No Place Like Holmes (18 page)

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.”

Griffin stared at the kindly priest, trying his best to be brave. The words were encouraging, but it was hard to accept that he would never run again. But he was alive, and he had saved hundreds of lives, including the Queen's. God was good. And if all he had was a limp to show for the incredible danger he'd been through, then he had reason to be thankful.

“Thank you. I'll try to remember that,” Griffin said, smiling at the kind old man.

“Well, I have some other patients to attend to,” said the priest. “Get some rest, young man. You've certainly earned it!”

“Thank you, Father Brown,” said Snodgrass, shaking his hand. The little priest smiled as he left the room.

Looking down, Griffin realized that the priest had left a small Bible next to him on the bed. He flipped to the New Testament and held it comfortingly. After a moment, he glanced at his uncle and gave him a smile.

“So, am I to understand that you were actually praying for my recovery?” Griffin asked. Then, with his eyes twinkling, added, “I'm just curious. To whom were those prayers directed, Uncle? I thought you said something about not believing in gods of any kind.”

Snodgrass looked away and coughed. Griffin heard him mutter, “Coincidence,” under his breath.

They laughed.

28
221B

T
he following week Griffin was allowed to return to his uncle's house. His chest was much better. Luckily, the sword hadn't hit any organs, so that wound had healed quickly. His leg hadn't done as well. It was still tender, but was healing as best it could. As the cab pulled up to 221 Baker Street, Griffin felt a powerful sense of relief. His uncle helped him disembark, and with the use of a small cane, he was able to navigate his way up the now familiar staircase that led to his uncle's flat.

Upon entering the foyer, Griffin was surprised to see Watts standing there. Snodgrass hurried in behind Griffin and said, “I've, er, modified Watts's settings. From now on, he'll answer to your commands just the same as mine. I've instructed him to make you comfortable, so make sure you tell him anything you might need. He's actually quite good at chess, if you feel like playing.”

Griffin smiled up at his uncle. “Thank you.”

Rupert gave him a quick pat on the back and then said in a gruff voice, “Watts, help this boy up to the sofa. He needs rest.”

“Yes, sir,” came the robot's mechanical voice.

With his uncle on one side and the robot on the other, Griffin was helped down the hallway and into the parlor. Griffin gazed around in amazement. The entire area was clean! His uncle's inventions still decorated the walls, but instead of lying haphazardly around the room, they were neatly put away on shelves or in corners.

The sofa was piled high with pillows and an afghan, and Griffin climbed up onto it and made himself comfortable. He couldn't believe the change that had occurred since he'd been gone.

Snodgrass noticed Griffin's amazement and replied, “I had Watts straighten up a bit. You'll need a place to recover, and I thought staying in your bedroom might get to be a bit boring. This way you'll have two comfortable spots.”

When he had first arrived, Griffin had been instructed to never enter his uncle's workroom. And now Snodgrass was giving it up so that he could rest. He was reminded that with God's help, and by extending love and kindness to someone, anything was possible.

Watts disappeared into the kitchen and returned shortly bearing a silver tray in his mechanical arms. Piled high upon it were scones from Tottingham's bakery along with a steaming pot of tea.

The journey from the hospital had taxed Griffin's strength, and the smell of the flaky pastries made his stomach growl loudly. He ate one of the delicious scones and let out a sigh while his uncle went to answer a knock at the door. Things had definitely improved for the better at his uncle's house.

Snodgrass reappeared a few minutes later with a startled look on his face.

“What is it?” Griffin asked, sipping his tea.

His uncle paused before answering. Then, holding up a small, white envelope, he said, “It's a letter from Sherlock Holmes. He . . . he's invited us over for tea.”

Griffin's jaw dropped, and he nearly spilled his tea. “But why?”

“I think it's time I tell you the whole story of what happened in the tower,” Snodgrass said, sitting on the edge of the sofa. “Mr. Holmes showed up right after you were stabbed. He'd been following the case, but didn't figure out what was going on until some of the shattered glass from the clock hit the ground. It was only then he knew what the Moriartys had planned.”

Griffin must have looked as confused as he felt, because his uncle laughed and patted his shoulder.

“Well, he was bound to show up sooner or later. There's hardly anything that goes on in London that escapes his attention. He recognized Nigel Moriarty immediately, of course, and did everything he could to secure that scoundrel for the police. But he was even more helpful with you. He knew just what to do to help your wounds,” Snodgrass said.

Griffin was flattered that the great detective had taken an interest in him. “What happened next?” he asked.

“We carried you back down the stairs and took you to the hospital. After that, I spoke to Scotland Yard about everything that had happened. It wasn't long before they discovered where Moriarty had hidden all of the explosives.”

“I was wondering about that,” said Griffin. “Where were they?”

“It was ingenious,” said Snodgrass. “They were in plain sight. Moriarty had painted them to look like they were part of the decor inside the clock tower.”

Griffin thought about the incredibly detailed seagull camera and the beautiful steam engine. He hated to admit it, but Nigel Moriarty was a very accomplished artist! Only someone that talented could have hidden something so deadly in plain sight. Griffin thought that it was a shame that Moriarty used that God-given talent for evil instead of good.

