Echoes of Sherlock Holmes

by Laurie R. King

  “And here you are, arriving exactly as the email proposed,” I went on.

  “Penelope Moran? I have no idea about her!” Harrison bellowed. “I hardly even know her! Or her idiot boyfriend.”

  I heard a growl coming from behind the armoire. But for now, I ignored it.

  “That’s enough from you, sir,” Officer Lester interrupted. “Tell it to the judge. And possibly you can also explain arson, extortion, and abduction. But”—Lester gave me a wink—“I doubt it.”

  The cop and his quarry wrestled out the door, Harrison’s protests echoing down the hall. “There’s no abduction! I want a lawyer! I have no idea where that woman is!”

  “I do,” Penelope Moran said, as she stood in the now empty doorway. “That bathroom is really small, Annabelle.”

  With a whoop I cannot describe, Arthur Daley burst from his hiding place. Watson did, too. It was almost farcical, but Arthur’s ardent rush to his beloved’s side instead set a joyous mood.

  “But how did you—?” Daley looked at me, but briefly, for his eyes were only for his Penelope. “Why did you—?”

  “Miss Holmes emailed me,” Ms. Moran explained. “Using the same initial code. Look.” She held up her phone. “Orange, and kangaroo. And then she explained who she was, and how she understood the code, and how Harrison had found out about the copper lode, and then tried to frighten me into selling Stoke Moran, and how you had come to help, Arthur, and how you loved me, and how everything would be okay. Then she told me the plan.”

  The rest of whatever she was saying was lost then, muffled by embraces. Watson and I averted our gaze, giving them privacy. Watson sidled up to me, eyes wide.

  “That’s pretty awesome,” she said. “You could put all that in a code? You used pictograms to explain the whole thing—who you were, and the copper, and Harrison, her name, and the plan—all in little pictures? How long did that take?”

  “No time at all,” I replied. “Once I got past the Orange and the Kangaroo, to prove I understood the code, I simply typed the rest in actual words. And then we talked on the phone. In actual English. Imagine that, my friend.” I smiled; I could see Watson picturing it. “Someone has to be precise, after all.”

  “I see you have been at the new studio,” I said, eyeing Watson as she returned to our office. A week had passed since the arrest of Mr. Anthony Selwyn Harrison. His suspiciously large bank accounts were now under federal scrutiny, Officer Lester confided, as were the geological maps he’d stolen from the local library. His arson of Penelope’s beloved home had been a scheme to convince the terrified woman to leave, and sell him the potentially copper-rich property beneath it—the precious contents of which her parents had died before revealing to her. Except, I mused, through naming her Penny. It was the biggest story Norraton had seen since I’d recovered the Baskervilles’ missing dog. (They’d sent me yet another smiley-face email commending me on it.)

  “You can’t know where I’ve been!” Watson cried. “There’s completely no way. Do I have paint on me from where Della and I redid the hallway color? Or some sort of wax under my fingernails from where we refinished the dance floor?”

  Watson is not quite comfortable, yet, with my good-natured teasing. Now that Arthur Daley and Penelope Moran are the new proprietors of Norraton’s hottest (and only) dance studio, my many-talented Watson has discovered she has a love not only for dancing but for the mercurial Della, too, and spends many hours in her company.

  The others I met on my foray into dance instruction are equally delighted that their dance classes will continue (now-jailed former proprietor notwithstanding). The young couple Elsie and Patrick, whose nuptials we’ll attend in a fortnight, the ever-persistent Mr. Brett, and the enigmatically romantic “Ginger Rogers,” a widow whose name I now know to be Mrs. Cubitt. I have noticed her dancing with Mr. Brett recently. If it is as romantic as it appears, they may someday be partners of another sort. Or she may soon possess a new car.

  “Seriously, Annabelle,” Watson said. “How do you know I’ve been at the studio? I’ve gotta say, you’re pretty amazing.”

  “I have my moments.” I handed Watson a mug of fragrant tea, then pointed to the phone on my desk. “But in this case, Della called me,” I said, settling into my chair. “To remind you about dinner.”

