This was even more awful! He could not be seen to turn away a child in distress.
He pointed to the other chair at his table. “Sit down, Sarah, and tell me what has happened.” Was she old enough to drink tea? Should he send the waiter for another cup?
But the waiter had had his attention drawn to the child already and came over to see if he could help.
Seeing him, Sarah stepped closer to Marcus. “Please, Mr. Holmes, you have to help me. I’ve got to get Raffa, or they’ll . . . they’ll kill my mummy.”
The waiter looked at Sarah, then at Marcus.
“Is the young lady bothering you, Mr. St. Giles? I’ll see . . .”
An instant decision must be made. Half the dining room was looking at him now. He could see the headlines—SHERLOCK HOLMES TURNS AWAY A LOST CHILD IN TROUBLE! WHO DOES MARCUS ST. GILES THINK HE IS?
“Thank you,” Marcus said firmly. “Sarah is joining me for breakfast. Would you bring her a glass of orange juice, or milk, if she would prefer it?”
“Orange juice, please,” she said with a gulp.
The waiter let out his breath with a sigh, and pulled the chair back for her, then helped her bring it forward again. “I’ll fetch your orange juice, madam,” he said, and left.
There was no turning back now.
“When did you know that your mother had gone?” he asked her gravely.
“When I woke up this morning and she wasn’t there,” she answered.
“Could she have been in the bathroom?” She was probably at reception now, wondering where on earth her child was.
But Sarah shook her head. She put her hand into her pants pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. Soberly, watching him closely, she passed it across the table to him.
He took it and read it. It was very simple, written in deliberately odd letters, a mixture of upper and lower case, cursive and print.
‘Give us the giraffe and your mother will be returned. Fail, and she dies. Leave it in the bedroom and go out. Come back at seven.’
It was not signed.
For a moment he wanted to laugh—but the child was afraid. He had worked with some good child actors, but this was real, one real thing in a world of make-believe.
“I see,” he said gravely. “What is this giraffe they want? Do you know? Do you have it?”
She shook her head just a little and her voice was no more than a whisper. “No. Raffa’s gone too.”
“Raffa?”
“My giraffe.”
This was truly awful. Was someone playing the worst kind of practical joke?
“Where did you last see Raffa?”
“I think I left him in the taxi yesterday,” she answered.
Somewhere in central London there was a taxi that had not noticed it was carrying a giraffe! Where were the cameras and the laughter? He must play it seriously. It was the only dignified thing to do. Dignified! He had never felt more absurd.
“How did that happen?” he asked, as if it were a reasonable question.
“It was a very long flight and I was sleepy when I got here. All the luggage got mixed up. I was carrying Raffa and I left him behind when I helped Mummy get my stuff out.”
Carrying him? Ah: a stuffed animal. Something that made sense.
“Where did you fly from?”
“Kuala Lumpur.”
“You’re right. It’s a very long way indeed. Just you and your mother?” Perhaps it would be tactless to ask where her father was.
“And Raffa,” she added.
“How old are you?”
“Nearly nine. I’ll be ten before the end of next year.” She said it with some pride. Her wide blue eyes did not waver from his. The trust in them was terrifying. Was the real Sherlock Holmes ever faced with . . . but now he was being idiotic. There was no “real” Sherlock Holmes!
“That sounds about right,” he agreed. “Why do they want Raffa? Do you know who they are?”
“He’s a very nice giraffe, but I love him because I know him. I don’t know why anyone else would want him. I’ve had him for as long as I can remember, and he looks a bit . . . sort of used. I tell him all my secrets, and he listens to me. He really listens, not just pretend, until it’s his turn to talk.”
He understood exactly what she meant, and it surprised him.
The waiter brought the orange juice and she thanked him solemnly. Marcus glanced at the door, hoping to see a woman looking frantically for her child. But there was just an elderly man with a white moustache and a walking stick.
“Tell me about your journey,” he said.
“You’re going to help me, aren’t you?” Her voice was steadier, filled with hope now.
This was absurd. He had no idea at all how to detect anything. He worked from a script! He wasn’t a detective, he was Hamlet, agonizing whether to be—or not! Or Henry V, “once more into the breach,” and so on.
She was waiting.
“Yes,” he said decisively.
She smiled at him, suddenly, and beautifully.
“So you arrived at the airport yesterday, with your mother, and Raffa?”
“Yes.”
“And you took a train in, and then a taxi?”
“Yes.”
“In which you accidentally left Raffa?”