chapter five
the portal to the
past
"Ha ha," I laughed tensely, "that's a funny joke,
Brandon. Especially considering your earlier disdain for all things
fictional."
"Joking is the furthest thing from my mind at
present," said the tall policeman. "I give you my word of honor
that I mean what I say. I am Sherlock Holmes."
"But that's
impossible," I stuttered.
"You are wrong," he countered. "It
is merely improbable. And as I have said many times, when you
eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must
be--"
"The truth, I know," I interrupted. I stared at the
gentleman in the eerie blue light. Sharp features, an intense
exp​ression, clear grey
eyes. I had the feeling that if I saw him in his proper outfit he
would look exactly like the Holmes I'd always pictured. Could it
be?
"Please excuse me if I seem forward," I said, raising a
hand to his face and running my fingers lightly over his aquiline
features. Well, the man was flesh and blood, at any rate.
"I'm
sorry to be so incredulous, Bran--Mr. Holmes," I said, "But you
see, in this century, most people regard the stories about you as
fiction only."
"I have become all too aware of that
unfortunate fact," he said with an ironic grin. "But I also know
that you do not conform to the majority opinion in that instance,
Miss Ingham."
"How could you know that?" I asked in
surprise.
"It was easy enough to deduce, once I made inquiries
into your work at Crosby University," he explained. "You will
forgive me, but circumstances have made it necessary for me to learn
all I can about you and your unfortunate family. It was equally
necessary for me to follow you and your cousin here from your hotel."
He must have noticed my troubled exp​ression.
"I do apologize, Miss Ingham," he said. "I understand that such
behavior appears inherently disturbing to a lady of your century. I
believe that 'stalking' is the term in usage? However, I assure
you that I bear you no ill will, but am acting in what I believe to
be the best interests of both you and your family members."
"I
understand, of course." My mind was positively reeling at the web
of fact and fiction, reality and unreality, that was wrapping around
me and appearing more and more complex. "But I don't understand
how you came to be in this century at all."
"That is a story
in itself, and would be best told once we are safe in Baker Street,"
said Mr. Holmes.
"Baker Street? We're going to Baker Street?"
Despite my worries about Jeanette, I felt my heart leap in spite of
myself. Maybe this was all some sort of crazy dream. But even if it
was, I was going to enjoy the dream for all that it was worth.
"Of
course, Miss Ingham," said Mr. Holmes. "I have said already that
the danger is greatest for you here, and there is no more work for me
to do in this century at the moment." He stepped over to the Roman
numeral switchboard and indicated the numeral for 1895. "The device
was already set to take me back to my proper era. If we leave at
once, we shall be only a few footsteps behind your cousin."
"Wait,"
I said, "Jeanette's parents--my aunt and uncle. They'll be so
worried."
"If all goes as planned, we shall return to this
century at the very moment we left it," said Mr. Holmes. "They
will never have occasion for concern."
"But--" I began, and
then stopped. This was certainly no time to try and argue with
Sherlock Holmes about the logical paradoxes inherent in time travel.
"Let's go then," I said.
"I humbly suggest that you take
my hand, Miss Ingham. It will not help matters at all if we become
separated."
I slipped my trembling hand into his firm, cold one.
"The game's afoot," I said, with an attempt at
cheerfulness.
"Yes," he said with a smile. "It most
definitely is." And, hand-in-hand, Sherlock Holmes and I stepped
across the threshold of the past.
