YOU!” Snodgrass yelled.
Nigel Moriarty glanced up, searching for the source of the shout. His eyes narrowed when he saw Rupert and Griffin, then widened perceptibly at the sight of his old walking stick. His eyes flicked to the teapot that Rupert carried and, with a malicious grin, raised its twin in his other hand.
It was a paradox. The fact that the same object from different times could exist simultaneously in the same world seemed impossible. And yet, here they were, a past version of Moriarty and a slightly more recent version of Rupert and Griffin, both in the future, both carrying time machines.
It was too much for Griffin to comprehend, and there was no time for him to think about it. Pushing away the part of his mind that wanted to wrestle with the scientific challenge it proposed, Griffin instead moved to action, drawing his Scorpion and pointing it at his adversary.
“Put the book down, Mr. Moriarty,” Griffin called.
Nigel sneered in response. “Or what, boy? You’ll shoot me with one of your uncle’s silly, ‘nonlethal’ inventions? Hardly!”
Rupert, who still had his rifle slung on his back, whipped it over his shoulder in one smooth movement. “ ‘Nonlethal’ doesn’t mean it won’t hurt!” he shouted, then pulled the trigger.
What emerged from the tip of the gun looked to Griffin like a swarm of silver bees. In fact, they were something else, something of so cunning and ingenious a design that even Nigel Moriarty would have had to appreciate the artistry that had gone into creating them.
Tiny flying robots, each equipped with a needle-like stinger, flew toward Moriarty with deadly intent. Later, his uncle informed him that, once released, the missile-like drones would follow their target indefinitely, chasing them to whatever destination they ran to, never giving up until they had delivered their poisonous payload . . . a concoction brewed from poison ivy, stinging nettles, and fire ants! Nasty stuff, indeed!
But one thing that the drones couldn’t do was follow their prey beyond the present time, and Moriarty was nothing if not quick-minded.
Griffin watched at first with exultation at his uncle’s shot but then in horrified despair as Nigel threw the switch on his time machine and the lights around him began to swirl.
Perhaps a few of the drones got there in time, because as Moriarty vanished, Griffin fancied that he could hear cries of pain. But in seconds the man had disappeared and the silver drones, now robbed of their target, fell harmlessly to the ground.
The entire floor of the bookstore had gone from a hive of activity to utter silence. Stunned faces stared at Griffin and Rupert, unable to believe what they’d witnessed. Then suddenly, someone in the crowded store came to his senses and pointed a shaking finger at Rupert, shouting, “He’s got a gun!”
“Run, boy!” Rupert exclaimed.
Moving as fast as they could, the two of them shot through the screaming crowd and made their way out the door. Griffin could hear the chaos behind them and soon after heard a terrible wailing alarm. It was a noise that in any time meant the same thing.
The police were coming!
Much about London had changed since 1903. But, thankfully, many of the streets were exactly the same. Griffin and his uncle charged down an alley they recognized, twisted and turned through two others, and emerged on a very familiar street.
As they ran, Griffin’s leg felt like it was on fire. He tried to use the cane as much as he could for support and knew that he couldn’t keep up the frantic pace his uncle set. But as they turned the corner, he counted down the addresses until he found the one they’d been looking for.
The apartments at 221 Baker Street looked very similar except for two very important details. The first was that 221B, Sherlock Holmes’s apartment, now had a sign outside of it that read Sherlock Holmes Museum.
But the second was far worse. Through the years, someone had changed the architecture of Griffin’s uncle’s residence. For now, right where 221A used to be, was a restaurant.
“What the deuce?” cried Snodgrass. He stared back and forth between the entrance to his apartment and the Sherlock Holmes museum. Griffin could tell right away that the years of hoping that he, Rupert Snodgrass, would someday be famous like Sherlock Holmes had suddenly disappeared in a disappointed POOF! Without a doubt, the legacy of Sherlock Holmes would live on throughout history, and the names Rupert Snodgrass and Griffin Sharpe definitely would not.
And knowing that fact made Griffin breathe a sigh of relief. For him, it meant that his plan for remaining the World’s Most Secret Detective was working. There would never be a sign, a museum, a monument, or a statue commemorating the place where he’d lived with his uncle. His detective work would forever be a secret.
And that thought gave him a thrill equal to his uncle’s disappointment. For if the criminals didn’t know who he was or what he looked like, they would never see him coming. Not only that, but he never wanted to be tempted by fame or glory. The work he did, he did simply because it was a gift that the Lord had given him. Nothing more, nothing less. If there was any glory to be had, he wished it to go to God.
“Come along, Uncle,” Griffin said sympathetically. “We need to hide, and I can think of no better place than in here. Somewhere where nobody knows who we are.”
Rupert’s face clouded, and then, quite unexpectedly, he chuckled.
“Quite so.” He laughed. Then, placing his arm around his nephew’s shoulder, he said, “Oh, dash it all, I’m starving anyway! Who cares about a moldy old museum.”
Griffin stared at him for a moment, amazed that he’d gotten over what had to be a great disappointment so quickly. Then, as they walked inside the merry restaurant, Griffin smiled.
Sometimes his uncle Rupert could still surprise him.