His eyes flew open, and he threw his arms over his face.
26
THE CLOCK TOWER
But then, just as they were about to impact the back end of the other train, they stopped. And Griffin, pale and shaky, practically melted into the engine’s floorboards with relief.
“A little close,” commented Snodgrass. Griffin saw how badly his uncle’s hand shook as he ran his hand through his disheveled hair. Griffin looked back and saw that Frederick Dent, once again, had fainted.
“What time is it?” demanded Griffin. Snodgrass checked his pocket watch.
“Eleven fifteen a.m.”
They didn’t have a single second to waste. At twelve o’clock the bomb was going to explode!
“We’ve got to stop them!” Griffin shouted as he ran down the side of tracks toward the metal lift. Snodgrass paused only to retrieve his electric spear from the cab of the train and then followed.
“We’ll have to come back for Dent,” Snodgrass said bitterly. “It’s his own fault for passing out at a time like this.”
Griffin hated to leave him behind. He was worried that Dent would be kidnapped again if the criminals returned. At the very least they would want to stop Dent from going to Scotland Yard with what he knew. Of course, by then it would be far too late. And since he’d already served his purpose, Griffin could only hope that the clockmaker held no further interest for Moriarty.
Griffin reached the lift first and pulled the lever to bring the platform to their level. He waited impatiently and hopped on as soon as the lift touched the ground, his uncle right behind him. Then he pulled the switch again, and they began to rise up out of the makeshift train station. It moved much more slowly than he’d hoped, and he found himself doing random math equations in his head in an effort to try to calm down.
After what seemed like an eternity, the lift stopped and they were able to open the heavy door. To Griffin’s amazement, they found themselves inside the gigantic clock tower, staring upward at the mammoth gears.
“Time?” asked Griffin.
“Eleven twenty-six,” Snodgrass replied.
Now that they were here, Griffin had absolutely no idea what to do next. He’d gotten them within striking distance, but didn’t know how to stop the villains or their clock bomb. Running a hand down to his hip, he was comforted to find the Stinger still there in its holster. He gazed around the interior of the clock, searching for a way to go farther up. Then he spotted the twisting staircase that was bolted to the side of a nearby wall and instinctively knew that what he was looking for would probably be at the top.
Griffin dashed toward the staircase and began to climb. Snodgrass followed, his electric spear firmly in his grip. Griffin counted as he climbed, and when he reached the top, hitting stair three hundred thirty-two, his legs felt like rubber.
There was a platform with a window at the top, and Griffin wobbled over to it and looked down. Far below, he could see a courtyard decorated for the ceremony that would honor Sherlock Holmes. Hansom cabs were lined up, and one, possibly the royal coach, was headed toward a throne positioned near the stage.
“Uncle,” Griffin gasped. “What time is it?”
Snodgrass, breathing hard, checked his watch. “Eleven forty.”
Griffin looked wildly around and noticed a heavy door off to one side. He rushed over and threw it open. Before him was a huge room filled with gears and a swinging pendulum. Loud ticking, like a heartbeat, filled the chamber. And standing there, surrounded by his henchmen with the gigantic glass clock face behind them, was someone he recognized.
Quickly filing through several photographs in his mind, Griffin searched his memory to find out where he’d seen his face before. But it didn’t take him too long to figure it out. It was the friendly conductor he’d met on the train when he’d first arrived in London. The man wore the same pince-nez glasses and had the same curled moustache.
But he realized that the man he was looking at was not simply a train conductor. He was Moriarty. Griffin knew he had made a terrible mistake when he’d assumed that Moriarty’s sleeves were dirty because of coal.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the nephew of the great detective!” Moriarty exclaimed as he noticed Griffin. “Now you’ve ridden on my trains twice. Tell me, did you prefer the first or the second?”
“It wasn’t coal on your sleeves that day we met, was it? It was gunpowder,” Griffin said softly.
“That is correct. I was posing as a conductor in order to study the tracks and time the arrival of the trains that led to Charring Cross station. Earlier I had been moving the explosives and forgot to change my shirt. Too bad you didn’t figure it out sooner,” said Moriarty.
