Part 2 (1/2)

'Are you all right?' Sherlock asked gently.

Matty nodded. 'Sorry,' he said, shamefaced. 'It just . . . spooked me. I don't like disease, ever since . . .'

'I understand. Look, I don't know what it was that you saw, but I'll give it some thought. My uncle's got a library the answer might be in there. Or in the local newspaper archives.'

They walked across a small bridge and back into town. The street led past a set of wooden gates set into a stone wall. An animal of some kind was lying by the gates, legs outstretched stiffly, not moving. Its fur was dirty and dull. For a moment Sherlock thought it was a dog, but as they got closer he could see the pointed snout, the short legs and the alternating stripes of black and white now lighter grey and darker grey that ran down its head. It was a badger, and Sherlock noticed that its stomach was nearly flat against the road. It had been run over, probably by the wheel of a cart.

Matty slowed down as he approached. 'You should be careful going past here,' he confided, as if he was perfectly safe and it was Sherlock who had to worry. 'I don't know what they do in there, but there's guards inside. They got billy clubs and boat hooks. Big blokes too.'

Sherlock was about to say something about the likelihood that the men were just providing some protection for the wages of the workers within when the gates swung open. Two men stepped out into the road; their faces were battered, scarred and grim but their clothes were immaculate in black velvet. They looked left and right, checking the boys out momentarily and dismissing them, then gestured to someone inside.

A carriage pulled by a single black horse nosed out of the courtyard. Its driver was a ma.s.sive man with hands like spades and a head that was bald and covered in scars. They closed the gates, then jumped on the back of the carriage, hanging on as it moved away.

'Let's see if the gent will give us a farthing,' Matty whispered. Before Sherlock could stop him, he was running towards the carriage.

Surprised, the horse s.h.i.+ed back against the shafts that connected it to the carriage. The driver tried to regain control, slas.h.i.+ng at it with his whip, but he just made things worse. The carriage slewed around as the horse tried to prance away from Matty.

Through the carriage window, Sherlock was momentarily shocked to see a pale, almost skeletal face framed with wispy white hair staring at him with unblinking eyes that were small and pink, like the eyes of a white rat. He felt an instant flash of instinctive revulsion, as if he had reached out for a lettuce leaf on his dinner plate and touched a slug instead. He wanted to move, to back away, but that pale, malevolent gaze held him pinioned, unable to move. And then the burly driver managed to regain control and the horse cantered past the two boys, taking the carriage and its occupant with it.

'Didn't even get a chance,' Matty moaned, dusting himself down. 'I thought that bloke was going to have a go at me with that whip.'

'Who was the man in the carriage?' Sherlock asked, his voice unsteady.

Matty shook his head. 'I never even got a look at him. Did he look rich?' he said hopefully.

'He looked like he was three days dead,' said Sherlock.

CHAPTER THREE.

Clouds of steam from the train's funnel billowed up through the slats of the bridge, scalding the boys' legs. Sherlock ran one way, Matty the other, both of them laughing and damp. The train ploughed majestically underneath them and into Farnham station, slowing as it arrived, and the boys moved back to the centre of the wooden bridge that connected the platforms, watching as it came gradually to a halt with a clanking of chains and a cacophonous hiss as the driver vented the remaining steam.

It was the morning of the following day. The platform had been deserted before the train arrived, but within moments it was magically transformed into a bustling ma.s.s of people heading for the exit. Men in black frock coats and top hats emerged from the First Cla.s.s compartments like insects from coc.o.o.ns, rubbing shoulders with the paunchy men in tweed jackets and flat caps and the women in decent frocks who had been sitting in Second Cla.s.s, and the various muscled and weather-beaten labourers in threadbare s.h.i.+rts and patched trousers who had been squashed together in Third. Men in uniform opened a sliding door in one of the carriages and began unloading wooden crates, and bags of what Sherlock supposed were letters. Station porters appeared from whatever offices they normally hid themselves away in and started moving the boxes and bags on trolleys away from the train. Within a few moments the platform was almost clear again, apart from a handful of lingering townsfolk who were chatting together, catching up on the events of the week. A guard, self-important in blue tunic and hat, stepped forward, looked up and down the length of the train, raised his whistle to his lips and blew a short, sharp blast. The train seemed to shudder and then began to heave itself out of the station, ponderously at first and then with increasing speed. The carriages clanked as their connections pulled taut, one after the other, and they were dragged after the engine.

'Is that the train to to London or the train London or the train from from London?' Sherlock asked. London?' Sherlock asked.

Matty looked up and down the line. 'To,' he said finally. 'From here the line goes to Tongham, Ash, Ash Wharf and then on to Brookwood and Guildford. From there you can get a train straight through to London.'

London. Sherlock gazed along the tracks to where the train was just pulling around a bend and out of sight. At the end of its journey it would be within a mile or two of his brother Mycroft, who would be sitting in his office reading doc.u.ments, or poring over a map of the world, coloured red where the British Empire had made its mark. For a moment the desire to run after the train and climb on board was almost overwhelming. He missed his brother. He missed his father and his mother and his sister. He even missed Deepdene School for Boys, although not as much.

