by KB Shaw
The illustration of Sherlock Holmes was signed and dated 1893. That was the only clue Cameron had to go on. He would narrow his search to that year. But what day? What hour? What minute? Rosa had not left any clue behind. How would she have chosen the time? Perhaps, reasoned Cameron, she hadn’t chosen anything more than the year. Then her IHT would use the day, hour, and minute it was activated as its point of reference. It was worth a try!
Cameron checked his multiCom for the exact time Rosa had issued her challenge. He set all the coordinates in his IHT: 221B Baker Street, London, England, March 10, 1893, 10:30 a.m. “Execute.”
The walls of the museum grew dim. Cameron could hear a strange clomping sound. A busy street filled with people, horse-drawn carriages, and double-decker buses appeared where the museum display had just been. The sound was that of horses’ hooves striking the cobblestone street. The road was flanked with three- and four-story stone and brick buildings.
It was a chilly day. The men wore knee-length, wool coats in grays and blacks and browns and the women sported dark, full-length coats or capes of varying lengths. Everyone wore hats of one sort or another. Silk top hats and bowlers were the favorites of the men. Cameron looked down to see himself wearing black trousers and a gray wool coat in a pattern called herringbone. He felt atop his head and discovered a more casual, soft felt cap perched there. No doubt it was black or gray in color too.
A few yards away was a street corner with a gaslight. According to the signs on the light post, this was, in fact, Baker Street. The cross street seemed to have different names depending which way you went. To the right, it was called Paddington Street, to the left, Crawford Street. Cameron surveyed his surroundings as he figured out what to do and where to go.
Across the street, he noticed a man in a dark uniform with a short-caped coat and brass buttons. His head was topped by a hard hat or helmet, identifying him as a police officer. Cameron believed officers of this period were called “bobbies.”
Cameron carefully made his way to the other side of the street, then approached the officer. “Excuse me, sir.”
The bobby turned and looked at Cameron. “Yes, young man?”
“Could you kindly direct me to 221B, please? I need to talk to…”
A distressed look came over the policeman as he interrupted, “Mr. Sherlock Holmes, perchance?”
“Why, yes.”
“Be a good chap and be about your business now, will you?” He turned his back on Cameron.
“But Officer, I really need to see…”
The bobby turned about sharply. “Listen here, young sir, you can’t see no bloody Sherlock Holmes.”
“I’ve come an awful long way.”
“You can’t see no bloody Sherlock Holmes,” the policeman went on, “‘cause there’s no such bloke as Mr. Sherlock bleedin’ Holmes. Never was, never will be, I’ll wager. He’s just made up, he is. He only exists in them stories that Conan Doyle fellow writes in the Strand. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll be about me beat.” With that, he strode briskly across Paddington Street.
No Sherlock Holmes! Cameron scolded himself. Of course Sherlock Holmes wasn’t real and, therefore, neither was John H. Watson, M.D.! How could he be so careless?
The IHT could easily bring the fictional London of Sherlock Holmes to life. But, now that he was here, something deep inside him told Cameron that Rosa was here, in the real London of March 10, 1893. The question now was, if Dr. Watson didn’t exist, who was the doctor Rosa had come to see?
Cameron reexamined how he had come to think that Rosa went to London to see Dr. Watson. He remembered the Masters exhibition at the museum. He recalled locating the spot from which Rosa had issued her challenge and discovering the picture of Sherlock Holmes in the “The Victorians: Masters of Their Time” display. Of course, Sherlock Holmes reminded him of Dr. Watson, and that brought to mind Rosa’s statement about seeing a doctor. So he checked his multiCom to see if he was right.
Cameron moved to a doorway of one of the buildings on Baker Street, turned his back to the passing traffic and cautiously, so a passerby would not see, took out his multiCom. Once again, he requested information on Dr. Watson.
