Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(52)

“You are Sherlock Holmes,” she said in little above a whisper.

He drew in his breath to try to explain to her that he was Marcus St. Giles, playing Sherlock Holmes on television. Sherlock Holmes was an imaginary character, not a real person. He never had been real.

But she cut him off. “Please, sir, Mr. Holmes, my mummy has been kidnapped and I need you to help me.”

He froze. This was awful. He stared around the dining room to find the child’s mother. What on earth was she thinking of to let this . . . urchin . . . wander around alone, and not even properly dressed? But all the diners were busy with their plates of fruit, bacon and eggs, toast. They were all properly English, minding their own business, reading the Times, sipping tea.

“Please, Mr. Holmes,” she said again. “I saw you on the television, and I’ve read all your stories. Most of them, anyway. You can help me, can’t you?” There was a note of desperation in her voice and she was clinging onto her composure with great difficulty.

He had no children of his own and he had no idea how to deal with her. Was she even old enough to grasp the idea of acting? Pretending to be someone you were not?

“Look . . . what is your name?”

“Sarah,” she said with a gulp. Now there were tears in her eyes.

People at the nearby tables looked up. One of them clearly recognized him and drew the attention of her companion.

This was even more awful! He could not be seen to turn away a child in distress.

He pointed to the other chair at his table. “Sit down, Sarah, and tell me what has happened.” Was she old enough to drink tea? Should he send the waiter for another cup?

But the waiter had had his attention drawn to the child already and came over to see if he could help.

Seeing him, Sarah stepped closer to Marcus. “Please, Mr. Holmes, you have to help me. I’ve got to get Raffa, or they’ll . . . they’ll kill my mummy.”

The waiter looked at Sarah, then at Marcus.

“Is the young lady bothering you, Mr. St. Giles? I’ll see . . .”

An instant decision must be made. Half the dining room was looking at him now. He could see the headlines—SHERLOCK HOLMES TURNS AWAY A LOST CHILD IN TROUBLE! WHO DOES MARCUS ST. GILES THINK HE IS?

“Thank you,” Marcus said firmly. “Sarah is joining me for breakfast. Would you bring her a glass of orange juice, or milk, if she would prefer it?”

“Orange juice, please,” she said with a gulp.

The waiter let out his breath with a sigh, and pulled the chair back for her, then helped her bring it forward again. “I’ll fetch your orange juice, madam,” he said, and left.

There was no turning back now.

“When did you know that your mother had gone?” he asked her gravely.

“When I woke up this morning and she wasn’t there,” she answered.

“Could she have been in the bathroom?” She was probably at reception now, wondering where on earth her child was.

But Sarah shook her head. She put her hand into her pants pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. Soberly, watching him closely, she passed it across the table to him.

He took it and read it. It was very simple, written in deliberately odd letters, a mixture of upper and lower case, cursive and print.

‘Give us the giraffe and your mother will be returned. Fail, and she dies. Leave it in the bedroom and go out. Come back at seven.’

It was not signed.

For a moment he wanted to laugh—but the child was afraid. He had worked with some good child actors, but this was real, one real thing in a world of make-believe.

“I see,” he said gravely. “What is this giraffe they want? Do you know? Do you have it?”

She shook her head just a little and her voice was no more than a whisper. “No. Raffa’s gone too.”

“Raffa?”

“My giraffe.”

This was truly awful. Was someone playing the worst kind of practical joke?

“Where did you last see Raffa?”

“I think I left him in the taxi yesterday,” she answered.

Somewhere in central London there was a taxi that had not noticed it was carrying a giraffe! Where were the cameras and the laughter? He must play it seriously. It was the only dignified thing to do. Dignified! He had never felt more absurd.

“How did that happen?” he asked, as if it were a reasonable question.

“It was a very long flight and I was sleepy when I got here. All the luggage got mixed up. I was carrying Raffa and I left him behind when I helped Mummy get my stuff out.”

Carrying him? Ah: a stuffed animal. Something that made sense.

“Where did you fly from?”

“Kuala Lumpur.”

“You’re right. It’s a very long way indeed. Just you and your mother?” Perhaps it would be tactless to ask where her father was.

“And Raffa,” she added.

“How old are you?”

“Nearly nine. I’ll be ten before the end of next year.” She said it with some pride. Her wide blue eyes did not waver from his. The trust in them was terrifying. Was the real Sherlock Holmes ever faced with . . . but now he was being idiotic. There was no “real” Sherlock Holmes!

“That sounds about right,” he agreed. “Why do they want Raffa? Do you know who they are?”