  Watson made a noise, dismissive and admiring at the same time. She wheeled her desk chair to our front window, our favorite place for case postmortems, and propped her feet on the low sill, parallel to mine.

  “Anthony Selwyn Harrison, there’s a piece of work,” she said. “Trolling vulnerable students to bilk them out of money? Must have thought he’d hit the jackpot with Penny Moran—until Arthur Daley came along. And you, of course, Sherlock. He’ll never dance again, that’s for sure. Score one for the good guys.”

  A gust of wind swirled up the last of the leaves, briefly plastering a few against our plate glass until they flew off again. The winds had changed here, and so had many lives. I wondered if mine would change as well.

  “And thank you,” Watson interrupted my thoughts. “I feel like—I have a purpose again. I can make a difference. This is a hell of a lot better than Afghanistan, I can tell you that.”

  She toasted me with her tea. “And for you? Way better than being a high school geology teacher.”

  I sighed. Watson is sometimes cavalier with details. Not high school.

  “Elementary,” I said.

  RAFFA

  by Anne Perry

  It was one of the nicest hotels in London. The dining room was suitably lush, sombre, and filled with the chink of china and the delicate odors of coffee and bacon, but Marcus St. Giles was unimpressed with it. His fame as the current television Sherlock Holmes had accustomed him to such places. He would rather have eaten at a truck stop, and played Hamlet, brilliantly, to a single audience. There was no passion in Sherlock Holmes, not a great deal of complexity that had not already been explored a hundred times.

  He was making money, but he had lost enjoyment, purpose. It was all automatic, a caricature more than an art. There was no life in it.

  “Please, sir . . .”

  He looked up. She was standing a few feet away from him, wide eyes staring at him solemnly. She looked to be about seven or eight years old—a child! A small, thin child with long hair and clothes which did not match.

  “You are Sherlock Holmes,” she said in little above a whisper.

  He drew in his breath to try to explain to her that he was Marcus St. Giles, playing Sherlock Holmes on television. Sherlock Holmes was an imaginary character, not a real person. He never had been real.

  But she cut him off. “Please, sir, Mr. Holmes, my mummy has been kidnapped and I need you to help me.”

  He froze. This was awful. He stared around the dining room to find the child’s mother. What on earth was she thinking of to let this . . . urchin . . . wander around alone, and not even properly dressed? But all the diners were busy with their plates of fruit, bacon and eggs, toast. They were all properly English, minding their own business, reading the Times, sipping tea.

  “Please, Mr. Holmes,” she said again. “I saw you on the television, and I’ve read all your stories. Most of them, anyway. You can help me, can’t you?” There was a note of desperation in her voice and she was clinging onto her composure with great difficulty.

  He had no children of his own and he had no idea how to deal with her. Was she even old enough to grasp the idea of acting? Pretending to be someone you were not?

  “Look . . . what is your name?”

  “Sarah,” she said with a gulp. Now there were tears in her eyes.

  People at the nearby tables looked up. One of them clearly recognized him and drew the attention of her companion.

  This was even more awful! He could not be seen to turn away a child in distress.

  He pointed to the other chair at his table. “Sit down, Sarah, and tell me what has happened.” Was she old enough to drink tea? Should he send the waiter for
another cup?

  But the waiter had had his attention drawn to the child already and came over to see if he could help.

  Seeing him, Sarah stepped closer to Marcus. “Please, Mr. Holmes, you have to help me. I’ve got to get Raffa, or they’ll . . . they’ll kill my mummy.”

  The waiter looked at Sarah, then at Marcus.

  “Is the young lady bothering you, Mr. St. Giles? I’ll see . . .”

  An instant decision must be made. Half the dining room was looking at him now. He could see the headlines—SHERLOCK HOLMES TURNS AWAY A LOST CHILD IN TROUBLE! WHO DOES MARCUS ST. GILES THINK HE IS?

  “Thank you,” Marcus said firmly. “Sarah is joining me for breakfast. Would you bring her a glass of orange juice, or milk, if she would prefer it?”

