On the day of Sherlock Holmes’s funeral, it didn’t rain. The sun shone down upon the grassy cemetery of Christ Church Newgate, and the birds chirped. But the sun also caused long shadows to fall, and, in Griffin’s mind, the shadows that stretched across London were darker than ever before.
As he limped along with the long procession of policemen and well-wishers, following the pipers as they played the traditional dirge, “Flowers of the Forest,” Griffin heard snatches of conversation from the crowd. Most people said things like, “Mr. Holmes was a great man,” or “What’ll we do without him?” but he also thought he caught snatches of darker talk, a word or two whispered between disreputable types expressing their joy over the great detective’s demise.
“The old professor got ’im in the end, didn’t he, Jim?”
“ ’At’s right. The old hound went a-sniffing where his long nose didn’t belong.”
Because the crowd of mourners was so thick, Griffin couldn’t see who had said these things, but the comments made him feel sick to his stomach. He realized that for as many law-abiding citizens who were devastated by the loss of their protector, there were just as many criminals who had been longing for this day to come.
The procession stopped near Holmes’s final resting place. Griffin was glad to find himself situated near a stump, for he was too short to see over the towering mass of adults. Climbing upon it, he had an excellent view of the tall monument that had been placed there by the grateful city. And although he was a fair distance from the huge stone, he could still make out the bold inscription engraved on the polished marble.
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE WORLD'S GREATEST DETECTIVE
After reading these words, he couldn’t help glancing over at his uncle. Rupert was dressed, like Griffin, in his Sunday best. His uncle’s black frock coat gleamed and stood in sharp contrast to his battered brown bowler. Rupert had been determined to wear the hat in spite of Griffin’s insistence that it looked so bad as to seem disrespectful. But he didn’t press the point. Just getting his uncle within a mile of a church was a major feat in and of itself.
Rupert was scowling at the inscription on the monument. And Griffin knew his uncle well enough to know that seeing the words The World’s Greatest Detective on Holmes’s tomb bothered him, almost as if they were a written insult directed at him. Rupert had always thought his investigative methods superior to Holmes’s. But now it seemed that this memorial would forever cement in people’s minds that Holmes truly was the greatest detective who ever lived, and not he.
Griffin sighed and turned his attention back to the funeral. Would his uncle ever get over himself ? Why did it seem that everything revolved around him and his pride? But then, Griffin realized, the temptation to feel important in other people’s eyes often had to do with a deep need to be loved. He reminded himself to try to feel more compassion for his uncle, rather than to judge him too harshly. After all, standing in judgment of his uncle was just another way of being prideful himself.
They were both too far away to hear the minister’s sermon. But Griffin could see Dr. Watson and his wife standing next to the preacher, looking sorrowful. Until that moment he hadn’t considered how Dr. Watson would be feeling. The good doctor had lost his best friend and colleague. What must it be like to lose such a close friend and to know that there were no more wonderful adventures to write about? And worse still, to know that with Holmes out of the way, Moriarty could rule London unopposed?
Griffin certainly didn’t think that he and Rupert were as threatening to the Moriartys’ criminal empire as Sherlock Holmes had been. But the very fact that the professor and Nigel had tried to get rid of them in Boston told him that they weren’t insignificant. And now that Holmes was gone, Griffin and his uncle were the only ones who stood in the way of the evil men and their nefarious schemes.
Griffin gripped his ebony walking stick, staring down at Nigel Moriarty’s familiar initials engraved on the cane’s top. Then he looked out at the sea of Londoners gathered together, most with heads bowed and hats clutched to their chests. Many of the ladies were wiping their eyes, and there were children in attendance too.
He felt a surge of empathy as he spotted one child, a little girl of about five or six, clutching her mother’s skirts. He could imagine what she must be feeling, seeing her parents in such distress. She happened to glance at Griffin at the same time he was looking at her.
Who will protect you now? he wondered.
But even as the thought popped into his head, he already knew the answer. It was his job now.