Griffin noted that any hint of the friendly demeanor he’d seen when he first encountered the man was completely gone.
Moriarty’s lip twisted in a sneer as he said, “How has your visit been with your uncle, Sherlock Holmes?” Then, turning to Snodgrass, he said, “But who is this, then? Surely it can’t be the great detective?”
“Only someone as cruel as you could think up a scheme like this,” said Snodgrass. “And I should have guessed sooner that you were related to the Professor.”
Griffin looked up at his uncle, feeling puzzled. “You mean this isn’t Professor Moriarty?”
“No, Griffin. This is Nigel Moriarty, a person for whom I’ve been searching for many years.”
Then Griffin realized the truth. Nigel Moriarty was the same “Nigel” who had attacked his uncle and his mother when they were children and had tortured Snoops.
A look of disgust flickered across Griffin’s face as he stared back at the man on the platform. Moriarty didn’t notice. He was looking at Snodgrass, recognition dawning on him at last.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my old school chum, ‘Sniveling’ Snodgrass.” Moriarty cackled. His thugs joined in, guffawing loudly.
Moriarty strode closer to where they stood, his silver-topped cane swinging as he walked. “I remember enjoying playing with your dog. What did you call him? Snoops?” He registered the tightening on Snodgrass’s face. “Yes,” he murmured, “that was the name, wasn’t it?”
Then, moving within inches of Snodgrass’s face, he said, “You know, the trouble with basset hounds is that they have very sensitive ears. You might want to try a different breed next time. One that isn’t so weak—”
Snodgrass lashed out with his spear with such speed that Moriarty was nearly caught off guard. However, he managed to dodge the blow at the last second and with a deft motion unsheathed a hidden sword from inside his cane.
Griffin pulled the Stinger from his holster and began firing at the crowd of thugs. While engaged in combat, his eyes darted constantly to the rows of ticking gears, searching. He couldn’t see any explosives, though he assumed they were hidden somewhere inside the giant clock. But that was not what he was looking for.
Somewhere inside the clock there had to be a switch that, when the clock struck twelve, would trigger the explosives. As he fought, shooting indiscriminately at the approaching thugs, he searched desperately for any sign of the device.
Before he even realized it, Griffin had dispatched three of the henchmen, blasting them with glowing plasma and sending them into a deep sleep. Three remained, and even though they seemed pretty stupid, they had seen what Griffin’s weapon could do and were making it difficult for him to get a clear shot.
The thugs drew long knives and hid behind the gigantic gears, waiting for an opportunity to strike. Meanwhile, Snodgrass and Moriarty were engaged in combat, with the gigantic hands of the clock in silhouette behind them.
The hands were positioned at five minutes to twelve. Snodgrass swung with his spear and Moriarty parried, sending Griffin’s uncle reeling backward. The butt end of his spear crashed through the massive clock face, sending shards of glass hurtling toward the Palace and ceremony below.
The tinkle of that falling glass alerted the ever-watchful Holmes to the situation. Th
e tall detective was sitting on a velvet-lined chair, listening to Her Royal Highness talk about his illustrious career and his service to the Crown. But when the shards of glass hit the earth, his head jerked up, like a bloodhound catching wind of a scent.
It didn’t take more than a moment for him to realize that something was going on behind the giant clock face of Big Ben. The detective’s keen gaze saw the tiny shadows at the top of the tower and, after a quick apology to the Queen and the audience, leapt into action.
It was 11:57. They were almost out of time.
A knife whizzed by the side of Griffin’s head, narrowly missing his ear. He returned fire at the thug who had thrown it, but missed. His eyes flicked desperately around the room, searching . . . searching.
And then he saw it. Set deep between rows of turning gears was a small, black box. It was almost completely obscured by the clockworks, and getting to it looked nearly impossible. How Moriarty had managed to hide it there was beyond Griffin’s powers of imagination.
The giant minute hands clunked forward.
