Part 6 (1/2)

'Don't you want to tell someone where you're going?' he asked as Virginia stepped up into one stirrup, grasped the front of the saddle with her left hand and pulled herself up into a sitting position on the horse. Her hand caressed its mane.

'There's n.o.body home,' she called. 'My father is out, remember.'

'What about your mother?' he asked. The way her expression changed into something hard but strangely fragile made him wish he could pull the words right back out of the air.

'My mother is dead,' Virginia said flatly. 'She died on the s.h.i.+p, coming across the Atlantic to Liverpool. That's why I hate this country, and I hate being in it. If we hadn't come here, she'd still be alive.'

With a flick of the reins she turned the horse round and started trotting away. Sherlock watched her go, embarra.s.sed at the pain on her face and angry with himself for causing it.

When he finally turned round to leave he found Amyus Crowe standing patiently at the end of the path, leaning on a walking stick. He was gazing levelly at Sherlock.

'I see you've met my daughter,' he said finally, his accent, like Virginia's, making it sound more like Ah see you've met mah dawter Ah see you've met mah dawter.

'She didn't seem impressed with me,' Sherlock admitted.

'She ain't impressed with n.o.body. Spends her time riding the countryside dressed like a boy.' His mouth twisted into a lopsided grimace. 'Can't say I blame her. Getting dragged from Albuquerque to here is enough to put a child into a foul mood, without-' He stopped abruptly, and Sherlock got the impression that he was going to say something else and had just stopped himself in time. 'Did you want to see me about something in particular, or were you just lookin' for the chance to have another lesson?'

'Actually,' Sherlock said, 'there was something.' He quickly sketched for Crowe what had happened in Farnham the man with the yellow powder, the warehouse, the fire. He found himself trailing off towards the end, aware that he was admitting to what might have been seen as criminal activity if looked at from a certain perspective and uncertain from Crowe's expression what his reaction was going to be.

In the end, Crowe just shook his head and gazed into the distance. 'You've had an interestin' time,' he said. 'But I'm unsure what it all adds up to. There's still two fellows dead, an' a possible outbreak of disease. If you want my opinion, let it be. Let the doctors and the administrators deal with it. There's a useful rule in life along the lines that you shouldn't try to fight all the battles that come your way. Choose the battles that are important, an' let some other fellow fight the rest. An' in this case, it ain't your battle.'

Sherlock felt a frustration bubbling up within him, but he kept quiet. He had a strong feeling that this was his battle, if only because n.o.body else had seen the man in the carriage or thought the yellow powder was important, but maybe Amyus Crowe had a point. Maybe trying to persuade Crowe that something was going on wasn't a battle that Sherlock ought to be fighting. Maybe there was another way around.

'So, what's on the timetable for today?' he asked instead.

'I do believe that we never got to the bottom of edible fungi,' Crowe replied. 'Let's have a wander, and see what we can find. An' on the way I'll point out some wild plants that can be eaten raw, cooked up or boiled into a drink that can relieve pain.'

'Great,' said Sherlock.

He and Amyus Crowe spent the next few hours wandering through the local countryside, eating whatever was safe and within easy reach. Despite himself, Sherlock learned a lot about spending time in the wild, and not only surviving but prospering. Crowe even showed him how to make a comfortable bed by piling bracken up to shoulder height and then climbing on it and using his weight to squash it down to the thickness and softness of a mattress.

Cycling back to Holmes Manor afterwards, he tried to turn his mind back to the two dead men, the burned-out warehouse, the yellow powder and the mysterious crawling shadowofdeath,buthekepthavinghis thoughts interrupted by Virginia's red hair falling around her shoulders and her proud, straight back, by the tightness of her riding breeches and by the way her body rocked up and down as she rode away from him. He remembered the sample of yellow powder that he had scooped from the ground in the woods and sealed inside the envelope. If the ruffians in the warehouse were right then there was something a.s.sociated with the deaths of the two men that was contagious, or contaminating, or at least could cause health problems if touched. a.s.suming it was the yellow powder, he needed to find out what it was, despite Amyus Crowe's thinly disguised warning. He certainly didn't have the knowledge or the equipment to do it himself. He needed a chemist, or an apothecary, or someone similar who could a.n.a.lyse the powder, and he was unlikely to find anyone like that in Farnham. His brother had taken them through Guildford on their way to Farnham, and if that was the nearest big town then that was where Sherlock could find someone trained in natural science who could tell him what the powder was. Amyus Crowe had mentioned an expert there Professor Winchcombe. Perhaps Sherlock could go and see him. All he had to do now was get to Guildford.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Sherlock caught up with Matty Arnatt next day at the market. He was beginning to be able to predict Matty's movements. It was late morning, and the market traders had been working since early morning. They would be thinking about food, and possibly taking it in turns to go and get something to eat one of them watching over two stalls while the other went to get some bread and some meat, or a pie, and maybe a pint of beer. That meant lunchtime was one of those times when their attention would be spread thinnest, giving Matty the chance to snitch some fruit or vegetables from the corner of a stall without being noticed. Sherlock disapproved of theft, but he also disapproved of people starving and of kids being rounded up and sent to a workhouse, so he supposed it was a balance of ethical dilemmas, and to be honest he didn't begrudge Matty the odd worm-eaten apple. It wasn't going to bring down the Empire.

