The Tick-Tock Man: Gadgets and Gears, Book 3
Author: Kersten Hamilton
Date: 2017-06-13 00:00:00+00:00
Description: Wally and Noodles are back to the business of scientific innovation—and fun. In London, they meet a young pickpocket named Dobbin who works for a mysterious criminal called the Tick-Tock Man. Soon they are racing through secret tunnels in a bid to help Dobbin’s little sister. Can the brave boy-scientist and his loyal sidekick find the one person who can save her before it’s too late? History and technology collide in this humorous series brimming with mad science. Wally and Noodles are back to the business of scientific innovation--and fun. In London, they meet a young pickpocket named Dobbin
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers

Contents

Title Page

Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Frontispiece

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Read More from the Gadgets and Gears Series

Middle Grade Mania!

About the Author and Illustrator

Clarion Books

3 Park Avenue

New York, New York 10016

Text copyright © 2016 by Kersten Hamilton

Illustrations copyright © 2016 by James Hamilton

All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to trade.permissions@hmhco.com or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

Clarion Books is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

www.hmhco.com

The illustrations were executed digitally.

Frame art © by iStock/toriru

Hand-lettering by Leah Palmer Preiss

Cover design by Sharismar Rodriguez

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

Names: Hamilton, K. R. (Kersten R.) author. | Hamilton, James, illustrator.

Title: The Tick-Tock Man / Kersten Hamilton ; with illustrations by James Hamilton.

Description: Boston : Clarion Books/Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, [2015] | Series: Gadgets and gears ; book 3 | Summary: Wally the boy scientist and his sidekick Noodles the dachshund help a pickpocket named Dobbin who works for the mysterious London criminal, the Tick-Tock Man.

Identifiers: LCCN 2015034870 | ISBN 9780544433007 (hardback)

Subjects: | CYAC: Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. | Dachshunds—Fiction.| Dogs—Fiction. | Scientists—Fiction. | Humorous stories. | Science fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Animals / Dogs. | JUVENILE FICTION / Robots. | JUVENILE FICTION / Science & Technology. | JUVENILE FICTION / Action & Adventure / General. | JUVENILE FICTION / Boys & Men.

Classification: LCC PZ7.H1824 Ti 2015 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015034870

eISBN 978-0-544-43357-1
v1.0616

This book is for Stormageddon.

—K.H.

T ick-tock.

The sound was unsettling, and when you are with a Kennewickett, anything unsettling could spell disaster.

My name is Noodles. It is my duty to keep Walter Kennewickett, boy genius and scientist in training, as far from disasters as possible. It is my privilege as his best friend to accompany him everywhere he goes.

Which is why I found myself on a dark street corner in London, trying to track the source of the mysterious sound.

London was aglow with the process of electrification and hummed with activity even at night. Cable cars mixed with horse-drawn cabs and carts, and many of the thousand lamps that lit the streets had been converted from gas to electricity.

But Wally wasn’t interested in well-lit streets. The dim gaslight above was perfect for his purposes.

Tick-tock.

I could sense approaching danger, but I could not tell from which direction it would arrive. The sound was bouncing off bricks, glass, and cobblestones.

“What was that, Noodles?” Wally asked, lowering the handheld camera he had been adjusting.

Walter Kennewickett is a very observant boy.

“Probably a rat,” his aunt Rhodope said. “London crawls with them after dark.”

Miss Rhodope Pickering is the youngest of Calypso Kennewickett’s sisters. The fact that Rhodope is an eccentric allows her to fly kites in the park while other people her age attend university.

The fact that she is a sought-after photographic artist allows her to keep comfortable rooms in Charing Cross. The Pickerings are an artistic family. My current conundrum was the result of Wally’s mother, Calypso, mentioning that he might have inherited an aptitude for art.

An “aptitude” is the natural ability to master a skill.

There were certainly many aptitudes Wally had inherited from his prodigious parents. His attempts at art, however, were dismal—until his father, Oliver, pointed out that the correct term for fireworks is “pyrotechnics,” which means “art made from fire.”

Generations of Kennewicketts have excelled at blowing things up. Wally is currently creating a line of pyrotechnics you might carry in your pocket and enjoy on any street corner.

Before we traveled to London to participate in the Electromobile Road Rally, Miss Rhodope had written to him, requesting that he use his experience with explosives to create a faster flash powder for use in photography. She’d promised to arrange a breakfast with her friend Sir Arthur Conan Doyle if he did. Walter Kennewickett is a fan of Sir Arthur’s books and enjoys matching wits with his fictional detective Sherlock Holmes.

Wally had not only produced the powder for his aunt, he had devised a hat to hold the flash device, and a trigger cable to attach his handheld camera to it. We were preparing to photograph the participants in the Electromobile Rally, which would be coming down the road at any minute, followed by a small parade of Calypso Kennewickett’s fans. Calypso was the only woman among the twelve participants in the three-country rally, which was a contest of speed, design, and dependability. Since Oliver and Calypso had worked together on every aspect of their elegant electrical carriage, the Zephyr, they were taking turns driving.

The Kennewicketts had won the first leg of the rally handily, arriving at Trafalgar Square two days ago to be greeted by cheering crowds. The electromobile in last place had not arrived until just after sunset today.

The crowds had cheerfully gathered again. Drivers had signed autographs and posed for pictures for the press. Now they were proceeding to the docks at the Embankment, where ships had been chartered to carry them across the channel. The second leg of the rally was to be in France.

The Kennewicketts had requested that this small street be kept free of crowds to allow Rhodope to test her new technique for photographing in the dark. When Kennewicketts ask a small favor, people tend to cooperate. They are world-famous scientists, after all.

“Attachment test,” Wally said. “In three, two, one—”

The camera clicked and fire flashed, and someone uttered a terrible cry. I whirled as a tatterdemalion tumbled out of a dark doorway. A “tatterdemalion” is a person dressed in rags and tatters.

This old man’s frock coat was so faded, it appeared gray in the lamplight, in contrast with his shock of wild white hair. His angular form and antique attire gave the impression that he had just fallen out of the pages of a novel by Mr. Charles Dickens. The poor creature held his hands before his face, as if he were afraid of more flashes. He must have been looking directly at Wally when the powerful powder ignited.

He stumbled, and Wally leaped to his assistance. As Rhodope and I followed Wally across the street, I realized that we had discovered the source of the unsettling sound. The man himself was ticking.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” Wally said, helping him toward a low windowsill where he could sit. “If I had known you were near, I would have called out a warning!”

“You’ve blinded me!” the stranger said in a strangled voice.

“It will pass presently,” Rhodope reassured him. “And I’ll summon a cab to carry you home.”

“No, no, just let me sit,” he said, still rubbing his eyes. “I’ll fumble my way. It ain’t far.”

“I’ll lead you there myself, sir,” Wally offered. “If you’d only wait until the rally has passed!”

I shook my ears, thinking my instincts must have gone awry, but no—the ticking was definitely coming from the feeble old man. At any rate, it was soon drowned out by the approaching parade.

“They’re coming!” Rhodope cried. “We’ll have to photograph them from this side of the street. Get ready, Walter!” Wally quickly reloaded the flash powder.

The first vehicle to appear was a topedo-shaped affair driven by Camille Jenatzy, nicknamed Le Diable Rouge, “the Red Devil,” because of his unruly red beard. I felt a comparison to an annoyed Airedale might be more befitting.

Click-flash!

Jenatzy did not look pleased to have his photograph taken. He had set a speed record of sixty-two miles per hour in a similarly shaped electric automobile just four years ago. Last year, his record had fallen to a carriage with an internal combustion engine. Word was Jenatzy had intended to take the record back on the England leg, but the Kennewicketts captured it instead.

Rhodope poured a measured amount of powder into the contraption on Wally’s head after each photograph was taken, then stepped back and shaded her eyes from the flash.

The Kennewicketts were twelfth in line.

Rhodope raised her own camera, and Wally detached his flash. The Zephyr had no batteries or Voltage Vats. It was powered by Nikola Tesla’s recent invention that drew electric power directly from the aether, a mysterious medium he believes to exist in the spaces between the solid matter of the universe. I had listened attentively to his explanations, but I still could not quite comprehend the concept or the contraption. An unexpected consequence of this type of power was the generation of radiant matter, better known as Saint Elmo’s fire.

Cold blue flames played over the Zephyr’s frame. Moths drawn to the light flitted through the energy field, and their wings lit with radiant matter, which didn’t harm them in the least. They spun like frenzied fairies around the fantastic machine. It completely spoiled the effect. I felt that people who viewed the photos should be admiring the Kennewicketts, not some bedazzling bugs.

The Kennewicketts had requested the last place in line to allow Rhodope time to capture the phenomenon on film. Gizmo, the family’s mechanical assistant, had asked for a photograph to share with the other automatons who had stayed home with her to staff the Kennewicketts’ Automated Inn. They were now all powered by the same device that caused the Zephyr to glow, and free from Voltage Vats and charging stations forever. Fortunately, the effect that lit the Zephyr seemed to apply only when very large amounts of energy were drawn from the aether. Radiant automatons would no doubt have unsettled some of the Inn’s guests.

“Ascot, Walter!” Calypso called as the Zephyr rolled to a stop.

I growled as one particularly persistent moth fluttered in front of the camera.

“Yes, Mother.” Wally straightened his tie as he stepped forward. Walter Kennewickett is always impeccably dressed. Calypso feels that a tidy appearance is a sign of a tidy mind.

I kept my eyes on the moths. I was quite sure Calypso would not approve of an insect obscuring Walter’s face in the family photo.

Wally turned to pose by the Zephyr’s door. At that moment a moth made the mistake of flitting toward the fender. I leaped, and snapped my jaws about it. I did not swallow it, of course. Well-bred dachshunds do not ingest insects.

“Nicely done, Noodles,” Oliver said, surreptitiously checking his own tie before smiling for the camera.

“No manufacture of pyrotechnics while we are gone, son,” he went on, turning to Wally. “Listen to your aunt Rhodope.”

“Certainly, Father.”

The wiggling inside my mouth was becoming unbearable. I tried to distract myself by spinning in place.

Finally, Rhodope lowered her camera and I heard Calypso shift the Zephyr into gear.

“Spit it out, Noodles,” she said. “And take care of Walter for us.”

I ejected the insect onto the pavement and attempted to regain my dignity as it crawled away.

“Get a picture of the Union with the flash, Walter!” Rhodope cried as the Zephyr rolled on. She meant the members of the International Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies who were marching behind the Zephyr.

“Suffrage” is the right to vote in political elections. Calypso was a founding member of the organization. She felt that it was ridiculous that women who were doctors, journalists, artists, or inventors extraordinaire could not cast a ballot. Fire flashed, and the Sisters of Suffrage—with their shoulder sashes that read “Equal Rights for Women!” and their “Calypso Kennewickett” banners—were captured on film.

Rhodope cheered as the Sisters passed, followed by two constables who appeared to be keeping an eye on them.

A “constable” is a British police officer.

“Come on, Walter,” Rhodope said. “Let’s see our new friend home.”

Wally turned to retrieve the tattered man, but the fellow was nowhere to be found.

“The dazzle must have worn off,” Rhodope said. “He’s found his own way. Let’s follow the parade instead!”

