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“Are we not done yet?”
I kept my attention on the shelf in front of me, searching for the one Mrs. Hudson had indicated. At least she had chosen items the self-service booth carried. Holmes’ punishment would have taken much longer if we had had to visit every booth at the bazaar.
“Does it look like we are?”
He said nothing for a long minute, watching me shift items to reach the one I wanted. Why this most unusual of shopkeepers insisted on putting the best items at the back of the shelf I had no idea, but the habit made shopping a hassle.
“What about now?”
Holmes made shopping irritating, especially when he decided to be petulant.
“Ask again and you finish the list alone.”
“You would not leave.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” I grunted, gaining my feet then retrieving my stick to change sections. “Mrs. Hudson made you do the shopping. She said nothing about me.”
A quick motion steadied me when a lady roughly pushed past. “You asked me to do that experiment.”
“Your point?” I hid a smirk at his glare. “Your experiment, your fault, in her eyes, and after what you said yesterday, I saw no reason to correct her.” I stopped along the wall and held up the paper she had given us. “Now,” I continued firmly, “Are you going to stop acting like a child, or do I get to go home while you finish her list?”
He opened his mouth but closed it just as quickly. He wanted to try me, to complain again just to make me prove my threat, but hesitance appeared in his gaze as he spotted the resolution in mine. After listening to him whine like a child for the last hour, I wanted to go home. We would have been done by now if he had helped instead of making me do it all, and only my initial offer kept me in the shop with him. Another comment would give me an excellent excuse to spend the rest of the afternoon with a book.
“Why do people say that?”
The young voice cut off his acquiescence, and Holmes turned on one heel, disregarding the paper I held to address the young, blonde-haired girl standing in the middle of the next section.
“Why do people say what?”
Bouncing curls shifted as she tilted her head in thought. “’Stop acting like a child,’” she repeated simply. “Mum tells me that all the time, but she never tells me how to be what I’m not.”
“My friend is purposely being petulant,” I replied, moving to stand beside Holmes, “because he knows it irritates me. Your mother is probably trying to make you think about your actions before you do them instead of after.”
She considered that. “So I probably shouldn’t have gone exploring without telling her,” she decided.
Amusement tried to twitch Holmes’ mouth. “You learned that when you realized you did not know how to get home.”
Childish irritation needed no words, but she nodded despite pulling a face at Holmes.
“I got turned around in the crazy streets,” she admitted grudgingly. “Mum always tells me to find a bunch of people if I ever get lost, then don’t ask someone who’s alone. You probably live here, so you should know the streets really well. Can you help me find our motel? It was near a capital ‘s’ square.”
Interest lit Holmes’ eyes, and I could not restrain a sigh. Even Mrs. Hudson would agree that a lost child took precedence over the week’s shopping, but Holmes would make returning another argument.
“We can help,” he promised, “but London has many named squares. Did you notice any street names?”
I divided our purchases among our pockets as she shook her head. “I was too busy trying to catch up with the other kids. Their game looked like fun, but they disappeared into an alley, and I realized I don’t know where our motel is.”
He motioned her through the bustling crowd, then stepped back to kneel to her level. Away from the press, I quickly noted how much dirt her dress held, and Holmes undoubtedly saw more than I did.
“Start with names,” he ordered, his tone gentle despite the almost terse word choice. “Your name, your parents’ names, and any places you remember from the last couple of days.”
“Aggie—I mean Agatha—Miller,” she answered. “Father is Fred, and he calls Mum ‘Clara,’ but her mail says ‘Clarissa.’ She wasn’t sure whether to be proud or mad the day she found me reading her mail.”
“Why is that?”
“Girls aren’t s’posed to read until we turn eight,” she said with a shrug, “but books are too interesting to wait that long. That’s when Mum decided to teach me at home instead of making me go to boarding school like Madge.”
“Madge is your sister?” he confirmed.
She made a noise of agreement. “And Monty’s my brother, but he’s working at the shipyard and couldn’t come on our holiday. We came in at Mad—no, Padding…” She trailed off. “Paddingston? The cushioned station, but Father made the hansom drive a long ways before we could get out. And he wouldn’t even let me go to the park we saw.”
“Paddington Station,” he corrected as he would the Irregulars, “and the park would be Hyde Park. On which side was the park from the hansom?”
