“Yes, it’s only taken a hundred years for people to have come around to that idea. This car is actually a hybrid of the two,” I said, as I thought ahead to other things he was about to encounter. “You may be disappointed by quite a few developments in the modern age.”

  “Nonetheless, I’m exhilarated by the prospects. Shall we be off?”

  We said our goodbyes to Mrs. Hudson, whom I hugged tightly to confirm all that I had said. As I drove us out, I thought of her sadly having to pack up and leave her longtime home. I deeply regretted my inability to buy the estate, but there was just no way I could manage it. I glanced at the lovely old place as it receded in the rearview mirror, then at the strange man sitting next to me. I had needed to show him how to connect his seatbelt, which he declared an unnecessary encumbrance.

  I took the route back through the rich, green country of Mill Valley and noticed my passenger’s eyes darting about, birdlike, as he endeavored to take in as much as possible. As best I could while driving, I tried to keep a keen eye on him. I was still skeptical of his incredible story, though he gave every impression of a man trying to absorb a new world. He also watched carefully how I managed the gas and brake pedals, used the turn signal, and adjusted the inside temperature.

  He broke the silence with a question, “Is anyone allowed to just climb aboard and drive?”

  “You have to take lessons, then take a test about all the laws and a driving test. Plus have official identification.”

  “Ah. My initial and most important challenge.”

  The thought of Holmes at a DMV made me chuckle. “And even if you get that identification, I think it’s unlikely they’ll give a license to anyone who’s a hundred and sixty years old.”

  “Mmm,” he muttered, seeming more interested in the variety of vehicles around us. I watched him scrutinize a cyclist passing on a multispeed off-road bike, wearing tight biking shorts, a colorful tee shirt, goggles, and one of those mirror-shiny helmets. Then he looked ahead from side to side at the greenery surrounding us. “Might we encounter that telegraph office I require along this route?”

  “No, we’ll send your message to Scotland Yard when we get to my house. We have other, more efficient methods of communication now.”

  “Indeed you must. I’m most eager to become acquainted with them. It may intrigue you to hear, Winslow, that I made a list a century ago of logical predictions about the future. I’m curious how many will be accurate, and which entirely wrong.”

  I said, quite truthfully, “I’m curious about that too.” There was one item in particular that I couldn’t resist pointing out. “You know, society’s attitudes toward women have also evolved quite a bit.”

  “Ah. Your talents have extended beyond the embroidery frame?” He smiled patronizingly. I wasn’t sure whether he was merely teasing, but I knew for certain I wasn’t going quite fast enough to push him out of the car.

  He gave a long look to a passing billboard showing two athletic women climbing a sheer cliff.

  “Yes,” I emphasized, staying on point. “To get by in the modern world, you’ll need to adopt a less condescending attitude.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” he mumbled, as though he’d barely heard me and couldn’t care less.

  I managed to contain my temper, and after a moment decided to take a different, gentler approach. “It must be difficult to have left your brother behind.” I glanced at him to gauge his reaction. I was rewarded only by the faintest flicker crossing his otherwise unconcerned face. I decided to press it, “Were there other loved ones?”

  “Certainly not.” Holmes chuckled sardonically. “Love is an emotion which I studiously avoid, Winslow, as it tends to bias the logical mind. The disadvantage of emotions in general is that they lead us astray, whereas the advantage of science and clear reasoning is that they are not emotional. Of course, I regret the absence of Mycroft, good old John Watson, and a few other acquaintances, but they are carefully filed and indexed in memory for future reference.”

  “But don’t you feel the loss?”

  “No,” he said emphatically, with chilly candor. “I agree with Horace Walpole: the world is a tragedy to those who feel.” He put a trivializing snicker into that last word. His implication being that any of us who did commit the heinous crime of feeling were an inferior life-form roughly on the level of jellyfish. He went on, “Ah, but the world is a comedy to those who think.”

  Now let’s see, I wondered sardonically, which of us present could be included in that loftier, Olympian category?

