Chapter Nine: Reinforcements
The Baker Street Irregulars sat around Deirdre’s kitchen table. The
three had gathered there the day before for the purpose of doing their
homework together. But that had been before the disappearance of their
friend and mentor, Sherlock Holmes. They had all three come back to
Deirdre’s house again the next day, so that they would be together in
the event of any news.
Now Deirdre and Wiggins were staring glumly at their shoelaces, while
Tennyson pretended to enter something in on his keyboard. The usual
energetically chipper beeping made by the youngest of the Irregulars was
now limited to a series of flat monotones.
The friends had been waiting since they had gotten word at 2:05 pm
the day before. Waiting for any news that their friend had been found,
that he was all right, or that Inspector Lestrade had a lead of some sort.
Wiggins lifted his prematurely bald head and looked at Tennyson
through a pair of kind brown eyes.
"Hey, how ya doin'? They’ll find him, don’t worry."
"Beep whirr clock clock whizz." Tennyson’s big blue eyes seemed to be
full of suppressed fear, as they stared back at the tall black boy over
the red bandana that covered the majority of his face from the bridge
of his nose down.
Deidre joined in the conversation. The 12 year old had scruffy brown
hair and her nails were each painted a different color.
"Ya, don’t worry. Watson and Inspector Lestrade are probably looking
for ‘im right now. Besides, Mr. ‘Olmes can take care of himself," she
said in a thick English accent.
She did not sound very confident, however, and her words did little to
lift the gloomy atmosphere.
"Beep beep whir-"
Tennyson’s reply was cut short by a ringing coming
from the direction of Deidre’s bedroom. "Ill get it!" she said, as
she leaped up from her chair and ran towards the source of the sound.
The other two Irregulars followed suit.
With the click of a button, the synthetic face of Watson appeared on
the screen of the vid phone.
"Hello, you three."
Deidre was about to open her mouth to reply when Tennyson started
letting out loud streams of beeping from his keyboard.
"Beep whirr clock clock whur beep clock beep beep beep!"
"Ya, tell us!" Wiggins joined in with the overexcited Tennyson.
"Inspector Lestrade and I are going out to follow up on what we hope is a
clue."
"Can we come?" was asked simultaneously. Wiggins had simply asked,
whereas Deirdre had said it for the sake of translation for her
younger friend, who was now beeping even more insistently.
All the same, the result was rather comical and earned a small smile
from Watson, who was looking up at them from the screen.
"That was my purpose in calling; however, you would need to be able to
get to New Scotland Yard in about 15 minutes. Could you manage that?"
Deirdre beamed. "If we start now we can be there in ten!"
"Very well, I shall see you all here in ten minutes."
So with renewed vigor the three friends grabbed coats, hoverboards
and goggles, and after reaching the bottom of the stairs began
careening down the street at full blast. Their determined smiles
showed the hopeful feeling in their hearts that maybe it would turn
out right after all.
Besides, if anyone could find Holmes, they could.
Chapter Ten: Dun Dun Dun Duh
Holmes did his best to ignore the sharp pain in his chest as he was
dragged down the hallway by his right arm. He could hear the heavy
steps of the guard echoing along, interrupted by the occasional grunt
or rude remark.
Holmes tripped awkwardly along beside his conveyor. He could feel his
face growing redder and redder with humiliation. This was not an ideal
position to be in. It was very difficult to walk when you couldn’t see
where you were going, and being kneed in the ribs hadn’t helped at
all.
Back in the cell when the guard had turned on him, he had heard
Rowland scream; and then his attacker had flexed suddenly as if in a
lot of pain.
Then Holmes had heard a muffled bang and felt the vibration from an
impact course through the metal floor under his feet. He had listened
helplessly, doubled over in pain, unable to do anything to help his
young friend.
It was beyond frustrating! He was cut off from the world around him.
He would be very worried if he had heard an ionizer go off, but as it
was, Rowland was probably just dazed or unconscious.
