Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud Part 8

Dear Mr Crowe,I have had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of your student

'What is your name, young fellow?' he asked, turning to Sherlock.

'Holmes, sir. Sherlock Holmes.'

Master Sherlock Holmes who has brought me a sample of a yellow powder that he tells me was found near the unfortunately deceased fellows whose demise you described to me in your letter, which arrived this morning. Having examined the powder I recognize it to be simple bee pollen, and thus I deduce that your two men were killed not by bubonic plague or some-such illness, but by bee stings. If you request a local doctor to exmaine the supposed 'boils' I suggest he will find small stingers embedded in each one, or at the very least the marks left by such stingers. I commend this young man for bringing the sample of powder to me. Had he not, rumours of a fatal fever sweeping the county might have caused great panic.I look forward to renewing our acquaintance at some time convenient to you.Yours sincerely,Arthur Winchcombe, Esg (Phd).

Folding the sheet, he slipped it into an envelope which he took from a drawer of the desk, sealed the envelope with a blob of wax from the candle that he had been using to illuminate the microscope, and handed the envelope to Sherlock.

'I trust this will save you from too painful a punishment,' he said. 'Please convey my respects to your tutor.'

'I will.' Sherlock paused, then continued: 'Thank you.'

Professor Winchcombe rang a small bell that sat on the blotter, by the microscope. 'My butler will show you out. If you want to know anything more about tropical diseases, beekeeping or China, feel free to call on me again.'

Outside, Sherlock was surprised to see that the sun hadn't changed its position in the sky by more than a few degrees. It had felt as if he had been in Professor Winch-combe's house for hours.

Matty was sitting on the garden wall. He was eating something from a paper cone. 'Done what you came for?' he asked.

Sherlock nodded. He gestured towards the cone of paper. 'What have you got there?'

'c.o.c.kles and winkles,' the boy replied. He tipped the mouth of the cone towards Sherlock. 'Want some?'

Inside the cone, Sherlock saw a pile of seash.e.l.ls. 'Are they cooked?' he asked.

'Boiled,' Matty replied succinctly. 'I found a fishmonger's stall. He was selling them. Prob'ly came up from Portsmouth overnight. I helped out for a while, tidying up his boxes, fetching more ice and stuff. He gave me a twist of them in payment.' He reached into the cone and picked out a sh.e.l.l. Resting the cone on the wall, he retrieved a folding knife from his pocket and fiddled around inside the sh.e.l.l with the point, spearing whatever was inside. After a few seconds he pulled out something dark and rubbery, then popped it into his mouth. 'Lovely,' he beamed. 'Don't get these very often, 'less you live near the sea. Bit of a treat when you do.'

'I think I'll pa.s.s,' Sherlock said. 'Let's go home.'

This time they walked down the High Street to the river, then walked along the river bank until they found the narrowboat. As Matty had predicted, both it and the horse were still there. Sherlock wondered how they were going to turn the narrowboat round, but Matty led the horse along the bank towards town until they got to a bridge, then led the horse across the bridge to the other side, pulling the nose of the boat round while Sherlock used the boathook to stop it hitting the banks on either side. And then it was a case of making their slow way back, Sherlock in front this time, keeping the horse moving, and Matty in the back operating the tiller.

The two boys talked as the boat slowly moved downstream. Sherlock told Matty about Professor Winch-combe and his explanation concerning the bees and the stings. Matty was dubious at first, but Sherlock eventually persuaded him that no supernatural explanation was required for the cloud of death. Matty seemed to be caught between relief that the plague hadn't come to Farnham and irritation that the explanation was so prosaic. Sherlock didn't say anything, but as they travelled he became more and more certain that they had just removed one mystery to reveal another. Why had the bees stung those two men in different locations but n.o.body else? Why were African bees in England in the first place? And what did any of this have to do with the warehouse, the boxes that had been loaded on to the cart by the ruffians and the mysterious Baron?

