The Future Door (11 page)

And part of the peace he felt was the certainty that now that they'd arrived, they would have the help they needed. Somehow, in spite of how grim everything looked, he felt certain that with Sherlock Holmes's help and advice, everything would turn out okay.

A grumpy voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Not much to look at, is it?” Rupert groused as he stepped from the carriage.

“You don't think so?” Griffin asked, genuinely surprised.

Rupert scowled at the pleasant cottages and picket fences. “Country people. Always meddling in each other's affairs. A bunch of busybodies, if you ask me.”

Ever since the incident with Miss Pepper, Griffin's uncle's sudden cheery outlook on life had been replaced by his usual disgruntled attitude. And as they walked along the steep path that led to Sherlock Holmes's new address, with Rupert complaining at every step, Griffin was struck by his uncle's unique ability to see the dark side of everything. It was as if he and his uncle were two sides of a magnet, positive and negative poles that were somehow, impossibly, drawn together.

To distract his mind from the slew of complaints and negative comments, Griffin focused instead on counting the paving stones on the charming pathway (five hundred and six), the number of lilacs in the trees (fifty-seven), the butterflies he spotted fluttering by the wildflowers (three), and swarms of honeybees (three hundred and sixty-six). And while counting these things, he consciously chose to ignore the one hundred and thirty-five times that his uncle used the word
stupid
.

Trying hard to remember to be patient, Griffin limped toward the beautiful pine door of Sherlock Holmes's quaint little cottage and knocked gently with the tip of his cane.

There was no answer.

I wonder if he's out
, Griffin thought. He knocked again to be sure. And this time, after waiting for a full minute and hearing nothing, he interrupted his uncle's rant.

“Um, excuse me, Uncle. I wonder if we should check in the back and see if he's there. Do you think it would be all right?”

“. . . idiots. Er, what did you say?” Rupert asked, confused by his nephew's interruption.

“I was wondering if we should check the backyard. Perhaps Mr. Holmes is there but couldn't hear us knocking,” Griffin repeated.

Rupert paused and scratched his stubbly beard. After a long moment he replied slowly, “No, I think we should just leave. If he is in there, he obviously doesn't want to be disturbed.”

Griffin couldn't help noticing the relieved look on his uncle's face as he turned on his heel to go.

“Don't you think we should at least check?” Griffin said.

Rupert stiffened. He glared at Griffin, hating that he couldn't come up with a good enough excuse to avoid seeking help from Sherlock Holmes. Griffin could tell that Rupert was annoyed, but the boy quietly stood his ground. He knew, in spite of his uncle's reluctance to work with Sherlock Holmes, that every second lost at this point was precious.

So he felt an immense sense of relief when Rupert gave a resigned growl and pushed past him, making for the little white gate at the side of the house.

As they went through the swinging gate and down the path along the side of the cottage, the first thing Griffin noticed was that the drone of bees grew increasingly louder. He puzzled over this, but when they rounded the back of the cottage, he discovered why the hum had reached such a high level.

Large white boxes were stacked on top of each other, each one surrounded by swarms of the buzzing insects, filling the enormous backyard as far as the eye could see.

“Hives,” Griffin murmured excitedly, recognizing the bees' dwellings. He'd forgotten that Holmes had mentioned he planned on becoming a beekeeper as part of his retirement.

Griffin smiled, thinking about all the fresh honey that the bees were making. He imagined that out here, where there was so much wild clover, the honey they made would taste absolutely delicious.

He was just about to mention this to his uncle, when something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He had to look twice to be sure, but it appeared that there was something sticking out from behind one of the rows of white boxes. Something in the grass that looked suspiciously like . . .

A human foot?

An inexplicable feeling of dread suddenly washed over him. He wondered if he was seeing things. He hoped he was wrong, that maybe he was just seeing a twisted root or a discarded piece of wood. But something inside him knew that probably wasn't the case.

With equal parts curiosity and dread propelling him forward, Griffin inched step-by-step toward the strange and horrible sight.

“Griffin! What are you doing?”

He was dimly aware of his uncle's call. His mind was focused on what he was looking at.
Just a few steps more and I'll know for sure
.

He was so intent on finding out who or what was behind the boxes that he could barely hear his uncle's cries. Then suddenly he felt something large and heavy clap down over his head.

He felt his uncle's big hand on his shoulder, wheeling him around. Then, startled, he saw Rupert's angry face staring at him through a veil of thin, web-like netting.

“Don't be stupid, boy. Keep yourself covered!” Then he adjusted the beekeeper's helmet that he'd placed on Griffin's head so that no bees could penetrate the netting.

“Of all the senseless things to do . . . Why do you think beekeepers wear these things? For a fashion statement?”

Griffin was about to reply when he noticed his uncle's eyes glance over at the thing in the tall grass that was now only a few yards away.

“What the deuce?”

Griffin could see through his beekeeper's veil that his uncle had gone very pale.

“Is that . . . what I think it is?” he asked.

“I think so,” Griffin replied. “But there's only one way to know for sure.”

They shared a meaningful glance. Then Griffin and Rupert carefully walked over to the row of white boxes. As they drew closer, Griffin saw that what he'd spotted in the grass was indeed a foot.

