Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud Part 11

'And how did you get them to answer your questions?' Matty added. 'You're a stranger around here, and people don't usually open up to strangers.'

'Best thing to do is not be a stranger then,' he replied. 'If you just sit there for a while, makin' conversation with the barman, you become part of the furniture. Then you join in with the conversation, if you see an openin', an' tell them somethin' about yourself who you are, why you're there. I told 'em I was lookin' to buy a farm an' raise pigs, on the basis that the new soldiers in Aldershot are goin' to need a lot of feedin'. They was interested to know how many soldiers are goin' to be garrisoned there, and we got talkin' about the business opportunities. I asked if there was anyone around here who might be interested in investin' in a business opportunity, or who might have some land to spare, an' they told me 'bout the estate down the road. Owned by a man named Maupertuis some kind of Baron, apparently, and a foreigner to boot.'

Sherlock glanced across at Matty and smiled. Crowe seemed oblivious to the fact that he was a foreigner in this country himself.

'n.o.body's ever seen this Baron Maupertuis, an' his staff were all brought with him, not hired locally, which didn't endear him to the villagers much. All their supplies and whatever were bought in from somewhere else, not purchased nearby. Anyway, the landlord was listenin' to us and said that the Baron had moved out earlier today. Apparently there was a convoy of carts went down the road, all stacked up with boxes and furniture, with a black two-wheeler bringin' up the rear. An' then a while later, there was more carts, this time stacked up with large boxes covered with sheets. I suspect those were the beehives you mentioned, young man. They probably used smoke to calm the bees down an' send them to sleep. That's what proper beekeepers do if they're movin' hives.'

'They took the beehives with them? Why?'

Amyus Crowe nodded. 'That's a very good question. If you're evacuatin' in a hurry, why take all the beehives with you? It's only goin' to slow you down, an' it's not like you can't get more bees elsewhere.' He mused for a moment. 'It looks like your escape has spooked them. They couldn't take the chance that you might go to the police and the police would come to investigate. They've relocated somewhere else, and we need to know where.'

'We could follow them,' Sherlock said.

Crowe shook his head. 'They've got too good a start.'

'They'll have to travel slowly,' Sherlock insisted. 'They've got the beehives with them. One person on a horse could catch up with them.'

'Too many roads they could have taken,' Crowe persisted.

'A long convoy of carts? People would spot them and remember. And they're not going to be taking country roads in bad condition they'll be sticking to main routes. That cuts down the options.'

Crowe grinned. 'Well thought through, lad.'

'You'd already thought of that?' Sherlock asked, frowning.

'Yeah, but I didn't want to spoon-feed you with the answers. I wanted to see if you were capable of thinking something through, especially if I was pushing you in the opposite direction.' Crowe stood up. 'I know some guys near our cottage who have horses and could do with a few shillings. I'll send them out looking for this convoy. I suggest you go back to Holmes Manor and make your peace with your family. Tell them you were with me all the time that should calm things down. I'll swing round tomorrow and let you know what I've discovered.'

The four of them trotted back along back roads and cross-country paths until they were close to Farnham, where they said their goodbyes. Matty headed off towards wherever he'd left his boat, while Crowe and Virginia trotted in the direction of their cottage. Sherlock let his horse stand quietly for a moment, allowing the events of the past day to settle in his mind, becoming memories rather than a jumble of sensory impressions. Eventually, when he felt calmer, he guided the horse towards Holmes Manor.

When he arrived, he wondered for a moment where to leave the horse. It wasn't his, after all. On the other hand, its previous owner seemed to have abandoned it, and it was definitely a step up from the rackety old bicycle that Matty had found for him. In the end he left it in the stable with a bale of hay. If it was there tomorrow, he would take it as a sign that he was meant to keep it.

Dinner was just being served as he walked into the house. Normal behaviour, as if nothing had happened, as if the world was exactly the same as it had been that morning. He glanced at his clothes, dusted his jacket down, and headed into the dining room.

The meal was a surreal experience. His aunt chattered on about nothing in particular as usual, and his uncle read from a large book as he ate, muttering beneath his breath every now and then. Mrs Eglantine stared at him from her position over by the wall. It was hard to reconcile the calm, civilized atmosphere with the fact that he'd been knocked out, abducted, sentenced to death and escaped, all within the past few hours. He was famished, despite the meat he had eaten at the tavern, and he hungrily piled his plate with steaming slices of chicken and vegetables, then covered the whole lot with gravy.

'You look as if you've been in the wars, Sherlock,' his aunt said during dessert the closest she'd ever got to asking him a direct question.

'I . . . fell down,' he said, aware of the stinging cuts on his face and ears. 'I'm not used to riding a bike.'

It seemed to satisfy her, and she went back to murmuring to herself, continuing her perpetual monologue.