He hoped that he was not being moved to another cell as he rather
enjoyed the company of that young street Arab, and would not wish her
to come to any more harm than she already had.
She had once one of the richest children in the world. When he had
said her father was ‘very wealthy’, Holmes had been aware that he had
been making something of an understatement.
He wondered how it must have been for her at the age of eleven to
survive such horrible ill-treatment from her parents. What kind of
people would manipulate their own daughter to such an extent, and then
allow her to roam the streets of New London without money or
protection?
When Rowland had disappeared there had been no inquiry. It had all been
hushed up. He had not even learned of her disappearance from his
history vids but had had to ask Lestrade about it specially.
What a scandal it would make if the child were found and discovered to
be completely capable of, and willing, to tell her story the re-
He wanted to slap himself. Of course, that was it! The girl's parents
had been living in complete comfort for four years now, their past
actions buried under the weight of their pocketbooks. If the girl
were to be found and then told her story, they would be arrested,
publicly censured, and humiliated. Their lives would be ruined.
A perfect breeding ground for blackmail. The captor must be planning
to use the girl as a means of funding for whatever dark purpose he had
in store. Limitless wealth in the very small stubborn package of the
girl he had just left behind in their cell.
What a fool he had been not to see it before! ‘Or rather, hear it,’ he
reminded himself darkly.
The whole time he had been thinking this over in his head, the guard
had been pulling him roughly by the arm down what must still be the
same hallway. He could hear sharp crashing sounds as if two pieces of
metal were being bashed together at high speeds. It was too high in
pitch to be a hammer and nails. Also, he doubted very much whether
tools of that kind were used in this century, or at least not nearly
as often as they had been in his.
Now the guard came to a sudden halt and pulling Holmes with him, made
his way around a tight corner, at which time the temperature began to
climb at an immense rate.
Going from freezing to pleasantly warm in a few seconds, he heard
another door slide open and felt the heat of a very strong light
source somewhere above his upturned face.
He was pushed violently forward and shoved into a chair, at which point
he felt his wrists and ankles being cuffed securely to what must be a
heavy wooden chair, the kind used in the lunchrooms of late twenty-first
century warehouses.
Holmes knew better than to struggle, when he could still hear the
breathing of the guard who had brought him here, so close to his right
arm.
He instead concentrated his energy on trying to figure out where he
was from the sounds and textures around him. Not an easy task, as his
hands were completely restricted to the arms of his chair.
He knew that in the past there had been detectives who had, because of
similar difficulties to his own, used their other senses to great
advantage. However, that took years of practice and skill and he had
not yet had time even to master the technique of walking properly
without his sight.
He hoped he would not be blind long enough to learn.
Suddenly the sound of a light step broke in on his train of thought.
He had heard that step before; it was forever branded upon his memory.
Moriarty.
Chapter Eleven: Where, Oh, Where Has Inspector Stayword Gone?
Lestrade sighed as she pulled up to warehouse numbers 1,2 and 4 on her
list. Number 3 had been torn down years ago after it was pronounced
structurally unsound. She grumbled to herself, 'At least that was one
less they had to look in.'
She had been forced to let Stayword sit in the front passenger seat
because he had refused to cram in the back with the Irregulars; and
after her suggesting it, had also refused to stay behind.
Now she wished that she hadn’t told him where they were going, even if
it meant braving all Grayson’s wrath. The fat lump had spent the whole
three-hour ride whining about kids being included in his investigation.
He seemed to have forgotten "the compudroid’s" earlier comments.
Watson didn’t seem to mind at all. She had rather hoped for another
outburst from him but that, as far as Watson’s extremely pleasant
attitude went, seemed out of the question, at least within the
foreseeable future.
The six piled out of the police cruiser, and turning to the Irregulars,
Lestrade informed them of her plan of action.
