Part 10 (2/2)

'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 n.o.body 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 gra.s.s 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 polis.h.i.+ng 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 n.o.body 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 polis.h.i.+ng 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?'

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