Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(57)

“At my flat. I’m going out to lunch with a friend . . .”

“We’ll be there,” Marcus cut him off, then leaned forward and gave the taxi driver new directions.



Peter Cauliffe was about the same age as Marcus, but a milder, gentler-looking man.

The thing that made him distinctive was the wit in his face, and the warmth of his expression. Marcus admitted, very occasionally, that he was also the cleverer actor of the two of them, because he could play a wider variety of people. The Watson he played on screen was almost his natural character, perhaps just a little more patient.

Marcus gave Peter a long, steady look, then introduced Sarah Waterman to Dr. Watson, and added, “Sarah is in trouble and has come to us for help. Her mother appears to have been . . . kidnapped and the ransom for her is Sarah’s toy giraffe, Raffa. We don’t know why, but since they landed from Kuala Lumpur last night, we think there may be something stitched inside him. The threat is quite clear. And she is very alone.” He needed Peter to believe him without doubt, and without sowing even more fear in Sarah’s mind.

Peter stared at Marcus, noticed his unusual gravity, and perhaps a difference in his manner. A sincerity he rarely carried off set, at least recently.

“Yes,” Peter agreed slowly. “It sounds very grave indeed.” He looked at Sarah. “We will do all we can to help, Miss Waterman. May I call you Sarah?” He held out his hand.

She took it very solemnly. “How do you do, Dr. Watson.”

“The first thing,” Marcus went on, “is to get Raffa back from the taxi company, er, Watson.” He felt ridiculous calling him “Watson” off set, but he met Peter’s eyes very steadily, hoping he would understand, and call him “Holmes.” “Will you do that for us . . . ?”

But Sarah pulled on his sleeve. Both men looked down at her.

“They won’t give Raffa to Dr. Watson,” she reminded him. “You said to give it to no one but you.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “Now what . . . Holmes?”

Marcus knew in a moment of utter certainty that part of Peter was enjoying this. He believed the reality, but he also saw a kind of poetic justice in it.

There was no honorable alternative. “Sarah is quite right. Keep her safe here and I will go back for Raffa.”

Sarah gave a little cry of protest.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently, looking straight at her. “But this . . . this ‘case’ is serious. We must get Raffa back before we can do anything else. The police don’t believe us. We’ve no time to waste.” He looked back at Peter. “Watson, have you got an attaché case, or some sort of bag I can put Raffa inside? I may be gone a little while. Look after Sarah.”

“I have a lunch!”

“Sorry, old chap,” Marcus said. “But both Sarah and I think we were followed for a while. They may well be waiting at the taxi company office. I will have to lead them off the trail before I get back here. Don’t let anyone in.”

Sarah let go of his sleeve, but her eyes were wide and brimming with tears.

What would Holmes have done? Nothing warmhearted, and she must know that. She might well know Holmes better than he did. She needed belief now more than comfort.

“Do whatever Watson says,” he told her. “He’s looked after me all these years, and saved my neck a few times, as you know. He will look after you. Right, Watson?”

“Surely, Holmes,” Peter replied without a flicker.

Marcus left the house and walked quite casually to the taxi stand a quarter of a mile away. There was no one else in the street except a woman walking her dog, and a couple of youths joking with each other. But once he was in the taxi he felt oddly closed in. He asked to be dropped a block away from the office, then wondered if he was actually making himself more vulnerable.

Had he been followed to Peter’s house? Would Peter be attacked and Sarah taken while Marcus was away from them? It must be wonderful to be as sure of his own invulnerability as the marvellously fictional Sherlock Holmes! Wasn’t he ever afraid? Afraid of pain, of failure, of letting people down? Whatever future scripts said, perhaps he should make him human, frightened and lonely sometimes, full of doubts. Or was that not what people wanted to know? Maybe that was what the drugs were for? Conan Doyle had included that, so the script writers had too, but only rarely.

He was at the taxi company offices. There were several people around, at least four of whom glanced at him as he pulled the door open and went in.

Five minutes later he walked out with the stuffed giraffe in his attaché case, its legs folded up and its neck bent a little. It was a handsome creature, very carefully stitched and with a benign, almost smiling face.

He looked left and right. He recognized no one from five minutes before, but he still declined the taxi that slowed questioningly as he stood on the curb. Instead, he walked a few blocks and stopped a cab at random.

He gave the driver directions, then changed them after half a mile. He watched the numbers of the cars behind him. He saw the same one even after the change of direction. He changed again. Was he safer in a taxi, or walking? Could he find a place where a vehicle could not follow him? Go through a shop and come out on a different street? He stopped at a large department store with three entrances, and went in to mingle with the crowd. Would they expect him to go out at the far side? What if he doubled back and went out the way he came in?