No Place Like Holmes (17 page)

Somewhere inside the clock there had to be a switch that, when the clock struck twelve, would trigger the explosives. As he fought, shooting indiscriminately at the approaching thugs, he searched desperately for any sign of the device.

Before he even realized it, Griffin had dispatched three of the henchmen, blasting them with glowing plasma and sending them into a deep sleep. Three remained, and even though they seemed pretty stupid, they had seen what Griffin's weapon could do and were making it difficult for him to get a clear shot.

The thugs drew long knives and hid behind the gigantic gears, waiting for an opportunity to strike. Meanwhile, Snodgrass and Moriarty were engaged in combat, with the gigantic hands of the clock in silhouette behind them.

The hands were positioned at five minutes to twelve. Snodgrass swung with his spear and Moriarty parried, sending Griffin's uncle reeling backward. The butt end of his spear crashed through the massive clock face, sending shards of glass hurtling toward the Palace and ceremony below.

The tinkle of that falling glass alerted the ever-watchful Holmes to the situation. The tall detective was sitting on a velvet-lined chair, listening to Her Royal Highness talk about his illustrious career and his service to the Crown. But when the shards of glass hit the earth, his head jerked up, like a bloodhound catching wind of a scent.

It didn't take more than a moment for him to realize that something was going on behind the giant clock face of Big Ben. The detective's keen gaze saw the tiny shadows at the top of the tower and, after a quick apology to the Queen and the audience, leapt into action.

It was 11:57. They were almost out of time.

A knife whizzed by the side of Griffin's head, narrowly missing his ear. He returned fire at the thug who had thrown it, but missed. His eyes flicked desperately around the room, searching . . . searching.

And then he saw it. Set deep between rows of turning gears was a small, black box. It was almost completely obscured by the clockworks, and getting to it looked nearly impossible. How Moriarty had managed to hide it there was beyond Griffin's powers of imagination.

The giant minute hands clunked forward.

Eleven fifty-eight.

Please, God, show me what to—
But before he'd even finished his prayer, the solution presented itself. It was a terribly desperate thing to do, and yet Griffin knew that even if it cost him his life, it was worth saving the lives of others.

He rushed up to where Snodgrass and Moriarty were fighting. The battle seemed to be nearly over. Moriarty towered over his uncle, his sword pointed triumphantly at his chest. Griffin saw that his uncle's spear was lying nearby, out of reach.

Moriarty glanced at the giant hands of the clock and back down to Snodgrass. Without saying a word, Griffin knew what he was thinking.

They were all doomed.

There wasn't enough time to escape the blast. But judging by the look on the villain's face, he was going to kill Snodgrass before being killed himself, if only for the pleasure of seeing him die.

Knives flew past Griffin as he ran toward his uncle. He was so intent upon his plan that he didn't see one of Moriarty's henchman coming toward him with his long, glittering blade out and ready. The scarred man's face was twisted with animal ferocity, and when he threw the blade, it flew with deadly accuracy.

Griffin felt a pinch on his calf. One of the knives must have nicked him. But he ignored it, took aim at Moriarty, and fired.

The Stinger's blast narrowly missed the villain, but it did knock Moriarty off balance. Hoping that it had bought his uncle an advantage, Griffin knelt, dropped the Stinger, and grabbed his uncle's electrical spear.

Eleven fifty-nine.

Griffin tried to run back toward the giant gears, but suddenly realized that his leg wasn't working. Looking down, he saw a crimson pool gathering around his shoe. The last knife hadn't just nicked him. Numbly, he looked at the knife handle that protruded out of the side of his calf and the vast amount of blood on the floor.

Fighting for every ounce of strength, he limped as close as he could to the rotating gears. There was no sign of Moriarty's thugs anywhere. Apparently they'd fled the clock tower, anxious to save their own lives.

Griffin could sense that there was no time left, that at any moment the gigantic minute hand would swing into place and the clock would strike twelve. His leg was throbbing as the shock wore off, and he felt dizzy, his vision cloudy from the loss of blood.

He'd only have one chance, a single shot to hit the box.

He thought desperately of David when he faced Goliath. In that story, a young boy had brought down a giant in one shot. And Griffin knew that his hand had been guided by the Lord.

As You helped David, please, help me now . . .

Griffin pulled the trigger on the spear, and as the electricity sparked, he threw the spear toward the box with all of his might.