As soon as was polite, Sherlock broke away and headed for his room. He had intended to read for a while and then perhaps write some of the day's events down in a journal so that he didn't forget them, but as soon as his body hit the bed he found it difficult to keep his eyes open, and within moments he was asleep, still fully dressed.

He woke once when it was dark outside and owls were hooting somewhere in the distance. He slipped his clothes off and slid beneath the rough sheet. He fell into a deep sleep like someone diving into a dark and mysterious lake.

The next day dawned bright and sharp. Amyus Crowe was standing downstairs in the hall when Sherlock descended for breakfast. He was wearing a white linen suit and a broad-brimmed hat.

We're going to London,'he boomed when he saw Sherlock. 'I have to go on business, and your uncle has given me permission to take you with me. It'll be an education. We'll see some art galleries, and I'll teach you some of the history a.s.sociated with that great city.'

'Is Virginia going too?' Sherlock asked without thinking, and immediately wished that he could pull the words back out of the air, but Crowe just grinned, his eyes twinkling. 'Why, yes,' he said. 'I could hardly leave her alone in the countryside now, could I? What kind of father would that make me?'

'Why London?' Sherlock asked more quietly as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

'That's where the convoy of carts was heading,' Crowe replied equally quietly. 'I suspect he has another house there somewhere.'

With a barely audible rustle of her skirt, Mrs Eglantine stepped out of the shadows at the end of the hall. 'You should eat your breakfast before I have to clear the table, young Master Sherlock,' she said, her voice laden with just enough dislike to be audible but not enough for Sherlock to take any active offence.

'Thank you,' he said, then turned back to Crowe. 'Are we leaving straight away?'

'Get some victuals inside you,' Crowe answered. 'You may need them. Pack a small bag for two days away. I'll wait in the carriage outside.' He turned to Mrs Eglantine and removed his hat with an exaggerated flourish. 'Ma'am,' he said, and left.

Sherlock ate his breakfast as fast as he could, barely tasting it. London! He was going to London! And if he was really lucky he might be able to see Mycroft while he was there!

Amyus Crowe was waiting in a four-wheeler carriage outside the Manor House. Virginia was sitting beside him. She looked uncomfortable, either because of the frilly dress and bonnet that she was wearing or because she was cooped up inside the carriage rather than being outside in the open air.

'You look nice,' Sherlock said as he sat opposite her and as the driver stacked his bag up with the rest. She scowled at him.

The clatter of wheels on gravel as the cart pulled off covered her reply, but Sherlock wasn't sure he wanted to hear it anyway.

When they got to Farnham station, Matty was waiting for them. Amyus Crowe smiled at him. 'You got my message, then?'

'Got woken up by the bloke delivering it. How did you know where my boat was moored?'

'It's my business to know where everything is. My business and my particular pleasure too. Fancy a journey, youngster?'

'I ain't got no change of clothes or nothing,' Matty said.

'We'll buy you whatever you need in London. Now, let's get our tickets.'

Crowe bought four tickets to London, second cla.s.s, and the party descended to the station platform while the driver of the cart offloaded their bags. He'd timed it perfectly. The train arrived within ten minutes, a great behemoth of a thing, its tubular front end venting steam, pistons pumping up and down like clockwork arms and its metal wheels, almost as big as Sherlock, squealing against the track.

'A Joseph Beattie "Saxon" cla.s.s locomotive,' Amyus noted. 'Generically referred to as a 2-4-0. Sherlock, can you tell me why?'

'Why the "Saxon" or why the "2-4-0"?'

Amyus nodded. 'The collection of proper information depends primarily on the proper phrasing of the question,' he noted. 'I meant the "2-4-0" designation. I suspect the "Saxon" part was just a piece of historical fancy on the part of the engineer. He also designed an engine he called the "Nelson".'

Sherlock let his gaze wander across the engine. The wheels, he noticed, weren't equally s.p.a.ced, but grouped together in cl.u.s.ters. 'I'd say because that's the way the wheels are arranged,' he ventured, 'but that can't be the case.'

'Actually, it is,' Crowe replied. 'There are two wheels on a single axle at the front, independently swivelling to allow the engine to transit curves. Then there are four wheels attached to the engine proper, on two axles. Those are the powered wheels.'

'And the "0"?' Sherlock asked.

'Some engines have a set of wheels at the rear,' Crowe replied. 'The "0" indicates that this engine doesn't have that third set of wheels.'

'So it's got a number to indicate that there is no number,' Sherlock said.

'Correct.' Crowe smiled. 'It may not be sensible, but it's eminently logical, if you accept the system they've chosen to use.'

They found a carriage to themselves, and settled down for the journey. Sherlock had never been on a train before, and everything was new to him: the vibration of the seats and the walls and the windows as they moved, the strangely sweet-smelling smoke that drifted in, the way the countryside flashed past, ever-changing and yet strangely consistent. Matty was wide-eyed and nervous; Sherlock suspected that the boy had never experienced even the meagre luxury of a second-cla.s.s compartment before.