  “I prefer to think,” he confirmed proudly.

  “What a surprise.” Just then another car pulled in front of me and slowed down. In my state of annoyance, I was tempted to lean on the horn but restrained myself.

  “And most specifically about crime,” Holmes continued.

  “Because?”

  “Because it represents the darkest side of human nature.”

  “Exactly. I mean, I know it’s out there, but I don’t like to dwell on it.”

  He looked at me as though I were a five-year-old. “Your head is in the sand, my dear. If unchecked, evil begets more and greater evil. Such as this new nemesis of mine, this clubfooted descendant of”—there was an unsettling glint of delight in his eyes as he slowly spoke the name—“Moriarty.” He seemed to be relishing the challenge.

  I shook my head. “Look, don’t you think if this man were as terrible as you say, even I would’ve heard of him?”

  “One is rarely aware of the viper until it strikes. But I’ll ferret him out. And then focus on this delicious tiger murder!” There was that glint in his eyes again, a look of focus and enjoyment of the chase that I would come to know all too well. “You say the victim was a police officer?”

  “Retired. And renowned. For years Detective Keating also headed the police academy. Lieutenant Ortega told me yesterday morning that—”

  “Wait,” he interrupted sharply. I could feel his antennae telescoping out as he pronounced Ortega’s rank in the British fashion, “Leftenant Ortega? Am I to understand that you spoke with the constable mentioned in the newspaper?”

  “Yes. He was one of Keating’s star graduates. According to Ortega’s partner, Lieutenant Civita, they had almost a father-son relationship. Civita told me that Ortega and Keating even enjoyed calling themselves ‘blood cousins’ because they both had ancestors in the Paiute Nation. Ortega was grief-stricken at the hospital and—”

  “So, you have a personal connection to this tiger murder?” When I nodded confirmation, he focused on me with new respect and intensity. “Did you actually attend Keating in hospital?”

  I nodded. “Yesterday at dawn. But I couldn’t save him.” A wave of bleak emotion washed over me as I thought back on it. Perhaps I was a lower life-form in Holmes’ exalted estimation, but I couldn’t help feeling it. I described the horrible extent of Keating’s injuries, then said, “Him dying in my care was painful enough, then seeing Luis Ortega’s eyes showing his vast sorrow was—”

  “Yes, yes,” Holmes interrupted, not the least interested in my emotional interlude. “But what details did Ortega share? Tell me precisely.”

  “All they knew at that time was that a tiger had appeared, attacked Keating, then disappeared without a trace.”

  He blew out an impatient puff and snapped, “I shall need more data. I can’t make bricks without clay. It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has all the evidence. It biases the judgment.”

  I was suddenly angry at his insensitivity to the pain and regret both Lieutenant Ortega and I had felt. I snapped right back at him, “Well, mister, you’re about to run into a mountain range of . . . data.” I tried to snicker the word data as effectively as he had demeaned those of us who feel. Then I pointed ahead to a sight I hoped would stop him in his tracks. And to my immense satisfaction it did.

  Into his view was coming the southbound approach to the towering Golden Gate Bridge.

  For once I was greatly rewarded by seeing his angular jaw drop in amazement. His eyes even widened as he took in the sweeping grace of the giant cables curving up to the top of the two gargantuan 746-foot pillars that provide the support for this magnificent architectural and engineering masterpiece.

  My little Accord glided onto the bridge as though we were floating on a magic carpet. The day was perfect with the sky crystal clear. The late-afternoon sun glistened brilliantly off the expanse of the startlingly blue San Francisco Bay to our left, and to our right the expansive Pacific Ocean stretched to the horizon.

  Holmes also saw the gigantic, just-commissioned nuclear aircraft carrier John F. Kennedy inbound toward the bay, with its attendant fleet following behind in the distance. He blinked as if he’d truly never seen or even imagined ships of such size. Staring at the magnificent supercarrier, he actually stammered, “What are those . . . those winged things atop it? Flying machines?”

