Chapter Five: A Diversion
The house of Mr. Mathew J. Williams was a very simple box-shaped
design, with white washed walls, and an ivy plant spread out like some
two-dimensional tree against the north side of it.
Basically, it reminded one of a country cottage like you might find
somewhere nestled in the hills of Norfolk, although if truth be told
it was only a few minutes outside of New London.
Inspector Lestrade knocked on the door three times and rang the
doorbell. Then she stood waiting while a very disgruntled Inspector
Stayword got out of the cruiser after a determined-looking Watson.
She had made sure to have her friend sit in the front; she did not
want that jerk Stayword to think he was allowed to treat Watson like a
pile 'a zed.
Usually British intelligence wouldn’t interfere with New Scotland
Yard's affairs. On the other hand, the disappearance of a living
legend was not a usual occurrence; she wanted to strangle the idiots
who assigned this walking pomposity to her case.
She hit the doorbell again, much harder this time, as if to take out
her anger in way that would serve a purpose. Especially if it would
annoy the occupant of the house she was now attempting to enter.
A voice sounded from the other side. "One minute, one minute."
An elderly man with white hair and wrinkles around his grey eyes came
to the door, and upon opening it, looked up at the official personage
standing on his doorstep with some surprise.
"May I help you?"
Lestrade was as puzzled as he was; the DNA file had shown him to be
quite young and energetic-looking -- nothing like the withered old man
that stood before her now, peering through his horn-rimmed glasses.
"Are you, are you Mr. Mathew Williams?" she stammered.
"Yes, and you are?"
"Mathew J. Williams?" she persisted.
"Yes, how may I help you?"
"Inspector Lestrade, New Scotland Yard. I‘m afraid I have to ask you a
few questions, sir."
"What about?" The expression on his face was one of complete
bafflement.
"We have received information that you may have been concerned in the
disappearance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
"Who did you say disappeared Young lady?"
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes disappeared at 1:30 pm this afternoon, and we
found a DNA trace at the site of the disappearance matching that of
yours, sir."
"I don’t know anything about a Mr. Sherlock Holmes, except of course
the one I have read about in the old books -- but I can assure you that
I have been at home all day. My housekeeper was here with me she can
testify to that."
"Oh, can she? I think I’d like to have a chat with her."
Stayword sidled up. "Why don’t you go do that, Inspector Lestrade?
I can continue to talk with Mr. Williams here-"
He was cut off by a sudden and very uncharacteristic outburst of anger
from Watson.
"I think, Inspector Stayword, that you had better keep out of this. You
are here to assist not to take over Inspector Lestrade’s investigation
for your own selfish purposes!
"Furthermore, as you seem to be completely unconcerned about Holmes as
well as incompetent, I suggest you pack your bags and return to
British Intelligence headquarters with the news that you have failed
utterly -- and I doubt whether they will be much surprised!"
Lestrade had never seen this side of her friend before, nor, evidently,
had anyone else. Stayword was looking rather flustered as he stared
disbelievingly up at Watson, and Mr. Williams seemed rather
uncomfortable to have a compudroid and two Scotland Yard inspectors
engaged in a heated argument on his front door step.
Lestrade realized how hard it was for Watson, and indeed for her, to
go through the day wondering if Holmes was alive or not, if he was
injured or worse,
And she was beginning to see that it was taking its toll on Watson.
She made a promise to herself -- she would find Holmes, she would find
him if it was the last thing she did. She owed him that much
Taking a deep breath, she turned again to face Williams. "Sir, I would
like to talk with your housekeeper, if I may?" It was not a question.
Mr. William’s housekeeper, a Mrs. Poltercot, was taller then her
employer, with a huge amount of grizzled red hair shot with grey which
she kept in a tight bun in the very centre of the top of her head.
She looked about fifty or so, whereas Williams was probably about
seventy. She stood peering at them through a pair of green eyes that
were filled with dislike. Inspector Stayword had been compelled to
stay in the cruiser to recover from the shock to his ego after
Watson’s outburst.
"No, I do not know anything about a disappearance, and I fail to
understand how a man that has been dead for two hundred years could have gone
missing just today," Mrs. Poltercot said in a thick English accent.
Lestrade could see that she was not getting through, and as a result
was approaching boiling point.
"So Mr. Williams was at home all day?"
"Yes, I was cleaning his kitchen and so was there all day with him. He
never left the house."