After a while, Sherlock became aware that another horse had joined theirs on the riverbank. It was a glossy black stallion with a brown patch on its neck, and Virginia Crowe was riding it. She was still wearing riding breeches and a blouse, with a jacket over the top.

'h.e.l.lo!' Sherlock called. She waved back.

'Matty, this is Virginia Crowe,' he called over his shoulder. 'Virginia, this is Matthew Arnatt. Matty.'

Matty nodded at Virginia, and she nodded at him, but neither said anything.

Sherlock stood, balanced precariously on the bows of the boat for a moment, feeling it rock beneath him, and jumped to the bank. He took Matty's horse's rope collar and guided him forward, walking alongside Virginia and her horse.

'This is Albert,' he said eventually.

'This is Sandia,' Virginia replied. 'You really should learn to ride, you know.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'Never had the chance.'

'It's simple, but you guys always make a fuss over how difficult it is. Guide with your knees, not the reins. Use the reins for slowing the horse down.'

Sherlock couldn't think of a suitable response to that. They kept walking in awkward silence for a while.

'Where have you been,' Virginia asked eventually.

'Guildford. There was someone I wanted to see.' Remembering, he delved into his jacket and took out the letter that Professor Winchcombe had written. 'I need to get this to your father. Do you know where he is?'

'Still looking for you. You were supposed to have a lesson.'

Sherlock glanced at her to see whether she was serious, but there was a slight smile on her lips. She looked down at him, and he turned his face away.

'Give me the letter,' she said. 'I'll see he gets it.'

He held the letter out to her, then pulled it back. 'It's important,' he said hesitantly. 'It's about the two men who died.'

'Then I'll see he gets it straight away.' She took the letter from his outstretched hand. Her fingers didn't touch his, but he could almost imagine that he felt their heat as they pa.s.sed close. 'Those men died of the plague, didn't they? That's what people are saying.'

'It's not the plague. It was bees. That's why I had to go into Guildford I needed to talk to an expert in diseases.' He realized he was talking faster, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. 'I found a yellow powder near both bodies. I wanted someone to tell me what it was, so I took some of it into Guildford. It turns out it was pollen. That's why we decided that bees were responsible.'

'But you didn't know that when you found the powder,' Virginia pointed out.

'No.'

'Or when you collected the powder and carried it all the way to Guildford.'

'No.'

'For all you knew, it might have been something that caused caused the plague. Something contagious.' the plague. Something contagious.'

Sherlock felt he was being backed into a corner. 'Yes,' he said, drawing the word out to something that sounded more like 'Ye-e-e-s'.

'So you risked your life based on the fact that you thought everyone else was wrong and you could prove prove them wrong.' them wrong.'

'I suppose so.' He felt obscurely embarra.s.sed. She was right getting to the bottom of the mystery had been more important to him than his own safety. He might have been wrong he didn't know much about diseases or how they were transmitted. The yellow powder might have been something the men's bodies had produced as a result of an illness, like dry, infected skin something that could have contained the disease and pa.s.sed it on. He'd been so consumed by puzzle-solving that he hadn't thought of that.

The rest of the journey back to Farnham was conducted in silence.

CHAPTER NINE.

'You disappoint me, boy.'

Sherrinford Holmes was sitting at the ma.s.sive oak desk in his study, Amyus Crowe stood behind his left shoulder and Mrs Eglantine stood behind his right shoulder, her black clothes blending so well with the shadows that only her face and hands were visible. What with Uncle Sherrinford's long white beard and the various different Hebrew, Greek, Latin and English Bibles that were stacked all over his desk it was, Sherlock reflected, like being disciplined by G.o.d, with two avenging angels standing behind his throne, an effect spoilt only by the fact that Uncle Sherrinford was wearing his dressing gown over his suit.

Sherlock's face burned with shame and with anger. He wanted to protest that he'd done what he did for the best reasons, but one look at his uncle's face told him that arguing wouldn't help. 'I'm sorry, sir,' he said after a long moment pa.s.sed and he realized that his uncle was awaiting a response. 'I won't do it again.'

