The Calling

by Philip Caveney

  ‘Who are they?’ whispered Ed.

  ‘Just a couple of Gormleys,’ said David, mysteriously. ‘They usually stand in the Waters of Leith.’

  ‘Yes, but who are they meant to be?’

  ‘That’s an interesting question. The sculptor based them all on casts of his own body. He apparently is a brilliant fellow, but because he’s still alive and because he’s diluted his intelligence into so many different figures… there are six of them in Edinburgh and goodness knows how many across the country… well, I’m afraid they’ve each inherited only a tiny part of his genius.’

  ‘Which means,’ added the Colonel, ‘that they’re pleasant enough, if a little dim. They’re good at doing what they’re told, which means they are given all the menial tasks at the Calling. Charlie loves them because they follow his orders without asking questions.’

  ‘They should put some clothes on,’ murmured Ed.

  ‘Indeed,’ said the Colonel. ‘It’s very unsettling. But that’s modern art for you. An excuse to shock all who look upon it.’

  The Gormleys propped the plank against the side of the plinth, creating a steep gangway. The king dismounted from his horse and came down the plank, moving carefully. Ed noticed how the thick wood sagged in the middle under his weight. When Charlie was on firm ground, the horse followed and for a few moments the plank looked in real danger of snapping in two. ‘Why doesn’t he just get the horse to jump down?’ asked Ed.

  ‘You must be joking,’ said the Colonel. ‘Charlie and his horse are made of lead. If he tried that, they’d smash clean through the flagstones.’

  Once the horse was safely down, Charlie handed the reins to one of the Gormleys and then strode closer to Ed and his companions. Ed could understand why the king felt so touchy about his appearance. He had a kind of leafy decoration perched on his head. He wore a short, girlish toga, what looked like a pair of leggings that ended at his shins and some flat sandals on his otherwise bare feet. He did look a bit of a twit, to be honest. Close up, Ed could see that he had a rather beaky nose and a round, glum face. He extended a hand and Ed shook it heartily, then realised by the Colonel’s sharp intake of breath, that he’d done something wrong again.

  ‘You’re supposed to kiss it!’ hissed the Colonel.

  ‘Oh, er… sorry. Didn’t realise.’ Ed lifted the hand to his face and kissed the back of it. It had an unpleasant taste, which he supposed must be the lead. He made an effort not to grimace. ‘Thanks, Charl… Your Majesty,’ he stammered. ‘For saving my life.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ said Charlie, his expression aloof. ‘If just one of those idiots had volunteered, this would have ended differently and been far less trouble for me.’ He looked at David. ‘You’re a slippery fellow, Dr Livingstone. Some might say too clever for your own good.’

  David bowed his head. ‘Your Majesty, ‘ he said. ‘I was only trying to help.’

  Charles sneered. ‘I know exactly what you were doing,’ he snapped. ‘Your insolence has been noted.’ He transferred his gaze to the Colonel. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what do you propose to do with the boy?’

  ‘Your Majesty?’

  ‘Well, we can hardly let him wander about willy nilly, can we, getting under everyone’s feet? We need to find out about him and once we know who he is, send him back to wherever he came from.’

  ‘But I don’t know how we’d do that,’ said David. ‘I mean, we’re not detectives, are we?’

  ‘I have enough to organise today without worrying about this,’ said Charlie. He thought for a moment, tapping a sandaled foot on the flagstones and then he suddenly seemed to brighten up. ‘Ah, Dr Livingstone, I declare that you have just given me a splendid idea.’

  ‘I have?’

  ‘Yes.’ Charlie turned back to look up at the Colonel. ‘A detective! Why don’t you take him to our friend in Picardy Place?’ he suggested. ‘He’s always claiming to have a talent at finding the answers to riddles.’

  The Colonel frowned. ‘Do you really think he can help?’ he asked. ‘There are many who say he’s all talk and no substance.’

  Charlie smiled. ‘Well, this will be his opportunity to prove them wrong, won’t it?’ he said. ‘Since he always refuses to join in the Agon or any of the other events we organise, it will be a test of his abilities.’