  “Yes. F-18s. Jet powered. Can fly over a thousand miles an hour. That ship carries a hundred of them inside it.”

  If the mighty Kennedy had amazed him, what he saw next truly set him back. He looked to the left, across the beautiful bay, to San Francisco. The gleaming, distinctive skyscrapers of the city made him catch his breath. He stared at it in what certainly seemed like abject wonder, breathing through his open mouth.

  As we reached the south end of the bridge, he recognized old Fort Point and called it by name. I decided that rather than driving directly to my house, I would take him along Marina Boulevard and around to the Embarcadero. I was curious to keep assessing what his reaction would be to it all, still looking in vain for some crack in his barely credible story. He continued, however, to show the utmost fascination. He smiled at the skyscrapers shining in the golden-hour light, rising above us at the Embarcadero Center, but frowned, as I always do, at the commercialized shopping malls and the graffiti on the walls.

  He sniffed and raised a highly critical eyebrow at the more-revealing fashions of the day, taking particular note of two attractive young women rollerblading in cutoffs and sports bras. He continued eyeing their sleek, long legs until we were well past them. Men are men, I guess, no matter what the century.

  He was assailed by advertising billboards, crowds, ghetto blasters, homeless people, and a crowd of protesters waving signs at passing cars while crying out, “Support gay rights!” That made him frown with perplexity. “I don’t understand. They are demanding the right to be happy?”

  I drew a breath to attempt an explanation, but he was already distracted by a landmark on the shoreline ahead. He cut me off with a surprised gasp. “Can that be Pier 7?”

  I nodded. “Indeed, it is.” It had once been the city’s largest. The original had been rebuilt several times. The current, beautifully wood-planked, pedestrian-only pier was considerably narrower than the massive, actively working piers adjacent to it. Only about fifty feet wide, Pier 7 extends out eight hundred feet, like a thin finger pointing across the bay toward Yerba Buena Island and the midpoint of the Bay Bridge.

  “It’s been considerably diminished,” said Holmes, frowning slightly as he surveyed it. “Might we pause here a moment?” He was so intent upon the sight of it that I slowed the car and eased us across the bike lane and onto the long curb cut, stopping with my blinkers on so he might have a longer look. He gestured toward the door handle saying, “Might I step out?”

  The passing traffic was very light. “Okay. But not for long.” He opened the door, but his exit was annoyingly checked by his seatbelt, which he fumbled with until I snapped it open. I got out and walked around to where he was standing but still subtly trying to maintain his balance.

  As he took in the view he also drew in a breath and said with quiet amazement, “This is where I first arrived from England. In 1899 it was six or seven times broader. Down its central portion there”—he indicated straight ahead with a finger—“were large wooden customs offices and storage warehouses for incoming and outgoing freight. Running parallel on both sides of those structures”—he pointed to the right and left—“there were equally wide roadways to service the steamships and the myriad passengers of every class and language embarking or disembarking.”

  He spoke very convincingly, as though he really had witnessed the scene, but I wanted to dig deeper, to assess all the details. “What did they look like?”

  He gazed back down the pier, seemed to be envisioning it all. “Oh, it was just as one would expect in that year: male passengers wore bowlers or top hats and travel clothes, many in earth tones of brown or green, some in gray or black.” He glanced down at his own clothing. “I arrived much as you see me today.”

  “And the women?”

  “Their dresses were more varied in color, full-length to the ankle of course, and tailored to narrow waists in the style of the day. Most ladies wore small complimentary hats.”

  “Tell me more,” I encouraged.

  Seeming to focus his memory more sharply, he continued, “The passengers stood out in contrast to the legion of burly stevedores and old salts who were far scruffier in workaday clothes and knitted wool mariner’s caps or fiddler’s caps. They were busy manfully loading or off-loading the stately vessels that were moored.” Then he extended his hand flat out toward the pier, palm downward, and wiggled his outstretched fingers, saying, “And intermixed with the crowds, Winslow, try to picture the dozens of horse-drawn cargo wagons, hansom cabs, or fancy private carriages of the well-to-do and— Ha!”