Woods flashed past and gave way to fields, but the plants grown in these fields weren't corn or wheat or barley; they were brown, spindly plants with small green leaves, curling around sticks that had been fixed in the ground up to a height of five or six feet. Sherlock was just about to ask Crowe what they were when Matty, noticing his interest, leaned forward to take a look.

'Hops,' he said succinctly. 'For the breweries. This area's noted for the quality of the beer it brews. There's thirty pubs and taverns in Farnham alone.'

And so the journey went on, punctuated by a change of trains at Guildford, until they reached the great terminus of Waterloo Station in that busy metropolis of London.

The place where Mycroft Holmes lived and worked.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

Waterloo Station was a bustling ma.s.s of humanity heading in all directions and carrying all kinds of boxes, parcels, suitcases and trunks, all beneath a ma.s.sive roof of arched metal and gla.s.s. The warmth of the sun was magnified by the gla.s.s, making the station hotter than the streets around it. Trains heaved themselves into their platforms and disgorged clouds of steam and even more people, which added to the warmth. Sherlock could feel sweat gathering beneath his collar.

Amyus Crowe engaged a porter straight away and got him to retrieve their bags from the train. The porter then led them outside, to where a line of hansom cabs were picking up pa.s.sengers from a long queue. An additional halfpenny tip persuaded their porter to take them along the line to where newly arrived cabs were letting out their pa.s.sengers before joining the line of waiting ones. A few moments' d.i.c.kering and they were climbing aboard a cab through one door as its previous occupants were exiting the other.

Amyus Crowe seemed to be familiar with London, and told the cabbie to take them to the Sarbonnier Hotel. The cab trotted off, with Sherlock leaning out of one window to see the sights and Matty leaning out of the other.

The scale of buildings was immense compared with Farnham, Guildford and the other towns that Sherlock was used to. Many of them reached up five or six storeys. Several had columns supporting porticoes above their front doors and rows of sculptures along their rooflines, some obviously of human figures and others of mythical creatures with wings, horns and fangs.

Within a few moments they were heading across a bridge that spanned a wide river.

'The Thames?' Sherlock asked.

'It is,' Crowe agreed. 'One of the most dirty, congested and evil rivers it has been my displeasure to experience.'

Clattering off the bridge on the other side of the river, the hansom made a few turns and ended up outside a long building constructed of orange stone. The driver hopped down and helped unload the bags. Three porters emerged from a rotating door at the front of the building and took the bags away.

Once inside the impressive lobby white pillars with sculpted bases, a mosaic set into the ceiling and rose marble tiles on the floor Amyus Crowe strode across to a long wooden desk.

'Three rooms, for two nights,' he said to the uniformed man behind the desk.

The man nodded. 'Of course, sir,' he said, reaching up to retrieve three keys from a board behind him. Turning back, he added, 'Perhaps you would care to sign the guest book, sir.'

Crowe signed with a flourish, and the concierge handed him the keys. They were attached to large bra.s.s b.a.l.l.s, probably so that they couldn't be lost easily, Sherlock guessed.

'Sherlock and Matthew, you will have one room,' Crowe said, handing them a key. 'Virginia will have a room to herself and I will have the third room. Your bags will be taken up to your rooms. Matthew, I suggest you and I head for somewhere we can get you some clothes and toiletries.' He gazed critically at Matty. 'And a haircut,' he added. 'Sherlock, Virginia I suggest you take a walk outside. Turn right and walk to the end of the street, and you'll find something that might interest you. Be back in an hour for lunch. If you get lost, ask someone to direct you back to the Sarbonnier Hotel.'

Taking Crowe at his word, Sherlock led Virginia outside and turned right. The two of them were immediately dragged along by the throng of people who were heading in the same direction. Worried that they might be separated, Sherlock reached out his hand to guide Virginia closer to him. Instead, her hand clasped his warm and soft, for a moment. His heart felt like it was beating twice as fast. He glanced at her, startled. She smiled back, uncharacteristically shy.

It only took a few minutes before they were at the end of the block of buildings. The road widened out into a vast open plaza which was dominated by a tall column which rose up from a central pedestal. For a moment Sherlock thought that a man was standing on top of the pillar, and his mind suddenly ricocheted back to Holmes Manor, and his uncle talking over dinner one night about the ascetic religious hermits who abandoned their lives and their families to live on top of poles, meditating on the nature of G.o.d and eating only what was thrown up to them by pa.s.sers-by. A moment's attention showed him that the figure on top of the column wasn't a man, but a statue which had been carved to look as if it was wearing naval uniform.

'Who is it?' Virginia asked, entranced.

'I think it's Admiral Nelson,' Sherlock replied. 'Which makes this Trafalgar Square. It commemorates a famous naval victory in 1805.'