  David seemed to be about to say something else, but the king held up a hand to silence him. ‘That’s it, I have made my decision,’ he said. ‘Colonel Alexander, you will see to this matter before you attend to anything else. And you shall impress upon our mutual friend that he has less than twenty-four hours to find a suitable solution. If he fails, I shall be far from impressed. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have more important matters to attend to.’ With that, he turned away and strode towards the huge building beyond the plinth. The Gormleys fell into step behind him, one of them leading the king’s horse by its reins. They all went in between the massive stone columns, out of sight.

  The Colonel sighed. ‘Well, that’s that, I suppose,’ he said. ‘The king has spoken and we lesser beings can only obey.’ He turned to look at David. ‘I’ll head on up to Picardy Place,’ he said. ‘I dare say I’ll catch up with you later.’

  David nodded. ‘Yes, at the Agon, if not before.’ He smiled up at Ed. ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for, lad. Good luck.’ He reached out a hand to shake.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Ed. ‘I’d say you just got me out of real trouble there.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ David turned and strolled away across the square. ‘I’m off to Our Dynamic Earth,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘I want to see what country they’re focusing on this time. It’s always entertaining but I’m still hoping that one year it’ll be Africa.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said the Colonel. ‘See you later!’ He wheeled Sultan around and headed back to the road. Once there, he urged the horse into a brisk trot, then a canter and finally, a gallop. Ed clung on tightly to the Colonel’s waist as they went along the road, Sultan’s metal hooves throwing out a fearsome din.

  ‘I don’t understand!’ shouted Ed. ‘Who is this person we’re going to see?’

  But the Colonel either couldn’t hear him over the noise of Sultan’s hooves or wasn’t prepared to give an answer. So Ed clung on for dear life, as they raced on through the darkness.

  Eight

  The Bronze Detective

  They finally came to a place where a roundabout led to a small flagstoned square, fenced off behind a row of trees. The Colonel reined in Sultan and trotted in through the entrance, where there was an empty stone plinth.

  ‘Damn the man,’ muttered the Colonel, stating the obvious. ‘He’s not here.’

  As he turned Sultan around, Ed caught a glimpse of a plaque on the side of the plinth and managed to catch the first few words of it. ‘In memory of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,’ it read. The name meant nothing to him, but he supposed this must be the man they were looking for. He was going to ask the Colonel for more information, but he was already spurring Sultan on along the street, looking frantically to left and right as he did so and muttering a series of curses under his breath. Then, just a short distance onwards, he and Ed caught sight of the life-sized statue of a man kneeling in front of a huge, glass-fronted building on the far side of the road. The statue was examining something on the ground and he appeared to be deep in thought. He was wearing an odd-looking peaked hat with side flaps that were buttoned up on the top of his head. He wore a long overcoat and on top of that, a kind of short cloak tied at the neck and hanging to his waist. As soon as Ed laid eyes on him, he had a strong feeling of recognition. He knew this man from somewhere or at least, he recognised the distinctive outfit he was wearing. But the name he’d seen on the plaque didn’t seem to fit.

  The Colonel urged Sultan across the road and as they drew closer he shouted, ‘Hey! Mr Holmes. May I have a word?’

/>   That served to jog something in Ed’s mind. He knew instantly what the man’s first name was. Sherlock. And he also knew what he was famous for. It tied in with something that David had said earlier. Sherlock Holmes was a detective and, Ed thought, a rather famous one.

  Sherlock looked up, his expression quizzical. Now Ed could see that, unlike most of the other statues he’d encountered, this one had a face that was clean-shaven. He held a distinctively shaped pipe in one hand. His intense gaze fell on Ed and his eyebrows raised ever so slightly, but unlike the others, he refrained from passing comment. ‘Colonel Alexander,’ he said, quietly, in a suave English voice. ‘To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’

  The Colonel reined Sultan to a halt. ‘Charlie sent me to find you,’ he said. ‘As you can see, we have a bit of a problem on our hands.’

  Sherlock nodded. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised,’ he said, getting to his feet and slipping the pipe into the pocket of his overcoat. ‘It was bound to happen sooner or later.’ Now he was upright, Ed could see that he was a foot or so taller than life-sized. ‘Who is the boy?’ asked Sherlock.