The first bits of information flashed onto the tiny display:
Watson, Dr. John H., Friend and chronicler of
Sherlock Holmes. The two shared rooms at
221B Baker Street, London. It is impossible
to think of Sherlock Holmes without
thinking of Dr. Watson.
Created by a young ophthalmologist, a
doctor who specializes in the care of eyes,
≠≠≠≠ more ≠≠≠≠
Aha! Cameron knew what he had done wrong. He had rushed his decision and jumped to a wrong conclusion. As soon as he read about Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes and found their address, he went no further. That was a mistake! He studied the last two lines on the multiCom’s screen.
Created by a young ophthalmologist, a
doctor who specializes in the care of eyes,
≠≠≠≠ more ≠≠≠≠
Oph-thal-mol-o-gist. Cameron knew it was a type of doctor. With great excitement, he punched the MORE button and eagerly read on:
the fictional Dr. Watson was probably the
only doctor in London who saw fewer
patients than Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle.
In need of money because so few patients
came to his office at 2 Devonshire Place,
Conan Doyle sold the entire copyright to
the first Sherlock Holmes novel for only £25.
Cameron was sure Rosa knew he was sometimes impatient. She had used that knowledge to cleverly mislead him. Rosa would not be easy to catch.
He slid the multiCom into his pocket and set the IHT for a location change to 2 Devonshire Place. In a moment, the doorway in which he was standing transformed into an inside hall. Before him was a door with an engraved brass plaque that read, “Arthur Conan Doyle, M.D.”
Cameron was startled by the sound of a door slamming shut. He turned to see someone hurriedly going out the front entrance. Hopefully, his sudden appearance in the hallway of Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle’s office hadn’t frightened them too much.
He could sense that he was close to Rosa. He took a deep breath, trying to control his excitement. He grasped the ornate brass doorknob, opened the door, and stepped into a wallpapered waiting room that was…
Empty.
No one was waiting to see Dr. Conan Doyle, so Cameron approached the inner office door and knocked.
“Enter,” sounded a voice from within.
Cameron timidly went into the next room. It was a modestly sized office paneled in dark wood. To his left was an examination area with an eye chart on the wall that separated the office from the waiting room. To his right was a wall of bookcases—a small library, really. Seated at a desk in the far corner, near the front window, was a man writing. He had dark, close-cut hair and a full mustache. The man set down his pen and looked up at Cameron with some interest.
“Hello, my name is Cameron…”
“Rush,” interrupted the man. “Cameron Rush. I was expecting you a bit later.”
“I’m Dr. Conan Doyle.” The man rose, extending his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, young man.” Cameron crossed to the doctor and shook his hand.
“The pleasure is most certainly mine, Doctor. I’m a great fan of yours. I particularly liked The Hound of the Baskervilles.”
Arthur Conan Doyle raised an eyebrow and said, “It is quite odd. You’re the second person to mention that title. I’m glad you enjoyed the, uh, book… story?”
“Book,” said Cameron hesitantly, painfully aware he might have violated Socrates’ Rule. Would he be yanked from the game?
“Yes, book. It is an intriguing title, I must admit, but I cannot claim to have written it.”
Cameron scolded himself. He must be much more careful. The Hound of the Baskervilles was perhaps the most famous of
the Sherlock Holmes adventures, but obviously, at this point in time Dr. Conan Doyle had not yet authored it.
“You’re right, doctor. I meant to say The Sign of Four.”
The doctor looked bewildered. Cameron knew instantly he had goofed again. He winced, again expecting to be eliminated from the game.
“Yes, well… Uh, I don’t suppose I need to give you this.” Conan Doyle picked a small scrap of paper from the desk. “Miss Costas said you would arrive later and I was to give you this message, but she must have given it to you herself as you came in.”
It was Cameron’s turn to look bewildered.
“Surely you passed Miss Costas in the hall,” said Conan Doyle. “She only just left.”
Cameron remembered the slam of the front door as he’d arrived at Devonshire Place. “We must have just missed. You said she left a message?”
