Chapter Eight
The Doctor and the Detective
Who better to solve a mystery than the world famous detective, Sherlock Holmes?
"Play back the audio of Rosa's message, please," said Cameron Rush into his pocket-sized multiCom.
The voice of Rosa rose from the small Com unit. "You're it! You'll need to master the clues to find me. I'm off to the doctor's. Goodbye!"
I'm off to the doctor's — that's what she said. How clever. Wasn't Sherlock Holmes' friend and assistant named Dr. Watson? Cameron typed 'Watson, Dr.' into his multiCom and waited for the reply.
In a flash, the display of Cameron's multiCom came to life.
Watson, Dr. John H., Friend and chronicler of Sherlock Holmes. The two shared rooms at 221B Baker Street, London It is impossible to think of Sherlock Holmes without thinking of Dr. Watson.
Created by a young ophthalmologist, a
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Cameron didn't need to read any further. He knew where he was going — 221B Baker Street, London, England. He knew who he was going to see — Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson. What he didn't know was when — to what exact point in time he had to go. When you begin to think about it, time is a pretty large thing to search! Even knowing that Rosa was somewhere in the time called the Victorian Period, she would be almost impossible to find.
The multiCom told Cameron that the Victorian Period extended from 1837 to 1901. That was 65 years to search. 23,725 days (not taking into account leap years!) in which Rosa could hide. 569,400 hours to be considered. More than 34 MILLION minutes, or 2 BILLION seconds when Rosa Costas could be just around the corner, down the street, or in the next room. Indeed, it was not a question of where the Hound was to look for the cunning vixen, but rather when.
The illustration of Sherlock Holmes was signed and dated 1893. That was the only clue Cameron had to go on. He would narrow his search to that year. But what day? What hour? What minute? Rosa had not left any clue behind. How would she have chosen the time? Perhaps, reasoned Cameron, she didn't choose anything more than the year. That would mean that the IHT would use the day, hour and minute that it was activated as its point of reference. It was worth a try!
Cameron checked his multiCom for the exact time that Rosa had issued her challenge. He set all the coordinates in his IHT: 221B Baker Street, London, England, March 10, 1893, 10:30 am. "Execute."
The walls of the museum grew dim. Cameron could hear a strange clomping sound. Where the museum display had just been was now a busy street filled with people, horse-drawn carriages and double-decker buses. The sound was that of horse's hooves striking the paved street. The street was flanked with three- and four-story stone and brick buildings.
It was a chilly day. The men wore knee-length, wool coats in grays and blacks and browns. Meanwhile, the women donned dark, full-length coats or capes of varying lengths. Everyone wore hats of one sort or another. Silk top hats and bowlers were the favorites of the men. Cameron looked down to see that he was wearing black trousers and a gray wool coat in a pattern called herringbone. He felt atop his head and discovered a more casual, soft felt cap perched there. No doubt it was black or gray in color, too.
A few yards away was a street corner with a gaslight. According to the signs on the light post, this was, in fact, Baker Street. The cross street seemed to have different names depending upon which way you went. To the right, it was called Paddington Street, to the left, Crawford Street. Cameron surveyed his surroundings as he figured out what to do and where to go.
Across the street, he noticed a man in a dark uniform with a short-caped coat and brass buttons. His head was topped by a hard hat or helmet, which identified him as a police officer. Cameron believed they were called 'bobbies.'
Cameron carefully made his away to the other side of the street, then approached the officer. "Excuse me, sir."
The bobby turned and looked at Cameron. "Yes, young man?"
"Could you kindly direct me to 221B, please. I need to talk to…"
A distressed look came over the policeman as he interrupted, "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, perchance?"
"Why yes."
"Be a good chap and be about your business now, will you?" He turned his back on Cameron.
"But officer, I really need to see…"
The bobby turned about sharply, "Listen here, young sir, you can't see no bloody Sherlock Holmes."
"I've come an awful long way."
"You can't see no bloody Sherlock Holmes," the policeman went on, "'cause there's no such bloke as Mr. Sherlock bleedin' Holmes. Never was, never will be, I'll wager. He's just made up, he is. He only exists in them stories that Conan Doyle fellow writes in the Strand. Now, if you don't mind, I'll be about me beat." With that, he strode briskly across Paddington Street.
No Sherlock Holmes! Cameron scolded himself. Of course Sherlock Holmes wasn't real and, therefore, neither was John H. Watson, M.D.! How could he be so careless.
The IHT could easily bring the fictional London of Sherlock Holmes to life. But, now that he was here, something deep inside of him told Cameron that Rosa was here, in the real London of March 10, 1893. The question now was, if Dr. Watson did not exist, who was the doctor Rosa had come to see?
Cameron thought about how he had come to think that Rosa had gone to London to see Dr. Watson. He remembered the Masters exhibition at the museum. He recalled locating the spot from which Rosa had issued her challenge and discovering the picture of Sherlock Holmes in the "The Victorians: Masters of Their Time" display. Of course, Sherlock Holmes reminded him of Dr. Watson and that brought Rosa's statement about seeing a doctor to mind. So he checked his multiCom to see if he was right.
Cameron moved to a doorway of one of the buildings on Baker Street, turned his back to the passing traffic and cautiously, so a passerby would not see, took out his multiCom. Once again he requested information on Dr. Watson.
The first bits of information flashed onto the tiny display:
Watson, Dr. John H., Friend and chronicler of Sherlock Holmes. The two shared rooms at 221B Baker Street, London. It is impossible to think of Sherlock Holmes without thinking of Dr. Watson.
