The Calling

by Philip Caveney

  ‘Must have been awful,’ murmured Ed.

  ‘Well, luckily, when the next Calling came around, I was able to get free of the wrapping and I managed to get over to the University where I put together a little device which I attached to a skylight in the warehouse. This enabled me to recharge the modem on a daily basis, despite having to remain covered up. So the next two years were somewhat easier. At least I was able to study! When they finally brought me back out into the daylight, I swear I could have cried.’

  ‘So… how does it work exactly?’ asked Ed. ‘The modem. I mean, you’re standing on a plinth all day so…’

  Sherlock smiled proudly. ‘I wasn’t going to let you see this, but I suppose the cat’s out of the bag now, so why don’t I give you a little demonstration? Watch this.’ He pressed something on the pipe and a curved glass screen descended smoothly from the brim of his hat, in front of his eyes. ‘I stole this idea from Google Glass,’ he whispered. ‘The words are projected invisibly onto the screen. Of course, I have to be very careful when I use it. Late at night, obviously, when there are no humans around. I’ve spent many happy hours browsing my way through Wikipedia, just reading up on whatever interests me. Now, what were we talking about earlier? Oh yes, The Peveril of the Peak.’ He tapped his pipe a few times, his bronze fingers moving rhythmically and Ed saw his gaze intensify as he stared at something on the curved screen that only he could see. ‘Ah! It appears that as well as the novel, there’s a hotel in Ashbourne with that name and… yes! As I suspected! A public house in the city of Manchester.’ He tapped the pipe again. ‘Let’s see some images… hmm! It’s a very distinctive building. Victorian, obviously. Completely covered in green tiles.’

  ‘That’s what I saw!’ said Ed excitedly. ‘And the sign’s above the door?’

  ‘Yes, yes, just as you described it. Which also confirms my suspicions about your home.’ Sherlock tapped the pipe and the screen slid silently back into the brim. He dropped the pipe back into his pocket. ‘Now, where was I? Oh, yes…’

  He returned his attention to the cards. ‘I really don’t think these will be much help to us,’ he said. ‘All they tell me is that you play Top Trumps and that you very likely trade cards with other players. It would also suggest that you have a working knowledge of dinosaurs. Let me try something.’ He gazed thoughtfully at Ed. ‘World’s biggest dinosaur?’ he murmured.

  ‘Argentinosaurus,’ said Ed, without thinking. ‘It used to be Apatosaurus, but they just discovered this new one in…’

  ‘…Argentina,’ finished Sherlock. ‘Yes, well I suppose that answers the question fairly neatly.’ He set the cards down and picked up the key.

  ‘A Chubb key,’ he observed. ‘A fairly ordinary thing. I’m guessing that it’s probably the key to the door of your home in Manchester. Now, what’s interesting about it is that it’s not a Yale.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Ed.

  ‘A Chubb lock is of a better quality than a Yale, because it uses a lever tumbler system that can only be operated by a mortice key, like this one. Now, you’ll note that this is a copy…’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  Sherlock held the key out so Ed could see it better. He indicated a couple of initials stamped into the head of it. ‘Some locksmiths, whenever they copy a key, stamp a mark of recognition onto it, in order to identify it as their work. You see, it says J. S, which is likely to be a name, John Smith or whatever. Some locksmiths even go so far as to include a phone number for their premises, but alas, not in this case. That would have made things a whole lot easier. Who knows? It might have been a local establishment, just around the corner from where you actually live.’

  ‘Wow,’ murmured Ed. ‘That would have been handy.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it just? But I have learned that in these matters things do not always go to plan.’ He paused for a moment as though something had just caught his attention. ‘We’ve missed something,’ he said.

  ‘Have we? What’s that?’

  Sherlock pointed a huge index finger at Ed’s chest. ‘There’s a slight bulge,’ he said. ‘It looks to me as though you have something hidden under your clothing.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Have a look. It’s clearly something you always carry, which would explain why you were not aware of it.’