The market was spread over a small field with buildings on three sides. There were stalls selling piles of onions and parsnips, potatoes and beets, and other vegetables in a variety of colours that Sherlock didn't even recognize. Other stalls had knuckles of ham suspended from hooks with flies buzzing around them, and fish laid out on straw. There were people selling various materials and clothes as well druggets and bombazines, barragons and shalloons, tub greens and serges. A makes.h.i.+ft pen to one side held a herd of sheep along with a couple of pigs that were lying down, sleeping despite the hubbub. The mixture of smells was almost overwhelming, with only a faint hint of decay in the air. By sundown, Sherlock guessed, the whole place would stink of rotting vegetables and fish, but by then most of the shoppers would have gone and only the poorer locals would remain, hoping the market traders would start to reduce their prices to get rid of their stock.

There seemed to be a subdued air to the market. It wasn't as lively as Sherlock remembered. Rather than the hustle and bustle that a small town market ought to generate, with people treating it as much as a social event as an opportunity to buy whatever they needed, the shoppers appeared to be set on heading towards whatever they needed, buying it with the minimum of bartering and then heading out again.

'Was Crowe in?' Matty asked as Sherlock approached. He was sitting on an upturned wooden crate, watching the market traders intently for a moment's inattention.

'Not at first, but I met his daughter.'

'Yeah, I've seen her around.'

'You could have told me about her,' Sherlock complained. 'She caught me by surprise. I wasn't expecting her to be there. I must have looked like an idiot.'

Matty glanced momentarily at Sherlock, eyeing him up and down. 'Yeah, pretty much,' he said.

Sherlock felt self-conscious and changed the subject. 'I've had a thought-'

He stopped as Matty suddenly darted off into the crowd, slipping between shoppers like an eel between rocks. Within moments the boy was back again, brus.h.i.+ng dirt off a pork pie. 'It fell off the edge of a stall,' he said proudly. 'I've been waiting for that to happen. Too much stuff piled too high something was bound to fall off eventually.' He took a huge bite, then handed it to Sherlock. 'Here, try it.'

Sherlock nibbled a bit off the edge of the crust. It was salty, b.u.t.tery and thick. He took another bite, managing to scoop up some of the pinkish meat and transparent jelly inside. The meat was tasty, studded with bits of fruit prunes, perhaps? Whatever it was, the combination was incredible.

He handed the pie back. 'I already had some apple and cheese,' he explained. 'You finish this.'

'You said you had a thought.'

'I need to get to Guildford.'

'Take a good few hours on the bike,' Matty said, still scanning the crowd.

Sherlock thought back to his trip from Deepdene School for Boys to Farnham, pa.s.sing through Guildford and then Aldershot on the way. He didn't particularly relish the thought of cycling all the way to Guildford and then all the way back again, and he wasn't sure he could do it in a day and find an expert to talk to about poisons and diseases as well.

He sighed. 'Forget it,' he said. 'It was a stupid idea.'

'Not necessarily,' Matty replied. 'There are other ways of getting to Guildford.'

'I can't ride, and I haven't got a horse.'

'What about the train?'

'I'd rather do it without leaving a trail without anyone knowing. Mrs Eglantine seems to be friendly with the stationmaster I don't want her knowing what I do all the time.'

Mrs Eglantine is no friend of the family. The words from Mycroft's letter suddenly floated across his mind, causing him to s.h.i.+ver.

'There's another way,' Matty said cautiously.

'What's that?'

'The Wey.'

'What way?'

'No, the Wey Wey. The River Wey. Runs from here to Guildford.'

Sherlock considered the thought for a moment. 'We'd need a boat.' And then, before Matty could say anything, he exclaimed, 'And you've got one a narrowboat, at least!'

'And a horse to pull it.'

'How long would it take?'

Matty considered for a moment. 'Prob'ly as long as cycling, but it's a lot less effort. I don't think we can do it today. You could meet me at sunrise tomorrow, and we could spend the day on the water, but that wouldn't give you much time in Guildford.'