"Has he been acting suspicious in any way, said anything which may
have sounded strange?"
"I have told you again and again, he has been his normal self all day."
"Thank you, ma'am, I will not take up any more of your valuable time."
Her last comment was thick with sarcasm
Upon her return to her cruiser and a grumbling Stayword, it took all
her self restraint to keep from ramming her head into the steering
controls,
Watson seemed to pick up on her agitation. "Don’t worry, Inspector,
we will find him. I am sure he’s all right. You know Holmes, he can take
care of himself."
"Ya. Thanks, Watson. I just hope we find him soon, even Holmes can’t
look out for himself all the time."
"I am sure he is all right."
It was a statement ringing with all the conviction in the world; you
could tell that he needed to believe his friend was alive and well.
"Well, then, I am too." She smiled at him.
"Okay, so Williams didn’t help us much," she continued. Let’s see what
else we can dig up."
She was now sure that the file had been slipped in as a diversion, a
way of throwing them off, and she was going to go find who was really
behind it all.
Grayson was not happy when the three arrived back at new Scotland
Yard, so she gave him as little information as possible and went
straight for the door to her office; she had some reading to do.
Chapter Six: A Closing Net
Professor James Moriarty glowered at the screen. Fenwick had made yet
another blunder. Not only had he not managed to put the file in the
New Scotland Yard computer data bank without notice, but he had attached
it to the wrong DNA trace. And now that no good inspector and her halfwit
compudroid were on his trail, along with some fat agent from British
Intelligence.
It had taken him weeks to plan the capture of his most hated rival and
he was not going to let New Scotland Yard screw it up.
Now that inspector was leaning over some papers. He couldn’t see what
they were they were -- too close to the camera he had had Fenwick implant
in her desk lamp to be seen clearly.
He flicked a switch and waited while the camera feed changed to a view
of the debilitated storeroom he was using as a prison to hold his two
guests. Holmes was getting very friendly with that Rowlands girl.
They seemed to be talking, via some sort of sign language. He noticed
that she could read lips very well, even for a deaf girl
He allowed himself a small chuckle; he had to admit that he was
enjoying watching Holmes struggle. He took a certain delight in
depriving Holmes of his most treasured possession; after all, what was
the 'eyes and brains' detective without his eyes?
Fenwick had been right. He had to hand it to his crony, a simple knock
on the head could do wonders, and was easily repaired using the right
technique. Holmes was in his power, and he was going to use that power
to its full advantage
It had taken him months to track the girl down. Now his plan was
almost in its last stage and soon it would be complete; and he would
free the criminal world of the only man who could stop him, the only
obstacle that stood in his way on the road to power!
He clenched his fist. Not only would he have unlimited funding for his
criminal organization, but he would be rid of Sherlock Holmes -- and the
world would never again question who was the greater intellect!
A chime sounded, and Fenwick crept around the doorframe. "Bonjour, Master.
I have ze shipment in the loading dock; eet eez ready to be added to
the machine."
Moriarty glared at his crony.
"Well, Fenwick is it possible that you could have done something
right?"
Fenwick cowered under his master's heated glare. "I am sorry about the file,
Master; eet will not ’appen again."
"It had better not -- or perhaps I shall have you join the girl and my
greatest enemy in their cell?"
"No, Master, zat weell not be necessary."
"Good. Did you get every thing I told you to?"
"Oui, Master, everything."
Moriarty glanced back at the computer screen, which was now showing
the girl leaning over Holmes’s hand, absorbed in a complicated
sequence of signing.
"Fenwick, what do you think about this girl? She seems to have formed
quite an attachment to Holmes."
"Oui, Master. Zey make quite a pair. Blind and deaf -- it is ironic."
"Yes, it most certainly is." Moriarty chuckled, and then turning on the
unsuspecting Fenwick, yelled, "Now go and put that equipment together!"
"Oui, Master. I am going."
Moriarty chuckled as his henchman slunk away in fear from the room.
"Yes," he thought to himself, "it most certainly was ironic."
Chapter Seven: The Man Behind The Mask
[I like The Phantom of the Opera. So sue me.]
Rowland looked over at the shivering man across from her. It was
strange. She had read about him but she had never really thought about
the man behind the mask,
All the same, here he was sitting across from her, bleeding badly from
a cut on his head and looking in the direction he seemed to think she
was in. He looked so lost. She could understand how hard it was for
him to be blind,
Drowning in darkness, and no way out,
Not that there was much to see in here: just four walls, a roof and a
floor, all made of the same cold grey metal. The same VERY cold grey
metal.