  Ed slid a hand under his t-shirt and realised that the detective was right. After a bit of fishing around, he found that there was something hanging around his neck on a length of twine. He pulled it out and held it up so that Sherlock could see it.

  It was a chunky metal whistle. Sherlock took it from him and blew experimentally down it, producing nothing but a faint hissing sound. Oddly, Bobby lifted his metal ears and began to wag his tail frantically. ‘It would seem you’re a dog owner,’ announced Sherlock.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘The whistle makes a sound that is only audible to the canine and feline ear.’ He indicated Bobby who was still looking intently up at them.

  ‘Then maybe I’m a cat owner,’ suggested Ed.

  Sherlock smiled. ‘Unlikely. Nobody in their right mind would attempt to train a cat! Of course, we know you’re not in your right mind, but we must at least assume that you were before you lost your memory.’ He seemed to concentrate for a moment. ‘The dog whistle was invented by Francis Galton in 1876 for the express purpose of training dogs. Why else would you carry one with you?’

  Ed took the whistle from Sherlock and looked at it with interest, but it meant nothing to him. He tried blowing into it, an act that only stirred Bobby up again.

  ‘That also explains the business of the hairs,’ muttered Sherlock. ‘Which is good, because it was puzzling me.’

  ‘Hairs?’ muttered Ed.

  ‘Yes.’ Sherlock reached into a pocket and pulled out a pair of metal tweezers. He leaned across the table and plucked something from the sleeve of Ed’s coat – a single black hair. He drew back his arm and examined the hair closely. ‘I noticed earlier that you have several of these stuck to your jacket. They’re clearly not yours… and judging by the coarse nature of them, they’re not of human origin, either. It’s hard to say conclusively without the use of a microscope, but I would guess at a longhaired variety of dog, black in colour with… occasional white markings. I’m no great expert on canines but I’d suggest this is a hair from a border collie.’

  Ed was vaguely aware of his jaw dropping open. ‘You can tell all that just by looking at it?’ he cried.

  ‘Simple deduction,’ said Sherlock, with surprising modesty. He dropped the hair on the table, replaced the tweezers and went to hand the whistle back to Ed. He weighed it in his hand for a moment. ‘It’s extremely heavy for its size,’ he muttered. ‘Here, hang it around your neck again, while I look at the other things.’ He picked up the small scrap of paper and unfolded it. There were six digits written on it in biro. 1-6-0-7-0-2.

  ‘What do you suppose that means?’ muttered Ed.

  ‘It’s some kind of code,’ said Sherlock. ‘I would guess at a combination, perhaps for a lock, an alarm or a safe, something of that kind. The digits suggest to me that it could be somebody’s birthday… possibly yours. The sixteenth of July, 2002? Does that ring any bells?’

  Ed shook his head. ‘Nothing rings any bells,’ he muttered.

  ‘Well, I’d judge you to be around thirteen years of age,’ said Sherlock. ‘So a birth year of 2002 seems quite likely to me. Anyway, we’ll set this aside for now. Which leaves us with just one more thing and I have kept what I think could be the most interesting item until last.’ He picked up the bigger square of paper and unfolded it, something that Ed hadn’t even thought to do when he’d first found it. Sherlock studied it for a moment in silence. ‘How very strange,’ he said, at last.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Ed.

  ‘Have a look,’ suggested Sherlock and handed him th
e sheet of paper.

  Ed took it from him and studied it in silence for a moment. It was an A4 handbill, what looked like a homemade affair, printed off from a computer. There was a large picture of a black and white dog and at the bottom of the page in bold black letters was some information.

  MISSING!

  ‘Lucky.’

  If you find him please phone

  Annoyingly, the flyer had been roughly torn along the bottom edge and though it was possible to discern a row of smudges that must once have been the very tops of the eleven digits of a phone number, it was impossible to tell what they actually were.

  ‘Weird,’ said Ed. ‘A dog.’

  ‘Not just any dog,’ said Sherlock, with a triumphant smile. He tapped the photograph with an index finger. ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken, that is a border collie.’