Snodgrass continued, “Holmes and the police were flabbergasted when I explained everything to them. They were especially amazed by those special trains. I believe that since their discovery, they've been declared the official property of the British government. Hopefully they can take the design and use it to improve the railway system.”

They were silent for a moment. Griffin thought about all the incredible things that had happened during their adventure and was amazed that he'd come out of it all alive. He'd never felt so proud of himself before. This hadn't been a test in school or a spelling bee; Griffin had actually made a difference in the world. Not only that, but they had somehow solved the crime without the help of London's greatest detective, Sherlock Holmes!

Griffin wondered how his uncle felt about Holmes now that he had finally bested the great detective. He was excited by the prospect of actually meeting their neighbor; however, he wanted to be sensitive to his uncle's feelings and said, “I suppose we could refuse Sherlock Holmes's invitation for tea. That is, I'm sure we have a lot of work to do with the police, filling out paperwork and telling them all about the case. I'm sure Mr. Holmes would understand.”

But Snodgrass surprised him. His uncle folded the letter and with a resolute expression said, “No, it would be rude not to attend. I think we should clean up a bit and then go next door and see what Sherlock Holmes has to say. After all, it wouldn't be neighborly to refuse.”

Things had certainly changed in the past few weeks!

Watts helped Griffin dress and comb his hair. He was still having a hard time getting used to his uncooperative leg, and it would take a little time before he regained total self-reliance.

A few minutes later Griffin and his uncle were standing at the entrance to 221B. Snodgrass was dressed in a brand-new tweed jacket and was wearing, of all things, a very loud and obnoxious tie.

He noticed Griffin's stare and mentioned that it was very expensive and fashionable. Griffin suppressed a snicker just as the door swung open and Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock Holmes's landlady, appeared in the doorway.

“Do come in, gentlemen,” she said, and then added to his uncle, “I received the check for the rent yesterday. I'm looking forward to it becoming a regular habit.”

“That is my intention, Mrs. Hudson,” Griffin's uncle said. “I feel certain that I won't have to impose upon your generous nature in the future.”

Griffin noticed that she had a kindly face, but could tell by her manner that she had a no-nonsense side. From what he'd read in the stories, she wasn't even afraid of Sherlock Holmes.

Griffin followed his uncle. They were shown into the famous detective's sitting room. Griffin tried to suppress his excitement as he saw Sherlock Holmes for the first time. The great detective was sitting in a wing-backed chair, clad in a blue robe and smoking a pipe. On the sofa opposite was the esteemed Dr. Watson with his sandy hair and bushy mustache. Watson smiled at Griffin as he entered and, noticing his limp, helped escort him to a nearby chair.

“Gentlemen,” said Holmes, “I'm happy that you decided to accept my offer.”

Griffin noticed that Sherlock Holmes had a quick, clipped method of speaking. It was almost as if the words themselves were chosen because they were precise rather than poetic. He gave Griffin a vague, appraising look.

“You seem to be healing nicely, young man,” Holmes said. “And if you continue eating Mrs. Tottingham's excellent scones, I'm sure you'll put some much-needed meat on your bones.”

Griffin wasn't startled in the least by Holmes's observation. Looking down, he noticed the three tiny crumbs on his collar and grinned.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “I shall endeavor to eat more carefully next time.”

To Griffin's surprise, Holmes chuckled. Turning to Watson, he said, “I see we have an observant boy here, Watson. It's a rare occurrence when my initial deductions don't surprise a newcomer.”

He nodded to Griffin approvingly, and the boy felt a surge of pleasure.
A compliment from Sherlock Holmes!
What would his parents say to that?

But while Griffin was feeling at ease in the presence of the famous detective, his uncle was obviously not. Snodgrass sat politely, but Griffin could see a slight scowl on his uncle's face. He knew that it was hard for him to be there and that he was doing it purely to be polite.

Somehow Griffin felt certain that Holmes was aware of this, but he didn't say anything. Mrs. Hudson brought out a tray with a pot of tea, and Griffin was surprised to see that it was laden with some of the same pastries he had enjoyed from Mrs. Tottingham's earlier that day.

Evidently he and Sherlock Holmes shared similar tastes!

After they'd each been given a cup of tea and something to munch on, Sherlock Holmes stood from his chair and leaned against the mantel by the fire. He puffed on his pipe for a couple of seconds and then, turning to Griffin's uncle, said, “I'm afraid I owe you an apology, Mr. Snodgrass.”

Griffin saw his uncle's eyes widen with surprise.

“I'm afraid I don't understand,” he said haltingly.

Holmes paused for a moment and then said in a voice much different than his normal, clipped tone, “You must have thought me quite heartless, to have never helped you when you came to me all those years ago about your missing dog.”

Snodgrass's eyes narrowed. Griffin could tell that he hadn't expected this.

“The fact is, as Dr. Watson can attest, there aren't many cases that I've been unable to solve. And it was pride that kept me from admitting that yours was one of those cases. Pride, and an unwillingness to tell a small boy that the greatest detective in London couldn't find his best friend.”