A Slip in Time Read Free Page B

Watson, M.D. So Jack gave him the message about poor old Granny Smith, sick and like to die, and the others going off to fetch her sorrowing family etcetera, and before he was halfway through, the young man was shrugging on his coat and racing upstairs for his doctor’s bag (very shiny, very new), then down again, exclaiming, ‘Oh, this is exciting! My first call-out! My first emergency! Where’s my hat? My hat! My hat! I can’t go without my hat!’
    â€˜Can’t you?’ said Jack.
    â€˜Of course not! Must look the part! Doctor must wear a hat. Imagine it, if a doctor came to call, looking like a … a butcher, say! Would you believe he could make you better?’
    â€˜I suppose not.’
    â€˜Of course not! Ah, here it is! Hanging on the hook behind the door. Off we go, then!’
    Off they went. Down the road and through the alley, turn left at the end.
    A thought struck Jack. ‘Dr Watson,’ hesaid. ‘You’re not
the
Dr Watson, are you? The friend of Sherlock Holmes?’
    â€˜Shylock – ?’
    â€˜Sherlock.’
    â€˜Sherlock … Holmes, did you say? Odd sort of name.’ He shook his head. ‘No. Doesn’t ring a bell.’
    Of course it didn’t. There was no such person. Never had been. Though Grandad said people from all over the world still wrote to the Great Detective at 221B Baker Street, asking him to solve their problems.
    Did Fadge say second right, then first left? Or the other way round? Second right, Jack decided. Poor Fadge. Jack couldn’t forget the worried look on his pinched face before the Masher whisked him out of sight.
    Nothing worried Dr Watson. With John H. Watson, M.D. on hand, you just knew everything was bound to turn out all right. Jack couldn’t help wishing that he’d met Dr Watson before he met Fadge.
    Turn left. Soon be there. He was worried about Fadge. Leaving him with the Masher. And Rusty. There was something going on. Some reason they wanted him out of the way.
    â€˜Dr Watson,’ said Jack. ‘Do you know what a snakesman is?’

6
A Human Tug of War
    In the dim alleyway that ran along the back of the terrace, Fadge stood beside the Masher, looking nervously up at a small, rectangular window. ‘It’s smaller than the last one, Masher.’
    â€˜We been through this before. Get your head and one shoulder through and the rest’ll follow, easy as slicing butter.’
    â€˜It’s awful high. What if I make a noise coming down the other side?’
    â€˜The house is empty. Jack Farthing’s seen to that.’
    All the same, there was something not quite right. Fadge could feel it in his bones. He peered towards the end of the alley, where they’d left Rusty on guard. ‘Where’s Rusty gone?’
    â€˜He’s still there.’
    â€˜I can’t see him.’
    â€˜Course you can’t. Rusty’s the best in the business.’ That was true. The way Rusty lurked, passers-by rarely took him for anything more than their own shadows. The Masher gave a low whistle and a sound came back like rats suddenly disturbed, then settling again. That was Rusty. Rusty could do rats, cats, dogs, horses and half a dozen birds more lifelike than the real thing. It was just the human voice he could never quite get right.
    â€˜Up you go!’ said the Masher. ‘We haven’t got all night.’
    Fadge found himself lifted up and swivelled halfway through the narrow window before he knew it. He stretched out his arms into the dark and found the top of a cupboard or a table. A quick wriggle and a handspring down to the floor. And he was in. Standing in somebody’s larder by the look of it in the pale moonlight.
    Fadge made straight for the door, and found it locked.
    He went back to the window. ‘Door’s locked, Masher. We’re out of luck. Can youhelp me out?’
    â€˜You stay there!’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Stay there and