Death Cloud

Chapter Eight

Sherlock was still shivering by the time the sun was fully above the horizon and hanging in the sky behind the black silhouettes of the trees like an overripe fruit. Clem’s grip on his shoulder had left a deep ache that radiated downward into his back. If he looked he was sure he would find bruises there — five oval bruises left by four fingers and a thumb.

After the attack, after Clem had sunk in the water and his companion had run off, Matty and Sherlock had just stared at each other for a few moments, shocked by the sudden violence and the equally sudden cessation.

“He wasn’t trying to steal the boat,” Matty had whispered eventually. “He was trying to destroy it. I’ve had coves trying to steal it before, but why would someone want to burn it? I never seen ’em before! What have I ever done to them?”

“They wanted me,” Sherlock had said reluctantly. “That was one of the men from the warehouse. I think he was in charge — at least, in charge of the men who were there. The Baron that they talked about is really in charge. He must have seen me leaving the warehouse when it was burning and realized that I’d overheard them. But I don’t know how they tracked us down to the barge.” He had shaken his head in disbelief. “What is it that they’re doing that they’re willing to kill us to protect their secret? What is that important?”

Matty had just stared at Sherlock as if he’d been betrayed, then he had abruptly turned away and flicked the rope to get the horse moving again.

And now, as the sun was rising and Sherlock’s shoulder was aching like a rotting tooth, they were coming in to Guildford, and he still hadn’t worked out what it was he was meant to know. All he had was questions, and the attack had just added to them.

A small pack of scruffy dogs was following them along the riverbank, watching in the hope that they might throw some scraps of food away. Sherlock smiled briefly, thinking how much like Matty they were in that regard. He glanced forward, to the back of Matty’s head, and the smile faded from his face. He had put the boy’s boat at risk — the only real home that Matty possessed. Worse, he had put the boy’s life at risk. And for what?

People were beginning to appear at the side of the river now. Some were obviously on their way into or out of town, using the riverbank as a convenient route, while others were sitting on boxes and dangling makeshift fishing rods into the water, hoping to catch some fish for their breakfast. Smoke was rising into the sky ahead of them, as Guildford’s occupants set about their cooking for the day. Buildings began to line the banks: some makeshift shacks formed out of wood that had been nailed together at various angles and some more substantial affairs of brick. Stone paving slabs appeared, patchy at first but eventually forming a pavement of sorts along the edge of the water.

After a while, as they approached a collection of warehouse-like buildings clustered together on the riverbank, Matty began to pull on the rope. The horse slowed, and the narrowboat coasted gently into the bank. Matty had timed it well: they ended up coming to a rest just by a large iron ring that had been set into one of the slabs. Sherlock expected him to wrap the rope about the ring, but instead Matty reached into the bows of the boat and pulled out a chain which appeared to be fastened to an eyelet sunk into the wood. He threw it to the bank and jumped after it. Winding the chain about the iron ring, he took a large old padlock out of his pocket and slipped it through several links of the chain.

“Can’t trust anyone round here,” he muttered, still not looking at Sherlock. “A rope they could cut, but a chain and padlock’ll take them a pretty time to get through. More time than the boat’s worth, I reckon.”

“What about the horse?” Sherlock asked.

“If he can find someone who’ll treat him better than me, he’s welcome to go,” Matty said. He took a step on to the grass, then looked back at Sherlock. His expression wasn’t exactly apologetic, but at least he was willing to make eye contact now. “He’s too old and lame to pull a plough or a cart,” he explained. “A boat’s about his limit, and even then he’s slow. He’s not worth stealing.”

“I’m sorry about what happened,” Sherlock said awkwardly.

“S’not your fault,” Matty said, wiping a sleeve across his mouth. “You’ve fallen into something, and it’s got hold of you. I’m just caught in it as well. Best thing to do is try and get ourselves out as quickly as we can, and move on.” He looked around. “This is Dapdune Wharf,” he said. “If we get separated, which is likely, then just remember to meet back here. I won’t go without you.” He looked critically at Sherlock. “An’ I’m pretty sure you can’t leave without me. Now, what was the name of that cove you was lookin’ for?”

