The Pickpocket

Chapter 4 - Elementary, My Dear Jamie!

I ran, knocking people over in my haste to get away. I initially felt guilty about leaving Dad behind, but then I remembered that he’d faced worse odds than this. An extremely fit 33 year old with a gun versus an old man with a truncheon. I knew who would win so I didn’t stop running.

About an hour later, my legs finally gave out. I sank down onto a bench, gasping for breath and willing my legs to stop shaking. I’d gained a few odd looks from people I passed- and pushed over - but I didn’t care. I was free and I had a mission: find the pocket watch!

A young couple passed me whilst I lay on the bench. I reached out, almost lazily, and plucked the man’s pocket watch from his jacket. I tried flipping open the watch face. It didn’t move and I swore softly under my breath. What now?

“Sir! Sir! S’cuse me, sir!” I called, running after the couple. The man turned around and the woman gasped. I held out the man’s pocket watch. “You dropped this, sir.”

“Thank you, boy,” the man said, taking his watch and putting it inside his jacket this time. “It wouldn’t do me much good to lose this! How on earth would I tell the time?” He chuckled and I laughed politely. The woman tugged on the man’s arm.

“Come on, Jamie,” she said impatiently. My eyes widened.

“Jamie? Why, that’s my name!” I exclaimed. The man smiled and held out a pound note for me.

“Thank you for returning my watch, Jamie,” Jamie said somberly. He smiled again. “Here you go. You can buy yourself a nice meal with that, I hope!” The woman tugged on his arm one last time and I took the note. Jamie bowed his head to me and allowed himself to be dragged off. I looked at the note, an idea forming in my mind. I smiled and went back to my bench. There was a man sitting on it, a typewriter next to him. He was scanning a sheaf of notes and reading to himself.

“Bringing Sherlock Holmes back,” he was saying as I crept closer. “Doesn’t seem right, somehow.”

“Yes it does,” I said, making the man jump. The notes fluttered to the ground and I gathered them up before they could blow away. The first page of notes caught my eye.

“The Hound of the Baskervilles!” I exclaimed. The man looked at me, a mixture of wariness and surprise on his face.

“Yes. Do you like the name, boy?” he asked. I nodded vigorously.

“Yeah! It’s brilliant!” I beamed and the man smiled beneath his bushy moustache. He held out a hand.

“Arthur Conan Doyle,” he said. I took his hand, eyes wide.

“Jamie Hatchett.” We shook hands and I sat on the bench, careful not to touch the typewriter. I couldn’t stop smiling.

“Mr Conan Doyle-” I began. He held up a hand.

“Call me Arthur, please.”

“Righto. Anyway, sir, may I just say, it is an honour to meet you.” I beamed and Arthur smiled back. “I love your work. Honest, I do. I’ve read every single book!”

“Which was your favourite?”

“His Last Bow,” I replied. Arthur looked puzzled and I realised my mistake. “Ignore me!” I cried. “You, erm, haven’t… Ah, shucks…” I tailed off. Arthur began to laugh.

“Jamie - if I may call you that - don’t worry. I get a lot of mistakes about my work titles. Haven’t heard that one yet, though!” Arthur chuckled and I laughed weakly.

“Anyway, sir, I just want to say, if you have any questions concerning your work, you can ask me. I’ve read and re-read every single story you ever wrote,” I said, my eyes hopeful and a small smile on my face. Arthur’s face softened and he smiled.

“Well, Jamie, where should the next Baskerville heir  - Sir Henry Baskerville - come from?” he asked me. I knew my answer, having read the Hound of the Baskervilles many times.

“Canada,” I replied firmly.

“Why not America?” Arthur queried.

“Cuz there’s so many states in America, you wouldn’t be able to decide. Canada is just Canada. Ain’t it?”

“I have no idea, my dear boy.”

“Neither.”

The conversation about the book went on for hours until Arthur noticed my half shut eyes. Getting to his feet, Arthur surveyed my sleepy form thoughtfully.

“Mr Hatchett,” Arthur said, collecting his writing equipment together, “would you do me the honour of staying the night at my house?”

That woke me up. I sat up straighter, forced my tired eyes open and grinned. I could barely control my excitement.

“Of course!”

 

*

 

Later that evening, after I’d been introduced to the family and had dined with them, I was shown to my room. I sat on the bed, staring out of the window, a happy smile on my face. I’d just had supper with one of the best writers of all time. The creator of Sherlock Holmes had invited me to stay the night! My smile grew and I sighed contentedly. Then I heard the scream of pain from across the city.

I sprang to my feet. I could hear people moving about downstairs, wondering what all the fuss was about. I threw open the door to my room and made eye contact with Kingsley, Arthur’s nine-year-old son. He was in a nightgown and his eyes were wide with excitement and fear. I put a finger to my lips and vaulted over the banister, landing relatively lightly on the floor metres below. Unfortunately, I landed on one of Kingsley’s toys and fell over with a thud.

“What was that? Arthur, is the attacker in our house?” a voice asked. Jean, Arthur’s (second) wife, peeked out at me from behind a door. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw it was me, bruised and battered though I was.

“Don’t mind me,” I muttered once she’d gone back into whichever room she was in, “I’ll make me own way out.” I stumbled towards the door, opening it and feeling the August air against my skin. I sighed and walked out into the night, pickpocketing the gentlemen I passed.

“Nope. Nope. Nope,” I muttered to myself, stuffing the numerous pocket watches into my pockets. The gentlemen who passed me were oblivious to my growing frustration at not finding the pocket watch I needed. They were eager to reach the scene of the crime and act the hero. I allowed myself to be swept along in the crowd, keeping my eye out for a particularly angry copper. And Dad.

Then I reached where the scream came from and my jaw dropped.