5
As Julia and Holmes continued to search the exhibits, the chief inspector came up behind and them, and grabbed Julia's arm to pull her out of the building. "Children do not belong in crime scenes unless they are the victims!" he shouted while he snatched her away from her work.
"Let me go, I am working with Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" she shouted.
He instantly let her go, rounded the corner of cases and ran face first into Holmes, who was coming to see what was wrong, having heard the exchanged words.
The inspector stood there in silence as Holmes moved him aside, walked over to Julia, and told her to find her father. "Inspector, I presume. Why were harassing that child?" he asked in an un-courteous tone.
"Why did she say she was working with you?" the inspector shot back in the same voice, almost mockingly.
Holmes didn't reply, for he heard Julia's softly padding feet and whimpering tears. "What is wrong, Julia?" he asked; kneeling down and gently clasping her thin and shaking hands.
"I cannot find Papa!" she whispered, shaking like a leaf in autumn.
Holmes attempted to calm and reassure her by telling Julia that he would look for Watson. She remained near the broken cases, as instructed, Holmes strode to the last place he had seen the misplaced father. The inspector picked his interrogations, but a little gentler. "How can a child like you know, much less work with, the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes?" he crossed his arms in front of him.
Julia mirrored the gesture with her thin arms. "I have known Mr. Holmes since I was three years old. He has been teaching me since I was four. And my father has known Mr. Holmes for many years." She may have still been shaking, but Holmes had taught her how to be deceptive with her emotions.
"And who would your father be?" he quipped.
Julia was about to answer when someone came up behind her and gently placed their hands on her shoulders and answered for her. "John H. Watson M.D. and retired army surgeon of the second class." Watson answered.
"Oh, I see. My apologies; is there anything I can do to, um, aid in your investigation?" the inspector tried to back pedal as fast as he could, having himself read Watson's narratives about he and Holmes' adventures.
"No." Holmes said as he stepped forward to join the group. "Come, Julia; I need your assistance." He carefully took hold of her left hand and turned her away from the others.
"Of course, Mr. Holmes." She gave a slight smile up at him. "What can I assist you with?"
"These blood drops. I need you to follow them and call out to me how many steps you are taking between them." He pointed out the scarlet drops. Knowing that Julia's strides were exactly fifteen inches, he could determine how fast the source of the blood was moving by how many steps she was taking between them.
So she followed the trail, calling out her stride count. Julia meandered her way through the museum and found herself in the back storage rooms. She suddenly stopped in the door way of an adjoining room. "M… Mr. Holmes!" she faltered.
"What is wrong, little one?" Holmes called from across the room as he walked to stand beside her.
She raised a shaking finger to point into the back corner of the room. Slumped against the wall was the bloodied corpse of one of the museum guards. "That explains the blood on the cloth." She whispered.
Julia's mind was running on one track at that moment: memories of her mother brutally killed before her three years ago.