The Eighth Guest

Chapter Thirteen

by TT (a.m.tilmouth.s99 at
Beth emerged from beneath the platform and collapsed to her knees at Watson's feet. The cold so high up was almost unbearable. She was surprised she'd managed to hold onto the framework for as long as she had. Watson lifted her up and carried her inside before hitting the close button on the doors. Beth was soon wrapped up in a coat and resting on a bench.
"Where's Holmes?"
Watson wound the rope back into his stomach compartment. "Gone after the two Moriartys, I should think!"
Beth tried to stand up. "Then that's where we're going...ow." She held her ribs and nearly collapsed again.
Watson managed to grab her shoulders. "Are you all right, Inspector?"
Beth stood up again slowly. "I don't believe it, I think he actually bruised a couple of ribs...when I get my hands on that...."
"I think we should find some medical assistance." Watson tried to help Lestrade sit down again.
"Don't be stupid, Watson. We've got to get after Moriarty and Holmes."
"But what about your ribs?"
Lestrade began walking off down the hall and Watson followed with a heavy clanking sound as he struggled to keep pace. "Later." Beth grimaced. "First Moriarty, then I'll let the meds at me."
Watson looked panic-stricken at that suggestion. "But Holmes took the car."
"Then we'll just have to find another way off of here...say, Watson." She turned. "Where do you think they keep those pigeon-eating things...?"


Tennyson wondered where everybody had got to. The Irregulars and his aunt sat quietly among the remains of half-demolished desserts and cold coffee. Every five minutes or so the manager would come in and stare at them, wring his hands together and hiccup before leaving them in stony silence again.
"I'm sure Mr Holmes will find Tessa and Inspector Lestrade soon, Tennyson!" His aunt laid a hand on his. He nodded. How far away could they be? There was no way off the restaurant...except down.
Wiggins pulled someone's unfinished dessert towards him. "Don't worry, Tennyson. Mr Holmes is on the case. I bet they'll be back here in no time flat...are you going to eat that?" Tennyson pushed his untouched cake towards Wiggins.
Deidre slapped Wiggin's shoulder. "Stop piggin' on everything, Wiggins. Tennyson's worried."
Wiggins rubbed his arm. He often wondered where Deidre got such a right hook from. "Well, my coach says I got to put on weight before next season or I'm off the boxing team, and I don't fancy taking up streetfighting just to work out." He looked at Deidre's half-finished meringue. "You going to eat that?"
Deidre sighed and stared out the window...and stared again. "LESTRADE!"
Wiggins jumped and one of the desserts in front of him ended up on the floor. "Where?"
Deidre pointed. "Out there...and Watson too. What are they doing?"


The pigeon eaters were not fast transport, and they kept trying to open up every time a bird flew by. Strapped to the top of several of the oval discs, held on by rope and a belt strap, Lestrade and Watson came to an unsteady hover before Lestrade managed to push the forward circuits on each disc in turn. It was a bad method of transportation and seemed to sink lower every second, but with Watson reading the signatures of the passed skycars and Lestrade very badly steering five separate robots, they managed to hold out over London at about the rate of a sick seagull.

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