Sam got up off the sofa. ‘You’re going back to Edinburgh?’ he asked. He realised in that moment that he was about to lose somebody who had become a very good friend. ‘Do you really have to go straight away?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Sherlock. ‘If the police find me here, it’ll be beyond all rational explanation.’
‘And how will we explain all this?’ asked Sam, gesturing around the devastated lounge.
Sherlock smiled and looked at Sam’s dad. ‘Here’s the story,’ he said. ‘It’s not the very best, but we don’t have time to invent a decent one. You, sir… I’m sorry, I still don’t know your full name, Mr…?’
‘Watson. Michael Watson.’
Sherlock turned to look at Sam in amazement. ‘Your name is Watson?’ he cried. ‘Sam Watson?’
Sam looked apologetic. ‘Er… yeah. Of course, I didn’t know that before. It only came back to me a few minutes ago. Is it… is it a problem?’
‘Not at all. I think it’s a wonderful coincidence. It’s just a wonder you’re not called John Watson.’
‘John is my middle name,’ said Sam, sheepishly, and Sherlock laughed in sheer disbelief.
‘When you grow up, perhaps you should enter the medical profession,’ he said. ‘Then you can genuinely call yourself Dr Watson!’ He had to make a real effort to get back to his original subject. He turned back to look at Sam’s dad. ‘You, sir, are a martial arts expert.’
‘I am?’ murmured Dad. He sounded dazed, like he’d just woken from a deep sleep.
‘You are indeed. You have practised it since you were a small boy. Whilst being held prisoner here, you somehow managed to get free from your bonds and you overpowered all five of these villains by sheer brute force.’
‘Who’ll believe that?’ murmured Dad.
‘Well, you could try telling the police what actually happened,’ said Sherlock. ‘Though seriously, I wouldn’t recommend it. The danger is people will think you’re unhinged.’
‘I’m beginning to wonder that myself,’ said Dad.
‘Oh, don’t worry. Once you’ve managed to get a little distance from this, it will start to make some kind of sense. Probably.’ Sherlock turned towards the portal and Sam stepped closer, and hung onto his arm.
‘You can’t just leave,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’
‘I’m rather afraid I have to,’ said Sherlock. ‘I’m sorry. It would have been lovely to stay a little longer and see the sights here in your wonderful city,
but… well, I’m afraid my work here is done.’ He reached out a huge gloved hand and shook Sam’s tiny human one in his. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘If you’re ever up in Edinburgh, you know where to find me.’
The sound of a siren snatched his gaze to the window. A police car was pulling up by the gate and the small crowd was shouting and pointing towards the house. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ said Sherlock. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out the metal whistle. He handed it to Sam. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘I have a feeling that this is important to you. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if it normally holds something very precious.’
‘Thanks,’ murmured Sam. ‘I thought that got left at the Hippodrome.’ He took the whistle and hung it back around his neck.
‘I picked it up before we left,’ Sherlock told him. ‘Attention to detail is so important in my line of work.’
‘I wish you could stay,’ Sam added.
‘Me too,’ said Sherlock. ‘And I really didn’t expect to be saying that. I’m usually such a solitary kind of fellow.’ He smiled. ‘Well, good luck, Sam Watson. And remember, both of you. Just stick to the story, no matter how many questions they fire at you. Nothing clears up a case so much as stating it to another person. Now… farewell!’
With that he stepped into the portal. There was a last brief flash of intense light followed by a loud zipping sound. And he was gone, leaving no sign that he had ever been there.
Sam stood in the centre of the room looking at the place where the portal had been. He was astonished to find that his eyes felt itchy and when he lifted a hand to his face he was aware of a single tear coursing its way down his cheek.
‘What just happened?’ asked Dad.
‘It’s a long story,’ Sam warned him, wiping the tear away with the sleeve of his jacket. ‘But I will tell you all about it, the first chance I get. Promise.’
He turned at the sound of a furious rapping on the broken door.
‘I’ll get that,’ he said.
Twenty Two
Epilogue
It was exactly one year later. Sam and his father strolled slowly along Leith Walk. The madness of the Edinburgh Festival had finally subsided as the hours stretched themselves into darkness. Sam kept glancing at his watch. It was eight minutes to midnight and his excitement was steadily mounting. They reached the little square at Picardy Place and there was Sherlock, standing up on his plinth, his pipe gripped in one hand, his eyes fixed straight ahead.
‘I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,’ said Dad.
Sam smiled. He indicated a wooden bench just a short distance from the statue and he and his dad took a seat. They sat there, staring up at the bronze detective. Sam had worked on Dad steadily throughout the year, reminding him, nagging him, telling him that he had to let him do this, it was the only thing he wanted, it would do instead of a birthday or a Christmas present. On August the second, come hell or high water, he had to be in Edinburgh.
‘I don’t know what you think is going to happen,’ insisted Dad.
‘Maybe nothing,’ said Sam. ‘Maybe we’ll just blink and then we’ll go back to the hotel.’