We marched along with the constables to the brilliantly electrified Embankment. The atmosphere was festive, as if a circus had spilled into the September night. Street vendors and beggars both were taking advantage of the opportunities offered.

Onlookers cheered for each of the electromobiles as they drove up the ramp to the ship that was to carry them across the Channel. The cheering was loudest for the Zephyr, of course. The Sisters of Suffrage saw to that.

“You are a Kennewickett yourself, if I’m not mistaken,” the younger of the two constables said to Wally as the ship slipped downriver. The man was redheaded, round-faced, and had very merry blue eyes. I could tell by the tap of his tongue each time it encountered an r that he was from Scotland. “Why didn’t you go with your parents, laddie?”

“My aunt has arranged a breakfast with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle tomorrow, sir.” Wally flushed. “I’m a tremendous fan of his fictional detective!”

“Sherlock Holmes, is it? I’m a fan myself. This is your aunt?” He tipped his hat to Rhodope. “Everyone knows Miss Rhodope Pickering. Artemis Arbuckle, at your service, ma’am. Is Sir Arthur a friend of yours, then?” he asked, squatting to scratch my ear.

“I photographed a séance for the Society for Psychical Research,” Rhodope replied. “Sir Arthur is a member, and was kind enough to purchase several of my photographic prints.”

I presented my other ear to the officer. I was sure that Sir Arthur’s fascination with flying machines had something to do with his agreeing to meet with Rhodope, Wally, and me. I expected to be asked to demonstrate the dachshund wings that had recently allowed Wally to save the world.

“When you’re dining with the gent,” said Constable Arbuckle, standing again, “could you ask him to be a bit kinder to the Yard?”

He meant Scotland Yard, of course, the headquarters of the London police force. The dauntless consulting detective in Sir Arthur’s books was constantly making a fool of a fictional inspector who worked there.

Before Rhodope could answer, a woman in a suffrage sash rushed up, almost stepping on me in her haste.

“Sylvia’s been arrested!” she cried.

“Arrested?” Officer Arbuckle asked. “For what?”

The woman pointed at her suffrage sash.

“Ah. Causing a commotion, was she?” The officer smiled.

Rhodope’s chin rose. “Don’t you have rounds to make, sir?” she asked. The constable blushed, tipped his hat to the ladies, and walked away.

I was sorry to see my new acquaintance go. A constable is not a bad thing to have around when you are responsible for the safety of a Kennewickett.

“Don’t get the wrong idea, Walter,” Rhodope said when he was gone. “It’s just that the battle for equality can become quite exciting.” She considered us thoughtfully. “I’m not sure Calypso would approve of me dragging you two to the police station, and time is of the essence. Sylvia is supposed to speak at a meeting tonight!”

“We could simply buy some fish and chips while we wait for you here,” Wally suggested. I wagged my tail in agreement. A bite of fish might erase the unpleasant memory of moth legs tickling my tongue.

“Excellent! And if I am delayed?”

“We’ll find our own way home,” Wally assured her. “It’s just a few blocks, and Noodles never gets lost. He navigates by nose.”

That was true. Neither the lingering scent of flash powder nor the scent of muck and mud now seeping up from the river Thames could confuse me; after we’d left Rhodope’s flat we had passed a pastry shop, turned right at a teashop that smelled of jasmine and orchids, and made a left by a butcher’s, where they were making sausages. To backtrack from the Embankment to the square, we would simply retrace the route of the parade.

“All right,” Rhodope said. “Meet me by the bookseller’s. If I’m not back in an hour, then go directly home.”

After his aunt rushed off with the suffragette, Wally purchased a paper cone full of fish and crisp potatoes from a vendor, and we shared them as we wandered down the Embankment.

We’d gone perhaps a block when we found ourselves observing a street performance. A massive man in silk sultan’s robes and a tall turban bowed to the crowd. He slowly pulled a large kerchief from his sleeve and laid it on the paving stones, then produced a plate from inside his robes. I licked a bit of chip from my chops. I have an instinctual interest in plates. They often arrive with things such as sausages or bacon on them.

The giant spun the plate in the air and twirled like a dervish beneath it, his robes flaring. When he faced us again, a little girl of perhaps six had appeared as if by magic at his feet.

The child climbed onto the plate, and the giant raised it above his head. Before I could process her perilous plight, she upended into a handstand. This time the crowd not only clapped, they tossed coins onto the kerchief.

The little girl slowly lifted one hand, balancing on the other. I thought Wally’s cousin Prissy would have appreciated the feat; she planned to join the circus someday herself.

I glanced at Wally to see if he was appreciating the show, but his attention had been captured by something farther down the way. A boy was performing on a monowheel. He maneuvered magnificently, while people threw pennies into a pail.

A “monowheel” is a conveyance that consists of a single large wheel, a seat for the pilot, a drive chain, and a pair of pedals. This monowheel had been modified by the addition a motor. It was two meters tall, with the seat in the center. Most monowheels are completely dependent on the driver’s sense of balance. This one, however, was further modified with a toplike gyroscope suspended over the driver’s head.

The boy stopped directly in front of us and stepped off the machine. The monowheel remained upright without him. He grasped it with one hand and spun it as you might spin a coin on a tabletop, seeming to transform the circle into a sphere.

The crowd rained coins on him, but his brown eyes went from Wally to me. I was studying him as well. His costume had clearly been created from bits and bobs scavenged from trash heaps. None of his buttons matched. Calypso would not have approved of the sloppy stitching.

“You’re them, ain’t you?” he said. “Walter Kennewickett, boy scientist, and ’is dirigible-like dachshund wot saved the world!”

I shuddered at this description. Certain journalists simply refused to believe that Wally had invented a working pair of wings for me. I’d been depicted in multiple publications as a balloon-like creature on a string.

“I read about you in the papers,” the boy went on. “I’m Dobbin. Dobbin Winckles.” He held out a hand encased in a grimy glove with no fingertips. I knew from Wally’s large library of crime fiction that pickpockets preferred gloves of that kind, as they kept their hands warm and their fingers nimble.

“Wally,” Walter said, grasping the gloved hand firmly. I have often noted the instant camaraderie that springs up among certain scientists and inventors. I was not sure what I thought about it springing up between Wally and this fellow.

“Dirigibles are lighter than air, of course,” Wally noted. “Noodles is not.”

Dobbin nodded. “Of course not. ’E’s respectable, ’e is.”

I wagged. Grimy gloves might be forgivable under certain circumstances. This was clearly a boy of keen discernment.

Wally stepped closer to the monowheel. The stroboscopic effect of the spin gave it a ghostlike appearance, but one could clearly see the inner workings.

“Is this your own design? I read of one like it in Scientific American, but you appear to have made modifications!”

“The problem is balance,” Dobbin said. “I’ve added a gyroscope to keep ’er from tipping.”

“And an internal combustion engine, judging from the sound,” Wally said. “My own inventions are mostly electric, and occasionally dachshund-powered. I do work some with explosives, of course.”

“Such as them used for blowing safes?” Dobbin asked. His eyes darted to the rooftops and searched the crowd around us. I wondered what he was looking for.

“Such as those used in art,” Wally clarified.

“Never ’eard of that sort.” Dobbin leaned closer to Wally. “Run, Kennewickett,” he whispered. “Leave London. Tick Tock’s out to nab you.”

Tick Tock!

Fear shot down my spine. My instincts had not gone awry after all. Walter Kennewickett was in danger.

“Who?” Wally asked.

“Dob!” the angel cried from her perch on the plate before Dobbin could reply. “Peelers!”

The word “peelers” apparently applied to the two uniformed officers of the law we had accompanied in the parade. They were making their way toward us.

Dobbin grabbed his monowheel with one gloved hand to stop the spin, then jumped aboard.

“Keep it mum,” he said to Wally. “Tick Tock will kill me if ’e knows I warned you!” Then the crowd scattered as the contraption careered crazily through its midst. A quick glance confirmed that the angel and the giant had made a getaway as well.

One constable set off in pursuit of the monowheel, blowing his whistle and brandishing his billy club, but our Scottish friend stayed.

“Conversing with the riffraff, were you?” Officer Arbuckle asked.

“He seemed like a decent fellow,” Wally said.

The constable pushed his hat back. “If you mean decent at pickpocketing and acts of light larceny, I’d agree.”

“Larceny” is taking someone else’s property without permission. I was disturbed to learn that Dobbin would do such a thing, but I had to admit his comment about blowing up safes had been a clue that he might not be entirely on the up-and-up.

“That lot indulges in arson and occasional kidnapping,” Officer Arbuckle confided. “I’ve never known them to burn a building down with anyone inside, so I could say there are worse. I don’t suppose they have such characters as him in Gasket Gully.” He looked around. “Did your aunt just leave you here?”

“We were to meet in an hour,” Wally explained. “And if she doesn’t return, I’m to walk home.”

“I’ll walk with you a bit, if it’s along my beat,” Officer Arbuckle said. “I’m going to the other side of Trafalgar Square before I turn.”

“It is along our way,” Wally admitted.

I, for one, was glad of the constable’s company.

“You’ve got to be careful in London Town, laddie,” he said as we left the bright lights of the Embankment. “A genteel thing like Miss Rhodope might not realize it, but we’ve got Spring-Heeled Jack on our rooftops, thieves in the streets, and sewer swine below.”

“Sewer swine?”

I was glad Wally asked. I had heard of Spring-Heeled Jack, of course. He had been in all the papers of late. The rotten rogue ran across rooftops and could leap incredible distances. This might have been considered an eccentric hobby if he hadn’t taken to dropping into the street and snatching purses or pocket watches from the unsuspecting before he bounced away again. I had never, however, heard of sewer swine.

“They keep that one hush-hush. Some people don’t even believe in the beasts,” the constable said, stopping to tap on a grimy basement window with his billy club. “Wake up, Charlie,” he called. “You’ve got to be at work at nine!”

“I’m awake, I’m awake,” a voice grumbled inside.

“Our knocker-upper is visiting his old mum,” Artemis Arbuckle explained as he stepped back to the street. “I told him I’d rouse those that work the night shift. I take care of this neighborhood, as you can see. Walk the rounds all night.”

A “knocker-upper’s” job is to wake people so that they get to work on time.

Rhodope has photographs of lamplighters, chimney sweeps, and knocker-uppers in her rooms. A map on her wall shows the location where each picture was taken.

“Do you believe in sewer swine?” Wally asked as we started across the square.

“I do,” the officer said. “They say that years and years ago, a sow in young washed down a drain in Hampstead. She proceeded to have her piglets in the sewers, where they fed on garbage and rats. The porkers multiplied exceedingly, and adapted, as Mr. Darwin might say. They’re all white now, with razor-sharp teeth, and as ferocious as any animal in the wild.”

“But has their existence actually been documented?” Wally asked.

“Ah, you’re the skeptical sort, I see. Comes of having scientific parents, I suppose. It’s true that some folks don’t believe in them. But I’ve heard their ghastly grunting through the drains, and that is as close as I ever hope to get. I want nothing to do with dark deeds beneath the streets.”

I eyed the lock on the sewer grate we just happened to be passing, and silently agreed with Officer Arbuckle. Nothing on earth could induce me to venture into such a place.

