No Place Like Holmes by Jason Lethcoe

pursuits.”
    Griffin realized that there was much about his uncle he didn’t know. He wondered about his uncle’s past—like why he’d decided to become an investigator and how he’d learned to make such incredible inventions. But he wasn’t sure that it was proper to ask such personal questions. I wonder what hap pened between him and my mother? And why did he say that they weren’t close?
    His musings were interrupted by the sound of Watts clanking into the kitchen with a pot of freshly boiled tea. Griffin held out his cup and watched as the butler expertly poured him a steaming cup. He still couldn’t get over how amazing the machine was.
    â€œThank you,” Griffin said. Watts’s blue eyes glowed in response, and he nodded politely.
    â€œOh, Watts, please bring us the pastries you bought at Tottingham’s yesterday,” Snodgrass said. “There’s a good fellow.”
    The robot dutifully set down the teapot he was carrying and disappeared into the pantry. At the sound of the word pastry , Griffin glanced up from his teacup, giving his uncle a surprised look.
    He felt sure his uncle saw his expression, but Snodgrass pretended not to notice and continued to sip his tea and scan the headlines of the morning paper. Watts returned shortly, carrying a tray filled with some of the delicious-looking pastries Griffin had seen in Tottingham’s shop when he’d first arrived.
    The mechanical butler set the pastries down on the table, and Griffin couldn’t help smiling. Piled high on the tray were little pies filled with raspberry jam, buttered scones with plump raisins, and flaky, moon-shaped pastries his uncle informed him were called croissants .
    Griffin couldn’t decide which to try first. His uncle reached from behind the paper, took one of the scones, and with his face hidden behind the paper said casually, “If you’d rather have blood sausage, I’m sure Watts could manage it.”
    Griffin chuckled. No chance of that!
    He was beginning to understand his uncle. Like a cactus, Rupert Snodgrass was prickly on the outside, but hidden beneath the spines was a soft interior. Griffin knew that his uncle had specifically ordered this breakfast as a way of showing him that he cared.
    And the gesture was not lost on Griffin.
    â€œThank you, Uncle,” Griffin said. Snodgrass replied with a friendly grunt from behind his newspaper.
    They both ate in silence for a few minutes. In spite of the wonderful breakfast, Griffin was beginning to feel more and more anxious about continuing the investigation. Who knew how many lives were at stake, or when the villains would strike? It was terrible having to wait, but it also felt terrible to face unknown danger. Griffin just wanted to get started so that he wouldn’t have to keep thinking about it.
    He glanced outside and saw that it wouldn’t be too much longer before dawn. There was no clock in the kitchen, but he guessed by the color of the sky that it was probably around five o’clock in the morning. He thought about the shadowy figure that had chased him at the Limehouse Docks and wondered what other dangers might be in store. It was obvious to him that whoever the criminals were, they had to be capable of extreme violence.
    â€œUncle?”
    â€œYes?”
    Griffin nibbled on his pastry a bit before continuing. Then he asked in a worried voice, “What if we should have to defend ourselves? I . . . I’m afraid that I’m not very good at fighting.”
    Snodgrass took a long sip of tea. Then, after lowering his paper, said, “Not to worry, lad, I’ve already taken precautions.”
    Griffin fidgeted in his chair. All of the fights he’d ever been in had ended with him on the ground, nursing a black eye.
    Snodgrass continued, “Being a detective is not for the fainthearted. When you stir up a hornet’s nest, you’re bound to get a few stings.