  ‘That’s just the problem. The lad is suffering from amnesia. Charlie thought you might be just the man to find out who he is.’

  Sherlock gave a thin smile.

  ‘Did he now? My goodness, you mean to say, the king of Edinburgh actually acknowledged my existence?’

  The Colonel sighed. ‘Don’t start,’ he murmured.

  ‘It seems to me that on other occasions, he has been rather critical.’

  ‘That may be so, but…’

  ‘Of course, I do specialise in mysteries,’ added Sherlock. ‘And it is my business to know what other people don’t know.’

  ‘Good. Then here’s your chance to prove your mettle. I’m to leave the boy in your tender care.’ The Colonel grabbed Ed unceremoniously around the waist, lifted him from the saddle and deposited him in front of the bronze detective. ‘I need to be about my own business,’ he said. ‘I have a lot to do before tonight’s Agon. Charlie says you have until then to work out who the boy is and where he’s from.’ He leaned forward in the saddle. ‘He’s under the king’s protection, so nothing untoward is to happen to him. I trust I make myself clear.’

  ‘Crystal, old boy.’ Sherlock studied Ed for a moment, then turned back to the Colonel. ‘And what if I don’t wish to take the case?’ he asked.

  The Colonel grinned. ‘I really don’t think you have much choice. As you know, Charlie’s word is law.’

  Sherlock shrugged. ‘There are some among us who would challenge his right to make such orders,’ he said. ‘Just because he’s been around the longest, doesn’t mean he automatically has the authority. There are some who would say that Victoria has every bit as much of a claim to the throne.’

  The Colonel shook his head. ‘I’m not going to sit here and debate politics with you,’ he said. ‘Let’s just say that you’d be well advised to do as Charlie suggests. He was talking about executing people earlier.’ He looked down at Ed and winked. ‘I’ll see you later,’ he said. ‘Now listen. Don’t you take any nonsense from this fellow.’

  And with that, he wheeled Sultan around and set off along the road at a brisk canter. Sherlock gazed calmly after him until he had gone a hundred yards or so. ‘Military men,’ he muttered. ‘They’re all basically the same. Reminds me so much of dear old Watson.’ Then finally he turned back to look down at Ed. ‘Do you actually talk?’ he asked.

  ‘Course I do,’ said Ed.

  ‘And you really don’t remember anything?’

  ‘Well, not much. There’s the odd thing I know but I don’t know how I know, if you see what I mean?’

  ‘Absolutely. And you have a name?’

  ‘I suppose I must have, but I don’t remember that either. The others have started calling me Ed.’

  Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘Ed?’ he muttered.

  ‘Yeah, for Edinburgh.’

  ‘Doesn’t exactly show an awful lot of imagination,’ said Sherlock. ‘But following their logic, perhaps ‘Manny’ would have been more appropriate.’

  Ed stared at him. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Well, you’re so evidently from Manchester, it would seem a logical choice.’

  Ed stared at him. ‘How do you know that?’ he asked. ‘We’ve only just met!’

  ‘True, but I’ve heard you speak. Those vowel intonations could only have originated in darkest Manchester… though I’m not yet sure of the exact location. It will come to me.’ Sherlock turned away and went back to where he’d been standing when the Colonel had ridden up. He indicated some marks on the ground. ‘I was just examining the spot where my friends the camelopardalis usually dwell.’

  ‘The… what?’

  ‘The giraffes? It’s always been my hope that one of these years they’ll hang around long enough for me to try to converse with them, but every year it’s the same. The clock strikes twelve and off they go.’

  ‘Oh, I saw them! Dreaming Spires? They were galloping along Princes Street like the clappers.’

  ‘Hmm. There’s a real mystery there. Since they race off in such a hurry, how is it they manage to eventually calm themselves and find their way home just in time for the changeover? Is it some kind of in-built homing system that guides them back to their site? That’s something I intend to find out.’