“Have you ever heard of a criminal called Tick Tock?” Wally asked.

“Murder and mahem!” Constable Arbuckle cried. “Of course I have. Feared by criminals and police alike, he is.” He gave Wally a rather keen look. “What brought his name to mind just now?”

“I’d rather not say, sir,” Wally admitted.

Artemis Arbuckle swung his billy club thoughtfully.

“I was curious about criminals myself as a lad,” he said. “But Tick Tock is another sort entirely. Every officer dreams of apprehending him, and every officer fears meeting him in the dark.”

“But who is he, sir?” Wally asked.

“A shadow, a scream, a nightmare,” Officer Arbuckle said with a sigh. “And one you nowise want to meet. They say Tick Tock’s father was a tosher—a person who dug amongst the muck in the sewers in those days, searching for coins and jewels and watches that had washed down. He raised two sons in the tosher trade. When that line of work was outlawed, one of them became a very fine watchmaker and the other a very foul criminal.”

“Tick Tock was the watchmaker, then?”

“He was the criminal,” the constable corrected. “They called him Tick Tock because he had a clockwork heart. His brother made it for him, you see, after a bullet nicked his God-given ticker during the commission of a crime.”

“What does Mr. Tick Tock look like?” Wally asked, and I knew that he was thinking the same thing I was thinking—like an old man in a tattered coat, an old man who sounded like clockwork.

“Nobody’s ever seen him,” Officer Arbuckle said, “not and lived to tell the tale. But that’s one you don’t need to worry about. His brother died five years ago, and they say Tick Tock followed him away. His ticker stopped, that’s what I think, with his brother not around to fix it. At any rate, he’s gone and we’re glad of it. My beat is this way.” He pointed down a dark street.

“Auntie’s rooms are the other way,” Wally said.

I woofed agreement.

“Take care,” the constable said. “It’s a good night to be inside. We’ll have fog by morning, see if we don’t. Give your aunt my regards!”

“What do you think, Noodles?” Wally asked as he followed me up the street. “Have we seen the Tick-Tock Man and lived to tell? Our gentleman looked a little old to be nabbing people, though.” He stopped, and his hand went to his camera. “We didn’t just see him. We may have a photograph of him!”

I grabbed the cuff of Wally’s pants and pulled to start him on his way again. Rhodope would never have left us alone if she had heard Dobbin’s warning. It goes without saying that Oliver and Calypso would not approve of their son wandering the streets under such circumstances. It was my job to get him home as quickly as possible.

“I’m coming,” Wally said.

I turned my olfactory apparatus toward the scent of sausage, glancing back every now and then to make sure Wally was still behind me.

We’d just rounded the corner toward jasmine tea and orchids when I heard it.

Tick-tock.

“Noodles,” Wally whispered, “I believe we are being followed.”

I walked a little faster. As Wally’s friend, I had faced my fair share of danger. But being followed through the night by a criminal with a clockwork heart unsettled even me.

Tick-tock.

“Run!” Wally shouted, and I ran, making sure I did not lose him as I led the way.

The terrible tick-tock of the clockwork heart drew closer as we pelted around the corner toward the shop that sold pastries. We dodged a horse-drawn cart as we crossed the street.

Suddenly, there was the sound of a scuffle behind us, and a sharp cry. We whirled in time to see something tossed into the cart. The driver leaped aboard, a whip cracked over the poor horse’s ears, and the conveyance clattered away.

The street was still.

“What on earth is going on, Noodles?” Wally wondered aloud.

I had no answers.

We reached Aunt Rhodope’s address without further incident and found her landlady, Mrs. Wiggins, waiting.

“Miss Pickering called ages ago to say she would be coming in quite late,” the woman said, giving me a disapproving look. I suspected that she did not like dachshunds. “A cold supper is waiting upstairs. And just because Miss is out doesn’t mean you can go jumping about in her rooms. This is a respectable house!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wiggins,” Wally said as we started up. “We wouldn’t dream of jumping about.”

I was certain she did not like dachshunds when I discovered she had left only one covered plate on the table, and it contained just a single ham sandwich. We had finished the fish and chips over an hour ago, and there is always room for a bit of ham.

“You eat, Noodles,” Wally said as he divided the sandwich in half. Walter Kennewickett is a very thoughtful boy. “I am going to develop my film.” He set the sandwich before me.

Rhodope had shown him how to use her excellent darkroom the day we arrived, but my nose was too sensitive for the chemical baths the negatives and prints were subjected to.

I devoured my half of the ham sandwich in two bites and watched Wally’s half while he worked.

“I’ve got him!” Wally announced after he’d developed the negatives. “We’ll have to see how it prints, though.”

I was sure the bread was stale by the time he hung the prints to dry, but he didn’t seem to care.

“It’s an excellent image,” he said around a mouthful. “Aunt Rhodope will not believe who we have captured on film!”

After he finished his meal, he washed his hands and brought out the photographic prints for inspection. He held one up, and I observed an angular face, hawklike nose, and deep-set eyes. I instantly knew that the feeble old fellow we thought we had seen was just an act. Every line of this lean body bespoke power.

Run, Kennewickett. Dobbin’s warning echoed in my ears.

I knew that I could not possibly sleep until Rhodope arrived. Wally looked longingly at the array of explosive powders he had arranged on the desk his aunt was letting him use, then sighed and picked up Sir Arthur’s new novel, The Hound of the Baskervilles, and settled into a chair.

I may have mentioned that Walter Kennewickett is a scientist in training. He is fascinated by the similarities between scientific research and the work of a detective. Both scientific experimentation and crime solving depend on the ability to form a hypothesis.

A “hypothesis” is a guess. If you pay close attention to the clues, it can be a very good guess. Still, it is no more than a starting point for further investigation. When Sir Arthur’s detective solves a crime, he forms hypotheses and tests them until he finds the facts behind the case.

“Why would Tick Tock want to nab me?” Wally wondered, lowering the book. His mind was clearly not consumed by the mystery of the hound. “And . . . what happened to him?”

At that moment someone knocked on the door. I shuddered, suddenly sure Tick Tock had found us. But Wally ran to open it before I could stop him. We found Mrs. Wiggins in her evening cap and robe. She was holding a grease-stained envelope as one might hold a recently deceased mouse.

“A note for Mr. Kennewickett,” she said.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Wally said, taking it from her. She stalked away to her own room.

I expected it to be a message from Rhodope, but I was wrong.

The missive, hastily penned on a piece of butcher paper, read: “NEED HELP. Come to the courtyard behind Chopin’s Pub at Bow and Kemble at midnight. It is a matter of LIFE AND DEATH. You must come alone. NO PEELERS.” And it was signed “D. Winckles.”

“Winckles,” Wally said, and began to pace. “The boy with the monowheel. Something is amiss, Noodles.” He stopped on the opposite side of the room and spun around to consult the map on Rhodope’s wall.

“I estimate it will take twenty minutes to get to the courtyard,” Wally said. “Ten if we run. We’ll wait for Aunt Rhodope.”

At eleven thirty Wally read the note again. His finger tapped twice on LIFE AND DEATH.

“What would Father suggest if he were here?” he asked, and started to pace again.

I strained my ears, hoping to hear Rhodope’s tread.

At eleven forty he stopped and stood very still. “I don’t know what Father would suggest in the current situation,” he said. “But I know what he would do, Noodles. Someone needs help.”

I was afraid he was correct. A Kennewickett never turns away from someone needing help.

Wally tore a page from his notebook and wrote a quick account of the mysterious warning about Tick Tock, along with a request that a wire be sent to his parents. He ended the message with “Gone to render assistance.”

I thought it was an excellent idea to wire Oliver and Calypso. I had a hypothesis as to why D. Winckles’s life might be in danger.

Wally left the page along with the note from D. Winckles on the table for his aunt Rhodope to find.

Then he took a bit of string and a candle stub from a drawer and scooped up a tin of Oliver’s Delightful, Dependable, and Safe Matches and two Coruscating Cannonades. They were the last pocket pyrotechnic Wally had finished before his parents had left.

To “coruscate” is to flash and sparkle.

A “cannonade” is the continuous roar of many guns.

The Coruscating Cannonade was one of Calypso’s favorite pyrotechnics.

Wally looked around one last time, and then we tiptoed past Mrs. Wiggins’s bedroom and crept down the stairs. The quarter bells in the clock tower at the Palace of Westminster were chiming as we came out the door.

The well-lit streets of Charing Cross were surprisingly busy even at this time of night, but everything changed as soon as we turned from the main street. The electric lamps were gone, replaced by gas lamps that flickered as their wicks died, making our shadows jump first behind us, then before us as we passed each post.

“We’re being followed again, Noodles,” Wally said.

The brilliant boy was as observant as usual. The shadows thrown by streetlights could not explain the silhouette that followed on the rooftops, black as ink against the stars.

Like our own shadows, it ran sometimes behind us. But sometimes it ran ahead, as if it knew where we were going.

The quarter bells were ringing again by the time we found the alley that opened into a small courtyard behind the pub. It was lit only by light that spilled from windows.

Something moved in the darkness, just as the voice of Big Ben, the bell that spoke the hour, broke the night. Doom, doom, doom, it rang, twelve times, and then the giant we’d seen at the Embankment stepped into a rectangle of light. He still wore his turban, but he was shirtless now. Light glinted off a metallic rib cage that expanded and contracted with the rhythm of a metronome.

“Where is Dobbin?” Wally asked. I was wondering that myself.

The giant took a hand bellows from his pocket, inserted it into his mouth, and pumped himself full of air.

“Kenn-eee-wickett.” He sighed as the air exited past his vocal cords. My hackles lifted from nape to tail. If a corpse leaked air, I imagined it would sound something like this. “Follow meeeeeeee.”

“You must breathe through mechanical gills!” Wally exclaimed, and then looked embarrassed. “Pardon me, but . . . that’s fantastic! I’m here to see Dobbin. He wrote about a matter of life and death?”

The giant pumped himself full of air once more.

“Liffffe.” The giant sighed. “Deattthhhhh. Yessss. Hellllp ussssss.”

At that moment, the shadow dropped from above.

A young man landed with a metallic sproing right in front of Wally. He wore leather leggings above what appeared to be thick-soled, spring-loaded boots; a red silk shirt; and a rakish cap. A dark cape draped behind him. His eyes looked black in the darkness.

“Spring-Heeled Jack, I presume?” Wally said.

“Jack will do,” the young man replied. “Stop wasting time, Cy. Knock him over the head, or I will. We have to get below. There’s peelers everywhere tonight. I’m surprised they didn’t follow him.”

I growled and inched in front of Wally as the giant stepped forward.

“Oh-ho!” Jack folded his arms. “A scary sausage.”

“There is no need to knock my head,” Wally said, assuming a judo stance. He had practiced the sport daily since being introduced to its effectiveness by President Theodore Roosevelt. “If you’re friends of Dobbin, I’ll come peacefully. If not, you can try your luck.”

“A scary sausage and a feisty shrimp.” Jack shook his head. “Where did Dob find you? Let’s see if you have the guts for the business at hand! Open it, Cy.”

The half-mechanical man squatted and grasped the sewer grate. With one mighty heave, he lifted it away, revealing a black hole beneath.

