muffled inside his helmet.
Griffin and his
uncle were marched down the pathway, with weapons pointed at their backs. As they walked deeper into the cave, Griffin stole glances at the rocky walls, wondering how long the secret cave had existed. It seemed like they were miles below the earth, but he knew that it couldn’t be so.
After several minutes of trudging along, Griffin saw an area to his left open up into an immense cavern. He gasped when he saw what was inside.
Floating in the middle of a giant, underground lake was the monster that had started the whole mystery. The thing was surrounded on all sides by gigantic urns filled with some kind of flaming substance that cast eerie, green light around the cavern and made it look even more frightening. He could easily see how it had inspired such terror in the fisherman, James Dunn. It was a mechanical marvel, a gigantic submarine that if taken at a glance would certainly have resembled drawings of the famous Loch Ness Monster.
Rising high above the submarine’s rounded back was a long crane fitted with huge iron jaws. They were easily as large as a man, and Griffin felt sure that they had snatched Frederick Dent from where he stood on the beach and had made James Dunn think he was witnessing a monster eating its prey.
Workers surrounded it on all sides and were polishing its black, anodized metal sides. Others were positioned on its decks, welding new fittings in place. The bright sparks from the torches produced a frightening effect, causing a giant shadow on the cavern wall to look very much like a sea monster.
Well, that’s one deduction I got right, at least, Griffin thought. He glanced over at his uncle, and Snodgrass nodded at Griffin, acknowledging his discovery, and Griffin, in spite of the scary circumstances that they were in, managed a tiny smile.
They turned down another corridor, and this one opened into a long hallway. Lining every side of the tunnel were huge crates, and Griffin, spotting the Chinese characters painted on the sides, knew them to be the explosives stolen from the Limehouse Docks.
No Place Like Holmes Page 8