“Yes. Here it is.” He consulted the scrap of paper. “She told me to say that she would see you at noon on the winter solstice in Marie Curie’s garret.” He started to hand the paper to Cameron but withdrew it. “Before I give you her note, kindly answer one question for me.”
“If I can, doctor.”
“Miss Costas was the other person to mention that book you like so much, what was it? The Baskerhoozit Hound…”
“The Hound of the Baskervilles.”
“Yes, that’s it! Well, you both seemed so sure that I wrote it. When I denied writing such a story, Miss Costas said something under her breath, which I thought was ‘you will’ or something to that effect. The point being that she could tell the future.” He chuckled in a way that said “don’t think I’m crazy.”
“Or, perhaps, she and you are from the future. Tell me, are you from the future, Mr. Rush?”
“As the great Sherlock Holmes himself said,” said Cameron, “‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’”
He reached for the note that Dr. Conan Doyle presented to him. Cameron waited for the simulation to be terminated because of this major breach of the rules, but it didn’t end. He wondered why. Was no one monitoring this simulation?
“I must tell my friend Herbert about this. He would be intrigued by all this talk of time travel and such nonsense.” A thought seemed to pop into the doctor’s head. “Wait a moment, did he put you two up to this?”
“Did who put us up to what?”
“Herbert! Herbert George Wells! Did H. G. put you up to this? He’s always pulling some sort of practical joke, you know.”
So that’s why the program had continued. Cameron played along.
“I assure you that no one has put us up to anything.” Cameron winked at the doctor, who nodded knowingly in response. “I’m sorry to have intruded upon your time. With your permission, I shall take my leave. Good day.”
With that, Cameron left 2 Devonshire Place. As he walked along the streets of London, he studied the note from Rosa. The clues to her location were certain to be found there.
Chapter 32:
Marya Sklodovska
CAMERON FOUND an iron bench in a secluded part of a small park and sat down. He withdrew Rosa’s note from his pocket, then read it carefully.
Dear Hound,
Sorry to have missed you at the good doctor’s, but I had to run. Maybe I’ll see you at noon on the winter solstice, in Marie Curie’s garret.
Fox
This will be easy, thought Cameron. He knew exactly when to find Rosa — this year, at noon, on the winter solstice. Cameron called upon his knowledge of the solar system. He remembered that the winter solstice was the shortest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere. It was the day when the Earth’s South Pole most closely faced the sun. This happened in December of each year. He also knew that there were two solstices each year, the other being the summer solstice, when the North Pole faced the sun in June. This was the longest day of the year and marked the beginning of summer.
He slid his multiCom from his pocket and typed in a request for the date of the winter solstice. Immediately, the screen flashed “December 22.” Since Rosa hadn’t suggested a change in years, Cameron Rush reasoned that he would find his Fox at 12:00 p.m. on December 22, 1893.
Now, all he had to find out was where. This should be easy too, he told himself. Rosa Costas would be in the garret of Marie Curie, the famous scientist who discovered radium. He had learned about Marie and Pierre Curie in the Academy earlier that semester. If he recalled correctly, Madame Curie lived in Paris, France.
Cameron was about to set his IHT to transport him to the correct day and time in Paris when he remembered his hasty decision to see Dr. Watson instead of Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle. He decided he’d better double check the multiCom before he went off searching in the wrong place. He typed in ‘Curie, Marie.’
Curie, Marie, 1867-1934, born Marya Sklodovska in Warsaw, Poland. Married Pierre Curie on July 26, 1895. Young Marya grew up in an oppressed country ruled by Russia. It was a country in which women were not allowed to go to the university. In order to go to school, she had to leave her family and homeland.
≠≠≠≠ more ≠≠≠≠
Cameron tapped the screen.
In 1890 she moved to Paris, where she studied at the Sorbonne, the University of Paris, receiving a degree in physics in 1893 and a degree in mathematics in 1894. In 1903 Marie Curie became the first woman in Europe to be awarded a doctoral degree.