'Your father my brother entrusted you into my care, with an understanding that I would continue with your moral education and prevent you from falling into bad company or bad ways. I am mortified to find that I have failed in both of those tasks.'

Another long pause. Sherlock felt under pressure to say that he was sorry again, but he had a feeling that repeating himself would be taken as a sign that he was being cheeky. 'I know that I shouldn't have gone all the way into Guildford by myself,' he said eventually.

'That is the least of your trespa.s.ses,' Uncle Sherrinford p.r.o.nounced. 'This very morning you crept out of this house before the sun was up like a common criminal-'

'His bed wasn't even slept in,' Mrs Eglantine interrupted. 'He must have left before midnight.'

Sherlock could feel his shoulders trembling with the effort of keeping his anger in check. He knew that she was lying he had had slept, for a few hours, and had left just before dawn but he couldn't contradict her despite a burning desire to tell the truth. She was trying to get him deeper into trouble, and arguing with her would just be taken as defiance, and punished appropriately. slept, for a few hours, and had left just before dawn but he couldn't contradict her despite a burning desire to tell the truth. She was trying to get him deeper into trouble, and arguing with her would just be taken as defiance, and punished appropriately.

'I will write to your brother,' Sherrinford continued, 'telling him that the trust I placed in you has been betrayed. And you will not be allowed to leave this house for the next week.'

'If I may,' Amyus Crowe drawled from behind Sherrinford, 'I'd like to say a word or two on the boy's behalf.' He reached into his dazzlingly white jacket and removed an envelope. 'The letter which the boy brought back from the eminent Professor Winchcombe has calmed fears of an outbreak of bubonic plague in the area. Taking that sample of pollen to be identified shows evidence of a strong will, an independent turn of mind and a reluctance to take things on trust all attributes that should be encouraged, I would say.'

'Are you suggesting that the boy should escape punishment, Mr Crowe?' Mrs Eglantine asked in a silky voice.

'Not at all,' Crowe rejoined. 'I would suggest that rather than ban him from leavin' the house entirely, you make it so that the only time he can leave is with me. That way I I can continue to uphold the agreement I made with his brother.' can continue to uphold the agreement I made with his brother.'

Sherrinford Holmes considered for a moment, stroking his beard with his right hand. Then, 'Very well,' he p.r.o.nounced. 'We will effect a compromise. You are confined to this house for the rest of this day and the next. Following that, you will stay in this house at all times except when you are being tutored by Mr Crowe. When in the house you are to stay in your room except for mealtimes.' His lips twitched. 'Although I will allow you to take any books you wish from my library to pa.s.s the time. Use it wisely to improve yourself, and to reflect upon your actions.'

'I will, sir,' Sherlock said, having to force the words out. The tension in his shoulders eased somewhat. 'Thank you, sir.'

'Now go, and do not return until dinner.'

Sherlock turned and left the study. He desperately wanted to argue, to point out that what he had done had been right, right, but he knew enough about the way the adult world worked to realize that arguing would just make things worse. but he knew enough about the way the adult world worked to realize that arguing would just make things worse. Right Right didn't matter. didn't matter. Obeying the rules Obeying the rules did. did.

He headed up the wide, carpeted stairs to the first floor, then the narrower wooden ones to the eaves, where his room was located. He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, letting his thoughts churn and roil inside his head.

The rest of that day and the whole of the next pa.s.sed in a blur. Sherlock's body, tired and battered by his adventures, took the opportunity to repair itself through as much sleep as it could get, but when he was awake he found his thoughts fluttering aimlessly, like moths around a candle flame. What was going on? What exactly was Baron Maupertuis planning, and who was going to stop it?

He spent some time trying to compose a letter in his head to his brother, not because he expected Mycroft to do anything but because he wanted to tell someone he trusted what had been happening. Eventually, when he had got the wording the way he wanted it, he set it down on paper.