She looked down at her hands, then held up her right. “Right side, cuz I waved at the musician on the corner.”
I noted the reference. If Agatha could not provide enough clues, Bert might remember which way a hansom had gone. The man had a memory to rival Holmes’.
“Then we shall walk in that direction.” Holmes gained his feet. “You might recognize something when we get closer to Hyde Park.”
Agatha took a partial step back, wary gaze studying us in turn.
“Aren’t you going to tell me your names? Mum says only the creepy grown-ups don’t share names.”
He twitched a slight frown at her word choice, and I released a laugh. She would be right about anyone but Holmes.
“Holmes dislikes social niceties,” I told her, my laugh changing to a wide grin at her surprise, “to Mrs. Hudson’s frequent irritation. I am Doctor Watson, and it is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Miller.”
Surprise faded behind confusion. She barely acknowledged my introduction, her focus on my friend.
“Mr. Holmes? But Mr. Doyle’s story said you died in Switzerland when I was a baby.”
“That is because I thought he did,” I said quickly. Holmes still had not granted me permission to publish, but the entire city and much of the continent knew of his return four years ago. “I released the story to explain why there would be no more, and I have not had time to write another.”
“You should,” she declared, finally following us. “I’d read it.” She started skipping along the cobblestones, twirling circles around us though she continued scanning street signs. “I like stories. I like to read,” she amended, “but I like stories best. You can travel everywhere in a novel! We went all around Europe one year, but books can take me even further. To New York, where Monty was born, or back to Paris, or even to Egypt! I wanna go to Egypt someday. My books say it’s amazingly warm, with sand everywhere. How could sand be everywhere?”
“Egypt is a desert,” was my reply. “Only along the Nile will you find soil. India was similar.”
“India!” she stopped skipping, nearly grabbing my hand in her interest. “Tell me about India while we walk? Please, Doctor Watson? A dry rainforest sounds so strange!”
I chuckled. “India is not a dry rainforest,” I started. “Parts are lush rainforest while others are sandy desert, and some places have a distinct dividing line…”
I continued, slowly outlining the colorful people and places in such a vibrant country. My unit had spent about six months training with the local soldiers before we moved to Afghanistan, and most of that time I remembered well, if not fondly. The walk passed rapidly as I described treating children at the local orphanage, exploring such an unfamiliar city, and helping at the tiger refuge near our base.
“Tigers?!” she interjected. “I thought tigers ate people?”
“They are large enough,” I agreed, “but these tigers were raised by humans. Provided their human was nearby and I did not act carelessly, the tigers acted more or less tame. I helped with the cubs more than once.”
She gave a particularly high skip. “I want to do something like that. Something interesting. Monty told me a bunch of stories about the pirates on the oceans, and I’ve read others about a tiger hunter in India. I doubt my parents will let me do anything fun, though.” A thoughtful frown turned her mouth, but an idea bloomed just as quickly. “Maybe I could write a book about it! Hercule the Tiger Tamer!”
Holmes looked away to hide the chuckle I changed into a grin.
“Oh!” she added, casting a mischievous glance at Holmes before I could reply. “Even better: Hercule the Detective! Finder of lost children, and keeper of the city!”
Even I could see Holmes’ thoughts on that idea, and her mischief dissolved into giggles. “He won’t deduce,” she promised through her laughter. “Only Sherlock Holmes does that.”
He did not care for his own cases turned into narratives. The promise would not change his opinion on another detective’s cases, but he found enough tact to avoid saying as much.
“That is Hyde Park,” he noted instead. “Do you recognize anything?”
“That arch,” she replied immediately, pointing at the park’s high entrance. “I knocked my head on the side of the hansom trying to look when we turned away from it.”
Waiting for a speeding omnibus to gallop by, we guided her across the street, and a wide smile split her face as soon as we drew closer to the next street sign.
“I recognize that street!”
“Aggie!”
Agatha spun around at the cry, and relief strengthened when she saw the middle-aged woman pushing through the crowded sidewalk.
“Mum!”
“Where have you been, young lady?” One hand caught Agatha’s shoulder to give a slight shake before she pulled the girl into a rough hug. “I looked away for one minute, and you disappeared!”
Agatha’s relief changed to chagrin, visible though she buried her face in her mother’s stomach. “Sorry, Mum. I tried to catch up with a group of kids, but London has confusing streets. Then it took me a while to find someone I could ask for help.”