Wally pulled his candle stub from his pocket, lit it, and leaned over the hole. Metal rungs descended into the darkness.

“Hurry up.” Jack dropped past him. “I told you, there’s no time.”

“I’d like some proof that you’re taking me to Dobbin Winckles,” Wally said.

“Winckles said you have a ‘respectable’ dog and make interesting art.” Jack shrugged. “I don’t like dogs, and art’s for namby-pambies, so it’s not like I listened.”

“Namby-pamby” refers to someone weak and sentimental. I am sure he meant it as an insult, but Wally just nodded.

“You’ll have to wait for me, Noodles,” he said, and started to climb down.

I’ve said that nothing on earth could induce me to venture into the sewers. I meant nothing but the thought of Walter Kennewickett going without me. I closed my eyes and leaped . . .

. . . and felt myself snatched from thin air and swung aloft. I found myself eye-to-eye with the giant. He tucked me under his arm and started down the ladder. Wally’s candle flickered below us as we descended into darkness.

The feeble flame revealed a catwalk that clung to the side of the tunnel, the depths of which were lost in darkness. When I mentioned the word “sewer,” I am sure many unpleasant things came to mind. The reality was even more unpleasant than can be imagined.

The smell almost made me swoon. Wally had his hand to his nose, and Jack, who had closed the grate and followed us down, pulled a black scarf over his face.

Cy merely set me down, as if he could smell nothing at all. And then he unwound his peculiar turban to reveal an even more peculiar cranium. Cy’s ribs were not the only bits of iron about him. The dome of his head was ferrous as well, and there was a bulging lens in the center of his forehead.

The giant snapped his fingers, and a flame leaped to life behind it, sending out a beam like a bull’s-eye lantern. As he turned his head, I took in our surroundings.

A milky green river ran beneath us, full of unthinkable things. When the beam of Cy’s lamp turned toward the torrid torrent, I saw a huge river rat on a raft of flotsam.

I believe I have mentioned that dachshunds navigate by nose. My olfactory nerves were overwhelmed by the scent, and my head was swimming. By the time we arrived at a side tunnel, I had no idea what part of London might lie above us.

We turned away from the subterranean river and stepped through an arched aperture into yet another tunnel, clearly older and thankfully drier than the first.

The air was fresher here, and clean water spouted from between the bricks as if springs had been walled up inside. The water was no more than an inch deep on the floor. Crystals had formed from minerals leaching through the ancient walls, and they sparkled in the lamp’s beam. Tiny pale spiders skittered among them.

We’d traveled perhaps half a mile, past openings large and small, when Jack held up his hand.

“Listen,” he hissed.

I could hear a splashing far behind us.

“It’s the piggies.” His voice sounded far more frightened than you might expect from a hardened criminal. “Climb for your life!” We raced to the nearest sewer access ladder. Cy scooped me up and nodded to Wally, who started to climb.

Jack reached the grate that opened onto the street, but when he pushed against it, nothing happened.

“Locked,” he said, swinging hand over hand out on the grate to make more room on the ladder.

And then they arrived.

These were not piggies.

Piggies are small and pink. These creatures were large and pearly white. Their tiny eyes flashed red in the light of Cy’s lantern. In short, they were sewer swine. They gnashed their teeth and grunted, trying to figure out a way to get us.

“You’ve got to get higher, Cy,” Jack said. “They’re going to start stacking.”

But we couldn’t climb any higher. Wally was in the way.

The pigs began piling one on top of another until the jaws of the topmost, an enormous boar, were snapping just beneath the giant’s heels.

Cy squeezed his eyes closed.

“Hold on.” Wally looped his arm through a rung of the ladder. He pulled out the tin of Delightful, Dependable, and Safe Matches.

A match flared. Wally lit a fuse and tossed his first Coruscating Cannonade.

The boar leaped, intercepting it in the air. Swine saliva swamped the fuse. The monster swallowed it whole, licked its chops, and pranced as if asking for more.

“Feeding them treats,” Jack said. “What a novel idea. That will make them leave.”

Wally was already lighting his second pocket pyrotechnic.

He tossed this one farther down the tunnel. The swine scrambled after it, but just before they reached it, it burst. Spinning spots of yellow, blue, and purple fire shot upward, coruscating as they rose. They ricocheted off the walls and bounced from the ceiling. And then the cannonade began, each spark emitting a boom as it died. The sewer swine fled, squealing and slightly singed.

Jack dropped to the floor of the tunnel as soon as the last kinky tail disappeared, but Cy would not move until their squeals diminished in the distance.

“What was that?” Jack asked when Wally reached the floor at last.

“Art,” Wally said, taking his notebook from his pocket. “I believe it needs more purple.” He made a note of it and we continued on, past ancient arches that had been bricked over, and I could only wonder what lay on the other side. Finally, we stopped before a wooden door with massive iron bands and hinges. They must have been well oiled, for the door swung open silently.

The room we entered can only be described as a cathedral of clockwork. Brass bits and bobs glowed in the gaslight from Tiffany lamps. One side of the room resembled a giant watch that had been turned inside out. Springs, weights, and gears spilled out of the wall. They looked as if they had once kept perfect time as they performed their maker’s mysterious purpose. But it was clear the clockmaker was gone and that the workshop had fallen into disuse and disarray. The opposite wall looked like something from the Middle Ages, with torches in sconces.

“We brought him as requested, Dob,” Jack said.

Dobbin jumped up from a cluttered workbench that looked much as I imagined the one in Oliver’s lab would have if Calypso had never set foot in the Automated Inn.

“You rotten rat!” he cried, his fingers curling into fists. “You slimy squealer!”

A growl started to grow inside me. This was no matter of life and death. Wally had been deceived into entering a den of thieves!

“I did not squeal,” Wally said. “Though I did leave a message for my parents before I left. What is this about?”

“Tick Tock said ’e was going to nab you.” The little angel who had warned Dobbin of the peelers stepped out of the shadows and took Cy’s hand. “And now he’s missing.”

Of course she was part of this gutter gang. Now that I saw Dobbin and the girl together, it was clear that they were siblings.

“You’re supposed to be in bed, Briney,” Dobbin said. “You said you were knackered. I ’ad to carry you ’ome!”

If Walter and I had not read so many of the Sherlock Holmes stories, I might not have known that “knackered” meant exhausted.

“I’m always knackered,” Briney said. “Bed don’t help.”

Cy sat down on the floor, and Briney squatted beside me. I started to back away—and then I heard it.

Tick-tock.

It wasn’t as loud as Tick Tock’s heart, but it was loud enough that I couldn’t miss it. It took me a moment to realize what it meant. It seemed that Tick Tock was not the only member of this band of bandits with a mechanical heart. I sat down.

“You twig to it, Noodles?” Dobbin asked.

“Twig” is slang for “understand,” and I was terribly afraid I did.

Dobbin nodded. “Dogs could ’ear it, I suppose. Show the gent, Briney.”

The little girl unbuttoned a pocket in her gown to reveal a cabinet in the center of her chest. The mechanism ticking away inside was a marvel of gleaming glass and metal. A weight swung above it like a metronome.

“Incredible!” Wally cried, stepping closer. He gasped, and I knew the keen boy had seen the keyhole and understood instantly what it meant.

“Clockwork has to be wound”—Wally’s hand went to his own heart—“and Tick Tock’s gone missing with the keys! What time does Mr. Tock generally wind your apparatus?”

Cy blinked as if holding back tears, but Briney just wrapped her arms around me. I held very still, listening to the whir of clockwork in her chest. This was a matter of life and death after all. They might be pickpockets and thieves, but if Tick Tock did not return with the keys, both Cy and Briney were doomed.

“He winds them in the morning at seven sharp.” Jack picked up a tappet wrench from the table and twirled it like a baton. “Every single day.”

I thought for an instant that the child beside me was too young to understand her predicament. And then I felt her tremble. Briney Winckles was well aware of the peril her peculiar heart put her in, but she did not want her brother to know she was afraid. I leaned against her and licked her chin. Even a desperado needs to hug a dachshund sometimes.

“You mentioned he might kill you?” Wally queried.

“It don’t matter wot ’e does to me,” Dobbin said, paling perceptibly. “Wot matters is that ’e makes it back before seven.”

Wally cleared his throat. “That may be beyond his ability. I’m afraid Noodles and I may have witnessed Tick Tock being abducted.”

Briney went still.

“Which only means we must rescue him,” Wally added quickly, “rather than await his return.”

“Scotland Yard’s taken ’im!” Jack exclaimed.

“I don’t believe so,” Wally said, and described exactly what we had seen.

“It must ’ave been the peelers,” Dobbin said.

“Perhaps,” Walter admitted. “But there is someone I would very much like to consult just in case it isn’t.”

“You know a criminal mastermind?” Jack asked.

“No,” Wally admitted. “But my aunt is acquainted with a deductive genius. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”

Jack fumbled the wrench he was spinning, then snatched it from the air. “You think ’e would give us the time of day?”

“I believe so,” Wally said. “I was supposed to have breakfast with him tomorrow.”

“He’s at his flat in Buckingham Mansions instead of his country house, then.” Jack jumped down. “Let’s go!”

I found it fascinating that a criminal such as Spring-Heeled Jack would know the whereabouts of Sir Arthur’s flat.

“If Tick Tock ’as been taken,” Dobbin said, “I expect ’e will escape. And when ’e does, ’e will come ’ere.”

“But if he does not,” Jack insisted, “then we have no time to lose!”

“Jack’s got it right, Dob,” Briney said, standing up. “We go find him.” The giant, who had been sitting silently beside me the whole time, nodded his odd head.

“All right,” Dobbin decided. “We go. I’ll bring you pickaback, Briney.”

To bring someone “pickaback” means to carry that person on one’s back. The boy bent over so his little sister could climb on.

Buckingham Mansions proved to be a fortress of flats almost a block long and six stories tall. The street level was occupied by shops and guarded by a doorman.

“Pardon me,” Wally said to this worthy man when we arrived. “Would you inform Sir Arthur that Walter Kennewickett wishes to see him?”

The doorman’s eyes took in Wally and our three curious companions—Cy had wisely waited in the shadows on the opposite side of the street—before they settled on me.

“Get on,” he growled. “No dogs allowed. I don’t like dogs, nor boys nor girls for that matter.”

“How about your job?” Jack asked. “Do you like your job? I ask because Sir Arthur is expecting us.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.” Not only did Jack sound sincere, but his face showed no sign of deception. Criminals of his ilk could apparently lie without blushing.

“Then you would know that he’s out chasing ghosts. Yer not gettin’ in. Not in the middle of the night.”

I was deciding which ankle to bite when my lunge was arrested by a cry from the street.

“Wal-ter!”

Rhodope was running toward us. The gentleman following at a more dignified pace could only be Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Jack made a strange, strangling sound. I could understand his emotion. Sir Arthur’s form engendered awe in me as well. He was not cut from the same physical cloth as his character Sherlock Holmes. The fictional detective is described as a whip of a man. Sir Arthur resembled a walrus.

“Walter!” Rhodope cried again when she arrived. “I wired your parents as requested. They’ll be here by midmorning, I’m sure. When you failed to return, I tracked Sir Arthur down at a Society for Psychical Research meeting to enlist his help. But it seems you’ve captured the criminals single-handedly? Bravo!”

