Death Cloud

Chapter Eleven

Amyus Crowe finished cleaning the cuts on Sherlock’s face with a flannel and a liquid that smelt sharp and stung wherever he touched it, then walked across his cottage and sat in a wicker chair. It creaked beneath his weight. He pushed back with his feet, balancing the chair on its two back legs, and rocked it gently. All the time his eyes were fixed on Sherlock.

Beside Sherlock, Matty shifted uncertainly, like an animal that wanted to run but didn’t know which direction was safe.

“Quite a story,” Crowe murmured.

Assuming that Crowe’s words were just a way of breaking the silence while he was thinking, Sherlock kept quiet. Crowe rocked back and forth, all the while staring at Sherlock. “Yep, quite a story,” he said after a while.

Crowe’s level gaze was making Sherlock edgy, so he looked away,letting his eyes drift around the room. Amyus Crowe’s cottage was cluttered, full of books, newspapers and periodicals that had been left wherever he had set them down. A pile of letters was fixed to the wooden mantelpiece with a knife through their centres, next to a clock that indicated that it was coming up to two o’clock. Beside them sat a single slipper, from which a handful of cigars protruded like grasping fingers. It should have looked squalid, but there was no dust, no dirt. The place was clean but untidy. It just seemed as if Crowe had a different way of storing things.

“What do you make of it all?” Crowe challenged eventually.

Sherlock shrugged. He didn’t like being the object of Crowe’s attention. “If I knew that,” he countered, “I wouldn’t have had to come to you.”

“It would be nice if one person could always make a difference,” Crowe replied without a trace of irritation, “but in this complicated world of ours you sometimes need friends, and you sometimes need an organization to back you up.”

“You think we should go to the Peelers?” Matty asked, obviously nervous.

“The police?” Crowe shook his head. “I doubt they’d believe you, and even if they did there’s little they could do. Whoever lives in this big house of yours will deny everythin”. They’ve got the power and the authority, not you. And you got to admit, it’s a preposterous story on the face of it.”

“Do you believe us?” Sherlock challenged.

Crowe’s face creased up in surprise. “Of course I believe you,” he said.

“Why? Like you said, it’s a preposterous story.”

Crowe smiled. “People do things when they lie,” he replied. “Lyin’ is stressful, cos you got to keep two different things straight in your head at the same time — the truth that you’re tryin’ to keep secret and the lie that you’re tryin’ to tell. That stress manifests itself in certain ways. People don’t make eye contact properly, they rub their noses, they hesitate and stammer more when they talk. And they go into more detail than is necessary, as if it makes their lie more believable if they can remember what colour the wallpaper was, and whether the people had beards or moustaches or suchlike. You told your story straight, you looked me in the eye and you didn’t add in extraneous details. Far as I can judge, you’re tellin’ the truth — or at least, what you believe to be the truth.”

“So what do we do now?” Sherlock asked. “There’s something going on around here. It’s got to do with clothes that are being made for the Army, and bees, and that warehouse in Farnham. And that man in the big house — the Baron, I think — is behind it all, but I don’t know what he’s doing.”

“Then we need to find out.” Amyus Crowe let his chair settle back on to its four legs and stood up. “If you haven’t got enough facts to come to a conclusion then you go out and get more facts. Let’s go and ask some questions.”

Matty shifted uncomfortably. “I gotta go,” he muttered.

“Come with us, kid,” Crowe said. “You were part of this adventure, and you deserve to find out what’s goin’ on. And besides, young Sherlock here seems to trust you.” He paused. “If it helps make your mind up, I’ll get us some food on the way.”

“I’m in,” Matty said.

Crowe led the way outside. In the meadow beside the cottage, Virginia Crowe was brushing down her horse, Sandia. Beside it was a larger bay mare. Sherlock assumed it was Crowe’s horse. The two horses that Sherlock and Matty had ridden away from the Baron’s mansion were quietly cropping the grass off to one side.

Virginia looked up as they approached. Her gaze met Sherlock’s and she glanced away quickly.

“We’re goin’ for a ride,” Crowe announced. “Virginia, you come along too. The more people askin’ questions, the more chance of some half-decent answers.”

“I don’t know what questions to ask,” Virginia protested.

“You were outside the door, listenin”,” Crowe said with a smile. “I heard Sandia whinnying. He only ever does that if you’re within sight but not actually with him. And I could see somethin’ movin’ about, blockin’ the sunlight ’neath the door.”

Virginia blushed, but kept gazing at her father, half-defiantly. “You always taught me to take advantage of my opportunities,” she said.

“Quite right too. The best way of learnin’ is to listen.”

Crowe pulled himself up on to his horse, and Virginia did the same. She watched, smiling, as Sherlock and Matty mounted their own horses, and nodded to Sherlock with approval. “Not half bad,” she said.

Together, the four of them cantered along the road, reversing the route that Sherlock and Matty had taken to get to the cottage. The sun was shining, the smell of woodsmoke hung in the air, and Sherlock had to try hard to convince himself that he had ever been knocked out, taken prisoner, questioned and then casually sentenced to death. Things like that just didn’t happen, did they? Not on a sunny day. Even the cuts on his face had stopped hurting.

Virginia nudged her horse closer to Sherlock’s. “You ride well,” she said, “for a beginner.”

“I had good advice,” he said, glancing at her and then away again.

“That stuff you said, back in the cottage. That was all true?”

“Every word.”

“Then maybe this country ain’t as boring as I thought.”