“Professor Winchcombe,” Sherlock said.

“Then let’s go and find him. And maybe we can get some breakfast on the way.”

Together, the two boys headed away from the river, along a path that promised to lead them out on to a larger thoroughfare. It took them an hour of walking, and asking several passers-by, before they discovered that Professor Winchcombe’s house was in Chaelis Road, which led off the High Street, and then another half an hour to find the High Street, which led uphill away from the river and was lined with two- and three-storey shops constructed out of black wooden beams with white plaster infill. Signs hung outside: wooden plaques with paintings of fish, bread, vegetables and all manner of other goods. The people walking up and down the street and looking in the windows were, for the most part, dressed better than the people in Farnham. Their clothes were made of finer fabrics, trimmed with lace and ribbon, more colourful and cleaner than Sherlock had seen for a while.

A few stalls selling fruit and cold cooked meat were located at the bottom of the High Street, along a waist-high wall that separated the town from the river. Matty was about to creep along the wall behind the stallholders, and look for food that had fallen off the stalls, but Sherlock just walked up and used some of the dwindling resources that Mycroft had sent him to buy them both some breakfast. Matty glanced at him suspiciously: Sherlock got the impression that Matty thought food somehow tasted better if he hadn’t had to pay for it. As far as Sherlock was concerned, food tasted better if it hadn’t been rolling in the dust or if you hadn’t had to fight a dog for possession of it.

Chaelis Road was halfway up the High Street, and both boys were out of breath by the time they got to the point where it started. The road curved sharply out of sight and Sherlock set off along it, but paused when he realized that Matty wasn’t following. He turned and gazed questioningly at the boy.

“What’s the matter?”

Matty shook his head. “Not my kind of place,” he said, eyeing the tall houses and well-kept gardens that lined the road. “You go ahead. I’ll wait here.” He looked around. “Somewhere round here, anyway.”

Sherlock nodded. Matty was right — the presence of what Mrs Eglantine had described as a “scruffy street Arab’ would probably cause them problems. Brushing as much dust from his clothes as possible, he moved on.

The house he was looking for was just round the curve. He pushed the gate open and approached the door, which was protected by a Greek-style portico. A brass plate was screwed on to one of the pillars. Engraved on it were the words: “Professor Arthur Albery Winchcombe. Lecturer in Tropical Diseases”.

Before nerves could get the better of him, Sherlock tugged at the bell pull.

A man in a severe black suit and grey waistcoat opened the door. He stared down at Sherlock through tiny glasses that barely covered his eyes.

“Is Professor Winchcombe at home?” Sherlock asked.

The man — Sherlock assumed he was a butler — paused for a moment. “Whom shall I say is calling?” he asked eventually.

Sherlock opened his mouth, about to introduce himself, then hesitated. Perhaps he would be better off invoking someone else’s name — someone that the Professor had heard of. Mycroft, perhaps? Or Amyus Crowe? Which one would be best?

In the end, he chose one at random. “Please tell the Professor that a student of Mr Amyus Crowe wishes to consult him,” he said.

The butler nodded. “Would you care to wait in the sitting room?” he asked, holding the door open. Treating Sherlock as if he was royalty rather than just a somewhat dishevelled and nervous boy, he gestured towards a door across the hall.

The wallpaper lining the room was covered in paintings of tall, thin plants that Sherlock didn’t recognize, like massive grasses. They seemed to have rings round their stalks, set at equal distances all the way up. He found himself fascinated by them, and he was still looking at them when the door opened and a man entered the room. He was small — smaller than Sherlock — and his stomach protruded as if he had a cushion shoved under his jacket. He wore a funny little red hat on his head with no brim or peak: just like a short, fat tower made of red silk.

“Bamboo,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“Those plants on the wallpaper. Bamboo. It’s a woody perennial evergreen of the grass family. I spent quite some time in China in my youth, and became very familiar with it. Bamboos are the fastest growing woody plants in the world, you know. The bigger ones can grow up to two feet a day, under certain conditions. The wallpaper itself is Chinese, by the way. Ricepaper.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure he understood. “Paper made from rice?”