At the base of the pillar were two fountains whose spray glowed with all the colours of the rainbow in the bright sunlight. This was the heart of London. This was the central point of an Empire that stretched to the other side of the globe.

And somewhere nearby, Sherlock's brother Mycroft was probably sitting at his desk, helping to run it.

They wandered around Trafalgar Square for a while, watching the people and looking at the fine buildings which lined the roads around, and then they headed back to the hotel. They were just in time: Amyus Crowe was standing in the foyer, waiting for them. With him was a boy of about Matty Arnatt's age, but with neat hair and decent clothes and a scowl on his face. It took Sherlock a few moments to realize that this was was Matty. Matty.

'Don't,' Matty warned. 'Just . . . don't.'

Sherlock and Virginia laughed.

Together, the four of them went into the dining room and ordered lunch. They were surrounded by women in silks, crinolines, peac.o.c.k feathers and hats and gloves, and men with shining moustaches in frock coats, but n.o.body gave them a second glance. They were accepted as a family, taking in the sights of the capital city of the most important country on the face of the planet.

Sherlock had lamb cutlets, which were perfectly cooked b.l.o.o.d.y in the centre and came with potatoes and beans. Matty and Amyus Crowe both went for steak and kidney pudding, while Virginia, more adventurous, risked chicken served with a French sauce with peppercorns and cream.

As they were eating, Amyus Crowe bought them up to date on the reason they were there.

'I telegraphed ahead to a man I know in this fair city,' he said between mouthfuls of food. 'A business a.s.sociate of sorts.'

Sherlock wondered briefly what kind of 'business' Crowe was involved with, as he had never mentioned it before, but the American continued speaking.

'I told him which road the convoy of carts were coming in on, and asked him to intercept them and find out their ultimate destination. I told him where I'd be stayin', and he's just sent a telegram back to tell me that the carts ended up unloading their various boxes and suchlike at a warehouse in a place called Rotherhithe. He told me where the warehouse was located.'

'Rotherhithe?' Sherlock asked.

'It's a few miles downriver an unsavoury location where sailors take their entertainment between voyages and goods are stored before being loaded on to ships. Not a place where you want to be after dark.' He shook his head unhappily. 'I wouldn't normally risk taking you there, but this is too big. The Baron's up to something, an' it's important enough that he's willing to kill for it. Already has. He'll no more baulk at disposin' of the two of you than he would steppin' on a spider. The trouble is that we need to check that the boxes on the carts are the beehives you saw back in Farnham, and that means I need you to come to Rotherhithe to take a look, Sherlock. But I warn you it might be dangerous. Really dangerous.'

Sherlock nodded slowly. 'I'll take the chance. I want to find out what's going on why he keeps trying to kill me.'

Crowe glanced across at Matty, who was shovelling peas into his mouth with a spoon. 'As for you, young man, I guess that you've seen your fair share of wharves and warehouses, given that you spend your life travelling around in a narrowboat. And I guess too that you can handle yourself in a fight.'

'If a fight starts,' Matty said through a mouthful of peas, 'I run. If I can't run, I punch low and I punch hard.'

'I couldn't have put it better myself.' Crowe nodded. 'I'll come with you, of course, but we may have to separate to watch different areas.'

'And what about me?' Virginia's voice was high-pitched with indignation, and her violet eyes flashed dangerously. 'What do I do?'

'You stay here,' Crowe said darkly. 'I know you can handle yourself in a sc.r.a.p, but you don't know what can happen to a young woman in Rotherhithe. The people who live there are worse than animals. I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to you, not after ' He stopped abruptly. Looking across at Virginia, Sherlock saw her eyes suddenly glisten. 'Stay here,' Crowe repeated. 'If we get separated, we need to know that there's someone back here who can take messages and pa.s.s them on. That's your job.'

Virginia nodded, not saying anything.

Crowe looked back at the two boys. 'When you're ready,' he said, 'we'll head off.'

As they crossed the foyer of the hotel, Sherlock turned and looked back at Virginia. She was staring at him. She tried to smile, but the expression turned into a worried twist of her lips. He smiled back at her rea.s.suringly, but he suspected that the expression on his own face wasn't much more convincing.

Instead of taking a hansom cab to Rotherhithe, Crowe led the two boys to the side of the Thames, where stone steps stained green with algae led down into a foul-smelling brown river. The far bank was hidden by a haze of smoke and a brownish miasma that seemed to be rising from the river itself. A boat was bobbing up and down on the water. Its owner sat in the bows, smoking a pipe.

'Rotherhithe,' Crowe said grimly, tossing a coin. The boatman nodded, catching the coin deftly and biting it to make sure it was real. Crowe and the boys settled into the stern while the boatman set to, facing backwards and pulling the boat through the water with his oars.