“Don’t run off like that,” Mrs. Miller chided, her grip changing to a one-armed hug. “I thought I had lost you.”
“You didn’t lose me. I lost me. Why are London’s streets so confusing?”
“Because London’s really old.” Anger drained from her tone as she held her daughter close, but her attention soon focused on where Holmes and I stood a few feet away.
“Thank you, sirs, for taking the time to help her. I hope she did not cause any trouble?”
“No trouble at all,” I replied. “We were glad to help. It sounds like she tried to catch up with some of the Irregulars, and I am not surprised they outran her. They navigate these streets much faster than anyone can hope to match.” I glanced down at Aggie, adding, “Try calling to them if you see them again. If your parents do not object, the Irregulars are always willing to make a new friend.”
Mrs. Miller glanced between us and her daughter. “The Irregulars?” she repeated.
“From Mr. Doyle’s stories. Remember, Mum? About Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson?”
“I remember.” Her tone suggested she remembered more than that, but Aggie formed her question first.
“Is Wiggins still part of them?” she asked. “He’s the only one you named in your stories.”
“He works for the Yard, now,” Holmes replied, “but I believe Mack said something about a tracking game in the park this weekend. You are most likely to see him, Jimmy, or Doris. Doris enjoys pushing her brother into the fountain a couple of blocks over.”
Aggie snickered. “I wish I could do that. Monty’s too old, though. He’d just pick me up and throw me in.”
“And you would deserve it,” her mother admonished. “No one likes a surprise bath.”
Aggie’s grin widened. “No one likes a bath at all, Mum. At least one in the fountain might be fun.”
Mrs. Miller merely shook her head. “Thank you,” she told us again, edging down the sidewalk. They would continue their conversation as soon as we were out of range.
“Not a problem,” I assured her as Holmes tipped his hat, and Mrs. Miller put one arm around her daughter’s shoulders to lead her back to the motel. They soon disappeared into the crowd, but I started down the sidewalk in the other direction.
“Where are you going?”
Holmes easily caught up to me, one eyebrow raised in silent question at my steady progress the way we had come. If I had not acted first, he would have taken off a third direction—towards the flat.
“Back to the bazaar.”
He scowled at my tone. “We got enough of her list.”
“Do you want Mrs. Hudson to make you do it again? Alone?” His glare deepened as I carefully moved around a street performer. “Then finish what we started.”
He harrumphed but waved down the empty cab rattling across the cobblestones.
“Get in,” he ordered when I raised an eyebrow. “Your pockets are heavier than mine, and I am tired of carrying everything. Mrs. Hudson could have provided a shorter list.”
A smirk tried to escape, but I did as he bid. Soon, we bounced down the street much faster than we could have walked, and the bazaar Mrs. Hudson had ordered us to use appeared through the buildings a few minutes later.
“What else does she need?”
I pulled the paper from a pocket, but long fingers snatched the page from my hand as the horse trotted away. He quickly identified the items we had not yet found, and a sharp gesture caught the attention of a young boy in a nearby alley. Tim Minor hurried closer.
“Do we have a case, Mr. Holmes?”
“Of a sort,” he answered, handing Tim the list followed by several coins. “I need you to find these items. This should be enough money to cover it, and you may keep whatever is left.”
Tim’s eyes widened slightly at the coins Holmes supplied for such an easy job, but he nodded quickly.
“Yes, sir! You only need what doesn’t have a mark by it?”
“Correct, and you should be able to find everything in the bazaar. Watson and I will be on the bench at the next corner.”
Tim took off almost before Holmes finished, and my friend turned to find me shaking my head at him.
“Mrs. Hudson did not say I had to do it myself.”
“Yes, she did,” I disagreed, “though not in so many words. You had better hope Tim does not mention helping today.”
Holmes considered that for a long moment, then shrugged one shoulder, leading the way toward the bench.
“We did most of it, and I have better things to do than women’s work.”
I could not restrain a true scowl at the phrasing, and the conversation deteriorated into a half-serious argument as to why shopping was not women’s work any more than some professions were men’s work. I doubted he truly disagreed with me, but he used the argument to pass the time.
I almost hoped Mrs. Hudson discovered his scheming. She would have much more to say on the subject than I ever would—not to mention a more creative way of teaching the lesson.