Holmes began to fumble around with both hands, moving them up the wall
and around the floor, but never moving his body from where he was
sitting. She knew why. He needed some centre, somewhere to hold on,
so that he wouldn’t be lost forever in the dark with no way to get
back.
After she had told him about her past, she had crawled away to her own
corner of the room to calm down and think. She didn’t know why she had
told him; she just felt she could trust him no matter what.
Now she crawled over to him again. She liked to be level with her
companion at all times, even if he couldn’t see her. Brushing a lock
of her black hair away from her face, she took up his hand again.
He gave a jolt of surprise at the unexpected touch. He was always
listening so carefully to her every move, and yet he seemed never to
get used to the surprise of having an unseen hand touch his own
without warning.
She felt a strange protectiveness toward him, kind of how she guessed
she would feel toward an older brother. However, never having had one
she could only guess. She would never follow his orders, or do what
he said, as a daughter might do for a father. No, she looked on him as
a friend or a brother, but never a father, especially after her
experience of fathers. She did not want to spoil anything.
She felt safe around him, like when she used to feel when she was
around Peter, a feeling she hadn’t had for a long time. Holmes didn’t
ask her to talk; he just let her be who she wanted to be and do what
she wanted to do. He also seemed to enjoy her company.
She looked at his face, at his empty grey eyes that seemed to search
the room but never focused on anything.
She compared them to her own. She had black eyes with a grey ring
around the outside. He had sandy blonde hair, she had jet black hair
the curled into ringlets when newly washed. He was tall and she was
sure she had never seen anyone as thin as he was. She was middle-sized and
well-built.
She wore simple modern clothes that were much the worse for wear and
he wore what must have been the style of his youth, back in the days
of spats and high collared shirts. He had no coat or deerstalker, but
she surmised that those had been taken away by the guard, as her coat
had been.
Kneeling on the floor beside him, she began to sign into his hand
again, her fingers clumsy with the cold.
She didn’t mind taking the extra time to trace the letters into his
palm. She liked being on the same terms with him -- not that she was
happy he was blind, but she liked the feeling of being equal to him.
One of the reasons she was so intrigued by his description of the
youngest of the group he called his Irregulars.
This Tennyson sounded a lot like her,
Holmes also talked about a New Scotland Yard inspector by the name of
Lestrade who he described as being tall and having brown hair with a
light streak down the side. If Rowland didn’t know better from having read
the stories, she would have thought Holmes was sweet on this woman.
She also liked it when he talked about his robot friend. She hoped she
would live to meet all Holmes’s friends, as she had none of her own beside
the man whose hand she was now holding.
"Are you all right, Rowland?" he said in his cultured English accent.
She liked how he talked. There was a nobleness about his voice that
told you beyond doubt that he was a gentleman. She began to sign back
to him.
"YES" pause "I AM FEELING BETTER NOW"
"I thought you might have decided to discontinue our acquaintance."
"DO U WANT ME TO"
"I should say not." He said it with a slight chuckle. "I wonder how
long-"
His remark was cut short by a clomping sound, coming from the other
side of the wall of their cell.
They had been in this room together for at least a day or night now.
Rowland had lost count of how long she had been held captive, for
besides that one time she was taken by the guard from her other cell
she had not seen another human face for what she thought must be days.
Nor had either of them been given food since being put together,
Holmes gripped her hand tightly to get her attention.
"A man, about 150 pounds, probably was a construction worker, tough
hobnail boots, about 45 years of age."
She shook her head; she had given up trying to find out how he learned
stuff like that.
She laid his hand flat,
"THE SAME ONE AS BEFORE I THINK"
"I must agree with you there."
The door slid open and the half light of their prison was made
brighter from the additional light of the hallway outside.
She squeezed Holmes’s hand back.
The guard advanced toward them, and grabbing her, he threw her across
the room away from Holmes. She had had to let go of his hand, and with
that break in their communication went Holmes's connection to the
outside world.
She watched in horror as her friend was grabbed by his upper arm and
dragged unceremoniously to his feet. When he tried to turn around in
order to walk forward, the guard interpreted this as an attempt at
escape and promptly kneed him in the stomach.
Rowland screamed and tried to bite the guard's arm, resulting in her
being thrown again -- this time against the wall, head first.
