The Future Door (2 page)
For example, there are those who say that Griffin Sharpe traveled into outer space, not once, but three times, and that on each voyage he prevented Earth from being destroyed by otherworldly forces. This we know to be true.
And there are those who say that later in life he thwarted a plan by the Nazis to resurrect Adolf Hitler using robotic parts.
This we also know to be true. The account was corroborated by several eyewitnesses.
In the mystery of the Iron Cross, Mr. Sharpe is said to have bested the infamous Red Baron in aerial combat, and in another account he is said to have impersonated both the president of the United States and the prime minister of England in order to save both their lives. Both stories are true.
And I myself have said on a number of occasions that when he was eleven years of age, Griffin Sharpe traveled in a time machine and saved us from a terrible future we never knew existed.
But here we must separate fact from fiction.
While it is most certainly true that he traveled through time and, while doing so, he actually became the first person in history to have tea with himself, I have been contacted by Dame Victoria Sharpe regarding this incident, and she has informed me that on one important fact I am gravely mistaken.
Griffin Sharpe was actually
twelve
years old when it happened, not eleven. I apologize, dear reader, for this terrible error. And let me assure you that everything you are about to read from this point onward was carefully researched.
Now then, since the writing of my first book about Mr. Sharpe,
No Place Like Holmes
, I have been inundated with letters from Griffin Sharpe fans begging to know more of the great detective's exploits. But the real challenge for me was, which one to choose? For as you know, Mr. Sharpe has done so many incredible things that each account makes for an interesting story.
But after spending many sleepless nights researching his cases, I finally decided that none is quite as remarkable as the one you are about to read.
So please pull up a chair and get your tea and scones, for once again we're about to travel into the past. As the years fly behind us, we shall follow Griffin Sharpe as he travels forward in time, embarking on this strange adventure, and meeting us in the most unlikely of places . . . the future!
We shall stick to the facts as they actually happened. Or, should I say, are about to happen.
J
ASON
L
ETHCOE
MARCH 2011
M
rs. Hudson wiped her hands on her apron as she hurried to the front door of 221 Baker Street. The delicious scent of roasting chicken and rosemary wafted behind her as she rushed out of the kitchen to answer the persistent knocking.
“Half a moment,” she called irritably. If there was one thing she didn't like, it was being interrupted when she was in the middle of preparing a meal for her tenants. After pausing to tuck a few stray hairs beneath her cap, she opened the door. To her surprise, a pretty young woman dressed in boys' clothing was standing on the doorstep.
“May I help you?” Mrs. Hudson asked suspiciously. She scanned the woman's attire, taking in her dyed wool jacket, checked trousers, and newsboy cap. Somehow, in spite of the unflattering clothing, the girl still managed to look feminine.
“You must be Mrs. Hudson! My name is Charlotte Pepper. It's so very nice to meet you,” she said, extending her hand. Mrs. Hudson was taken aback for a moment, but then, seeing no other polite way around it, shook Charlotte's offered hand.
“Ouch!” said Mrs. Hudson, releasing Miss Pepper's grip. The ring the young lady wore was quite sharp.
“Oh! Please forgive me,” said Charlotte Pepper, and quickly removed the ring. “I didn't mean to injure you. Sometimes I forget I have that old ring on.”
“And what can I do for you, Miss Pepper?” Mrs. Hudson asked impatiently.
“I heard that you were looking for a new tenant and have come to inquire about the apartment. How much rent do you require?”
Mrs. Hudson noticed that when she spoke, Charlotte Pepper didn't make eye contact, but instead glanced everywhere else, including the hallway behind her.
A smile played around the young woman's full lips, and her huge brown eyes danced with excitement. Turning back to the landlady, she asked, “Is it indeed the former residence of the famous Sherlock Holmes?”
“Until recently, yes,” Mrs. Hudson replied with a sigh. Ever since her favorite tenant had departed, she'd had no end of “lookie-loos” showing up, wanting to catch a glimpse of the great detective's apartment.
“Wonderful! May I see it?” said Charlotte Pepper.
“Young lady,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I don't wish to be rude, but the apartment in question is quite expensive.” She glanced at the young woman's shabby clothing. “Mr. Holmes was an accomplished detective with a reliable income, and I mean for my new tenant to meet the same qualifications.”
If Charlotte Pepper was offended by the remark, she didn't show it.
“Well, I assure you that money is no object,” she stated. “Simply name your price and I shall pay it.”
Mrs. Hudson started to reply, but Charlotte interrupted her, holding up a finger.
“I am absolutely without question the biggest fan of Sherlock Holmes who ever lived. I am a bit of an amateur detective myself and will treat the premises with the utmost care and respect. I am clean, decent, and well-mannered. In other words, I am the perfect tenant. I'm sure we'll get along famously.”
She reached into her jacket pocket and removed the largest amount of British currency Mrs. Hudson had ever seen one person carry. After pressing it into the startled landlady's hand, she stepped past her into the hallway.
“I believe my new rooms are right up these stairs, correct?”
Mrs. Hudson, feeling completely flummoxed, watched as the young woman charged down the hall and up the stairs.