  “Orange juice, please,” she said with a gulp.

  The waiter let out his breath with a sigh, and pulled the chair back for her, then helped her bring it forward again. “I’ll fetch your orange juice, madam,” he said, and left.

  There was no turning back now.

  “When did you know that your mother had gone?” he asked her gravely.

  “When I woke up this morning and she wasn’t there,” she answered.

  “Could she have been in the bathroom?” She was probably at reception now, wondering where on earth her child was.

  But Sarah shook her head. She put her hand into her pants pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. Soberly, watching him closely, she passed it across the table to him.

  He took it and read it. It was very simple, written in deliberately odd letters, a mixture of upper and lower case, cursive and print.

  ‘Give us the giraffe and your mother will be returned. Fail, and she dies. Leave it in the bedroom and go out. Come back at seven.’

  It was not signed.

  For a moment he wanted to laugh—but the child was afraid. He had worked with some good child actors, but this was real, one real thing in a world of make-believe.

  “I see,” he said gravely. “What is this giraffe they want? Do you know? Do you have it?”

  She shook her head just a little and her voice was no more than a whisper. “No. Raffa’s gone too.”

  “Raffa?”

  “My giraffe.”

  This was truly awful. Was someone playing the worst kind of practical joke?

  “Where did you last see Raffa?”

  “I think I left him in the taxi yesterday,” she answered.

  Somewhere in central London there was a taxi that had not noticed it was carrying a giraffe! Where were the cameras and the laughter? He must play it seriously. It was the only dignified thing to do. Dignified! He had never felt more absurd.

  “How did that happen?” he asked, as if it were a reasonable question.

  “It was a very long flight and I was sleepy when I got here. All the luggage got mixed up. I was carrying Raffa and I left him behind when I helped Mummy get my stuff out.”

  Carrying him? Ah: a stuffed animal. Something that made sense.

  “Where did you fly from?”

  “Kuala Lumpur.”

  “You’re right. It’s a very long way indeed. Just you and your mother?” Perhaps it would be tactless to ask where her father was.

  “And Raffa,” she added.

  “How old are you?”

  “Nearly nine. I’ll be ten before the end of next year.” She said it with some pride. Her wide blue eyes did not waver from his. The trust in them was terrifying. Was the real Sherlock Holmes ever faced with . . . but now he was being idiotic. There was no “real” Sherlock Holmes!

  “That sounds about right,” he agreed. “Why do they want Raffa? Do you know who they are?”

  “He’s a very nice giraffe, but I love him because I know him. I don’t know why anyone else would want him. I’ve had him for as long as I can remember, and he looks a bit . . . sort of used. I tell him all my secrets, and he listens to me. He really listens, not just pretend, until it’s his turn to talk.”

  He understood exactly what she meant, and it surprised him.

  The waiter brought the orange juice and she thanked him solemnly. Marcus glanced at the door, hoping to see a woman looking frantically for her child. But there was just an elderly man with a white moustache and a walking stick.

  “Tell me about your journey,” he said.

  “You’re going to help me, aren’t you?” Her voice was steadier, filled with hope now.

  This was absurd. He had no idea at all how to detect anything. He worked from a script! He wasn’t a detective, he was Hamlet, agonizing whether to be—or not! Or Henry V, “once more into the breach,” and so on.

  She was waiting.

  “Yes,” he said decisively.

  She smiled at him, suddenly, and beautifully.

  “So you arrived at the airport yesterday, with your mother, and Raffa?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you took a train in, and then a taxi?”

  “Yes.”

  “In which you accidentally left Raffa?”

  “Yes.” She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t on purpose.”

  She shook her head.

  “Then finish your juice, and we will go upstairs and look again to see if your mother has come back, or if someone found Raffa and returned him.”

  Obediently she drank the juice and put the glass back down.

  He signed the bill, and they walked side by side out of the dining room. He wondered for an instant if he should take her hand, she looked so small and alone. But it was not a natural gesture, and she might resent it. Better not to.

