Part 1 (2/2)

'Six weeks for the s.h.i.+p to reach port, six months in the country, I would estimate, and then another six weeks returning. Nine months in all.'

'Nearly a year.' He bowed his head for a moment, composing himself, then nodded. 'Can we go home now?'

'You're not going home,' Mycroft said.

Sherlock just stood there, letting the words sink into him, not saying anything.

'He can't stay here,' the Headmaster muttered. 'The place is being cleaned.'

Mycroft moved his calm gaze away from Sherlock and on to the Headmaster. 'Our mother is . . . unwell,' he said. 'Her const.i.tution is delicate at the best of times, and this business with our father has distressed her greatly. She needs peace and quiet, and Sherlock needs someone older to look after him.'

'But I've got you you!' Sherlock protested.

Mycroft shook his large head sadly. 'I live in London now, and my job requires me to work many hours each day. I would not, I'm afraid, be a fit guardian for a boy, especially an inquisitive one such as you.' He turned towards the Headmaster, almost as if it was easier to give him the next piece of information than to tell Sherlock. 'Although the family house is in Horsham we have relatives in Farnham, not too far from here. An uncle and aunt. Sherlock will be staying with them over the school holidays.'

'No!' Sherlock exploded.

'Yes,' Mycroft said gently. 'It is arranged. Uncle Sherrinford and Aunt Anna have agreed to take you in for the summer.'

'But I've never even met met them!' them!'

'Nevertheless, they are family.'

Mycroft bade farewell to the Headmaster while Sherlock stood there blankly, trying to take in the enormity of what had just happened. No going home. No seeing his father and his mother. No exploring in the fields and woods around the manor house that had been home to him for fourteen years. No sleeping in his old bed in the room under the eaves of the house where he kept all of his books. No sneaking into the kitchens where Cook would give him a slice of bread and jam if he smiled at her. Instead, weeks of staying with people he didn't know, being on his best behaviour in a town, in a county county which he didn't know anything about. Alone, until he returned to school. which he didn't know anything about. Alone, until he returned to school.

How was he going to manage?

Sherlock followed Mycroft out of the Headmaster's study and along the corridor to the entrance hall. An enclosed brougham carriage sat outside the doors, its wheels muddy and its sides dusty from the journey that Mycroft had already undertaken to the school. The crest of the Holmes family had been painted on the door. Sherlock's trunk had already been loaded on the back. A gaunt driver who Sherlock did not recognize sat in the d.i.c.ky box at the front, the reins that linked him to the two horses resting limply in his hands.

'How did he know that was my trunk?'

Mycroft gestured with his hand to indicate that it was nothing special. 'I could see it from the window of the Headmaster's study. The trunk was the only one sitting unattended. And besides, it was the one Father used to have. The Headmaster was kind enough to send a boy out to tell him to load the trunk on to the carriage.' He opened the door of the carriage and gestured to Sherlock to enter. Instead, Sherlock glanced around at his school and at his fellow pupils.

'You look as if you think you'll never see them again,' Mycroft said.

'It's not that,' Sherlock replied. 'It's just that I thought I was leaving here for something better. Now I know I'm leaving here for something worse. As bad as this place is, this is as good as it gets.'

'It won't be like that. Uncle Sherrinford and Aunt Anna are good people. Sherrinford is Father's brother.'

'Then why have I never heard about them?' Sherlock asked. 'Why has Father never mentioned having a brother?'

Mycroft winced almost imperceptibly. 'I fear that there was a falling-out in the family. Relations were strained for a while. Mother reinitiated contact via letter some months ago. I'm not even sure Father knows.'

'And that's where you're sending me?'

Mycroft patted Sherlock on the shoulder. 'If there was an alternative I would take it, believe me. Now, do you need to say goodbye to any friends?'

Sherlock looked around. There were boys he knew, but were any of them really friends?

'No,' he said. 'Let's go.'

The journey to Farnham took several hours. After pa.s.sing through the town of Dorking, which was the closest group of houses to Deepdene School, the carriage clattered along country lanes, beneath spreading trees, past the occasional thatched cottage or larger house and alongside fields that were ripe with barley. The sun shone from a cloudless sky, turning the carriage into an oven despite the breeze blowing in. Insects buzzed lazily at the windows. Sherlock watched for a while as the world went past. They stopped for lunch at an inn, where Mycroft bought some ham and cheese and half a loaf of bread. At some stage Sherlock fell asleep. When he woke up, minutes or hours later, the brougham was still moving through the same landscape. For a while he chatted with Mycroft about what was happening at home, about their sister, about Mother's fragile health. Mycroft asked after Sherlock's studies, and Sherlock told him something about the various lessons that he had sat through and more about the teachers who had taught them. He imitated their voices and their mannerisms, and reduced Mycroft to helpless laughter by the cruelty and humour of his impersonations.

After a while there were more houses lining the road and soon they were heading through a large town, the horses' hoofs clattering on cobbles. Leaning out of the carriage window, Sherlock saw what looked like a guildhall a three-storey building, all white plaster and black beams, with a large clock hanging from a bracket outside the double doors.

'Farnham?' he guessed.

'Guildford,' Mycroft answered. 'Farnham is not too far away now.'