'What's at Brookwood?' he asked, trying to distract his thoughts more than anything else.

Matty seemed to s.h.i.+ver. 'Don't ask,' he said.

'No, really.' Sherlock's interest was piqued now. 'Is it anything worth us going to see?'

Matty shook his head. 'There's nothing there that you want to see in daylight,' he said with finality, 'and you wouldn't want to be there at night, believe me.'

'I was thinking that we could get hold of some bicycles,' Sherlock pressed. 'Get out and about. See some of the villages and the towns around here.'

Matty glanced over at him, frowning. 'Why would we want to do that?'

'Curiosity?' Sherlock asked. 'Don't you ever wonder what things are like before you see them?'

'Towns look like towns and villages look like villages,' Matty averred, 'and all the people look like each other. That's the way life is. Come on, let's go.'

He led Sherlock along the bridge, down the cast iron stairs and on to the platform where the pa.s.sengers had earlier disembarked. From there they walked out into the road.

A cart had drawn up by the side of the road, and three men were loading it up with crates of ice insulated with straw that had come off the train.

One of the men was a weasely-faced fellow with yellow teeth. He scowled at the boys as they walked past.

'Young Master Sherlock,' a cutting voice said from behind them. 'I am disappointed to find you consorting with scruffy street Arabs. Your brother would be mortified.'

Sherlock turned, already blus.h.i.+ng despite not knowing who was talking to him, to find the housekeeper, Mrs Eglantine, standing a few feet away. Two men who Sherlock recognized from Holmes Manor were loading a series of boxes of groceries on to a cart which was. .h.i.tched to a large and apparently placid horse. The boxes had almost certainly come off the train.

'Street Arabs?' Sherlock looked around. Matty was the only other person there and he was watching Mrs Eglantine with a cautious eye, looking ready to run if things went bad. 'If you think he's a street Arab then you need to get out more, Mrs Eglantine,' Sherlock said boldly, irritated by her att.i.tude.

Her lips twisted. 'The Master wishes to see you when you return,' she said as the two men behind her loaded the last box on to the cart. 'Please do not keep him waiting.' She turned and stepped up into one of the front seats. 'Lunch will be served whether you are present or not,' she added, as one of the men swung up to join her at the front and the other climbed on the back. 'Your friend is not not invited.' invited.'

The horse trotted off, pulling the cart behind it. Mrs Eglantine didn't turn to look at Sherlock, but kept staring ahead. The man sitting on the back of the cart glanced at the boy and nodded agreeably, touching the front of his cap. He was missing several teeth, and there was a notch in his ear that looked like he'd caught it with a knife, or an axe, or something.

'Who was that?' Matty said, coming up beside Sherlock.

'That was Mrs Eglantine. She's the housekeeper at the place where I'm staying.' He paused. 'She doesn't like me.'

'I'm guessing that she doesn't like anyone,' Matty said.

'I'd better go,' Sherlock said. 'It'll take me half an hour to get back if I'm fast, and she was serious about food. I'll go hungry until dinner if I miss it.' He turned to look at Matty. 'Will I see you tomorrow?'

Matty nodded. 'Back here, at about ten o'clock?'

It took Sherlock almost forty-five minutes to walk back to Holmes Manor, and he arrived just as the gong was being sounded for lunch. He brushed the worst of the dust from his clothes and entered the dining room. Unusually, Sherrinford Holmes was seated at the head of the table, reading a pamphlet. His wife, Anna, was bustling around, checking the cutlery and talking to herself. Mrs Eglantine stood behind Uncle Sherrinford. She didn't react as Sherlock entered, but the way she pointedly avoided looking at him told him that she had noticed his arrival.

'Good afternoon Uncle Sherrinford, Aunt Anna,' Sherlock said politely as he sat down.

Sherrinford nodded towards Sherlock without raising his eyes from the pamphlet. Anna managed to incorporate what sounded like a greeting into her continuous monologue.

A maid entered with a tureen of soup and proceeded to spoon it out into bowls, under the supervision of Mrs Eglantine. Sherlock watched without much interest until Sherrinford put down his pamphlet, leaned forward and said: 'Young man, I have a visitor coming after lunch, and I would be obliged if you could be present. Your brother has exhorted me to ensure that your education is kept up whilst you are away from school, and has also indicated that he wishes you to be kept away from trouble. To that end I have retained the services of a tutor. He will take you on for three hours a day, every day of the week apart from Sunday, when I will expect you to attend church with the rest of the family. His name is Amyus Crowe.' He sniffed. 'Mr Crowe is a visitor to this country from the Colonies, I believe, but none the less has demonstrated himself to be a man of learning and discrimination. His Latin and Greek are excellent. I expect you to abide by his instructions.'

Sherlock felt his face burn with sudden anger. When he'd first arrived at Holmes Manor he'd seen the days stretching out before him, empty and barren, and wondered what he was going to do with his time, but meeting Matty Arnatt had opened up a whole set of possibilities. Now it looked as if they were all going to be closed off again.

'Thank you, Uncle Sherrinford,' he murmured. He tried to look pleased, but his face wouldn't follow his instructions. Mrs Eglantine smiled slightly, without meeting Sherlock's eyes.