No Place Like Holmes (12 page)
D
eep 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 helpâtrusted 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.”
G
riffin 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 pastâlike 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 hap
pened 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
.
T
he 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.