Don’t move, son,” a kind voice said.
Griffin observed that the badge on the policeman’s hat was extremely bright and must have been polished recently with tremendous attention, that it bore the number 271, that the man’s hat size was approximately seven and three-eighths, and that the officer had cut himself shaving earlier that morning.
Then the next thing Griffin realized was that he was lying on his back, and there were pieces of broken carriage strewn all around him.
“Where am I?” Griffin asked.
“You’re on Beacon Street,” the policeman replied. “You were in a terrible accident, young man. And judging by the wreck and the size of the bullet holes in the wall of that cab, you’re lucky to be alive.”
Griffin tried to sit up, but in doing so felt waves of pain rush through his body. The policeman patted his shoulder gently. “Don’t try to move just yet. You’re going to be all right, but you’ve taken quite a walloping.”
Griffin groaned and lay back. “It . . . it was a woman,” he said.
The officer removed a small notebook. “Can you recall what she looked like? It might be tough, but anything that you can remember would be helpful.”
Griffin shook his head, trying to clear it. “She was wearing goggles.”
The officer nodded. “Hmm. Anything else?”
Griffin took a deep breath. Then, looking up at the officer, he said without stopping, “She was approximately five foot three in height and weighed one hundred and twenty-seven pounds. Her hair was an auburn color, shoulder length, and she had thirteen freckles across her nose. She wore goggles— aviator’s goggles, I think—made by the ACME glass company of Long Island, New York. Beneath her glove on the third finger of her left hand was a lump; I assume it was some kind of ring . . .”
The policeman stared at Griffin with an incredulous expression as he rattled off the details.
“. . . Her kid gloves were produced at a special tannery that services only a few shops in Bologna, Italy. I’ve seen that style twice before, and they’re very expensive. The hat she wore had a large brim, was made of wool, and was also of foreign make. The bullet holes were fired from a gun made by Richard Gatling in 1861, but the gun was the smallest version I’ve ever seen. She also wore red lipstick and had a tiny scar on her forehead about one-quarter of an inch long, which looked to have been made by a sword point—a Scottish sword, I believe.”
The policeman, who had been writing feverishly in his notebook up until this point, suddenly gave Griffin a skeptical look.
“Wait a minute. How could you know all this?”
Griffin shrugged slightly. “The scar had a particular squared-off shape, one that would match the tip of a Scottish Claymore. I also observed her stance in the carriage. Her feet were approximately ninety degrees apart and her knees were bent, very similar to a fencing stance. The Gatling gun I’ve seen once before in a museum, and I noticed the particular style of brass etching around the barrel of her weapon and that the signature R. Gatling was etched into its side. As far as the other details go, my mother’s friend, Mrs. Newsom, has a pair of gloves that match the—”
The policeman held up a hand and chuckled. “All right, that’s enough. I believe you.” He grinned and shook his head in amazement. “If half of the officers I work with had your observational skills, we could rid the streets of crime for the next twenty years.”
Griffin continued to give his detailed description to the officer. The policeman wrote down everything he said. And then, after Griffin had told him every single detail that he could remember, the officer thanked him and left, promising to do all that he could to catch the mysterious woman.
Griffin sat up and surveyed the wreckage.
It looked as though the carriage had exploded. Pieces of wood and carriage wheel spokes littered the streets. Griffin recognized one of the lanterns that had been attached to the cab lying on the fire escape of a building across the street, apparently thrown there from the collision. There was no sign of his or Rupert’s luggage anywhere.
The more Griffin studied his surroundings, the more he realized that it was a miracle he had survived!
Then he was struck by sudden, panicky thoughts: Where was his uncle? And what about Toby?
As if in answer to his questions, Griffin suddenly felt something cold and wet snuffle the back of his head.
“Toby!” With a feeling of immense relief, Griffin turned and wrapped his arms around the happy pooch. The boy quickly studied the hound for any sign of injury and realized that the dog had somehow survived the crash without a scratch.
After giving him several hugs and pats, Griffin rose on shaky legs to continue observing his surroundings. He spotted his walking stick sticking out of a nearby apple barrel, and Toby trotted alongside him as he limped over to grab it. As much as he hated the thing and what it represented, he was glad to have it back. It wasn’t just the blade hidden inside. Somehow, being without that stick—blade or no blade—made him feel more vulnerable to his enemy.