“He didn’t capture anybody, love.” Jack had jerked his scarf over his face. “We kidnapped him right and proper.”

“I believe ‘requested my presence’ would be more accurate,” Wally said. I had to concur. I would never have allowed Walter Kennewickett to be kidnapped.

“Kidnapped,” Jack insisted, as if his credentials as a criminal were in question. “Carried off!”

Miss Rhodope’s eyes narrowed. “Do I know you, sir?”

“Not unless you consort with vile criminals,” Jack growled, his voice having grown even gruffer. “The name’s Jack. I imagine you’ve heard of me?”

Sir Arthur studied him. “Spring-Heeled Jack steals purses, then jumps walls and bounces up buildings. You’d be that Jack, would you?”

Jack made his bow and flourish.

“But he did not kidnap me, sir,” Wally insisted.

“It’s just as well,” Sir Arthur said. “Your aunt was about to rouse the Sisters of Suffrage to your defense. I expect there would have been rioting in the streets. And who are these young people?”

Rhodope turned to the urchins as Wally made the introductions. Dobbin scowled as if he feared Rhodope might scrub him clean on the spot, but Briney smiled shyly.

“You’re the picture lady,” she said.

“And you are the acrobatic angel. I’ve seen you perform! Aren’t you a bit big for your brother to be carrying you?”

“She’s knackered, miss,” Dobbin said. “She’d set right down in the road if I didn’t carry ’er.”

“Poor child!” Sir Arthur exclaimed. “You must come inside!”

It seemed as if all would be well until Cy stepped from the shadows and crossed the street. I realized with dismay that he had neglected to replace his turban.

“Good Gad.” Sir Arthur’s grip on his walking stick tightened. “Who might you be, sir?”

“He’s a friend,” Wally said quickly.

Cy produced his bellows from his pocket and pumped his chest full of air.

“A frrriiienddd,” he agreed.

Even the famous author seemed taken aback.

“On my honor as a Kennewickett, sir,” Wally said, “my companions harbor no ill intent.”

“At the moment,” Jack interjected ominously. “The past is the past, and the future ain’t here yet, if you get my meaning.”

“A philosopher as well as a villain!” Sir Arthur observed. “Well, well.”

“I have more where that came from.” Jack had forgotten to gruff his voice, and Sir Arthur gave him a very keen look.

“Your acquaintances astonish me, Walter,” he said. “Do step inside, all of you.”

The doorman glared at me, but he nodded and smiled and groveled as Sir Arthur stepped past.

He rang for tea and biscuits when we reached his comfortable study. Dobbin, who had carried his sister pickaback up the stairs, settled her on the settee. I hopped up beside her, and Wally sat beside me.

A few moments later I was pleased to learn that biscuits in England were not biscuits at all, but cookies of all sorts.

“Don’t you think you should take off your gloves?” Rhodope asked as Dobbin reached grimy fingers for a jam-filled confection.

“I don’t take off my gloves for nobody,” Dobbin said, slipping a second cookie into his pocket.

Briney selected a sugar wafer and offered me half. It would have been impolite not to accept.

“Now, Walter,” Rhodope said, “begin at the beginning, and tell all.”

Sir Arthur’s brow furrowed as Wally related our adventure.

“One moment, Walter,” he said when Wally revealed that both Briney and Cy had clockwork parts. “I am a doctor as well as a writer of fiction, you know. May I examine the patients?” Cy nodded at Briney.

“All right,” she said. “But don’t poke us with nothing like needles.”

Sir Arthur assured her that he would not. His face grew grim as he examined Cy’s ribs, and grimmer still when he felt Briney’s wrist with his fingertips. He took a tablet from his desk and made a couple of quick notations. Walter watched with keen interest, but Miss Rhodope was staring at Jack.

“Go on,” the great man said at last, resuming his seat. “If I am going to help, I must know everything.” He merely gasped when Wally reached the bit about the missing keys and tapped the tablet with his pen.

“So Walter and Noodles were the last ones to have seen Tick Tock.”

“I believe so, sir,” Wally agreed. As he talked, I watched Rhodope edge nearer to Jack, who edged away. This curious game of cat and mouse ended with the criminal backed into a corner.

“And he was attempting to kidnap you at the time?” He spun toward Dobbin. “What was the motive, Mr. Winckles? Money? Was he going to demand a ransom?”

“’E didn’t say,” Dobbin admitted. “Tick Tock keeps ’is own counsel, ’e does.”

At that moment Rhodope snatched the scarf from Jack’s face.

“Leander Smyth-Hops! I knew it was you! He is no criminal,” Rhodope accused. “He’s a journalist!”

“You’re the one who called my last story a crime, Rho. Said I lacked research!” He turned toward Sir Arthur, his hand to his heart. “I was inspired by your words in ‘A Case of Identity,’ sir:

“‘Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things that are really mere commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and leading to the most outré results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable.’”

He continued, “Leander Smyth-Hops can’t fly over rooftops or peep into houses, but Spring-Heeled Jack most certainly can!”

“Good Gad,” Sir Arthur said. “You’ve memorized it line for line.”

“That and more, sir, much more. You are my idol! And”—he seemed to suddenly realize that Dobbin, Cy, and Briney were listening—“you’ve completely blown my cover, Rho!”

“We already knew,” Briney said.

I was distressed to note that while I had been distracted by this discourse, every single cookie had disappeared from the tray. Not only did Dobbin’s pocket look lumpy, but Cy’s did as well.

“You knew?” Mr. Smyth-Hops asked, paling perceptibly. “Are you telling me Tick Tock knew?”

Cy nodded, brushing crumbs from his sleeve.

“’E don’t care.” Dobbin was circumnavigating the room now, examining its contents. It appeared unsettlingly as if he were “casing the joint,” as criminals might say. “It’s rats and abaddons Tick Tock feeds to the sewer swine,” the boy went on. “Not newspapermen.”

An “abaddon” is a criminal turned informer, a rascal who squeals on his fellow rogues.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Mr. Smyth-Hops said. “I am no fan of perishing by pig.”

“Do you mean to say that sewer swine are real?” Rhodope asked.

“Real as rats,” Leander assured her. “But much bigger and much, much hungrier.”

“You must help me get a photograph!” she declared.

“Not on your life,” the would-be criminal replied. “You’re staying out of the sewers, Rho.”

She gave him an icy glare, but I had to agree. Photographing the feral herd might be beyond even Rhodope’s considerable skill. I doubted that the piggies could be coaxed into posing peacefully.

“By the way, Walter”—Mr. Smyth-Hops turned to Wally—“you have quite converted me. I’ve become an admirer of your arts!”

“Pyrotechnics,” Wally explained to his aunt. “My Coruscating Cannonades proved useful in scattering the subterranean herd.”

The term “subterranean” refers to things beneath the surface of the earth—a fine place for such pigs. I hoped they stayed there.

“Useful?” Mr. Smyth-Hops cried. “They were utterly fantastic. We must have them at our wedding, Rho!”

“We could,” Rhodope agreed. “If we were having a wedding. Which of course we are not.”

“Of course we are not yet,” Mr. Smyth-Hops declared, undaunted. “I have to be arrested, you see,” he confided to Sir Arthur. “In order to finish researching my exposé on criminals and the court system. I can’t possibly propose until I’ve made a name for myself. But I’m finding it harder than you might suppose to end up behind bars. Really, Dob, I’m not sure why you worry about Scotland Yard at all.”

“Stop shamming,” Dobbin suggested. “They’ll lug you off to the lockup right quick enough.”

“The recent purse snatchings were shams?” Wally asked.

“Setups,” Mr. Smyth-Hops admitted. “Clever crimes committed under the very nose of the constables. And still I have not been nabbed. It’s disappointing.”

“Disappointing indeed,” Sir Arthur said, and sighed. “But back to the problem at hand. I believe we need to notify the Yard.”

“No!” Briney started up, almost toppling me to the floor.

“Journalists is one thing, but peelers is another,” Dobbin said. “No peelers. They’d take Briney from me, that’s wot they’d do. It’s my job to take care of ’er.”

Cy nodded in silent agreement.

Mr. Smyth-Hops said, “If you ask what I think—”

“No one did,” Rhodope pointed out.

“I think Tick Tock will come through,” he went on. “I’ve met the man . . . no, not man. More a force of nature—if nature were evil, of course. The creature is ineffable.”

“Ineffable” means too powerful or extreme to be explained in words.

“You’re a journalist,” Sir Arthur said. “Attempt it.”

Leander shuddered. “It . . . it’s as if he carries with him every crime he has ever committed. When he steps into a room, you feel the force of his will. If Tick Tock is expected back, he will be. Everyone knows he never reneges.”

To “renege” is to fail to keep one’s promise, or to break a contract. Dachshunds are far too noble to renege. I was surprised to learn that we could have anything in common with such a criminal.

“If he is such a sought-after criminal, he has most likely been arrested,” Miss Rhodope said. “And will not be able to keep his word.”

“I asked Constable Arbuckle if he knew of him,” Wally said. “He felt that Tick Tock had passed away.”

Dobbin glanced at Briney. “’E ain’t dead. Just quiet lately. On account of me minding the shop for ’im, if you take my meaning.”

“So if he ventured out, he could have been captured by the constables!” Rhodope insisted.

Leander held up a finger. “‘It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data,’” he declared. “‘Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.’ Sherlock Holmes, ‘A Scandal in Bohemia.’”

“You are exactly right,” Sir Arthur said. “I mean I was exactly right. Oh, confound it! Quit quoting me.”

“We need more information,” Wally admitted. “We haven’t got enough to form a hypothesis.” The brilliant boy took his notepad out of his pocket, and I wagged. Walter Kennewickett was on the case!

“It has been mentioned multiple times that Tick Tock never reneges,” he said. “Have you made a deal with him, Dob?”

“I don’t discuss Tick Tock’s dealings.” The boy looked up from the lamp he was examining. “Nor my own, neither.”

“We can guess,” Sir Arthur said softly. “Your sister needed a heart.”

“The doctor said I wouldn’t grow up,” Briney said sleepily. “Tick Tock said I would. He said his brother would make me a heart just like his, if Dob would—”

Dobbin hushed her with a look. “That’s our own biz, Briney. They don’t need to know it.”

He must have felt that every eye in the room was on him.

Dobbin had made a deal with the dastardly Tick Tock, a man who did not blush at lying, stealing, and murdering. A creature who fed informants to the sewer swine. What horrible crimes had the boy committed as part of this deal?

His face flushed, but he didn’t look down.

“Dobbin is my friend.” Wally stepped over to stand beside him. “I only suggested coming here because we needed help. What matters at the moment is finding the Tick-Tock Man. Perhaps we could come up with a list of possible perpetrators, Dob?”

“Quite right,” Sir Arthur agreed. “Who might want to take Mr. Tock?”

“Well . . . there’s those that want ’im for crimes ’e’s committed,” Dobbin said doubtfully, “and those that want ’im to commit crimes ’e ’asn’t yet. Which set do you want first?”

“A more pertinent question,” Mr. Smyth-Hops proposed, “would be why would he leave retirement to kidnap Walter?”

“’E didn’t say,” Dobbin admited. “Someone usually pays ’im for a nabbing.”