  Eleven

  Lucky

  Ed stared across the table at Sherlock. ‘So… you reckon I’ve got a dog?’

  ‘No,’ Sherlock corrected. ‘I think you had a dog. And I think you lost it.’ He tapped the homemade poster. ‘I’m guessing that you made this poster yourself. You probably printed several copies and stuck them up around your neighbourhood. I believe that’s what people do in these circumstances.’ He studied the poster for a moment. ‘Furthermore, I don’t think you had the dog for very long, before you lost it.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  Sherlock tapped the photograph again. ‘Because “Lucky” can’t be more than a year or so old,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ cried Ed. ‘How can you tell that just by looking?’

  ‘This is my method,’ said Sherlock, calmly. ‘It is founded upon the observation of trifles. I would direct your attention to two things.’ He pointed to the dog’s open mouth and lolling tongue. ‘Look at those teeth,’ he said. ‘They’re not milk teeth but adult ones, which a dog acquires from the age of about three and a half months. But also note that they are bright white with no sign whatsoever of any tartar build up, something that will inevitably occur when a dog is over a year old, no matter how much care the owner provides.’ He moved the tip of his finger higher. ‘Now consider the eyes. See how clear and bright they are? A dog’s eyes tend to appear slightly duller past the age of two or three years. Assuming you had Lucky as a pup, that means you can’t have been his owner for much more than ten months to a year… eighteen months at the very outside.’

  Ed shook his head in admiration. ‘You’re amazing,’ he said and Sherlock allowed himself a brief smile.

  ‘I have my moments,’ he admitted. He studied Ed. ‘You have no recollection of making these posters?’ he asked. ‘There’s no sense of familiarity about them?’

  ‘No. Sorry.’

  Sherlock frowned. ‘The curious incident of the dog in the poster,’ he murmured.

  ‘Beg pardon?’

  ‘Never mind. Just musing aloud.’

  Ed shrugged, and looked down at the bronze dog sitting beside him. ‘Perhaps we should show it to Bobby,’ he suggested. ‘See if he’s got any ideas.’

  Sherlock scowled. ‘We’re not that desperate,’ he said. He waved a hand at the items on the table. ‘We need a fresh perspective on this. I’m afraid Starbucks isn’t suitably conducive to my thought processes. Collect up all these bits and pieces and replace them in your pockets. And help yourself to more of this food also. We don’t want to have to keep stopping so you can feed your face.’

  Ed did as he was told, selecting a couple of sandwiches, some biscuits and another can of lemonade. By the time he was finished, his pockets were bulging with supplies. Sherlock stood up from the table and his chair gave a final creak of relief but Ed noticed that the metal legs now looked permanently bowed. Ed stood up too.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

  ‘Outside,’ said Sherlock, ‘where it’s easier to think.’ He led the way back to the main doors and Ed followed, with Bobby trotting along behind them. Sherlock swung open the glass door and indicated that Ed should step out onto the pavement. The detective paused to reset the alarm and as he stepped out, he began to swing the glass door back, trapping Bobby inside.

  ‘Wait!’ cried Ed. ‘We can’t leave him in here.’

  Sherlock sighed. ‘I suppose not,’ he agreed. ‘It’s tempting, though. Just think of the furore that would cause. Greyfriars Bobby found sitting in a branch of Starbucks! That’s a mystery they’d never solve.’ He swung the door open again and waited while the little dog stepped daintily over the threshold. Then he swung it back, took out his picks and locked it.

  He stood for a moment, as though deep in thought. The dawn was breaking on the horizon, a pale light coming up from behind the tall tenements to their left. Sherlock reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out an old fashioned fob watch. ‘Four sixteen AM,’ he muttered. ‘Time is ticking away. I feel we need

  to try something more radical.’ He seemed to come to a decision. ‘Follow me,’ he said and led the way back along Leith Walk. Ed fell in beside him and Bobby,

  his bronze tail still wagging, trotted happily along in their wake.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Ed.