The last thing she heard before she blacked out was the guard talking
to Holmes. "Nice little friend you got there -- a deaf kid."
Then the darkness she had been trying for so long to save her friend
from swallowed her.
Chapter Eight: Following The Trail
Lestrade growled and threw down yet another file, nearly knocking over
the black desk lamp that was perched on the corner of her desk. She
had been studying file after file for a day now, with only a small
period in between for rest. So she had been reading the zedding things
for about fifteen hours and nothing was turning up.
She had hoped to find some consistency, some small nuance from another
criminal act, which might give her a clue as to the identity of Holmes
kidnapper-
Catching herself, she realized that throughout this case she had been
making a conscious effort not to say ‘Holmes’s murderer’; and she
realized that the word ‘kidnapper’ was the only thing keeping her
going -- the small chance that her friend might still be alive.
A loud growl of protest from her stomach brought her back down to
earth, and yet another realization hit her, she had not had anything
to eat or drink since her last trip to the coffee machine almost three
hours ago.
She got slowly to her feet and flexed her muscles; it felt good to
stretch after being behind that desk for so long,
She then made her way down stairs to the ground floor, and got yet a
another cup of coffee out of the machine. Nothing like lukewarm cement
to keep you going.
Chewing, er, sipping, her coffee she turned around to see Watson
sitting in the corner of the room by himself, looking more worried
then ever. Inspector Stayword had been keeping his distance from the
pair lately, and so was nowhere to be seen at this particular moment.
However, a chorus of grumbling from the opposite side of the room
announced that their pudgy partner was not very far away.
Lestrade walked up to Watson and put a hand on her friend’s metallic
shoulder. "Hey, you okay?"
Watson nodded and attempted to put a confident smile on his face. He
failed miserably and the overall effect was that he looked like he
had smelled something very distasteful.
Realizing that he was grimacing, he abandoned the attempt at looking
bright and cheery and surrendered to complete depression,
"Were you able to ascertain anything from those reports?" Watson asked
Lestrade. She could hear the desperation in his voice.
"No, there’s no criminal at large or otherwise who seems like they
could fit into this. It’s a new case."
She sighed and sipped at her coffee again. "I was just notified of an
unexplained theft, a mechanics supplier. I thought I might go and investigate.
I think there’s a chance it might have something to do with Holmes; we can’t
afford to leave anything out at this point."
Watson jumped at the chance. "Shall we be off then?"
Lestrade had to hand it to him. For all his annoying attributes, he
sure had a lot of faith in his friend.
"But what makes you think that it may have something to do with Holmes,
Inspector?"
"Well, the parts that were stolen could not be used for anything other
than a high voltage power generator, and there are only a few places
in New London that need that kind of electricity on an ongoing basis."
"Such as?"
"Well, mostly old warehouses that were built before the boycott
against high pollutants. So I thought we could start looking around
the outskirts of new London, in places where you’d need a lot of
power to keep the place going."
"But what does that have to do with Holmes?"
"Well, if I was going to abduct someone that’s where I’d set up
headquarters. It’s not the kind of place that’s easy to keep running, but
it’s great if you want to stay out of the way of the authorities, and
there’s no rent."
"I think that’s a brilliant idea, Inspector!"
"Well, at least even if it doesn’t have anything to do with Holmes,
we’ll have crossed something off our list."
"How many warehouses or similar structures are there to search?"
"Well, that’s the problem. It may take a while."
Watson gave her a look.
"NO! Watson, forget it!"
"I really think they deserve a chance to help. They‘ve been just as
worried about Holmes as we have."
"Watson, they're just kids. I know it must be hard for them, but-"
Watson gave her one of his ‘Holmes would want them to help’ looks.
Lestrade gave up, and said with an exasperated sigh, "I’m never going
to win this one, am I?"
"Not in the foreseeable future, no."
"Okay, call them, but if they get in the way...."
"I’m sure they won't. I have complete faith in their abilities, and it
will make it easier for them to bear if they feel that they are
helping in some way."
"Whatever. Call them. If they can be here in fifteen minutes, fine.
Otherwise they’ll have to walk."
"I am sure they will be more than happy to rush over."
"Ya, that’s the problem." She sighed. "I suppose I’ll have to tell Stayword
about our new line of investigation."
Watson shrugged. "Well, if you must you must," he said cheerily.
Lestrade found the mischievous glitter in his eyes unnerving.