But far worse was finding out
whose
foot it was.

There, stretched back between the rows of white boxes, was a motionless figure in a beekeeper's uniform, lying on the ground.

Griffin knew at once that the person was dead. There could be no doubt about it. But even though he knew it, he still couldn't resist running over and, after removing the figure's bulky glove, checking the body's pale wrist for a pulse.

There was none.

And although there was a tiny part inside of Griffin that had feared that this would be what they would find, he wasn't prepared for the awful sight.

It was Sherlock Holmes.

The great detective's helmet had been knocked aside, and a thin stream of smoke still curled upward from his beekeeper's firebox. Perhaps it was the smoke, but the bees seemed to be avoiding the area around his body. Impossible though it seemed, to Griffin it was almost as if the tiny insects were showing respect by not stinging the one who had cared for them so.

His hands shook as he turned to look at his uncle. Rupert stared back, equally stunned.

“What should we do?” Griffin whispered.

Rupert didn't say anything at first. The look he had on his face as he stared down at Sherlock Holmes, his longtime rival, was something Griffin would never forget in the years to come. It was a look filled with sadness and genuine loss, as if his world would never be the same again.

Griffin knew that the relationship Rupert had with Sherlock Holmes was somewhat akin to that of a younger and an older brother. While he'd lived next door, his uncle had been consumed with jealousy, rivalry, and bitterness at living in the great detective's shadow. But now that he was truly gone, it was as if Rupert had lost something that had defined who he was.

For who was Rupert Snodgrass without Sherlock Holmes? In many ways, the great detective had always been his measuring stick. Having Holmes living next door had pushed Rupert to become the best inventor he could possibly be, if only to try to find a way to beat the detective at his own game.

Holmes had also shown true remorse over not having been able to help Rupert find his dog when he had been just a boy. By way of apology, Holmes had given him Toby as a replacement. The dog had been an amazing gift, something that Rupert had never expected.

But now, as Rupert stared down at Sherlock Holmes's pale, unmoving form, all the jealous feelings that he'd harbored over the years were gone. All he could see before him was the loss of a truly great man, one for whom the world would never find an equal.

Sherlock Holmes was the greatest detective who ever lived.

“We need to get him inside,” Rupert whispered. Griffin could tell that his uncle was trying to contain some powerful emotions.

Griffin nodded dumbly. But then, as he was stooping to pick up the detective's legs, Griffin suddenly stopped. His uncle stared at him.

“What is it?” he asked.

Griffin didn't answer. He walked over and knelt down next to Sherlock Holmes's right hand. It was balled into a tight fist.

Griffin pulled at the long fingers. It took some effort to get them to release what they were holding. But after some persistence, they gave way. Griffin exhaled slowly, staring down at the large and glittering thing that lay displayed on Holmes's outstretched palm.

It was a spider-shaped ring.

And he knew immediately that it was the exact size and shape of the ring that belonged to both Charlotte Pepper and the woman who had shot at them from the carriage.

Griffin stared at the intricate design of the spider, noticing the sparkling diamonds that encrusted its beautifully crafted body. He was just about to pick up the ring when his uncle's hand shot out, catching him by the wrist.

“Careful,” Rupert warned. “There's something about that ring I don't like.”

Griffin glanced up at his uncle and nodded. It was indeed a wicked-looking thing. Rupert removed a pair of long tweezers from his vest pocket and lifted the ring from Holmes's hand. As it was taken away, Griffin let out a gasp.

“Uncle, look at his palm.”

They stared down at the inflamed area where the ring had been nestled a moment before. They could clearly see two small puncture marks in the center of Holmes's hand.

Griffin inspected the ring that his uncle held more closely. After studying it for a moment, he noticed two tiny, retractable barbs embedded in its jeweled thorax.

“I think that's what did it,” Griffin said.

Rupert grimaced. “Poisonous.” He glanced back at the ring he held with the tweezers. “I wonder
who
did it.”

Griffin didn't tell his uncle about his suspicions. For the moment he decided that it would be better to wait. He didn't know which one of the two women was the culprit, but when he thought about Charlotte Pepper's note and how she'd bragged about being in the service of Professor Moriarty, it certainly looked as if she might be the one to blame.

“I suppose we should get him inside now,” Griffin reminded his uncle.

On the count of three, they lifted. Griffin tried not to think about what he was doing, willing himself to put one foot painfully in front of the other. Walking without the support of his stick was difficult, but he hardly noticed the discomfort. All he could think of was how the world would take the news when they found out that the greatest detective who ever lived was gone.

They made their way through the back door of the cottage and laid him on the living room sofa. After looking around, Rupert was relieved to see that a bit of modern technology had been installed in the cottage and used the wooden, hand-cranked wall telephone to call for help.

While his uncle used the telephone, Griffin stared down at the still form of Sherlock Holmes. A tear rolled down his cheek as he gazed at his sad, angular face. Holmes would no longer prowl the streets, keeping his keen watch over the innocents who trusted him. No longer would criminals fear the shadows, knowing that a human bloodhound would find every bit of evidence they left behind and bring them to justice.

Sherlock Holmes was dead.

And the worst part for Griffin was knowing that the great detective had been murdered.

17
THE FUNERAL

O
n 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.