“Could it be related to the rally?” Miss Rhodope pondered aloud. “Camille Jenatzy was positively glaring as he passed us. Oliver and Calypso are ruining his chance to recover the title.”

“We must split up,” Sir Arthur decided. “Gather as much information as we can about what happened to Tick Tock on the street last evening.”

“We have two hypotheses to explore,” Wally said. “That the road rally is involved, or that Scotland Yard has taken Mr. Tock.”

“Three hypotheses,” Leander corrected. “I believe he may have run into trouble with the criminal element.”

Sir Arthur nodded. “Three, then. We must pursue them all, seeking out any hint, any clue, no matter how trivial, that might put us on the right track.”

“I’ll take to the rooftops,” Leander said, resuming Jack’s swagger. “I’ve made the acquaintance of a few cat burglars and second-story men who might be of assistance.” A “second story man” is a burglar who creeps in through upper-story windows. Leander paused and put his hand to his breast. “‘In solving a problem of this sort, the grand thing is to be able to reason backward.’ A Study in Scarlet! I’m off to find a fact to reason backward from. Do you mind if I exit by way of the window, sir?”

“I’d be delighted if you did,” Sir Arthur said drily. “In fact, if you quote Holmes again, I might help you to do so.”

Mr. Smyth-Hops opened the window and leaned out. “Fog below,” he said as he stepped out onto the sill. “White as a shroud. But the rooftops and chimneys are clear. Come with me, Rho. I can see the moon and stars!”

“No,” Rhodope replied. “I’m off to gather information on the participants in the road rally. I can’t do that from a rooftop.”

“I doubt you’ll do much,” Leander said. “Not in this fog. You won’t be able to find your way across the street. No carriages will be traveling tonight either.”

“Then I’ll feel my way,” Rhodope said simply. “Neither shrouding fog nor sewer swine will stop me. This mystery must be solved before morning.”

In the silence that followed, I could clearly hear the soft ticking of Briney’s heart. I jumped down from the couch. Rhodope was right. We had no time to spare.

“I can take you anywhere, Miss,” Dobbin said. “Even through a pea souper.” This apparently was a reference to the fog. “Can you mind Briney, Cy? I don’t think she’s up to walking.”

The little girl nodded sleepily, hardly lifting her head from the arm of the settee as the giant sat down beside her.

“That leaves Scotland Yard to Walter and myself,” Sir Arthur said.

Dobbin froze.

“We must at least ascertain whether or not your monstrous mentor has been arrested, young man. I will not mention you or your sister,” the famous author assured him.

“The constable I spoke with is quite a fan of Sherlock Holmes,” Wally said. “I believe he would make inquiries quietly if you requested it, sir.”

“Good Gad,” Sir Arthur muttered. “Another fan. Well, if I must, I must.”

We hurried down the stairs and stepped outside to discover that the world had indeed been swallowed by fog. An unnatural stillness had descended on the street. Although light spilled from the doorway, the distance of a few feet turned friends into strange, unrecognizable shapes. I stayed very close to Wally.

A surprising number of citizens were out and about. I would have thought they’d all be bundled in their beds. A carriage moved cautiously through the street before us, and boots stomped by close to my nose.

“Links!” a child’s voice cried, and a torch-bearing urchin appeared before us. “Links! Light your way for sixpence, sir?” He held the blazing brand aloft.

“Dob!” he said when he spotted our companion. “I didn’t recognize it was you.”

“I’m escortin’ this lady,” Dobbin replied.

“I’ll take you for free, seeing as it’s you,” the boy offered.

“Nonsense,” Rhodope said. “I’ll pay the sixpence. There’s only one torch escort, though. What about you, Sir Arthur?”

“I know the area quite well,” the author assured her. “I believe I can manage to bump into a constable even in the dark.” He turned to Wally as we set off up the street. “Mind your pockets, Walter. Footpads like nothing better than a thick fog. Where did you last encounter your constable friend?”

“Footpads” are thieves who prey upon pedestrians. I watched for such villains as Wally described the route we had walked with Constable Arbuckle. Phantom footpads formed of fog seemed to step around corners, then dissolve into the night. Smells were mixed by the mist to such an extent that I could not even discern the scent of pastries, though at this time of the early morning, the baker should have been hard at work. I had no idea which way we should go.

“No worries, Noodles,” Sir Arthur said, noticing my distress. “I’ll lead the way.”

When we reached the first corner, our fearless leader felt the base of the gaslight.

“Each light pole has its own mark,” he explained. “They were designed to help people find their way home on just such nights as this. The same marks are also put on letters to allow a carrier to know where to deliver them. Very useful for fictional detectives attempting to trace correspondence in London.”

We felt our way from lamppost to lamppost until we found Constable Arbuckle waving a torch in the middle of an intersection.

He held up his burning brand as we approached.

“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle!” the constable cried in disbelief. “Walter said his aunt knew you, but . . . what brings you out on such a night? You must know that it’s not safe, sir, not safe at all!”

“We are here on a matter of some urgency,” Sir Arthur said. “But before we describe it—can I rely on your discretion?”

To “rely on someone’s discretion” means to trust that that person will not reveal sensitive information.

“That all depends.” Constable Arbuckle rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Onst whether or not it regards a crime in progress?”

“Certainly not,” Sir Arthur said. “All we need is information.”

The constable looked from Wally to Sir Arthur, and finally to me. I stood up on my hind legs and placed my paws on his belt in an attempt to express our earnestness.

“All right,” he decided, giving my ears a scratch. “I’ll help you if I can.”

I expected no less. Dachshunds have potent powers of persuasion.

“We need to know if Scotland Yard apprehended an individual called Tick Tock as he attempted to kidnap Walter,” the author said.

“Kidnap Walter?” Constable Arbuckle cried in evident alarm. Wally recounted the events of the night once more, leaving out any information about Dobbin, Briney, and Cy.

Artemis Arbuckle whistled. “So Tick Tock’s still ticking, as it were, and somebody nabbed him. If you two could hold the torch here, I’ll swing over to Andrew’s beat. He’ll know if there was an altercation on his watch.”

Sir Arthur and Wally hastily agreed, and took turns waving the burning torch. We were almost run down only once, by a carriage drawn by two horribly skittish horses. I would think animals of that size might have more sense.

“Andrew hasn’t heard a thing,” Constable Arbuckle reported when he returned. “Aside from that bit of trouble with the suffrage ladies, it’s been uncommon quiet tonight.”

Wally thanked the officer for his help, and Sir Arthur signed a slip of paper for him and shook his hand.

“That leaves your aunt’s hypothesis, and that of Mr. Smyth-Hops, still to be tested,” Sir Arthur said as we started home. “Either the criminal element is involved, or the abduction had something to do with the rally. We have less information than I would like. We are running out of time. I did not want to mention it earlier, but we can’t even know for certain whether the tattered man was Tick Tock.”

“But we can!” Wally cried.

“Of course.” Sir Arthur understood instantly. “You took a photograph.”

I had completely forgotten it myself!

“And produced a print,” Wally added. “If the man in the alley was Tick Tock, Dobbin will be able to identify him.”

We hurried toward Miss Rhodope’s rooms to retrieve the evidence.

When we reached Sir Arthur’s flat, we found that the others had fared far worse than we.

Cy was holding a cool compress to the side of Leander Smyth-Hops’s head while Miss Rhodope and Dobbin looked on. Briney was sleeping on the settee.

“Who gave you the blinker?” Dobbin asked when Cy lowered the rag.

A “blinker” was apparently a black eye. Mr. Smyth-Hops was sporting a beauty.

“A few fellows who didn’t appreciate being asked their whereabouts last night,” the journalist said. “They had nothing to do with the disappearance. I was sure they had. It was a disappointment.”

“Did you discern this before or after they blackened your eye?” Miss Rhodope asked. “And how many is ‘a few’?”

“Somewhat after, I would say. It was quite a set-to, Rho. Oh, and there were only three of them.”

“You bested three ruffians?” Sir Arthur asked in surprise.

“Certainly,” Mr. Smyth-Hops said. “You can’t expect that I would go amongst the criminal element unprepared. I have been studying Bartitsu with Edward William Barton-Wright himself!”

“Bartitsu?” Rhodope repeated.

“A magnificent mix of cane fighting, kickboxing, fisticuffs, and jujitsu—in short, just the thing for the gentleman who intends to do investigative reporting on the rough streets of London. How about your hypothesis, Rho? Any bets placed?”

“None,” Rhodope lamented. “Scotland Yard?”

“Claims all has been quiet,” Sir Arthur admitted.

“What have you there, Walter?” Leander asked.

“Photographs,” Wally said, and everyone gathered around as he spread them on the desk.

“That’s Tick Tock, right enough.” Dobbin picked up one of the photos of the fiend. “It flattens ’im a bit, if you take my meaning. ’E’s bigger in the flesh.”

“He is more fierce in person,” Mr. Smyth-Hops agreed. “And he won’t be pleased that he’s been photographed, I’m sure.”

“So we know he was at the parade, at least,” Sir Arthur said.

“Who is this?” Wally asked suddenly, pointing at another picture. “Aunt Rhodope, do you know her?”

I hopped up onto a chair and peered past Miss Rhodope’s elbow at the image in question.

It was the photograph Rhodope had asked Wally to take of the Sisters of Suffrage as they passed. Every face was forward as they marched behind the Zephyr. Every face but one. A single sister was looking directly at us—or at someone behind us.

“That’s Myra,” Rhodope exclaimed. “Myra Maybelle Thistlethorp!”

“No, it ain’t. It’s Bloody Belle DunKelly,” Dobbin corrected. “The Butcher of Bartle Street. Ran ’er own butcher shop until ’er mister disappeared. Then they sent ’er to jail.”

“But she is completely reformed and going by her given name now!” Rhodope cried.

“Would she have known Tick Tock on sight?” Sir Arthur asked.

“Oh, she knew ’im, right enough,” Dobbin said. “She sometimes gave ’im bones for the piggies.”

We all paused a moment to ponder this terrible thought.

“And if she had recognized Tick Tock?” Leander Smyth-Hops asked.

“The Sisters of Suffrage are completely devoted to Calypso,” Rhodope reasoned. “They would never allow her son to be kidnapped by a criminal kingpin.”

“‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,’” Leander quoted. “The Sign of the Four, chapter six.”

“Will you stop that?” Sir Arthur thundered.

“Sorry,” Leander said. “But it seems the Sisters of Suffrage have taken Tick Tock, haven’t they?”

“Wouldn’t Miss Rhodope have known?” Sir Arthur asked.

“I was at Scotland Yard seeing to Sylvia’s release,” Rhodope replied.

“But how did they manage it?” Sir Arthur asked. “Constables and criminal kingpins alike have tried their best—”

“Do not underestimate the Sisterhood, sir!” Rhodope said, lifting her chin.

At that moment, Briney sat up. “Dob,” she said, starting toward us, “I—” And she collapsed onto the floor.

I was the first to reach her side. She was breathing. I was relieved to hear her heart still ticking.

“She’s fainted,” said Sir Arthur as he lifted her from the floor. “I will say this while she is insensible, Dobbin. You must prepare yourself. It is as I feared when I first felt her pulse. Your sister’s clockwork is a more serious problem than you know.”