Created by a young ophthalmologist, a
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Aha! Cameron discovered what he had done wrong. He had rushed his decision and jumped to a wrong conclusion. As soon as he read that he was correct about Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes, and had found their address, he went no further. That was a mistake! He studied the last two lines on the multiCom's screen.
Created by a young ophthalmologist, a
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Oph-thal-mol-o-gist. Cameron knew it was a type of doctor. With great excitement, he punched the MORE button.
Cameron eagerly read on:
Created by a young ophthalmologist, a doctor who specializes in the care of eyes, Dr. Watson was probably the only doctor in London who saw fewer patients than Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle. In need of money, because so few patients came to his office at 2 Devonshire Place, Conan Doyle sold the entire copyright to the first Sherlock Holmes novel for only £25.
Cameron was sure that Rosa knew he was sometimes impatient. She had used that knowledge to cleverly mislead him. Rosa would not be easy to catch.
He slid the multiCom into his pocket and set the IHT for a location change of 2 Devonshire Place. In a moment, the doorway in which he was standing was transformed into an inside hall. Before him was a door with an engraved brass plaque that read, 'Arthur Conan Doyle, D.O.'
Cameron was startled by the sound of a door slamming shut. He turned to see someone had hurriedly gone out the front entrance. Hopefully, his sudden appearance in the hallway of Dr. Arthur Conan-Doyle's office hadn't frightened them too much.
He could sense that he was close to Rosa. He took a deep breath, trying to hold down his excitement. He grasped the ornate brass doorknob, opened the door, and stepped into a wallpapered waiting room which was…
Empty.
No one was waiting to see Dr. Conan Doyle, so Cameron approached the inner office door and knocked.
"Enter," sounded the voice from within.
Cameron timidly went into the next room. It was a modestly sized office paneled in dark wood. To his left was an examination area with an eye chart on the wall that separated this office from the waiting room. To his right was a wall of bookcases, a small library, really. Seated at a desk in the far corner, near the front windows, was a man writing. He had dark, close cut hair and a full mustache. The man set down his pen and looked up at Cameron with some interest.
"Hello, my name is Cameron…"
"Rush," interrupted the man. "Cameron Rush. I was expecting you a bit later."
"I'm Dr. Conan Doyle." The man rose, extending his hand. Cameron crossed to the doctor and shook his hand. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, young man."
"The pleasure is most certainly mine, Doctor. I'm a great fan of yours. I particularly liked The Hound of the Baskervilles."
Arthur Conan Doyle raised an eyebrow and said, "It is quite odd. You're the second person to mention that title. I'm glad that you enjoyed the, uh, book… story?"
"Book," said Cameron hesitantly, painfully aware he might have violated Socrates' Law. Would he be yanked from the game?
"Yes, book. It is an intriguing title, I must admit, but I cannot claim to have written it."
Cameron scolded himself. He must be much more careful. The Hound of the Baskervilles was perhaps the most famous of the Sherlock Holmes adventures, but obviously, at this point in time, Dr. Conan Doyle had not yet authored it.
"You're right, doctor. I meant to say, The Sign of Four."
The doctor looked bewildered. Cameron knew instantly he had goofed again. He winced, expecting to be eliminated from the game.
"Yes, well… Uh, I don't suppose I need to give you this." Conan Doyle picked a small scrap of paper from the desk. "Miss Costas said you would be by later, and I was to give you this message, but she must have given it to you herself as you came in."
It was Cameron's turn to look bewildered.
"Surely you passed Miss Costas in the hall," said Conan Doyle. "She only just left."
Cameron remembered the slam of the front door as he arrived at Devonshire Place. "We must have just missed. You said she left a message?"
"Yes. Here it is." He consulted the scrap of paper. "She told me to say that she would see you at noon on the winter solstice in Marie Curie's garret." He started to hand the paper to Cameron but withdrew it. "Before I give you her note, kindly answer one question for me."
"If I can, doctor."
"Miss Costas was the other person to mention that book you like so much, what was it? The Baskerhoozit Hound…"
"The Hound of the Baskervilles."
"Yes, that's it! Well, anyway, you both seemed sure that I wrote it. When I denied writing such a story, Miss Costas said something under her breath, which I thought was 'you will' or something to that effect. The point being that she could tell the future." He chuckled in a way that said don't think I'm crazy, "Or, perhaps, she and you are from the future. Tell me, are you from the future, Mr. Rush?"
"As the great Sherlock Holmes himself said," said Cameron, "'Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.'" He reached out for the note which Dr. Conan Doyle presented to him. Cameron waited for the simulation to be terminated because of this major breach of the rules, but it didn't end. He wondered why. Was no one monitoring this simulation?
"I must tell my friend Herbert about this. He would be intrigued by all this talk of time travel and such nonsense." A thought seemed to pop into the doctor's head, "Wait a minute, did he put you two up to this?"
"Did who put us up to what?"
"Herbert! Herbert George Wells! Did H. G. put you up to this? He's always trying to pull some sort of practical joke, you know."
So that's why the program had continued. Cameron played along.
"I assure you that no one has put us up to anything." Cameron winked at the doctor who nodded knowingly in response. "I'm sorry to have intruded upon your time. With your permission, I shall take my leave. Good day."
With that, Cameron left 2 Devonshire Place. As he walked along the streets of London, Cameron looked at the note from Rosa. The clues to her location were to be found there.
(Chapters 9-3)