“A common misconception,” the Professor replied. “In fact, ricepaper is made from the pith of a small tree, Tetrapanax papyrifer.” He cocked his head to one side. “You say you are Amyus Crowe’s student?” he asked. His eyes, behind his glasses, were bright and bird-like, alive with curiosity.

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock replied, feeling strangely as if he was back at Deepdene School.

“I received a letter from Mr Crowe this morning. Very odd. Very odd indeed. Is that why you are here?”

“Was the letter about the two dead men?”

The Professor nodded. “Indeed it was.”

“That’s why I’m here. I heard Mr Crowe say that you were an expert on diseases.”

“I specialize in tropical diseases, but yes, my area of expertise covers most of the serious contagious illnesses, from Tapanuli fever and the Black Formosa Corruption to cholera and typhoid. I understand that these two men may have died of some unknown illness.”

“I’m not so sure.” Sherlock scrabbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out the envelope that had contained Mycroft’s letter, and now contained a sample of the yellow powder. “I collected this from near one of the bodies, but I know it was present on both of them,” he said in a rush. “I don’t know what it is, but I think it’s connected to the deaths. It might be poisonous.”

The Professor held out his hand for the envelope. “In that case I will treat it carefully,” he said.

“You believe me?” Sherlock asked.

“You’ve come all this way to see me, so I assume you are taking this seriously. The least I can do is to take it as seriously as you. And besides, I know Amyus Crowe and I believe him to be a man of integrity. I cannot imagine him taking on a student who would indulge in practical jokes.” He smiled suddenly, and his face was transformed into something cherubic. “Now, let’s go and take a look at this sample that you’ve brought me.”

He led the way across the hall and into another room. This one was lined with books, and had a large desk over by the window where the light was best. Sitting on a pad of green blotting paper on the desk, among scattered papers and journals and a burning candle, was a microscope.

Professor Winchcombe sat in a leather-backed chair behind his desk and gestured for Sherlock to pull up another chair by his side. He pulled a sheet of blank parchment from a drawer and put it on the blotter beside the microscope, then cautiously teased the flap of the envelope open with a paperknife and poured the contents on to the parchment. Within moments he had a pile of yellow powder in front of him. With the tip of the paperknife, he collected a few grains of the powder and transferred them to a glass slide that was already clipped to the stage — the flat plate beneath the objective lens. He adjusted a mirror beneath the stage, angling it so that it reflected the light from the candle up through a hole in the stage and through the glass slide to the lens. As Sherlock watched, trying not to breathe too hard so that he didn’t disturb the powder, the Professor stared into the microscope, twisting the coarse and then the fine adjustment knobs, bringing the grains into focus.

“Ah,” he said, and then, “Um.” He took his red hat off, scratched his head, and replaced the hat exactly where it had been.

“What is it?” Sherlock whispered.

“Bee pollen,” the Professor said. “Quite unmistakable.”

“Bee pollen?” Sherlock repeated, not sure whether he’d heard correctly or not.

“Have you ever studied bees?” the Professor asked, leaning back in his chair. “Fascinating creatures. I commend them to you as a subject for serious investigation.” He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “They collect pollen from flowers and carry it to their hive.”

“What is pollen?” Sherlock asked, feeling strangely disappointed. “I’ve heard the word before, but I’ve never been quite sure what it meant.”

“Pollen,” the Professor said, “is a powder consisting of microgametophytes, which produce the male gametes, or reproductive cells, of seed plants. The pollen is produced by the stamens, or male reproductive organs, of flowers and carried by the wind, or by foraging insects, to the pistil, or female reproductive organs, of another flower of a similar nature. There they fuse to form a seed.” He examined his glasses, then slipped them back on his nose. Sherlock tried to sort through what the Professor had told him, but realized that the man was speaking again. “In the case of bees, they collect pollen from flowers and carry it back to the hive in ball-like masses on their hind legs. The benefit to the plant, of course, is that as the bee travels from flower to flower it drops some of the pollen from the stamen of one flower on to the pistils of another, thus assisting the reproduction. Now, on the bees’ upper hind legs they have minute hairs that act as a basket where the bee rolls up the pollen dust grains and mixes it with nectar to form a ball. And that is what we call “bee pollen”.”