Another detective at Baker Street?
she thought. First there was Mr. Holmes, then Mr. Snodgrass, and now this precocious female? And just who did Charlotte Pepper think she was, bossing her around, not asking but
telling
her that she was to accept her as her tenant?
But Mrs. Hudson didn't express her feelings aloud. For one of the first times in her life, the landlady was left absolutely speechless. She felt quite dazed by Miss Pepper's presence and persuasive speech, and decided that it was easier to comply with the woman's demands than to resist. And she couldn't help but think that her old tenant, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, would have enjoyed seeing that happen for once.
If only he were still here
, she thought sadly.
Mrs. Hudson respected that Mr. Holmes had finally moved to Sussex to live a quiet life of retirement, but his absence at Baker Street was a loss that she felt deeply. And without Sherlock Holmes's lanky figure patrolling the streets of London, the world felt much more dangerous. Even though Mr. Snodgrass and Master Sharpe had proven that they were capable detectives and lived next door, it just wasn't the same. In her opinion, the boy and his uncle were “second best,” and that just wasn't good enough.
She felt quite light-headed as she closed the front door, and failed to notice the disreputable character who was standing beneath the gaslight on the opposite side of the street. The huge man watched her with a twisted grin.
Right on schedule
, he thought.
Then he reached up to the gaslight and opened one of the glass panes. After removing two small pieces of paper from a tiny metal box, he closed the pane again almost silently. Then, with hardly a backward glance, the man hurried into the shadows.
G
riffin Sharpe clutched his ebony walking stick, fighting to keep his balance as the steamship rocked back and forth on the churning waves. The storm had forced most of the passengers below, but not him.
His leg was still sore from where it had been permanently injured in a battle with one of the most evil men in London. But he didn't complain about the discomfort. Instead, he gritted his teeth and leaned more heavily on his stick, forcing himself to limp along the slippery rail to the bow of the heaving ship.
Twenty life preservers
,
three lanterns
,
one shuffleboard stick
. . . Griffin silently counted the things he saw as he hobbled forward, a longtime habit that helped him cope with anxiety or discomfort. He fought down his feeling of seasickness and forced himself to focus on the task at hand.
Griffin Sharpe's mind was a constant fireworks display of thoughts and ideas, and there were very few people like him. His unique reasoning and deductive abilities were gifts from heaven, and Griffin intended to use them in the service of others. Right now, he was helping the captain of the ship find his favorite spyglass, which had mysteriously disappeared. The captain had always kept it in his private chambers, and earlier that afternoon, when he'd gone to retrieve it, he discovered that the small telescope had vanished.
His leg was really throbbing, and the doctor had warned him that he needed to treat it gently, but Griffin couldn't help himself. Trifling things like unpleasant weather and rollicking waves wouldn't stop him when he was feeling excited to solve a mystery.
And as the twelve-year-old detective hobbled forward, his usually sad, blue eyes were alight with excitement, for Griffin knew he was getting close to cracking the case, and nothing thrilled him more than that.
He ignored the cold spray that had thoroughly soaked through his tweed jacket and cap as he searched everything near the front of the ship. After several long minutes, he finally spotted what he was looking for. A few feet to the left of a life preserver, right at the top of the bow, was a tiny, glittering object wedged between the deck plates.
He wiped his magnifying glass on his damp shirt and bent closer so that he could see the object better.
It was a tiny brass ring.
But Griffin could tell right away that it wasn't the kind of ring that was to be worn on a finger as a piece of jewelry. He studied it closely, noticing the small threads that wound around inside the circular band and the small bit of glass in its center.
The boy knew the ring was a piece of a brass telescope, the eyepiece that was supposed to be attached to the observing end.
He wedged the small ring out of the plates with his penknife and placed it carefully in his pocket. Then he smiled and wiped the salty mist from his forehead with his sleeve.
Now that he'd found this clue, Griffin had a pretty good idea of who had taken the captain's favorite brass telescope and what had happened to it. All that was left for him to do was to gather one more piece of evidence to prove that his hunch was correct. He swayed with the rolling ship as he limped to the door that led back inside the ship's main cabin.
Tap-tap-tap
went his stick as it hit the weathered planks. Griffin studied the deck in front of him as he walked. The marks he followed were a nearly invisible series of small, gray half-moons that led from the bow back to the inside of the ship.
Nobody else would have observed what the marks were, but Griffin could tell that they were made by the heel of someone's shoe, someone who had stepped briefly into a puddle of grease.
He knew it to be grease because the rain and the waves weren't washing the marks away. Instead, droplets of water gathered in each half-moon and glittered in the ship's lamplight. Oil and water didn't mix. And Griffin had his suspicions as to where this particular kind of grease had originated. Like a young bloodhound, he was following the trail back to its point of origin.
Thirteen
,
fourteen
,
fifteen
. . . He automatically counted the tracks as he entered the inside of the ship and followed the trail up a winding staircase. But this time, his habitual counting couldn't distract him from the pain in his leg, which had begun to burn so badly that he finally had to stop and sit on the uppermost stair.
As he massaged his calf, he glanced at the sumptuously decorated hallway in front of him. He was now on the upper deck, where the captain and the first-class passengers had their quarters.