He wiped some apple pulp from the glittering silver knob with the edge of his coat and glanced around for the whereabouts of his uncle. There was no sign of Rupert anywhere! Griffin hoped that somehow his uncle had survived the terrible crash.
He glanced down at Toby, whose tail was wagging as he stared up at Griffin as if waiting to be told what to do next. Griffin knelt down beside his uncle’s faithful dog and looked deep into his large, brown eyes.
“Toby, where’s Rupert? Find Rupert!” Griffin held the hound’s face between his hands, willing him to understand. “Rupert!”
Sherlock Holmes had called Toby “the best nose in London,” and the claim was accurate. Toby was also a very intelligent animal, and he took off like a shot at the mention of his new master’s name. Mr. Holmes had given the dog to Griffin’s uncle Rupert as a gift. It had been offered as an apology for his once having been unable to help Rupert find his dog when he was a little boy.
Feeling hopeful, Griffin limped after the dog as fast as he could, following Toby across the street to a dilapidated-looking pub. Then, brushing aside his distaste for such places, Griffin pushed through the pair of swinging saloon doors and entered the darkened bar.
What he saw inside the dimly lit room made his heart catch in his throat.
A doctor was perched over the still form of his uncle Rupert. His uncle’s face was crisscrossed with several cuts, and his arm was wrapped in a sling.
Toby whimpered and lay down beneath the table where his master had been placed. Griffin slowly approached the elderly doctor. He didn’t want to believe what he was seeing.
“Is he . . .” Griffin choked, unable to voice the rest of the sentence.
But the doctor understood what he was about to say. He was a round-faced fellow with a bushy white beard, and was probably a jolly sort of person in another, happier setting. But because the situation he was currently in was so serious, he glanced up at Griffin and said quietly, “No. He’s still with us. But he needs serious medical attention. I’ve sent for a carriage to take him to the hospital.”
Griffin stared down at his uncle’s unconscious face. Everything had happened so quickly! Just moments before they had been talking as they’d disembarked from the ship. He couldn’t believe that things could turn so terribly wrong in such a short amount of time.
“Is he going to be okay? He looks very pale,” Griffin said.
The doctor didn’t meet his gaze. “I’m doing all that I can, son. He’s lost a lot of blood, and his arm is sprained. I’m afraid if he doesn’t wake up soon, he might remain in a coma. If we can get him to the hospital, they might be able to prevent it.”
Griffin’s stomach twisted. They were so close to his parents’ home that he could have walked! He felt torn between worry over his parents’ disappearance and his uncle’s terrible state. All seemed misery and despair.
Without a second thought, Griffin did what came most natural to him at times like this. He prayed for mercy.
Please send help for my uncle, Lord, and help the ambulance drivers find their way quickly! And also, please be with my parents and keep them safe . . . wherever they are.
The second half of the prayer that he’d prayed so many times since leaving London almost came without thinking. But this time he was struck by how much he needed his parents. How Griffin wished they were with him now! What he wouldn’t have given to have his father nearby, offering his strong support. Griffin knew that he would have had something encouraging to say, that he would have made everything feel under control.
But he had no idea where his parents were. Had Moriarty taken them someplace far away? Were they being tortured or, worse yet, had he done the unthinkable and taken their very lives?
His eyes filled with tears as he tried to imagine his father’s gentle voice talking to him, calming him down.
And then something extraordinary happened. Griffin suddenly heard that same voice, but it wasn’t inside his mind. It was really there! It was as if the very thing he longed to have most at that moment was actually happening.
Griffin spun around and stared, slack-jawed, at the lean man wearing a minister’s collar. Griffin’s eyes traveled over the familiar salty hair, the high cheekbones, and the same sad, blue eyes that he himself possessed.
“Griffin?” his father asked as he stared at his son, his eyes wide with surprise.
“Dad!” And without even pausing to ask how such an amazing thing was possible, Griffin rushed into his father’s arms and hugged him as tightly as he could.