Part 8 (1/2)

Dear Mr Crowe,I have had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of your student

'What is your name, young fellow?' he asked, turning to Sherlock.

'Holmes, sir. Sherlock Holmes.'

Master Sherlock Holmes who has brought me a sample of a yellow powder that he tells me was found near the unfortunately deceased fellows whose demise you described to me in your letter, which arrived this morning. Having examined the powder I recognize it to be simple bee pollen, and thus I deduce that your two men were killed not by bubonic plague or some-such illness, but by bee stings. If you request a local doctor to exmaine the supposed 'boils' I suggest he will find small stingers embedded in each one, or at the very least the marks left by such stingers. I commend this young man for bringing the sample of powder to me. Had he not, rumours of a fatal fever sweeping the county might have caused great panic.I look forward to renewing our acquaintance at some time convenient to you.Yours sincerely,Arthur Winchcombe, Esg (Phd).

Folding the sheet, he slipped it into an envelope which he took from a drawer of the desk, sealed the envelope with a blob of wax from the candle that he had been using to illuminate the microscope, and handed the envelope to Sherlock.

'I trust this will save you from too painful a punishment,' he said. 'Please convey my respects to your tutor.'

'I will.' Sherlock paused, then continued: 'Thank you.'

Professor Winchcombe rang a small bell that sat on the blotter, by the microscope. 'My butler will show you out. If you want to know anything more about tropical diseases, beekeeping or China, feel free to call on me again.'

Outside, Sherlock was surprised to see that the sun hadn't changed its position in the sky by more than a few degrees. It had felt as if he had been in Professor Winch-combe's house for hours.

Matty was sitting on the garden wall. He was eating something from a paper cone. 'Done what you came for?' he asked.

Sherlock nodded. He gestured towards the cone of paper. 'What have you got there?'

'c.o.c.kles and winkles,' the boy replied. He tipped the mouth of the cone towards Sherlock. 'Want some?'

Inside the cone, Sherlock saw a pile of seash.e.l.ls. 'Are they cooked?' he asked.

'Boiled,' Matty replied succinctly. 'I found a fishmonger's stall. He was selling them. Prob'ly came up from Portsmouth overnight. I helped out for a while, tidying up his boxes, fetching more ice and stuff. He gave me a twist of them in payment.' He reached into the cone and picked out a sh.e.l.l. Resting the cone on the wall, he retrieved a folding knife from his pocket and fiddled around inside the sh.e.l.l with the point, spearing whatever was inside. After a few seconds he pulled out something dark and rubbery, then popped it into his mouth. 'Lovely,' he beamed. 'Don't get these very often, 'less you live near the sea. Bit of a treat when you do.'

'I think I'll pa.s.s,' Sherlock said. 'Let's go home.'

This time they walked down the High Street to the river, then walked along the river bank until they found the narrowboat. As Matty had predicted, both it and the horse were still there. Sherlock wondered how they were going to turn the narrowboat round, but Matty led the horse along the bank towards town until they got to a bridge, then led the horse across the bridge to the other side, pulling the nose of the boat round while Sherlock used the boathook to stop it hitting the banks on either side. And then it was a case of making their slow way back, Sherlock in front this time, keeping the horse moving, and Matty in the back operating the tiller.

The two boys talked as the boat slowly moved downstream. Sherlock told Matty about Professor Winch-combe and his explanation concerning the bees and the stings. Matty was dubious at first, but Sherlock eventually persuaded him that no supernatural explanation was required for the cloud of death. Matty seemed to be caught between relief that the plague hadn't come to Farnham and irritation that the explanation was so prosaic. Sherlock didn't say anything, but as they travelled he became more and more certain that they had just removed one mystery to reveal another. Why had the bees stung those two men in different locations but n.o.body else? Why were African bees in England in the first place? And what did any of this have to do with the warehouse, the boxes that had been loaded on to the cart by the ruffians and the mysterious Baron?

After a while, Sherlock became aware that another horse had joined theirs on the riverbank. It was a glossy black stallion with a brown patch on its neck, and Virginia Crowe was riding it. She was still wearing riding breeches and a blouse, with a jacket over the top.

'h.e.l.lo!' Sherlock called. She waved back.

'Matty, this is Virginia Crowe,' he called over his shoulder. 'Virginia, this is Matthew Arnatt. Matty.'

Matty nodded at Virginia, and she nodded at him, but neither said anything.

Sherlock stood, balanced precariously on the bows of the boat for a moment, feeling it rock beneath him, and jumped to the bank. He took Matty's horse's rope collar and guided him forward, walking alongside Virginia and her horse.

'This is Albert,' he said eventually.

'This is Sandia,' Virginia replied. 'You really should learn to ride, you know.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'Never had the chance.'

'It's simple, but you guys always make a fuss over how difficult it is. Guide with your knees, not the reins. Use the reins for slowing the horse down.'

Sherlock couldn't think of a suitable response to that. They kept walking in awkward silence for a while.

'Where have you been,' Virginia asked eventually.

'Guildford. There was someone I wanted to see.' Remembering, he delved into his jacket and took out the letter that Professor Winchcombe had written. 'I need to get this to your father. Do you know where he is?'

'Still looking for you. You were supposed to have a lesson.'

Sherlock glanced at her to see whether she was serious, but there was a slight smile on her lips. She looked down at him, and he turned his face away.

'Give me the letter,' she said. 'I'll see he gets it.'

He held the letter out to her, then pulled it back. 'It's important,' he said hesitantly. 'It's about the two men who died.'

'Then I'll see he gets it straight away.' She took the letter from his outstretched hand. Her fingers didn't touch his, but he could almost imagine that he felt their heat as they pa.s.sed close. 'Those men died of the plague, didn't they? That's what people are saying.'

'It's not the plague. It was bees. That's why I had to go into Guildford I needed to talk to an expert in diseases.' He realized he was talking faster, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. 'I found a yellow powder near both bodies. I wanted someone to tell me what it was, so I took some of it into Guildford. It turns out it was pollen. That's why we decided that bees were responsible.'

'But you didn't know that when you found the powder,' Virginia pointed out.

'No.'

'Or when you collected the powder and carried it all the way to Guildford.'

'No.'

'For all you knew, it might have been something that caused caused the plague. Something contagious.' the plague. Something contagious.'

Sherlock felt he was being backed into a corner. 'Yes,' he said, drawing the word out to something that sounded more like 'Ye-e-e-s'.

'So you risked your life based on the fact that you thought everyone else was wrong and you could prove prove them wrong.' them wrong.'

'I suppose so.' He felt obscurely embarra.s.sed. She was right getting to the bottom of the mystery had been more important to him than his own safety. He might have been wrong he didn't know much about diseases or how they were transmitted. The yellow powder might have been something the men's bodies had produced as a result of an illness, like dry, infected skin something that could have contained the disease and pa.s.sed it on. He'd been so consumed by puzzle-solving that he hadn't thought of that.

The rest of the journey back to Farnham was conducted in silence.

CHAPTER NINE.

'You disappoint me, boy.'

Sherrinford Holmes was sitting at the ma.s.sive 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 G.o.d, 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.