"Okay, Wiggins and Tennyson will take number one; Watson and I will
take two; and Deidre can go with Inspector Stayword."
"But, Inspector!" Deidre protested.
Lestrade was about to open her mouth to silence the twelve year old
when Watson intervened.
"I would be happy to trade places with Deidre and go with Inspector
Stayword."
"You would?!" was said (or beeped) at the same time by everyone. Even
self-righteous Stayword joined in the dumbfounded exclamation.
"Indeed. That is, unless the inspector would prefer the company of
young Deidre here."
Lestrade, sensing impending danger but not wanting to pass up such a
good chance, gave Watson a questioning look and shrugged her shoulders.
"Okay, Deidre can come with me, then."
"Excellent. Let's all meet back here in an hour," Watson continued
cheerily.
And with one more suspicious glance at Watson they all went their
assigned ways.
This formation was used for the duration of the day, at the end of
which the tired crusaders all piled back into the police cruiser and
began to head back towards the middle of New London.
There was a general atmosphere of disappointment, worry, and in the
case of Lestrade, frustration. Every minute they had wasted looking in
empty warehouses was another minute in which Holmes could have been
killed.
Perhaps they needed to try another line of investigation. They had
done all they could that day and now the light was beginning to fade.
It was when they were about halfway back to New Scotland Yard
headquarters when Lestrade realized that there was something wrong.
She looked back and saw only the three Irregulars sitting in the back
seat. Watson was up front with her.
"Hey, wait a sec. Where’s Stayword?"
The result of her question was an explosion of giggles and beeping
from the back seat. Watson however remained silent.
"Watson? What did you do with Inspector Stayword?"
She would not have phrased the question that way, had she not seen his
mock-innocent expression.
"I am sure I have no idea what you mean, Inspector."
Now she was sure he had done something.
"Okay, try this. Do you know where Inspector Stayword is?"
"I might have an idea."
"Oh, and what would that be?" She was trying to look serious but was
not doing a very good job. The two oldest Irregulars continued to
giggle while Tennyson had a glint in his eyes not unlike that of
Watson’s.
"Well, the most logical place to look for him would, I suppose, be back
where we just came from. Perhaps he forgot what time it was, or lost
his way in one of the buildings."
Lestrade turned the cruiser around.
"And which warehouse do you think he would be most likely to have got
lost in?"
"Well, I might have to think about that for a moment. We did look in
so many."
"Take your time."
"Hmmmm."
"Just out of curiosity, weren’t you supposed to stay with him?"
"Oh yes, well, he does tend to wander off," said Watson, assuming a
mock-guilty expression.
"Of course. Well, you’ll let me know when you remember which one you
last saw him in, right?"
"Of course, Inspector."
"Well, you have plenty of time to think. It’s going to be another two
hours until we can get there, and I really don’t want to be looking for
that little zed until 3:30 tomorrow morning."
This was one ride she was going to enjoy almost as much as she would
the expression on her obese partner's face.
She allowed herself a smile. However, some small part of her was
nudging her in the ribs, reminding her that she would enjoy Watson’s
revenge on British Intelligence much more if Holmes were here to share
in the fun.
She pushed the thought out of her mind.
She would see that he would be.
Chapter Twelve: Bumping Into A Clue
Inspector Stayword slouched against the cold metal wall, grumbling to
himself. He should have known better then to trust that stupid
machine!
They were all the same, useless hunks of scrap metal! One would
almost think that that worthless compudroid had locked him in here on
purpose! Well, it didn’t matter whether he had or not. It and those
meddling kids had to have realized he was gone by now and were no
doubt looking for him, but zed, they were taking their time! He could
just see the worried expressions on their faces. No doubt they were
combing every inch of the searched warehouses, frantically looking for
any trace of him.
That stupid woman inspector didn’t know how to do her own job! How
had she ever become an inspector in the first place!
There was no denying that she was attractive. No, one couldn’t deny
such things but she had been inexcusably rude to him!