Over the year, Dad had somehow managed to convince himself that he’d been suffering from hallucinations in that moment when Sam had arrived with reinforcements; that what had happened in the cottage must have all been in his head. Because it was insane, when you thought about it. Statues didn’t move. Statues didn’t talk. And they certainly didn’t step through portals and vanish into thin air. Sam had allowed him to think whatever he wanted, but he’d still quietly insisted that he wouldn’t take no for an answer. This year’s holiday would have to be a trip to the Edinburgh Festival.
Sam glanced again at his watch. One minute to midnight. He didn’t know what he’d do if he just blinked and suddenly it was 12.01. He supposed he’d have to live with it, but he also knew that the disappointment would be absolutely crushing. He’d been anticipating this moment all year long. There was unfinished business here and he didn’t want to leave it that way.
The last few seconds ticked by and he held his breath.
‘What happens if…?’ Dad’s question was interrupted by the tolling of an iron bell, somewhere off in the distance. Sam waited for Dad to continue but he didn’t and when Sam looked at him, his saw that his father’s eyes were closed and his chest was rising and falling rhythmically.
‘Dad?’ Sam lifted a hand to shake his father’s shoulder but he didn’t wake. ‘Dad?’ He was sleeping very soundly.
Just then there was a clattering sound from the direction of the road and Sam lifted his head to look. Two tall spindly shapes were racing madly along the road, their metal hooves striking sparks in the gloom. Sam got up from the bench for a better look as they clattered on by, their cable tails lashing.
‘Dreaming Spires,’ he murmured.
‘The zoo,’ said a familiar voice in the air above him and he turned in surprise to look up at Sherlock. The bronze detective was smiling down at him. ‘They go to the zoo. I worked it out. It came to me quite suddenly in February. It was elementary. After all, where else would creatures go when they think they’re giraffes? They can’t make it all the way to Africa, can they?’
Sam grinned delightedly. ‘It worked,’ he said.
‘I’m here.’
‘Of course you are! Mind you, we still don’t rea
lly know why.’ Sherlock slipped the pipe into his pocket and clambered carefully down off his plinth. He had a bit of a stretch and then came closer. ‘You’re no longer suffering from amnesia so we can eliminate the Colonel’s theory. It must have been something that happened to your brain when you got that bump on the noggin. Something permanent, perhaps.’ He towered over Sam, smiling down at him. ‘So, how’s Ed?’ he asked.
‘He’s gone. I’m Sam Watson now.’
‘I appreciate that, but to some of us you’ll always be Ed Fest.’ Sherlock smiled, glanced over to the bench where Dad was still fast asleep. ‘So you managed to talk him into coming here. How has he been?’
‘Oh, he’s been okay. He’s back at work and everything. But he doesn’t really believe it all happened.’
Sherlock chuckled. ‘I can’t say I blame him. And how did everything go after I er… left?’
Sam shrugged. ‘It was complicated. The police didn’t really believe our story, but we stuck to it, like you told us to, even when some of the neighbours said they’d seen…’ He couldn’t help chuckling. ‘… statues going into the house.’
‘As if such a thing could happen!’
‘But it’s like I told them… once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’
Sherlock smiled. ‘You’re learning, my dear Watson… and I suspect you’ve been reading some of Sir Arthur’s stories.’
Sam grinned. ‘Yeah, I’ve read a few of them now. They’re really good.’
‘And what happened to Myles and his unsavoury crew?’
‘They went to jail. Myles was really called Tobias, by the way, and he worked for the same firm as my dad, just like you figured. Turned out he had all these gambling debts and he was trying to buy his way out of trouble.’
Sherlock nodded. ‘I thought it would be something like that,’ he said. ‘It all sounds depressingly typical.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘So, what’s the plan?’ he asked. ‘You’ve managed to be here for another Calling, so…’
‘I’d like to visit everyone,’ said Sam eagerly. ‘All my friends here, I mean. The Colonel, David Livingstone… even Mad Willy.’
‘Well, I’m perfectly happy to act as your guide,’ said Sherlock. ‘And I know James has been dying to ask you a few questions.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Sam. ‘I’m up for that.’ He glanced at his dad’s still form, sitting on the wooden bench. ‘Will he be okay?’ he asked.
‘Of course he will. We’ll have you back here at midnight, I’ll pop back on my plinth, and he’ll wake as soon as the bells chime. He’ll think he’s simply blinked.’ Sherlock thought for a moment. ‘It’s probably best if you pretend that’s all that happened to you too. Act disappointed. You can do that, can’t you?’
Sam nodded. ‘Sure. And…’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I was thinking… this time around, I wouldn’t mind calling at the Agon. I’d like to see what goes on there.’
Sherlock sighed. ‘Well, as it happens, I’m actually planning to attend the ceremony this year.’
Sam was surprised to hear this. ‘You are? But I thought you hated it.’
‘I do, rather, but this year’s a bit different. I’m being given some kind of… medal. For valour.’
‘Wow. How did you get that?’
‘By helping you, of course! Colonel Alexander put in a good word for me. Oh, you know these military types, they love handing out medals! Of course it was too late to organise anything for last year. But I was told by several statues what they had planned for me this time, just before I climbed back on my plinth. Apparently Sir Walter told everyone last year that he was planning to compose a heroic ballad about my adventures in Manchester.’ Sherlock made a face. ‘One has to be polite, but it sounds like an awful prospect.’