Dear Mycroft,I wish I could tell you that i have been following your advice, and throwing myself into a mixture of studies in Uncle Sherrinford's library and ramblings around the local countryside, but I seem to have got myself into trouble and I do not know what to do next. The good news if there is any is that I have made two friends. One of them is called Matthew Arnatt, and he lives on a narrowboat on the ca.n.a.l. I think you might like him. The other is Virginia Crowe. She is the daughter of Amyus Crowe, who says he is teaching me about nature and about observing the world around me, but I think he is actually teaching me how to think. I wish you had not thought it necessary to find a tutor for me during the holidays, but of all the tutors you might have found I think Mr Crowe is the bestStrange things have been happening here in Farnham, and I wish I could talk to you about them. A man's body was discovered in town, covered in swellings, and another here in the grounds of Holmes Manor. The Townspeople thought it might be the plague, but a man named Professor Winchcombe proved that they were killed by hundreds of bee stings. I think the bees are somehow connected to a man named Baron Maupertuis, who owns a warehouse in Farnham, but I do not know how.The warehouse burned down, destroying any evidence. I will tell you how that happened when I see you.In short, life here is more interesting than I expected when I can get out of the house. I am presently confined to my room for having gone to Guildford to see Professor Winchecombe, but that is another story that I will you when I see you.Is there any news of Father? Is he still on his way to India, and do you have any more information on when the problems there might be over?Give my love to Mother and our sister. Please visit soon.Your brother,Sherlock

After finis.h.i.+ng and blotting the letter, he left it on the table in the hall at lunchtime, to be collected by a maid and delivered to the post office in Farnham. When he came down again for dinner the letter was gone. Mrs Eglantine was pa.s.sing through the hall, her face appearing to float in the shadows, and she smiled mirthlessly at him. Had she seen the letter? Had she read read it? Had it even made it as far as the post office, or had she destroyed it? Sherlock told himself that he was being foolish what reasons did she have for doing that? but Mycroft's warning echoed in his head. it? Had it even made it as far as the post office, or had she destroyed it? Sherlock told himself that he was being foolish what reasons did she have for doing that? but Mycroft's warning echoed in his head. She is no friend of the Holmes family. She is no friend of the Holmes family.

Lying in his room, these thoughts kept running through his mind. The distant gong for dinner broke him out of a half-doze, and he headed down to the ground floor. Mrs Eglantine was just leaving the dining room. She glanced at him with a sneer on her lips, and walked away.

Sherlock didn't feel hungry. He stared at the door for a few moments, trying to will himself to eat something just to keep his strength up, but he couldn't face it. He turned round and began to head across to the library to see if he could find any books about bees or beekeeping.

Halfway across the hall, he noticed a letter on the silver platter on the side table. Had it not been there before, or had he just not noticed it? For a moment he thought it might be another letter from Mycroft, so he picked it up. His name was on the front, along with the address of the manor house, but it wasn't Mycroft's writing. It was more rounded. More . . . feminine. How could that be?

Sherlock looked around, half-convinced that he would find Mrs Eglantine standing in the shadows, watching, but the hall was empty apart from him. He took the letter, opened the front door and stood in the early evening sunlight but still in the doorway so that he couldn't be accused of leaving the house.

There was a single sheet of paper inside. It was a pale lavender in colour. On it, below his name and address, was written: Sherlock,There is a fair being held on the meadow below the grounds. Meet me there tomorrow at nine o'clock in the morning if you dare!Come alone.Virginia

He felt dizzy for a moment, and took a deep breath. Virginia wanted to see him? But why? On the two occasions they'd met up he'd got the impression that she didn't like him that much. They certainly hadn't said very much to each other. And yet, now she wanted to meet him alone?

But he couldn't go! He'd been forbidden to leave the house!