“What do you mean?” asked Dobbin.

“Her heart was made for her when she was younger,” Sir Arthur said. “She has grown too big for it.”

“Like a fuel pump that don’t push enough into the engine,” Dobbin said slowly. “Even if we find the keys in time, Tick Tock’s brother’s dead. ’E can’t make another one.” The boy’s face went suddenly pale.

“Electrification!” Wally exclaimed. “That was Tick Tock’s motive. He was not hired to extort my parents; he was going to do it himself. He’d read about our electric automatons. He was going to force my parents to replace Briney’s clockwork heart with a modernized model that runs on electricity!”

“We’ll find Tick Tock,” Miss Rhodope assured Dobbin as he sank down beside his sister. “May I use your telephone, Sir Arthur? They will have taken him to Myra’s.”

“The Butcher of Bartle Street?” Mr. Smyth-Hops gasped.

“She is reformed, I assure you,” Miss Rhodope repeated. It was a matter of moments before the phone connected Rhodope to an operator, who in turn connected her to the line she requested.

“Hello! Winifred? Of course it’s Rhodope! Who else? Listen, Win—do you have a criminal in custody? You do?” She nodded at Dobbin. “He was? No, Myra mustn’t!” Her voice grew very urgent, and she frowned as she listened. “You put it to a vote? I see. Win, darling, was he carrying keys? Brass keys such as you might use to wind a clock? I see. I’m sending someone over. Don’t let them dispose of him before my friend arrives.” She set the phone on its stand. “It’s already done.”

“What?” cried Mr. Smyth-Hops.

“Where?” demanded Dobbin.

“Confound it all! What, why, where, and how?” Sir Arthur asked.

“Myra did identify Tick Tock, as Wally supposed,” Rhodope said. “She intuited instantly that he was after Calypso’s son. She contacted Winifred and then the quilting society. Winnie’s husband is a surgeon, you see.”

“I don’t see,” Mr. Smyth-Hops admitted.

“It means she has access to diethyl aether,” Sir Arthur explained. “You can render a subject unconscious by holding a rag of it to his nose.”

“That was the struggle we heard,” Wally guessed, “and the most dangerous part of their operation.”

“Once they had him in the coach, they searched him for sharp objects, and then, before he could awake, they stitched him between two quilts. He was quite helpless when he regained his senses.”

“Then they have the keys!” Leander cried.

“They don’t,” Rhodope admitted. “Which means that they must be well hidden on his person. He may have been helpless, but he was not silent. His language was so”—Miss Rhodope turned pink—“colorful, they voted on whether they should beat him with broomsticks or call the constables to have him hauled away. Myra is naturally opposed to constables.”

“Naturally,” Sir Arthur said.

“She argued for the broomstick party, but was overruled in the popular vote. The constables are on their way to collect the Tick-Tock Man as we speak.”

Walter leaped to his feet. “They can’t have him!”

“Tick Tock can’t fix her, anyway,” Dobbin said. “His brother, Basil, was the clever one that way, and he’s years gone.”

“Then you and I will do it,” Wally said. “We need to get back to your lab. The tools there were Basil’s, weren’t they? He must have had schematics for Briney’s heart.”

Of course I knew Walter Kennewickett would not give up! The girl stirred, and I licked her face. Dobbin knelt beside us.

“Dob,” she whispered, “is Tick Tock come?”

“’E’s been nabbed,” Dobbin said, brushing the hair from her face. “I’m going with the writer man to get the keys, on account of I can get them to the lab the fastest once they’re in ’and. Cy will carry you down below, won’t you, Cy?”

The giant nodded as Dobbin helped his sister up.

We stepped onto the street once more to find that an icy wind had swept the fog completely away.

“Back down the way we came up, Cy?” Leander Smyth-Hops asked. Cy nodded.

His bull’s-eye lantern sliced the darkness as I trotted to keep up with Wally. When we reached the sewer opening, Cy started down the ladder. His head was barely out of sight when Leander picked me up and followed, with Rhodope and Wally right behind.

Rhodope held a kerchief to her face when she reached the bottom, but she glanced at Leander, then put it away. We hurried single file down the catwalk.

Just as we reached the corridor of crystals, I heard what I feared the most: splashing behind us.

“Do you happen to have any additional pyrotechnics about you, Walter?” Mr. Smyth-Hops asked hopefully.

“I’m afraid not,” Wally said.

“What is it?” Rhodope asked.

“Possibly nothing,” Mr. Smyth-Hops replied. “Walk a little faster, if you will.”

The splashing grew nearer, and I heard the unmistakable grunting of the sewer swine.

Mr. Smyth-Hops stopped beneath a sewer grate. There was no ladder here, but an electric light on the street above us shone through the bars. A pile of detritus that had washed down the drains reached almost to the ceiling and narrowed the path.

“It’s still some way to the lab, Rho,” he said. “I want you to go on.”

“It’s sewer swine, isn’t it?” Rhodope asked.

“Probably,” Mr. Smyth-Hops replied. “You’ll be needed to assist in the procedure, Rho. Walter will be needed to manufacture the heart, and Cy must carry Briney as well as light your way. That leaves one job for me.”

“Leander!” Wally’s aunt cried.

“Best hurry,” he urged her, taking off his hat and hanging it on a bit of broken board. He had chosen his spot well. He could see by the dim light from above, and the swine could not get past the pile of rubble on his right. “I don’t know how long I can delay them.”

“Leander!” Rhodope exclaimed again.

“Save Briney, Walter.” Mr. Smyth-Hops removed his coat as well. “Don’t let this be in vain.”

“Don’t give up!” Wally said, then turned and ran into the darkness with Rhodope and Cy.

My heart ached with the desire to follow him, and my knees were shaking, but my duty was clear. I took my place beside Leander Smyth-Hops.

Dachshunds do not leave comrades to die alone.

I turned to stand by Mr. Smyth-Hops’s side as the first of the sewer swine stepped into the light. The boar blinked at us, and for a moment it was still, as if it could not believe its luck at finding us there.

Then it charged.

Mr. Smyth-Hops spun his coat like a cape, covering the beast’s head, and then landed a terrific blow to its nose. It jumped back and he leaped after it, delivering a spinning kick to the snout. I gave a terrific growl as I followed, and then the rest of the swine joined in and the battle became a blur of tusks and fangs.

I attacked the hocks, ears, and hindquarters; my comrade was everywhere, launching himself from the tunnel walls, rebounding from the roof, and using not only fists and feet but every brick and stick and stone at hand in the battle. I found myself flung into the air, and managed to nip a porcine ear on my way down. And then I was in the thick of the fray. I fought with fang and nail, dodging among the maddened beasts.

The one thought in my mind—the only thought now—was that the swine must not pass. Not until Wally and the others were safe behind the workshop door.

The battle went on and on, surging up and down the passage. At last I could tell we were being pushed back. The end had come. I gathered myself for one more assault, knowing it would be my last.

In that dark moment, I heard a shout. Walter Kennewickett leaped past me, a blazing brand in each hand. Rhodope, with two torches of her own, was right behind him.

The swine, no doubt remembering the burns from Wally’s pyrotechnics, turned and fled.

Leander Smyth-Hops sank down beside me. His clothing was in rags, and his coat irretrievable.

“We’re alive, Sausage!” he said.

I was somewhat surprised myself.

Cy was holding a very still Briney in his arms when we stepped into the workshop. There were tears on the giant’s face, and I thought for a moment that time had run out—but then I heard the faint tick-tock of her heart.

There was still a chance.

Somewhere in the night, Dobbin and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle were doubtless rushing toward us with the keys to save Cy and Briney. Somewhere farther still, Oliver and Calypso were racing back in response to Rhodope’s wire.

There are situations not even a dachshund can help with. Walter was facing one now. There was nothing I could do but watch as Wally and Rhodope tore apart the room searching for schematics and spare parts.

And then the door burst open, and Tick Tock stood before us. This was no tatterdemalion but a tiger of a man, grown old but powerful still. The rags had concealed his size, and the stumbles his energy. I backed up until I was standing on Walter Kennewickett’s toes.

A chill went through me as he swept into the room. Ineffable indeed. It was as if he carried every crime he had ever committed with him, crimes too horrible for this room to hold. His wild and wicked eyes took in the boxes of papers Wally and Rhodope had overturned in their search and came to rest on Briney’s small form.

A crowd came through the door after him—Sir Arthur, Constable Arbuckle, several other constables, and Myra Maybelle Thistlethorp herself, still wearing a Sisters of Suffrage sash.

“You brought him!” Mr. Smyth-Hops cried.

“He brought us,” Sir Arthur replied.

The officers of the law were as disheveled as Mr. Smyth-Hops.

“Sewer swine?” Rhodope inquired.

“Tick Tock,” Sir Arthur corrected as Dobbin rushed to Briney’s side, keys in hand. “We made the mistake of letting him out of the quilt.”

“Kennewickett,” Tick Tock said as Dobbin wound Briney’s heart spring, “you were looking for my brother’s papers?”

“Yes, sir,” Wally said.

“Could they ’ave done it, then? Could your parents ’ave rigged Briney an ’eart?”

“Yes, sir,” Wally said.

“Then they still could,” the monster muttered.

“Yes. And there was no need to try to abduct me,” Wally said. “Some people will help if you ask.”

“And some people won’t,” Tick Tock countered. “My way, they always says yes.”

I heard a sob and turned to see Dobbin still beside his sister. “Something’s gone squiffy,” he said.

It was clear that he meant something was very, very wrong.

“I wound Briney, but she won’t wake up. Not even when I shake her. We brought the keys. She should wake up!”

“Where’d that doctor go?” Tick Tock demanded. He turned around, and the constables retreated a step or two. I did not blame them.

“I’m here,” Sir Arthur said.

“I’d like a professional opinion,” Tick Tock demanded, his grimace showing blackened teeth. He cleared the workbench with one sweep of his arm. “Put ’er down, Cy. Let the sawbones have a look-see.”

Cy laid Briney down gently and stepped away. Sir Arthur felt Briney’s pulse.

“I’m afraid it has gone squiffy, Dobbin,” he said, laying his hand gently on the boy’s shoulder. “Your sister is deeply unconscious, and she won’t be waking up. Not even one of the famous elder Kennewicketts could construct a heart fast enough. I’m sorry. There is no hope.”

My legs were suddenly too weak to hold me, and I sank to the floor. No hope.

Dobbin staggered.

“Don’t give up, Dob,” Wally said, and turned to Tick Tock. “We can’t give up without trying. Tell me where your brother’s papers are kept, Mr. Tock,” Wally said. “I will do my best to build her a bigger heart in time!”

“You could do that?” Tick Tock walked toward Wally and stepped in between him and Dobbin. He leaned over me until his nose was almost touching Wally’s. “A boy like you could replace ’er ticker?”

“I could try,” Wally said without backing up an inch. “With Dobbin’s help and a little more time, I believe it can be done.” My pulse pounded with pride for him, for his courage and conviction, and for a moment—just for a moment—I felt there might be hope.

Then the vile man tapped his temple. “My brother didn’t leave no plans. ’E kept it all in ’is ’ead. Dobbin!” Tick Tock’s burning eyes turned to the boy. “You made a deal with me.”