≠≠≠≠ more ≠≠≠≠
Tap.
Later that year she shared the Nobel Prize for Physics with Henri Becquerel and her husband, Pierre, for their work on radioactivity. A year after Marie’s death, her eldest daughter, Irene, also won the Nobel Prize for Physics.
It amazed Cameron how much one person could accomplish in a lifetime. And to think, he was going to meet such a remarkable person as Marie Curie (or at least a remarkable facsimile)! What would the great woman be like? What would he say to this a master of discovery?
He would find out soon enough. In the meantime, he had discovered some important information. Since he was traveling to December 22, 1893, Marie Curie did not exist. That is to say, she wouldn’t get married until 1895, so her name would still be Marya Sklodovska.
Cameron also noted that the multiCom didn’t mention exactly where Marya Sklodovska lived. All he knew was that she went to the University of the Sorbonne. The multiCom displayed a small map of Paris and he could see that the Sorbonne was a group of buildings south of the Seine River in a section of Paris called the Latin Quarter.
He would transport himself to the Sorbonne well before noon on December 22, 1893. Once there, he would find some students and ask them if they knew where to find Marya Sklodovska. Surely, not many people went to the university way back in the 1800s, and all the students probably knew each other. It should be fairly easy to locate the young Marie Curie.
Cameron reset the IHT and said good-bye to London.
• • •
IT WAS bitterly cold when Cameron faded into the new location. He might as well have been outdoors in his own time and place. Wind-driven sleet pelted against his body as he stood on a street corner. Across the thoroughfare was a huge iron gate — the entrance to the Sorbonne. Cameron stole a glance at his IHT. It was 10:00 in the morning. There was little movement on the streets of Paris.
Cameron pulled up the collar of his wool coat (he noted that he was dressed in the same clothes he had worn in London), and stepped into the street. What happened next happened in a flash.
Cameron heard a clatter to his left and reflexively spun about to see what was causing the noise. A carriage, drawn by a team of powerful white horses, burst through the gray veil of sleet. It was racing straight toward him. Cameron stood motionless, like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. Things like this never happened in a simulation.
Cameron’s attention was drawn to the coachman who sat exposed to the inclement weather. He was bundled with a heavy scarf, wrapped to cover his mouth and nose. Muffs
covered his ears and a tall hat was pulled down tight over his head. Dark, penetrating eyes peered through the small slit between hat and scarf. He surely saw Cameron standing in the path of the carriage, but he whipped the horses onward.
Suddenly, Cameron felt a powerful tug at the left side of his coat collar. His foot caught the curb as he was yanked sideways. He twisted awkwardly and fell facedown onto the cold, slush-covered pavement. He turned his head in an effort to catch a glimpse of the carriage. It was gone. Not even the receding sound of hooves and wheels over the cobbled street testified to its existence.
Chapter 33:
The Gentle Giant
A PAIR of large, worn shoes, crowned by tattered pant cuffs stepped into Cameron’s narrow view of the pavement. He felt the firm grasp of helping hands under his arms, assisting him to his feet.
“Monsieur, Êtes-vous blessé?” asked the man who had rushed to Cameron’s assistance. Cameron noticed that his French was heavily accented. His face was creased with concern.
Thanks to the marvels of the IHT, Cameron could hear any language in his own tongue. It was strange that he heard this man in French. “Yes, thank you, I’m all right,” said Cameron as he brushed the slush from his clothes.
The man took Cameron by the elbow, leading him toward the door of a building. It was a small café. “Come inside, catch your breath,” he said in accented English.
They entered the café and the young man gestured to a small table by the window. It was piled with books and papers. There was a carafe of steaming coffee on the table, as well as a small platter of hot bread with a wedge of cheese. “My name is Gustav, Gustav Gundersen,” said the smiling young man as he extended his hand.