The road out of Guildford led along a ridge from which the land fell away on both sides, fields and woods scattered about like toys, with patches of yellow flowers spreading across them.

'This ridge is called the Hog's Back,' Mycroft remarked. 'There's a semaph.o.r.e station along here, on Pewley Hill, part of a chain that stretches from the Admiralty Building in London all the way to Portsmouth Harbour. Have they taught you about semaph.o.r.es at school?'

Sherlock shook his head.

'Typical,' Mycroft murmured. 'All the Latin a boy can cram into his skull, but nothing of any practical use.' He sighed heavily. 'A semaph.o.r.e is a method for pa.s.sing messages quickly and over long distance that would take days by horse. Semaph.o.r.e stations have boards on their roofs which can be seen from a distance, and which have six large holes in them which can be opened or closed by shutters. Depending on which holes are open or closed the board spells out different letters. A man at each semaph.o.r.e station keeps watch on both the previous one in the chain and the next one with a telescope. If he sees a message being spelled out he writes it down and then repeats it via his own semaph.o.r.e board, and so the message travels. This particular chain starts at the Admiralty, then goes via Chelsea and Kingston upon Thames to here, then all the way to Portsmouth Dockyard. There's another chain leading down to Chatham Dockyards, and others to Deal, Sheerness, Great Yarmouth and Plymouth. They were constructed so that the Admiralty could pa.s.s messages quickly to the Navy in the event of a French invasion of the country. Now, tell me, if there are six holes, and each hole can be either open or closed, how many different combinations are there which could signify letters, numbers or other symbols?'

Fighting the urge to tell his brother that school was over, Sherlock closed his eyes and calculated for a moment. One hole could take two states: open or closed. Two holes could take four states: open-open; open-closed; closed-open; closed-closed. Three holes . . . He quickly worked through the calculation in his mind, and then saw a pattern emerging. 'Sixty-four,' he said eventually.

'Well done.' Mycroft nodded. 'I'm glad to see that your mathematics, at least, is up to scratch.' He glanced out of the window to his right. 'Ah, Aldershot. Interesting place. Fourteen years ago it was named by Queen Victoria as the home of the British Army. Before that it was a small hamlet with a population of less than a thousand. Now it is sixteen thousand and still growing.'

Sherlock craned his neck to look over his brother at what lay outside the other window, but from this angle he could only see a scattering of houses and what might have been a railway line running parallel to the road at the bottom of the slope. He settled back into his seat and closed his eyes, trying not to think about what lay ahead.

After a while he felt the brougham heading downhill, and shortly after that they made a series of turns, and the sound of the ground beneath the horses' hoofs changed from stone to hard-packed earth. He screwed his eyes more tightly shut, trying to put off the moment when he would have to accept what was happening.

The carriage stopped on gravel. The sound of birdsong and the wind blowing through trees filled the carriage. Sherlock could hear footsteps crunching towards them.

'Sherlock,' Mycroft said gently. 'Time for reality.'

He opened his eyes.

The brougham had stopped outside the entrance to a large house. Constructed from red brick, it towered above them: three storeys plus what looked like a set of rooms in the attic judging by the small windows set into the grey tiles. A footman was just about to open Mycroft's door. Sherlock slid across and followed his brother out.

A woman was standing in the deep shadows at the top of three wide stone steps that led up to the portico in front of the main entrance. She was dressed entirely in black. Her face was thin and pinched, her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed, as if someone had subst.i.tuted vinegar for her cup of tea that morning. 'Welcome to Holmes Manor; I am Mrs Eglantine,' she said in a dry, papery voice. 'I am the housekeeper here.' She glanced at Mycroft. 'Mr Holmes will see you in the library, whenever you are ready.' Her gaze slid to Sherlock. 'And the footman will transfer your . . . luggage . . . to your room, Master Holmes. Afternoon tea will be served at three o'clock. Please be so good as to stay in your room until then.'

'I will not be staying for tea,' Mycroft said smoothly. 'Sadly, I need to return to London.' He turned towards Sherlock, and there was a look in his eyes that was part sympathy, part brotherly love and part warning. 'Take care, Sherlock,' he said. 'I will certainly be back to return you to school at the end of the holidays, and if I can I will visit in the meantime. Be good, and take the opportunity to explore the local area. I believe that Uncle Sherrinford has an exceptional library. Ask him if you can take advantage of the acc.u.mulated wisdom it contains. I will leave my contact details with Mrs Eglantine if you need me, send me a telegram or write a letter.' He reached out and put a comforting hand on Sherlock's shoulder. 'These are good people,' he said, quietly enough that Mrs Eglantine couldn't hear him, 'but, like everyone in the Holmes family, they have their eccentricities. Be aware, and take care not to upset them. Write to me when you get a moment. And remember this is not the rest of your life. This is just for a couple of months. Be brave.' He squeezed Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock felt a bubble of anger and frustration forcing its way up his throat and choked it back. He didn't want Mycroft to see him react, and he didn't want to start his time at Holmes Manor badly. Whatever he did over the next few minutes would set the tone for the rest of his stay.

He stuck out his hand. Mycroft moved his own hand off Sherlock's shoulder and took it, smiling warmly.

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