Eleven fifty-eight.
Please, God, show me what to— But before he’d even finished his prayer, the solution presented itself. It was a terribly desperate thing to do, and yet Griffin knew that even if it cost him his life, it was worth saving the lives of others.
He rushed up to where Snodgrass and Moriarty were fighting. The battle seemed to be nearly over. Moriarty towered over his uncle, his sword pointed triumphantly at his chest. Griffin saw that his uncle’s spear was lying nearby, out of reach.
Moriarty glanced at the giant hands of the clock and back down to Snodgrass. Without saying a word, Griffin knew what he was thinking.
They were all doomed.
There wasn’t enough time to escape the blast. But judging by the look on the villain’s face, he was going to kill Snodgrass before being killed himself, if only for the pleasure of seeing him die.
Knives flew past Griffin as he ran toward his uncle. He was so intent upon his plan that he didn’t see one of Moriarty’s henchman coming toward him with his long, glittering blade out and ready. The scarred man’s face was twisted with animal ferocity, and when he threw the blade, it flew with deadly accuracy.
Griffin felt a pinch on his calf. One of the knives must have nicked him. But he ignored it, took aim at Moriarty, and fired.
The Stinger’s blast narrowly missed the villain, but it did knock Moriarty off balance. Hoping that it had bought his uncle an advantage, Griffin knelt, dropped the Stinger, and grabbed his uncle’s electrical spear.
Eleven fifty-nine.
Griffin tried to run back toward the giant gears, but suddenly realized that his leg wasn’t working. Looking down, he saw a crimson pool gathering around his shoe. The last knife hadn’t just nicked him. Numbly, he looked at the knife handle that protruded out of the side of his calf and the vast amount of blood on the floor.
Fighting for every ounce of strength, he limped as close as he could to the rotating gears. There was no sign of Moriarty’s thugs anywhere. Apparently they’d fled the clock tower, anxious to save their own lives.
Griffin could sense that there was no time left, that at any moment the gigantic minute hand would swing into place and the clock would strike twelve. His leg was throbbing as the shock wore off, and he felt dizzy, his vision cloudy from the loss of blood.
He’d only have one chance, a single shot to hit the box.
He thought desperately of David when he faced Goliath. In that story, a young boy had brought down a giant in one shot. And Griffin knew that his hand had been guided by the Lord.
As You helped David, please, help me now . . .
Griffin pulled the trigger on the spear, and as the electricity sparked, he threw the spear toward the box with all of his might.
But he never saw whether or not the spear hit the target. Suddenly he felt a terrible pain and, looking down, saw the point of Moriarty’s sword protruding from the middle of his chest. Then everything went black.
Griffin was already unconscious when Snodgrass shot Moriarty in the back with the Stinger, sending him into a coma-like sleep to wait for police. But after shooting the villain, Snodgrass didn’t watch as Moriarty slumped to the floor. Nor was he aware that as the gigantic hands of the clock swung into place, the clock struck the twelve o’clock hour without an explosion.
Rupert Snodgrass rushed to his nephew’s side and gathered Griffin’s lifeless body into his arms and wept. Nigel Moriarty had already stolen someone he’d cared deeply about once before, and now it had happened again. And it was more painful than he could have ever imagined.
Snodgrass barely felt the consoling hand that touched his shoulder. His eyes were so blurred with tears that he didn’t recognize Sherlock Holmes, who had arrived at the scene of the crime too late for once.
There was no triumph for Rupert Snodgrass. Even if he’d been able to see Holmes, to know that he’d finally beaten the Great Detective in solving a case before he had, he wouldn’t have cared. All that mattered now was his nephew.
And it seemed like Griffin was gone forever.
27
RECOVERY
For many days Griffin was lost somewhere between waking and sleeping. He was dimly aware of throbbing pain in his chest and calf, white-shirted doctors, the smell of iodine, and the whirr of machinery as it pumped up and down around him.
But eventually, he did awake. And when he did, the first person he saw sitting beside his bed was his uncle.