“Oi.” Dobbin’s voice was shaking. “But you don’t play fair, Tick Tock. One job, you said, but you kept the keys, didn’t you? Made me work every day or you wouldn’t wind Briney!”

Tick Tock sucked air in through his teeth. “Teach you to pay attention when consorting with criminals.” His hand went out, and clawlike fingers brushed Briney’s cheek. It was a surprisingly tender gesture.

“Nobody ever ast me to save a life before. It was murder and theft they always wanted. It was novel, that’s wot. Who was I to make a deal like that?” Suddenly, his shoulders squared, and as he whirled toward, us he seemed to grow even larger. “Tick Tock, that’s who! Do you intend to ’onor your end of the deal, Dob?”

“I would ’ave,” Dobbin cried. “You never told me what I ’ad to do!”

“Don’t rush me,” Tick Tock growled. “It ’as to be something worth my time, don’t it? Something wot will give you ounce for ounce as much trouble as you both ’ave given me.” His eyes went to Wally once more, and suddenly he smiled. “I know wot’ll do it. Be a good man. From this day on, you be a good man, Dob. That’s my deal.”

Then he turned away from us all, and a tremendous tremor went through him—and when he turned back, his own large clockwork heart was in his hand.

“What’s this?” Constable Arbuckle cried, leaping to the criminal’s side.

“Time,” Tick Tock whispered as he sank to his knees. “Time for Briney to grow up, as promised.”

And with that, he toppled to the floor.

Epilogue

“Barely avoiding being abducted.” Constable Arbuckle’s hands were folded behind his back as his superior at Scotland Yard filled in Oliver and Calypso on the previous night’s happenings. We had all been hauled from the sewer to the Yard for questioning, and found Wally’s parents just arriving there. “Consorting with criminals,” the inspector said. “Sloshing through sewers.”

At this point, Leander interrupted to offer the opinion that Wally had been very clever with his pyrotechnics, and incredibly brave when he saved us from the swine a second time. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself described the way the wonderful boy had leaped into action, his fingers as nimble as a surgeon’s as he swapped one mechanical heart for another. Rhodope mentioned that Dobbin had burst into tears when his sister opened her eyes.

I was glad no one mentioned that Cy had slipped away in the darkness as we made our way from the sewer, thus evading arrest.

The inspector silenced everyone with a glare, and then turned to the elder Kennewicketts.

“So that’s what your son has been up to while you were away. What do you say?”

Oliver and Calypso exchanged a glance.

“Well done, Walter!” Oliver exclaimed. “I wish we could have been here!”

“You handled the situation with compassion, courage, and intelligence,” Calypso agreed. “As expected of a Kennewickett!”

“What?” The inspector stopped pacing.

“Walter did just as we would have done,” Calypso explained.

“But the danger!” the detective cried.

“The outcome of adventures is always unknown,” Oliver opined. “You wouldn’t expect Walter to turn his back on a friend?”

“I would expect him to find his friends in better places,” the detective said. “Now we’ve got these young ruffians to figure out.”

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stood up. “I can’t approve of children being dragged away to jail.”

“An asylum for orphans would be better than the sewer,” Constable Arbuckle offered, but he looked uncomfortable suggesting it. “What else can we do with them?”

“We’re going to take them with us, of course,” Oliver said.

“Are we, dearest?” Calypso asked.

“At once!” Oliver said. “If they are agreeable.”

The detective’s hand went to his head. “Well, Arbuckle? It’s your case. What do you say?”

“It’s a big responsibility,” Constable Arbuckle said, “taking on the likes of these. I don’t know what the family’s like, sir, and that’s a fact.”

“Ahem,” Leander Smyth-Hops interrupted. “I say, consider the sausage!”

“He means Noodles,” Wally explained.

“I have observed that a dog always reflects the family life,” Mr. Smyth-Hops went on. “I’ve never seen a frisky dog in a gloomy family, or a sad dog in a happy one. Snarling people have snarling dogs; dangerous people have dangerous dogs. The Kennewicketts have—”

“Noodles,” Wally finished.

“The philosopher has returned!” Sir Arthur said.

“Really?” Leander Smyth-Hops grinned. “Perhaps you could put that in one of your books. Sherlock Holmes could say—”

“I repent.” Sir Arthur groaned. “I repent of ever creating Holmes!”

“Nonetheless,” Rhodope said, “I believe there was some wisdom in his words. If you know Noodles, you know the Kennewicketts.”

I realized that every eye was on me. I stopped scratching at once and tried to appear worthy of Wally—and dashingly dangerous.

Constable Arbuckle nodded. “He’s a noble beast at that. What do you think, Briney? Dob?”

Dobbin Winckles was backing away, but Briney grabbed his arm.

“Please,” she said. “I want to go with Noodles.”

“We can give your sister a heart that never needs winding,” Calypso offered.

“Come on, Dob.” Wally offered his hand. “There is room for your workshop in our lab. I have some ideas for internal combustion you could assist me with.”

“How do you feel about contraptions such as”—Dobbin glanced at the inspector—“men that’s, say, part mechanical?”

Briney looked most intently at Walter, and I realized they were asking about Cy. The children were unwilling to leave their friend.

“There’s enough room,” Wally said instantly. “More than enough!”

Rhodope cheered as Dobbin’s grimy glove gripped Walter’s hand.

“Well, that’s all gas and gaiters, then,” the detective said, sounding very pleased.

“Pardon?” Oliver asked.

“He means everything’s turned out right as rain,” Leander Smyth-Hops explained. Then, lowering his voice, he added, “You’re taking the members of a criminal gang off his hands.”

“It’s settled, then!” Calypso declared.

“And who are you again?” asked Constable Arbuckle, turning to Leander Smyth-Hops.

“Oh.” Rhodope reddened. “Where are my manners? Detective, Constable Arbuckle, may I present Spring-Heeled Jack?”

“At last!” the detective cried. “Someone we can arrest!”

Leander Smyth-Hops resisted just long enough to blow Rhodope a kiss behind Constable Arbuckle’s back.

“Perhaps I should be kinder to Scotland Yard,” Sir Arthur said as his greatest fan was hauled away in handcuffs.

But everything wasn’t right as rain. There was no sign of the chrome-domed giant when we ventured down to collect the children’s things from their subterranean lair. This may have had something to do with the presence of the armed officers who had come to protect us from sewer swine.

Briney took one last look at her former home, and tears welled in her eyes.

Dobbin took a pencil from his pocket and wrote There’s room for friends at the Kennewicketts’ Inn on the wall before we left.

Everyone was optimistic that Cy would be found; we would be in London for a month, after all, while Oliver and Calypso signed certain papers and pulled several strings to allow Briney and Dob to accompany us out of the country.

Walter and the ex-urchins spent their time searching for Cy.

But when not even Dobbin’s distasteful acquaintances knew of Cy’s whereabouts, the siblings were reduced to dropping notes down sewer grates, hoping he might stumble upon one.

“If we can’t find him,” Wally said at last, “he’ll have to find us.” Then he turned to the production of pyrotechnics, consulting Oliver often regarding chemical content and construction techniques.

The night before we sailed, it seemed that all of London had spilled into the streets to see the sky over Trafalgar Square blossom with skyrockets that boomed and then burst into flowers, flags, or stars.

The grand finale was the massive shell that Wally had worked on for weeks. The crowd went still as it climbed on a column of sparks and smoke.

Then it burst, and words blossomed in the sky.

Come home with us, Cy!

The letters coruscated, then faded and fell.

I leaned against Briney’s legs as we waited.

“’E ’as to ’ave seen that!” Dobbin cried at last. But the crowds left, and all was still.

“He could have had some distance to travel,” Wally offered. We waited some more.

Big Ben had started its ten o’clock strike and a river mist was rising around us when at last, an enormous man in silk robes and a turban strode out of the night.

Briney flung herself into his arms.

Rhodope turned to Oliver and Calypso and made the appropriate introductions, and all was gas and gaiters at last.

Of course.

Walter Kennewickett was on the case!

Author’s Note

Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle trained and worked as a physician. As a young man, he excelled at cricket, loved playing football (soccer, in Britain) and golf, and single-handedly introduced the British to the sport of skiing. But by the time he was forty, his figure, like that of Noodles, could have been described as “respectable.” When the Boer War broke out, Doyle attempted to enlist, only to be told he was too fat to fight.

Doyle loved adventures, inventions, and books. His literary career began while he was still a medical student. He was friends with Bram Stoker, who wrote Dracula, and J. M. Barrie, who wrote Peter Pan. Doyle, however, was far more productive than his literary acquaintances. He wrote historical novels, science fiction, plays, romances, poetry, nonfiction, and, to his eventual regret, detective stories about Sherlock Holmes.

After publishing a few tales of the dauntless detective, Doyle grew tired of his creation. Holmes was a skeptic. Doyle was not.

In fact, Doyle believed in fairies, hunted ghosts, and attended séances. He much preferred his historical novels about archers and knights, or his science fiction featuring the passionate Professor Challenger, to his crime fiction.

Eventually, Doyle grew to dislike writing about Holmes so much that he decided to be done with the detective. First, he attempted to raise his fees so that publishers would not buy new Sherlock Holmes stories. The publishers happily paid what he asked, and fans hounded Doyle for more.

When his first plan to rid himself of Holmes didn’t work, Doyle was forced to take more drastic measures. He wrote a short story called “The Final Problem,” in which Holmes plummeted to his death at the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland. The author hoped that with the death of Holmes, fans of his work would turn to his other books with equal passion. But they did not.

Sherlock Holmes was more than a fictional character. He was a phenomenon, the most famous fictional detective the world had ever known. When “The Final Problem” was published, fans went into mourning. Some even wore black armbands in the streets to protest the fictional detective’s death.

Still, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle might never have relented and resurrected Holmes if he hadn’t needed money for his growing family—but he did. Ten years after his famous fall, Sherlock Holmes returned for many more adventures.

Doyle may not have enjoyed writing about Sherlock Holmes, but the character he created changed the world. When Doyle invented his detective, police depended on eyewitness reports and confessions to convict criminals. No one analyzed crime scenes, collected fingerprints, or examined blood.

Doyle was inventing forensic science—the science of collecting evidence to be used in a court of law—as he wrote. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle may not have been a skeptic, but he was as passionate about justice as Sherlock Holmes was. Twice Doyle used the “Holmes Method” in real life to prove the innocence of two men who had been imprisoned for crimes they did not commit.

After Doyle’s death, a séance was conducted at the Royal Albert Hall in an attempt to contact his spirit. Thousands of loyal Sherlock Holmes fans attended, but sadly, Sir Arthur did not appear.

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About the Author and Illustrator

KERSTEN HAMILTON is the author of several picture books and many novels, including the critically acclaimed young adult trilogy the Goblin Wars. She has worked as a ranch hand, a wood-cutter, a lumberjack, a census taker, a wrangler for wilderness guides, and an archeological surveyor. Now, when she’s not writing, she hunts dinosaurs in the deserts and badlands of New Mexico and tends to the animals on her farm in Kentucky. For more about Kersten, please visit www.kerstenhamilton.com.

JAMES HAMILTON is an artist and designer who lives in San Mateo, California. This is his second book.