His thoughts raced, trying to come up with a justification that would allow him out of the house the next morning without getting into trouble. Surely there had to be a logical argument that he could construct that would stand up to scrutiny by Uncle Sherrinford. Virginia had asked him to meet her. From what little he knew about her, he could tell that she was more independent than English girls of her age. She could ride a horse properly, not just side-saddle and she was perfectly capable of going off on her own. But if she had been English, she wouldn't have been going to the fair if she wasn't with her family. And that meant it would be reasonable for Sherlock to interpret the letter as being an invitation to meet her and her father and her father, which meant he could leave the house without violating the terms of his agreement with his uncle. Sherrinford would not believe that a girl could arrange to meet a boy without her family being present. Sherlock knew better, but if challenged he wouldn't let on.

A momentary thought threw him what if someone from Holmes Manor were at the fair? but a further thought persuaded him that neither his uncle, his aunt or Mrs Eglantine were likely to be there, and if any of the maids or cooks or workers were there they probably wouldn't even recognize him.

He spent the rest of the evening and much of the night alternately convincing himself that he should go next morning and that he shouldn't. By the morning he still wasn't sure, but as he came down the stairs for breakfast he found himself thinking about Virginia's face, and he decided that he would. He really would.

He checked the time on the grandfather clock. It was a little after eight o'clock. If he started now, and used the bicycle, he could just about get there in time. He knew where the castle was perched on a hill above the town and he guessed that the common was a patch of meadow a short distance below the castle.

Should he leave a note? After recent events, he thought it might be wise, so he dashed off a quick explanation on the back of the envelope, saying that he was off to see Amyus Crowe, and left it on the silver platter, then half-walked and half-ran to where he had left the bicycle, ducking beneath the windows as he pa.s.sed them and staying behind walls wherever possible.

His head was whirling with thoughts and speculations as he rode. He had never really had a proper female friend before. There was his sister, of course, but she was older than him, and her interests were different painting, crochet, playing the piano. And, of course, there was her illness, which had kept her secluded and bedridden for large parts of Sherlock's childhood. He'd never really made friends with anyone in the area around his parents' house, let alone with girls, and Deepdene School was a school for boys. He wasn't entirely sure how to behave with Virginia, what to talk about or how to act.

Cycling into Farnham, he took a side road which headed uphill, towards the castle that he could see perched above the town. He struggled on until his legs began to burn, then dismounted and walked, pus.h.i.+ng the bicycle beside him. By the time he got to the castle grounds, he was exhausted.

Spread out across the meadow, illuminated by the morning sun, Sherlock could see a cross-section of human life. Like a miniature town in its own right, booths and rope-edged rings had been set up on either side of broad, gra.s.sy alleys down which people were wandering and pointing out the sights. A haze of smoke hung above everything, and the smells of cooking meat, animal dung and people made Sherlock's nose itch. There were areas for jugglers, for boxing, for stick-duelling and for dog fights. Mountebanks were selling patent medicines made from who knows what, fire-eaters were pus.h.i.+ng flaming coals on metal p.r.o.ngs into their mouths and locals were pulling grotesque faces for the prize of a hat, racing for the prize of a nightgown and eating hasty puddings with a cash prize for the one who could eat the most.

He scanned the crowd, looking for Virginia's distinctive copper hair, but there were so many people that he couldn't tell one from another. She hadn't specified where to meet, so his only options were to wait and hope she came to him or to dive into the crowd looking for her. And he had never been very good at waiting.

With some trepidation, Sherlock left his bicycle leaning against a fence on one side of the paddock. He wasn't entirely sure it would be there when he returned, but the sheer press of people meant that he wasn't going to be able to keep it with him.

The first thing he came to as he walked across the meadow was a large barrel filled to the brim with water. People were cl.u.s.tered around it, laughing and urging each other on. The surface of the water appeared to be boiling, leading Sherlock to suspect that something was being cooked inside, but there was no fire underneath. One of the crowd, a thin youth with a spotted handkerchief knotted around his neck, was trying to impress a rosy-cheeked girl in a white frock who stood beside him. He handed a coin over to the man who apparently owned the barrel, grasped the sides with both hands and abruptly thrust his head into the water.