Rupert Snodgrass was asleep, slumped in a chair. His arm was in a sling, and Griffin was surprised that he was dressed differently than when he’d last seen him. He wore a clean suit and had even shaved! And in spite of being groggy, Griffin’s keen gaze also noticed that while shaving he’d missed twelve whiskers, that a bit of shaving cream had dried behind his ear, and that his collar had been put on upside down. But for all of his finery, his uncle looked very tired. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and Griffin noticed new lines on his haggard face.
Griffin turned his gaze around the room and felt disoriented. How much time had passed since he’d been in the clock tower?
His uncle must have heard him stir, because his eyes flicked open. He gazed at Griffin for a moment as if having a hard time believing what he was seeing. Then he exhaled slowly, as if he’d been holding his breath for a long time. He moved to Griffin’s bedside and, smiling, awkwardly patted his shoulder.
“Welcome to the waking world, Griffin.”
“How long have I been asleep?” Griffin asked. He was surprised to hear how weak his voice sounded.
“Five days,” said his uncle. “For a while there, the doctors weren’t sure that you were going to stay with us.”
“Is he awake?” a voice said. Griffin looked up and saw a priest enter the room. The man was small, elderly, and had a friendly face. He took one look at Griffin and clasped his hands together.
“Well, God be praised,” the priest said happily. Then he turned to Snodgrass and said, “Do you see, Rupert? Our prayers have been answered!”
Griffin gave his uncle a surprised look. Snodgrass cleared his throat awkwardly and looked away.
“Well, my boy, it looks as if you’ve had quite an adventure! The entire city owes you and your uncle a great debt,” said the priest.
Suddenly all the images from their crazy train ride and battle at the clock tower rushed back to Griffin. Obviously, since he was still alive, the last-minute shot he’d made with his uncle’s electric spear must have hit its target.
Snodgrass, seeming to read his thoughts, explained, “How you ever conceived of such a stroke of genius as to throw the spear into the bomb’s triggering mechanism I’ll never guess,” he said warmly. “It was magnificent to watch the sparks fly as the box shorted out, and even more to see the expression on Nigel Moriarty’s face as he realized his plan was foiled.”
“Did they take him to prison?” Griffin asked.
“Well, er, there was a
problem,” Snodgrass said grimly. He sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “Moriarty’s ability to elude justice is legendary. The night after he was delivered to his jail cell, there was an escape. The officers believe that one of their own was in on it.”
Griffin winced. It would have made him feel much better to know that such an evil man was behind bars, where he could never hurt anyone again.
“But there is good news. Her Royal Highness was very generous in her praise and reward. She’s had her personal doctors attending you. And I can assure you that you will never again have to eat dried kippers and blood sausage if you don’t want to.”
Griffin smiled. They had succeeded in solving the mystery and saving the Queen, and now his uncle wouldn’t have to worry about being evicted from his flat either! If only Moriarty were behind bars, things would have been perfect.
Griffin tried to turn over and noticed a sudden, shooting pain in his leg. He groaned and clenched his teeth.
“You must be careful, boy,” Snodgrass said. Then his expression grew troubled. “I’m afraid your leg won’t be what it used to be.”
Griffin stared up at his uncle’s anxious face. He felt a surge of panic.
“What do you mean? Will I be able to walk? To run? Will it get better with more time?”
“The doctors say that you will walk again,” said the priest consolingly. “But it will probably be with a limp.” He moved closer to Griffin’s bedside and laid his hand upon Griffin’s wrist.
“I know that is crushing news for a boy your age. But everything happens for a reason. And I know God has a great plan for a brave boy like you. Your uncle has told me of your great faith, son. I would encourage you to remember the story of Jacob as he wrestled with the angel. Do you remember that one?”
Griffin nodded, and the priest smiled gently. “The Book says that Jacob walked with a limp after that great struggle. Although the Scriptures don’t elaborate further, I like to think that for Jacob that limp was a reminder that God had touched him personally. He’d chosen him to do something truly great.”
No Place Like Holmes Page 11