But he never saw whether or not the spear hit the target. Suddenly he felt a terrible pain and, looking down, saw the point of Moriarty's sword protruding from the middle of his chest. Then everything went black.

Griffin was already unconscious when Snodgrass shot Moriarty in the back with the Stinger, sending him into a coma-like sleep to wait for police. But after shooting the villain, Snodgrass didn't watch as Moriarty slumped to the floor. Nor was he aware that as the gigantic hands of the clock swung into place, the clock struck the twelve o'clock hour without an explosion.

Rupert Snodgrass rushed to his nephew's side and gathered Griffin's lifeless body into his arms and wept. Nigel Moriarty had already stolen someone he'd cared deeply about once before, and now it had happened again. And it was more painful than he could have ever imagined.

Snodgrass barely felt the consoling hand that touched his shoulder. His eyes were so blurred with tears that he didn't recognize Sherlock Holmes, who had arrived at the scene of the crime too late for once.

There was no triumph for Rupert Snodgrass. Even if he'd been able to see Holmes, to know that he'd finally beaten the Great Detective in solving a case before he had, he wouldn't have cared. All that mattered now was his nephew.

And it seemed like Griffin was gone forever.

27
RECOVERY

F
or many days Griffin was lost somewhere between waking and sleeping. He was dimly aware of throbbing pain in his chest and calf, white-shirted doctors, the smell of iodine, and the whirr of machinery as it pumped up and down around him.

But eventually, he did awake. And when he did, the first person he saw sitting beside his bed was his uncle.

Rupert Snodgrass was asleep, slumped in a chair. His arm was in a sling, and Griffin was surprised that he was dressed differently than when he'd last seen him. He wore a clean suit and had even shaved! And in spite of being groggy, Griffin's keen gaze also noticed that while shaving he'd missed twelve whiskers, that a bit of shaving cream had dried behind his ear, and that his collar had been put on upside down. But for all of his finery, his uncle looked very tired. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and Griffin noticed new lines on his haggard face.

Griffin turned his gaze around the room and felt disoriented. How much time had passed since he'd been in the clock tower?

His uncle must have heard him stir, because his eyes flicked open. He gazed at Griffin for a moment as if having a hard time believing what he was seeing. Then he exhaled slowly, as if he'd been holding his breath for a long time. He moved to Griffin's bedside and, smiling, awkwardly patted his shoulder.

“Welcome to the waking world, Griffin.”

“How long have I been asleep?” Griffin asked. He was surprised to hear how weak his voice sounded.

“Five days,” said his uncle. “For a while there, the doctors weren't sure that you were going to stay with us.”

“Is he awake?” a voice said. Griffin looked up and saw a priest enter the room. The man was small, elderly, and had a friendly face. He took one look at Griffin and clasped his hands together.

“Well, God be praised,” the priest said happily. Then he turned to Snodgrass and said, “Do you see, Rupert? Our prayers have been answered!”

Griffin gave his uncle a surprised look. Snodgrass cleared his throat awkwardly and looked away.

“Well, my boy, it looks as if you've had quite an adventure! The entire city owes you and your uncle a great debt,” said the priest.

Suddenly all the images from their crazy train ride and battle at the clock tower rushed back to Griffin. Obviously, since he was still alive, the last-minute shot he'd made with his uncle's electric spear must have hit its target.

Snodgrass, seeming to read his thoughts, explained, “How you ever conceived of such a stroke of genius as to throw the spear into the bomb's triggering mechanism I'll never guess,” he said warmly. “It was magnificent to watch the sparks fly as the box shorted out, and even more to see the expression on Nigel Moriarty's face as he realized his plan was foiled.”

“Did they take him to prison?” Griffin asked.

“Well, er, there was a problem,” Snodgrass said grimly. He sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “Moriarty's ability to elude justice is legendary. The night after he was delivered to his jail cell, there was an escape. The officers believe that one of their own was in on it.”

Griffin winced. It would have made him feel much better to know that such an evil man was behind bars, where he could never hurt anyone again.

“But there is good news. Her Royal Highness was very generous in her praise and reward. She's had her personal doctors attending you. And I can assure you that you will never again have to eat dried kippers and blood sausage if you don't want to.”

Griffin smiled. They had succeeded in solving the mystery and saving the Queen, and now his uncle wouldn't have to worry about being evicted from his flat either! If only Moriarty were behind bars, things would have been perfect.