  They went across the huge foyer and up to the reception desk.

  “Good morning, Mr. St. Giles,” the clerk said with a touch of awe in his voice. He did not even notice Sarah, who was barely taller than the desk.

  “Good morning,” Marcus replied. “Perhaps you can help me. My friend, Sarah, has become separated from her mother. Room . . . ?” He looked at Sarah.

  She stood up on tiptoe. “Two seventy-three,” she replied. “She wasn’t in her room when I woke up.” She slipped her small, cool hand into Marcus’s and held onto him. For the first time he realized just how lost she was, in a strange city halfway around the world from her home, and the only person she knew had vanished. He closed his fingers over hers.

  The clerk looked at the register and soon found what he was looking for.

  “You’re Maria Waterman?” he leaned forward to see Sarah.

  “That’s my mummy. I’m Sarah Waterman.”

  She was telling the truth. That was all Marcus had wished to know.

  “Have you seen Mrs. Waterman this morning?” he asked the clerk.

  “No, sir,” the clerk replied. “It appears she is not down yet.”

  “Thank you,” Marcus said quickly. “We must go upstairs and find her.” He turned away from the desk, holding Sarah’s hand firmly to make sure she was with him.

  “Do you have a key?” he asked.

  “Yes, but she’s not up there,” Sarah said with a touch of impatience.

  “I believe you,” he replied. “But I think it best we don’t tell him anything we don’t have to.”

  “Oh! Yes, of course.” Her hand tightened over his and she tried to fall into step with him, though she needed two steps to every one of his.

  They went up in the elevator in silence. Marcus’s mind was racing. What was he going to do if the mother really was not there? His playing Sherlock Holmes had dulled his wits. Sarah had not even questioned that the desk clerk called him St. Giles. Did she just assume it was one of Holmes’s aliases?

  Please heaven the mother was there, and this was the end of it.

  But she was not there. The key worked perfectly. It was an adjoining room and the one bed was slept in, but tidy. A suitcase sat open on the luggage rack. The door to the other room was closed.

  Sarah walked over to it and opened it wide. “Mummy?”

  There was n
o answer. She went inside and Marcus followed. The room was in chaos. The bedding was all over the place, cases off the pillows, stuffing tossed haphazardly like the remnants of a snowball fight. Clothes were strewn on every surface. Drawers and cupboards were all open. Two suitcases were turned out. Internal pockets and compartments were out or broken. The door to the bathroom was open, and in no better state.

  “She isn’t here,” Sarah said in a very small voice.

  The enormity of it hit Marcus. It was real. This eight-year-old’s mother really was gone, maybe violently. She believed he was Sherlock Holmes, and could do something about it. She looked at him now, enormous eyes swimming in tears. She had let go of his hand at the door, and stood totally alone.

  He had never felt so utterly helpless. He was not acting. There was no script to give him his lines, no director to tell him where to go or what to do.

  “This is very serious,” he said quietly. “I think we had better tell the police.”

  “Aren’t you going to help me?” She looked devastated.

  “Yes . . . yes, of course I am.” What else could he say? “But the police will have technical equipment that I don’t. A lot of things have happened since . . .” Conan Doyle was writing, he finished silently. His mind was racing even more. “We should put the ‘do not disturb’ signs on the doors, both of them. So the evidence is not moved. Then we’ll go.”

  She nodded, too close to tears to speak.

  But the desk sergeant recognized Marcus immediately.

  “Oh, yes . . . ?” he said when Marcus told him the situation. “And you’re Sherlock Holmes, right?” There was a sneer in both his eyes and his voice.

  Sarah looked at him. “Yes,” she said solemnly. “Mr. Holmes says you are the right people to come to, because even though he’s clever, you have technical things that he doesn’t.”

  “Does he, now? So we can do the legwork, and he can take the credit, eh? Go on, kid, beat it. Go and take your wit somewhere else. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  Sarah looked as if he had slapped her.

  Marcus felt real anger boil up inside him, nothing pretend about it.