‘And what will Charlie have to say about it?’
‘Ah! Charlie can’t say very much at all,’ said Sherlock. ‘You see, when I got back last time, the Colonel was already telling people about the king’s dastardly attempts to have you silenced. It caused some bad feeling. Statues are supposed to stand by their word of honour, especially when they’re royalty. Apparently, at last year’s Agon there was a big scene when David Livingstone stood up and denounced the king in front of everyone! After that, there was a public vote and it was decided that Charles and Victoria should rule together in future, so that neither could embark on any action without the agreement of the other.’
‘Wow. That’s big,’ said Sam.
‘It is indeed.’ Sherlock smiled with evident pleasure. ‘It’s already been implemented. Of course, you will still need to keep an eye out for Charlie. He’ll doubtless blame you for his downfall and he’s not the sort to forget a slight easily. At the same time, he can’t do anything too obvious or he’ll bring even more disapproval down on his head. He’d need to be…’
‘Circumspect?’ suggested Sam and they both laughed.
‘Suffice to say, if Charlie isn’t very careful, Victoria could well be ruling the city alone by next year.’
‘Oh, we should visit her too,’ suggested Sam. ‘She was cool.’
‘Why not? She’s only a little way up the road. Why don’t we begin with her?’ Sherlock started walking and Sam fell into step alongside him. ‘She’ll doubtless be getting ready for her annual visit from Prince Albert, but I’m sure she’ll spare us a few moments.’
‘This time, I’ll have the whole twenty-four hours,’ said Sam, eagerly.
Sherlock nodded. ‘You know, we could think about making this a yearly event,’ he said. ‘Provided of course, you don’t lose the gift of staying awake when the bell chimes.’
‘Do you suppose it might wear off one day?’ asked Sam, worried by the thought. ‘Like, you know, when I’m older.’
‘I think the trick is to never stop believing,’ said Sherlock.
They continued on along the road. They’d only walked a short distance when Sam turned his head at the sound of frantic barking. Coming along the road behind them was a little bronze Skye Terrier with a bright golden nose.
‘Bobby!’ cried Sam.
‘Oh my giddy aunt,’ said Sherlock.
And the three of them walked on together.
More Philip Caveney Titles
by Fledgling Press
The Crow Boy Trilogy
Crow Boy
Seventeen Coffins
One for Sorrow
Read on for the first chapter of Crow Boy
One
Tom stood in the pouring rain with the other kids from his class and waited for the coach. It was April, but felt cold enough for December. His classmates, boys and girls alike, were bundled up in heavy coats and parkas; they’d known what to expect. Tom had only his maroon blazer, which was already wet through.
It was hard not to feel sorry for himself. He hated Edinburgh, he hated his new school and he hated his classmates. And, what was worse, they hated him.
Oh, he could see that under different circumstances, Edinburgh would be a really cool place to visit. But he was here against his will. Only a week ago, he’d been in Manchester, hanging out with his friends, going to the movies, playing computer games, all the usual stuff. Any excuse not to spend too much time at home. He’d known for a long time that something was wrong between his parents; he’d suffered their long, deep silences, the sudden arguments that blew up out of nowhere but he’d chosen to stay out of it, telling himself that they were adults; they were supposed to know what they were doing . . .
And then, one Friday, he strolled out of school, looking forward to the weekend, and his Mum was waiting for him, sitting in the passenger seat of a car he’d never seen before, a sleek black Alfa Romeo. There was this guy at the wheel of the car, a thickset man with a scrubby beard and receding hair. Mum wound down the window and said, ‘Hi, Tom, g
et in.’
So he climbed into the back seat, bewildered, and Mum gestured at the driver and said, ‘This is Hamish,’ like it was supposed to mean something. Then Hamish gunned the engine and they set off.
‘Where we going?’ Tom asked apprehensively.
‘Scotland,’ she said, breezily, like she’d just announced they were nipping down the shops. ‘Edinburgh. We’re going to have a bit of a holiday.’
‘For the weekend, you mean?’
‘Umm . . . maybe a bit longer.’
‘But . . . it’s the middle of term,’ he reminded her.
‘Don’t worry about that. I think you’re entitled to a few days off every now and then.’
But of course, it was more than that. On the long . . . the very long journey North, Mum gradually revealed more and more about what was going on. She and Dad hadn’t been getting on for a long time now. They’d drifted apart. She’d met Hamish through work, three months back. He was a rep, a kind of travelling salesman for a company that made shower fittings. He was based in Edinburgh, a really cool city. She kept saying that last bit as though trying to convince Tom that what they were doing was a good idea. Or maybe she was just trying to convince herself.
Anyway, she went on, she and Hamish were just made for each other; they were on the same wavelength. They had so many interests in common. Hamish liked dancing and Dad would never do anything like that, he’d always been so reserved. Mum and Hamish liked the same music, the same films, the same holiday destinations . . .
The Calling Page 17