Sherlock gasped, still half-convinced that the water was boiling, but the boy seemed to be coming to no harm. He was wiggling his head from side to side in the water, apparently searching for something, darting it forward every few seconds and then pulling it back. At last he withdrew his head entirely. Water streamed down his face and neck and on to his clothes, but he didn't seem to care. There was something clenched between his teeth something silvery that wriggled frantically, trying to escape. For a moment Sherlock couldn't work out what it was, and then he realized. It was an eel, barely longer than a man's finger. Sherlock moved on, amazed. He'd heard of bobbing for apples, but bobbing for eels? Incredible.

'See the most extraordinary sheep in the world!' a barker cried from in front of a booth. 'See a sheep with four legs and the half of a fifth 'un. You'll never see another one like it!' He caught Sherlock's gaze as the boy pa.s.sed by. 'You, young sir see the most amazing sight on G.o.d's green earth. You'll never forget it. Girls will hang on your every word as you describe the incredible sheep with four legs and half of a fifth 'un.'

He pa.s.sed a booth where two puppets were on display in a window, operated by a puppeteer whose body was hidden inside the booth. Their heads were carved out of wood, with exaggerated noses and chins, and their clothes were made out of bright ribbons. As Sherlock watched, one puppet laid its head on the edge of the window nearly doubling up to do so and the other puppet then instantly chopped it off with a miniature axe. The head fell away and bright red ribbons exploded outward, simulating the spurting of blood. The crowd cheered and waved their hats.

There was a pond over to one side of the fair, and a duck being thrown in by a man in a brightly coloured waistcoat and top hat. Its leg was tied to a weight by a thin length of cord, and the weight was holding it down. Around the edge of the pond, dogs were snarling and slavering at the end of ropes and leather leashes. Seeing money being exchanged all around the crowd, Sherlock had a terrible feeling that he knew what was coming next. The man in the waistcoat stepped backwards and raised his hand. The crowd grew quiet, expectant. The dogs redoubled their efforts to get free, and their growling was enough to cause the ground to shake. The man's hand dropped to his waist, and the dogs were let loose by their owners. As a ma.s.s they plunged into the pond, trying to seize the quacking bird and sending water spraying everywhere. Terrified, the duck fluttered back and forth across the water as far as the cord and the weight would let it, evading their lunges. For their part the dogs avoided going too far out of their depth, with the exception of one brave terrier which paddled frantically across the pond, chasing the duck. Sherlock turned away before it sank its teeth into the duck's neck. It was a foregone conclusion, the only uncertainty being which owner would win the prize.

Sickened, Sherlock turned away.

He walked past stalls selling hot sausages and cold toffee-covered apples on sticks, orange-flavoured biscuits and puffy, salted pork crackling. He wasn't sure if the feeling he had in his stomach was hunger or nervousness. Or both.

The crowd was growing thicker and more raucous, and Sherlock felt himself pushed and jostled from behind. People around him were jeering and grumbling. A voice rose above them, shouting: 'Who will take on the undefeated champion? Who has the courage to pit themselvesagainstNatWilson, the Kensal GreenWonder? A sovereign if you win; nothing but scorn and derision if you lose!' He stumbled to one knee. Pulling himself to his feet he was knocked sideways. Something hard slammed into his back. He turned, and found that he was suddenly at the front of the crowd. The thing that he had stumbled against was a wooden pole, one of four that marked out the corners of a square. Ropes had been strung between the poles. A man wearing nothing but leather breeches stood in the centre of the ring, posturing and gesturing to the crowd. His chest and arms were corded with muscle. Another man, this one in a dusty suit and a Homburg hat, was staring straight at Sherlock.

'We have a challenger!' he cried. The crowd applauded.

Sherlock tried to back away, but people were pus.h.i.+ng him from behind. Hands pulled the ropes apart to form a gap, and Sherlock was pushed through into the gra.s.sy enclosure.