  “What?” His small spontaneous laugh intrigued me.

  He chuckled, saying, “I fancied hearing the sounds of the drivers whistling and shouting at their horses, all dodging willy-nilly past one another, traveling on and off the dock. The pier was positively bustling with all that boisterous humanity.”

  I was somewhat mesmerized and impressed by these vivid descriptions. “It really is like you’d just seen it all yesterday.” He was still looking outward as I explained, “Well, for years Pier 7 has only been used as you see it now: for strolling, fishing, contemplating. It’s one of my favorite spots to jog. From out there on it, the views of the city and bay are amazing.”

  He continued gazing out at the long, lovely pier, sparsely peopled just then with a mix of everyday twenty-first-century folks, but he seemed to be pondering his own, apparently well-etched memories of it. His voice grew softer. “The night before I began my long sleep, I took one last walk down this pier, past the tumult of passengers, laborers, horses, maritime activity. I stood quite alone at its far end, Winslow. I recall a slight breeze wafting in, rendering it surprisingly quiet. A three-quarter moon was over the bay, waxing brighter. I took that as a portent of encouragement for the strange—and, I dare say, unique—journey on which I was about to embark.”

  Half to myself, I whispered an understatement, “Unique, indeed.” If true, I thought.

  He continued gazing at the pier. “You must remember and truly understand, Winslow, how—for me—having awakened this morning, that night I’ve described was . . . quite literally just yesterday.”

  I stood silently, feeling the weight of that concept, trying to fathom the possibility of it.

  Still not looking at me, Holmes inquired, “Jog?”

  It took me a beat to come back into the moment. “What? Oh. Jog means to run. At a comfortable pace. For exercise. Aerobic purposes while building muscle.”

  “Ah.” He continued studying the pier while I regarded him.

  Finally, I blinked and shook my head at the incomprehensibility of it all as I turned back toward the car. He followed silently and got in. I eased us back onto the Embarcadero and headed home, more perplexed than ever.

  The Palace of Fine Arts is a neoclassical Romanesque landmark built in 1914 for the Panama-Pacific International Exposition. It stands just east of the Presidio and just below Marina Boulevard, which runs along the harbor waterfront to the north. The quarter-mile-long, crescent-shaped main building now houses a wonderful museum called the Exploratorium, where kids enjoy hands-on experiences to learn about science. Adjacent to the museum building is one of my favorite structures in the city: the 162-foot-tall domed, open-air rotunda on the banks of the large curved lagoon.

  That reflecting pool comes almost up to the sidewalk directly opposite my house. I am blessed with one of the loveliest views in the city. Both the museum and the rotunda are surrounded by a green park with footpaths. Oaks and sycamores provide welcome shade in the summer.

  The Palace, its classic rotunda, the lagoon, and the greenery are made all the lovelier in the evening twilight, such as it was when I turned left off Marina onto my street, which runs southward along the east side of the park. Holmes glanced up at the street sign and drew a small breath, considerably struck by it. Speaking in a low, uncharacteristically reverent voice, he said, “I think a certain destiny may be operating here.”

  Holmes had seen that I live on San Francisco’s lovely old Baker Street.

  5

  Most dwellings in my Baker Street neighborhood are now multifamily apartments or condos. My house, where my late parents had lived, was one of the exceptions. And thank goodness they’d paid it off before their deaths. It was a two-story, single-family house above a ground-floor garage. It had been built in 1909 and lovingly cared for and refurbished several times over the years. It had exterior walls of smooth stucco finished in a soft rose-gray color. The north and south corners had carefully tended ivy climbing toward the third floor on top. Up there was the back bedroom I’d used as a kid as well as the modest master bedroom facing Baker Street, the beautiful Palace, rotunda, and lagoon. The second floor contained my living room with a dining area and kitchen, along with a small back bedroom. On the ground floor, beneath the living room, was a small garage that my father had used as his workspace.