Death Cloud

Chapter Nine

“You disappoint me, boy.”

Sherrinford Holmes was sitting at the massive 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 God, 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 passed 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 trespasses,” Uncle Sherrinford pronounced. “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 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 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 pronounced. “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 pass 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, but he knew enough about the way the adult world worked to realize that arguing would just make things worse. Right didn’t matter. Obeying the rules 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 passed 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 canal. 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 best

Strange 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 finishing 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 passing 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 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.

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, 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 passed 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, pushing 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, grassy 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 pushing flaming coals on metal prongs 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 clustered 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 passed by. “You, young sir — see the most amazing sight on God’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 passed 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 mass 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 pushing him from behind. Hands pulled the ropes apart to form a gap, and Sherlock was pushed through into the grassy enclosure.

“No!" he shouted, realizing that somehow he was the challenger. “I don’t—"

The barker cut across him. “Standard Broughton Rules,” he chanted. “No padding and no knuckledusters. Anything goes except hitting a man when he’s down. When a man is down he gets thirty seconds to rest and eight additional seconds to come to scratch. The fight is over when one man can’t stand up.” He glanced at Sherlock, who was looking wildly around, trying to find a gap in the crowd through which he could escape. “Kid,” he murmured, “I don’t rate you for more than a minute unaided. If you can last five, I’ll double the prize. Got to keep the punters entertained.”

“I shouldn’t be here!" protested Sherlock.

“It’s a little late for that,” the barker replied.

“But this is an accident!"

“No.” The man smiled, revealing black, rotting teeth. “This is a massacre.”

The barker headed for the side of the ring, where more people held the ropes apart for him. Sherlock tried to follow him, but the ropes snapped back up into place and the men, women and children in the crowd jeered as he approached. Stones were flung at him, causing him to back away into the centre of the ring.

The other fighter strode over, his gaze flickering around the crowd and drawing their applause. He was at least six inches taller than Sherlock, and bigger around the chest. His hands looked like two leather bags filled with walnuts. “Up to scratch,” he grunted.

“What?”

The fighter indicated two parallel lines that had been cut into the grass, about three feet apart. “You stand behind one; I stand behind the other. When the bell goes, we fight. That’s the way it goes.”

“I don’t want to fight,” Sherlock protested.

“That’s your choice, boy,” the fighter snarled. “I still got to make it last five minutes, an’ your head’ll look like minced meat if you don’t protect yourself.” He eyed Sherlock critically. “An’ it’ll prob’ly look that way even if you do,” he added. He shoved Sherlock towards the nearest line in the grass. “Hands up, protect your face. An’ keep standin’ up. If you fall, I’ll kick you till you stand again.”

“I thought the referee said no hitting a man when he was down.”

The fighter shrugged. “Didn’t say nothin’ about kick-in”.”

Sherlock, disbelieving, moved to his mark. The fighter stood with his booted feet on the other line. Sherlock glanced around, looking for someone, anyone who might help, but the faces looking back at him were flushed, sweaty and distorted by aggression. There was no way out.

A bell rang.

Sherlock stepped back just as his opponent’s fist swished past his nose. He brought his hands up to defend himself, backing away as the other man stepped forward. The crowd roared. He’d seen pictures of boxers in books, watched a few fights in the Deepdene gymnasium, even sparred a little himself, and he took up the position that he remembered — hands clenched into fists and held high in front of him — but his opponent obviously hadn’t read the same books and lumbered forward, swinging his arms in sideways from shoulder height. Sherlock took a blow to his own left shoulder — the one that Clem had hurt the other night — and felt agony pouring down his arm like liquid metal. His hand dropped uselessly to his side. How had this happened? Only a minute ago he’d been anonymous in the crowd, and now he was the centre of all attention! It was almost as if something, someone, had been guiding the crowd, pushing them to this very moment.

The other fighter stepped closer, ready to punch upward into Sherlock’s face, so Sherlock stepped backwards and lashed out with his right fist. Incredibly, he connected with the man’s nose. He felt something crack under his fingers, and blood waterfalled down the man’s chin and chest. The other fighter jerked backwards and breathed out explosively, spraying blood over Sherlock’s shirt, then punched his right hand straight out into Sherlock’s chest. The impact knocked Sherlock backwards. Pain radiated across his ribs. For a moment he thought his heart had stopped. He tried breathing in, but his lungs wouldn’t work. He bent double, trying to force some air into his throat. A hand grabbed him by the back of the neck and threw him across the grass. The impact of his body on the ground forced the last remnants of air from his lungs, and he was suddenly sucking great breaths again. He rolled away as a foot smashed into the ground where his head had been, and scrambled to his feet.

The other fighter’s face was a mask of blood, broken only by two narrowed and furious eyes and the snarling line of his teeth. He stepped towards Sherlock and punched twice, left hand to Sherlock’s ribs and right hand to the side of Sherlock’s head. Pain filled Sherlock’s world, red and raw. Everything seemed so far away. He was falling, but he didn’t feel the impact as he hit the ground.

Darkness claimed him, and he went willingly.