Women shouldn’t even be allowed to be in the police force in his
opinion. It was man's work! Women were simply too emotional under
stress to think straight! They should be the desk clerks and secretaries
but certainly not field officers.
He grumbled to himself again. All he had tried to do was give her some
useful pointers, show her how real detective work was done, and how
had she treated him!?
She had gone and invited a bunch of kids! KIDS! To take part in his
investigation.
It wasn’t his fault that this missing Victorian idiot was stupid
enough to get himself abducted! No wonder he always got to New
Scotland Yard's answers before they did! New Scotland Yard was even
more incompetent than that brainless dolt!
That dead detective had picked the easy road to fame! Stayword hit
the floor with his fist in frustration. He hated pompous people!
Especially ones who thought themselves better then others, just because
they had been dead for the last two hundred years! And now here he
was wasting his time trying to find the man! Or at least he would be
if that wretched robot hadn’t triggered the locking mechanism for this
blasted storeroom!
Stayword adjusted his fat bottom on the floor and heaved a sigh of
annoyance.
He was about to start grumbling to himself again when he realized that
he could feel a steady pulse through the floor beneath him.
Pressing his ear to the ground he also heard a sound -- almost as if
someone were hammering nails into a piece of metal, but higher pitched.
Great! The whole zedding building was probably about to collapse,
with him in it! He gulped. He had warned that Inspector Lestrade
about searching old places like this without official help!
And now look what happened when she hadn’t followed his advice!
Stayword hauled himself to his feet and began to pace the tiny room.
He was just about to start pounding on the door in the hope that his
partner and company had returned to get him when he tripped over
something protruding from the floor and landed on his knees, wincing
in pain. It was hard to see in the almost complete darkness of the
windowless room, he groped around until he found the object his foot
had caught on.
A handle.
The handle of a trap door.
Pulling with all his might, he wrenched the thing open; and looking
around, he began to lower himself down the hole. They should really make
such things bigger to allow for different body types! he thought
indignantly. You would have to be thinner then a stringbean to fit
through!
Suddenly he lost his footing and fell unceremoniously through the hole
and landed on the floor underneath his little prison. To his surprise
it was lighter down here.
Looking up, he saw that it was brightly lit on the ceiling by strip
lighting. He was about to call out when he heard something, a sound
like the kind made by someone in serious pain. As he listened, it got
closer and closer.
It was at that moment Stayword realized that calling out might not be
such a good idea, after all. He began frantically looking about for a
hiding place -- no easy feat for someone of his mass.
Turning around, he saw an opening behind a rusty old electrical unit
just big enough to hold him. So hidden, he looked back out into the
hallway he had just left, and almost cried out in his surprise.
A tough-looking middle-sized man was dragging along another, more
ragged-looking fellow by the arm.
The latter was very tall and thin with a shock of brownish blonde hair
which was matted down with dried blood. He seemed to be limping and
from the way he was breathing in sharp gasps, Stayword could see that
he had several broken ribs.
There was something else about this miserable-looking figure that
arrested the inspector's attention. He wasn’t looking where he was
going; in fact, he didn’t seem to be looking anywhere. His eyes passed
over the walls and the man holding him without focusing on either.
It seemed to Stayword that there were two possible reasons why. Either
the man was too delirious to notice them or he just couldn’t see.
If the blank look in those grey eyes of his was anything to go by, it
was probably the latter.
Stayword stared at the two, guard and prisoner, and wondered how in
the world such an ironic thing could have happened.
The great Sherlock Holmes going blind!
Oh yes, Stayword grinned, he had found the object of his
investigation, the man whose disappearance had been the cause of all
this embarrassment.
Sherlock Holmes was pulled past Stayword’s hiding place, tripping over
his own feet and those of the guard.
After they had disappeared from sight, Stayword slipped out from his
chosen cover and began to follow them down the underground hall as
silently as he could.