The nearer they got to the big house in which Sherlock had been imprisoned, the edgier he got. Eventually Amyus Crowe reined his horse to a halt within sight of the gates to the house. There was nobody in sight.

“Is this the place?” Crowe called.

Sherlock nodded.

“There’s rutted tracks leadin’ out of the gates and along the road,” Crowe continued. “Looks to me like they’ve skedaddled.”

Sherlock looked in confusion at Virginia. She smiled. “Left,” she explained. “Run away.”

“Oh. Right.” He filed that one away for the future.

“Let’s head down the road and see what we find,” Crowe shouted, and urged his horse on. Virginia was right behind him. Sherlock and Matty exchanged glances and followed.

About five minutes further on, they found a tavern — red brickwork, laid in that distinctive herringbone style that Sherlock had noticed before, white plaster and black beams. Trestles and benches had been set out on the grass outside. Smoke trailed out of the chimney and Sherlock could smell roasting meat. He was instantly hungry.

Crowe stopped and dismounted. “Late lunch,” he called. “Matty, Virginia, you stay out here and watch the horses. Sherlock, you come in with me.”

Sherlock followed the big American into the tavern. The ceiling was low, almost hidden by a layer of greasy smoke from the lamb that was roasting on a spit in the fireplace. Fresh sawdust covered the floor. Four men sat together at a table, eyeing the newcomers suspiciously. A fifth man sat on a stool at the bar and paid them no attention, being more concerned with gazing into his drink. The landlord, standing behind the bar and polishing a tankard with a cloth, nodded at Amyus Crowe.

“Afternoon, gents. Will it be drink or will it be food or will it be both?”

“Four plates of bread and meat,” Crowe said, and Sherlock was amazed to hear him speaking without his normal American accent. His voice, as near as Sherlock could tell, was pitched as if he was a farmer or labourer from somewhere in the Home Counties. “And four tankards of ale.”

The landlord pulled four tankards of beer and set them on a pewter tray. Crowe picked one up for himself and nodded to Sherlock. “Take ’em outside, lad,” he said in his gruff “English’ voice. Sherlock picked the tray up and cautiously carried it to the door. Crowe, he noticed, was settling himself on a stool by the bar.

Outside, Sherlock saw that Matty had found a table and benches near the tavern. Virginia was still standing with her horse. He joined Matty, and sat where he could see through one of the windows. Matty took one of the tankards and started drinking thirstily, holding it in both hands.

Sherlock sipped at the dark brown liquid. It was bitter and flat, and left an unpleasant aftertaste in his mouth.

“Hops aren’t edible, are they?” he said to Matty.

The boy shrugged. “You can eat them, I s’pose, but nobody does. They don’t taste too good.”

“So why on earth does anyone think you can make a drink out of them then?”

“Dunno.”

Looking through the window into the tavern, Sherlock could see Amyus Crowe chatting with the landlord. From the tilt of his head Crowe appeared to be asking questions and the landlord was answering them, still polishing tankards with his increasingly dirty cloth.

A girl in a pinafore emerged from the tavern carrying a tray with four plates of steaming meat. She walked across, put the plates and cutlery down on the table without a word, and left.

Virginia wandered across to join them, and Sherlock edged up to make room for her. She picked at the hot slices of lamb with a fork. She paused for a moment, fork held near her lips. “You know I didn’t write that note, don’t you?”

“I know that now.” Sherlock looked away, across the countryside, unable to meet her direct gaze. “I thought it was you at the time, but I suppose that’s because I wanted it to be you. If I’d thought about it, I should have known it wasn’t.”

“How so?”

He shrugged. “The paper was delicate and feminine, and the writing was very precise. It was as if someone was trying to pretend to be a girl.” He caught himself. “I mean a woman. A young woman. I mean—"

“I know what you mean.” She smiled slightly. “So what makes you think I don’t normally use feminine writing paper and neat handwriting?”

This time he could meet her eyes, and the contact held for a long moment. “You’re not like any girls I’ve met in England,” he said. “You’re unique. I’m still trying to work you out, but I think if you wanted me to go somewhere, like a fair, you’d just come and ask me.” He stopped for a moment and considered. “Or, more likely, just tell me,” he added.

This time it was her turn to blush. “You think I’m too bossy?”

“Not too bossy. Just bossy enough.” Matty’s gaze was flicking between them. “What are you two talking about?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock and Virginia chorused.

Looking through the window again, Sherlock noticed that Crowe had joined the four men who were sitting together. They all appeared to be getting along well. Crowe gestured to the landlord, who began pouring more tankards of beer from a pewter jug on the counter.

“Your father’s an interesting man,” Sherlock said, turning to Virginia.

“He has his moments.”

“What did he do, back in America?”

She kept her gaze fixed on her plate. “You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“He was a tracker.”

“You mean he hunted animals?”

She shook her head. “He hunted men. He tracked killers who had escaped justice, and he tracked Indians who had attacked isolated settlements. He’d follow them for days through the wilderness until he got close enough to take them by surprise.”

Sherlock couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “And what — he bought them back to face justice?”

“No,” she said quietly. Abruptly she stood upright and walked away, back towards the horses.

Sherlock and Matty sat in silence for a while, each occupied with his own thoughts.

Eventually Amyus Crowe left the tavern and joined them, squeezing his bulky form between the bench and the table. “Interestin”,” he said, back in his “American’ persona again.

“What’s happened?” Sherlock asked. “What do they know about the house?”

“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.

“Nobody’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 associated 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 class, 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” class 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 spaced, but grouped together in clusters. “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-class 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.