It was eerie how quickly the thick blanket of fog descended upon the streets of the city. “I guess this is what is known as London’s infamous ‘pea soup fog,’” Eric said to his wife as they were heading back to the hotel.
“Do you know where we are?” Ellen asked, pulling the map of London out of her bag.
Eric looked at the map and pointed to where he thought they were. Ten year old Arnold complained that he was tired and hungry. Danny, their two-year-old son in the stroller, started to whimper.
“The poor boy is exhausted,” Ellen said. “We need to get him to bed. Which way do we go?”
“This way, I think,” Eric said, pointing forward. “Let’s keep going.”
“What was that? Ellen asked.
“I think that was just the sound of foghorns on the Thames,” Eric said.
“I’m getting a little scared, Eric. Wasn’t it on dark, foggy nights like this that Jack the Ripper murdered people?”
“He went after hookers, Ellen,” Eric said. “You have nothing to worry about.”
“What’s a hooker, Dad?” Arnold asked. Eric ignored him.
After about 20 minutes of wandering around, Ellen said to Eric,” We’re going in circles. I recognize this street.” Arnold continued complaining about how hungry he was and Danny’s whimpering had turned into full-fledged crying.
Suddenly a tall man in a tweed overcoat, a deerstalker hat, and puffing on a curved, briar pipe stepped up to them from behind. “Are you lost?” he asked.
Startled, Ellen jumped and turned around. “Who are you?” She wrapped both arms around Arnold.
“I didn’t mean to startle you, miss,” the man said. “I’m Constable Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.”
Written for this week’s Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie’s Tale Weaver prompt. Image credit: Mara Eastern