  ‘Just down the road a short distance,’ said Sherlock. ‘I need to obtain official permission.’

  ‘Permission for what?’ murmured Ed.

  ‘Permission to try something unconventional.’

  ‘You…. don’t have a Dr Watson, do you?’

  ‘No. Not that he ever gave me much help. Only when I was in a tight corner and I needed somebody handy with his fists. No, I’m going to…’ He broke off suddenly as he noticed a figure in the distance coming towards them. ‘Oh, my giddy aunt,’ he muttered. He grabbed Ed’s arm and pulled him towards a nearby shop doorway. Bobby stood there looking at them, puzzled. ‘Heel!’ snapped Sherlock and Bobby went obediently to him. ‘Grab hold of that dog,’ said Sherlock urgently. ‘Make sure he doesn’t bark or do anything to give us away.’

  Ed took hold of Bobby, marvelling at the way his bronze body felt warm and malleable to the touch. He tried at first to pick him up, but quickly realised he was far too heavy for that, so instead he pulled him in close to his feet. ‘Who’s coming?’ he whispered, but Sherlock just pressed himself into the shadow of the doorway and reached out a hand to pull Ed in

  beside him. The expression on the great detective’s face was decidedly grim, Ed thought. They waited.

  Now Ed could hear that whoever was coming along the street was singing heartily to himself in a broad Scottish accent.

  ‘I have brought ye to the ring

  Now dance if ye can!

  I have brought ye to the revel

  Now see if ye can dance!’

  He kept singing the same lines over and over and this was accompanied by a rattling, clanking rhythm, as though somebody was shaking a bag of pots and pans. As the figure moved into sight, gazing straight ahead, Ed could see that the tall statue was fully encased in a suit of armour and was carrying a pointed shield and a huge broadsword. There was just a glimpse of a hawkish, moustachioed face glaring out from a strange piece of chain mail headgear. Ed thought the man was going to stride on past but he was still in plain view when he suddenly stopped singing and came to a halt, still gazing straight ahead.

  ‘Don’t think I didn’t see you,’ he growled, in a low, rumbling voice that sounded decidedly aggressive.

  Ed glanced up at Sherlock in alarm, but the detective’s face remained expressionless. There was a long silence.

  ‘Well? Are ye going to skulk there in your doorway or are you going to step out here and face me like a man?’

  Again, Sherlock gave no reply and made no attempt to move.

  ‘It seems the others I have spoken to were correct in their observations,’ snarled the statue. ‘You really are all talk, aren’t you? Somebody without the courage to back up his con
victions.’ Again, Sherlock made no reply and after a few moments, the stranger gave a derisive snort. ‘Suit yourself. You can’t hide from me forever, Sassenach. One day, you and I will meet face to face and then we’ll see if you can dance.’ And with that the stranger continued walking, his armoured feet clanking on the pavement. After he had gone a short distance he began to sing again, those same lines, repeated over and over.

  ‘I have brought ye to the ring

  Now see if ye can dance…’

  Ed let out a sigh of relief but he noticed that Sherlock made no attempt to move until he was sure the other statue was well gone. Finally, he took his hand off Ed’s shoulder and stepped cautiously out from the doorway. He threw a wary glance up the road before continuing to walk. Ed fell into step beside him again, expecting him to say something by way of explanation, but Sherlock was strolling along, a scowl on his face, as though he was pondering something completely different. In the end, Ed had to prompt him.

  ‘Who was that?’ he asked.

  ‘Hmm?’ Sherlock looked down at him in surprise.

  ‘Who was that who just spoke to us?’

  ‘Oh, him.’ Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. ‘That was just Mad Willy.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That’s what everyone calls him, around Edinburgh. William Wallace is his full name. Goodness knows what he was doing out here, he usually stays up around the castle.’

  The name seemed to ring yet another bell with Ed. He thought that it might be something he’d learned in school.

  ‘Why was he so nasty to you?’