“And it’s safe?”

“For most people, yes, although a few unfortunates do have a physical aversion to it.” He leaned back and thought for a moment. “Could that have caused the boil-like swellings that Mr Crowe described in his letter? Hmm, I doubt it. Reactions to pollen tend to be more like rashes than boils, and to find two men chosen presumably at random who have such a sensitivity would be unlikely.” Suddenly he hit the desk with his hand. Sherlock jumped. “Of course! I’m ignoring the obvious answer!"

“Obvious?” Sherlock racked his brains. What was the obvious explanation for boil-like swellings when bees were involved? And then the realization burst on him like a flash of lightning. “Stings!" he cried out.

“Well done, my boy. Yes, bee stings. Very virulent stings, at that. Most bees in this country, at least, have stings that cause pain and a slight raised spot, but nothing like the boils that Mr Crowe described.” He glanced at Sherlock. “You must have seen them too. How large were they?”

Sherlock held up his right hand. “About the size of the end of my thumb,” he replied.

“Indicating a very virulent strain of venom, and perhaps a very aggressive form of bee.”

“How do you know so much about bees?” Sherlock asked.

The Professor smiled. “I told you that I spent some years in China. The Chinese have been keeping bees for several thousand years, and I discovered that honey is highly prized by them for its medicinal benefits. According to the records in the great medical work Bencao Gangmu, or The Compendium of Materia Medica, which was written by a man named Li Shizhen three hundred years ago, honey has the ability to tone the spleen, alleviate pain, remove toxic substances, reduce vexation, brighten the eye and prolong life.” He looked away from Sherlock, towards the wall, and Sherlock got the impression that he was remembering things that had happened many years before. “Here in Great Britain we are used to the rather docile European honey bee, Apis mellifera. The Asian rock bee, Apis dorsata, is considerably more aggressive and has a much more painful sting, and yet still the Chinese keep them and harvest honey from their hives. Unlike our hives, which are shaped like bells, the Chinese use hollowed-out logs or woven cylindrical baskets to keep the bees in. Sometimes you could see the Chinese peasants carrying their beehives up into the mountains, two at a time, slung on the end of bamboo poles which they balanced on their shoulders. I remember watching them climb, with the bees buzzing around them like a cloud of smoke.”

A cloud of smoke. The words hit Sherlock like a blow between the eyes.

“That’s what it was,” he breathed.

“What?”

“I saw a shadow moving away from one of the bodies, and my friend saw the same thing coming out of a window where the other body was discovered. It must have been the bees!"

The Professor nodded. “They would have had to be pretty small for you to mistake them for a shadow, and probably dark in colour, rather than the bright yellow and black of your typical bumblebee. I believe there are African bees that are small and virtually black. They too are very aggressive.”

“Would you do something for me?” Sherlock asked.

“Of course.”

“Would you write a letter to Amyus Crowe, telling him what you believe caused the deaths of those two men? I’ll take it back to Farnham and give it to him.” He looked away from the Professor, feeling his face flush. “I think I’m going to be in trouble with my aunt and uncle when I get back, and that might save me from getting punished.”

The Professor nodded. He tipped the yellow powder — the harmless yellow powder, Sherlock had to remind himself — from the sheet of parchment on to his blotter. Reaching for an inkwell on the edge of his desk, he withdrew a quill and began to write on the parchment. His handwriting was spidery but Sherlock could just make out the words.

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?”

“Cockles and winkles,” the boy replied. He tipped the mouth of the cone towards Sherlock. “Want some?”

Inside the cone, Sherlock saw a pile of seashells. “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 shell. Resting the cone on the wall, he retrieved a folding knife from his pocket and fiddled around inside the shell 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 pass,” 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 nobody 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.

“Hello!" 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 passed 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 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 them wrong.”

“I suppose so.” He felt obscurely embarrassed. 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 passed 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.