  Ed frowned. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I’m a bit confused…’

  ‘Well, of course you are, my boy. You’re an amnesiac who’s stumbled onto something that no softie… ridiculous name, and I absolutely refuse to use it… that no human should ever be a witness to.’

  ‘Er… yeah, but I kind of know you. I think… are you… are you on the telly?’

  Sherlock sighed. ‘Yes, apparently I am. It’s all anybody ever talks about when they come to look at me, these days. You know what I heard one moron saying to his friend? He doesn’t look anything like Cumberbatch! Which is, of course, the name of the actor who portrays me. Honestly, when you hear remarks like that, you really do despair for the human race.’

  ‘Umm… there’s something I don’t understand.’

  ‘You surprise me. What is it, pray tell?’

  ‘Well, on the thingy you stand on. The stone thing…’

  ‘The plinth?’

  ‘Yeah. It said you were called Sir Arthur something or other.’

  ‘That’s not me, you idiot. That’s the name of my creator.’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘The man who wrote me.’

  ‘Oh, right, you mean for the telly?’

  Sherlock took a deep breath. ‘You’re as bad as the rest of them,’ he snarled. ‘For your information, Ed, Sherlock Holmes was the hero of a series of stories long before they ever invented television. The author, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, was born in Picardy Place. That’s why they put my statue here.’

  Ed struggled to make sense of this. ‘Why… why didn’t they make a statue of him?’ he asked.

  ‘Because I, his creation, became more famous than he ever was,’ said Sherlock. ‘Of course, it’s always been a bone of contention with so many of the other statues.’

  ‘Has it?’

  ‘Oh yes. Ever since they put me here in 1991…’

  ‘Oh, so you’re a blow-in!’

  Sherlock grimaced. ‘I believe that’s the term they use. Yes, because I’m not based on a real person, but a character from fiction, the general perception seems to be that I’m some kind of… imposter. I’ve tried telling them that the transference process is exactly the same, that I possess all the attributes of my famous progenitor, but they remain unconvinced.’

  ‘Your famous what?’

  ‘I have all of Sherlock Holmes’ skills.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, that thing about me being from Manchester was pretty clever. If you’re right.’


  ‘Of course I’m right. I’m always right. All one has to do is eliminate the impossible and what remains, however improbable…’

  ‘Umm. Sorry, can I…?’

  Sherlock rolled his eyes again. ‘What is it?’ he asked impatiently.

  ‘It’s just… I’m really hungry.’

  ‘Hungry?’ Sherlock scowled. ‘When did you last…? Oh, of course, you don’t know, do you?’ He looked around for a moment. ‘Hmm,’ he murmured. ‘We’ll need to find you some food… but where? Where?

  Ah yes, follow me. We’ll find something on Calton Road.’ He started off along the road at a brisk walk and Ed followed him.

  ‘Don’t you ever eat?’ he asked.

  ‘Me? I’m a statue.’

  ‘Yes, but I thought maybe, you know, this one night a year, you might be able to… eat a bag of crisps or something.’

  ‘For goodness sake, boy, I have no digestive system, how would I ever manage to get food inside me?’ He smiled. ‘Mind you, having said that, I have witnessed statues trying to imbibe alcohol at the Agon. Not a pretty sight. It just dribbles down the front of them. I suppose it’s a nostalgic thing. Robbie Burns and Robert Louis Stevenson made a real exhibition of themselves last year. A waste of good malt whisky, if you ask me. But I appreciate it’s different for humans. So of course, we’ll find you some food.’

  Just then, a small metal four-legged creature came scampering across the road towards them, wagging its stumpy tail.

  ‘Oh my giddy aunt,’ muttered Sherlock.

  Ed saw that it was a little dog, some kind of a curly- haired terrier. It was made of black metal but for some reason it had a bright shiny golden nose. It was jumping up excitedly at Sherlock, but he was making a point

  of paying no attention to it. When it got no reaction from the detective it started on Ed, jumping up to place its front paws against his legs, but being made of metal, this was a dangerous thing to do and Ed was nearly knocked off his feet.

  ‘Go home, Bobby!’ snapped Sherlock. ‘Isn’t there a grave you should be lying on?’