Part 11 (1/2)

'And how did you get them to answer your questions?' Matty added. 'You're a stranger around here, and people don't usually open up to strangers.'

'Best thing to do is not be a stranger then,' he replied. 'If you just sit there for a while, makin' conversation with the barman, you become part of the furniture. Then you join in with the conversation, if you see an openin', an' tell them somethin' about yourself who you are, why you're there. I told 'em I was lookin' to buy a farm an' raise pigs, on the basis that the new soldiers in Aldershot are goin' to need a lot of feedin'. They was interested to know how many soldiers are goin' to be garrisoned there, and we got talkin' about the business opportunities. I asked if there was anyone around here who might be interested in investin' in a business opportunity, or who might have some land to spare, an' they told me 'bout the estate down the road. Owned by a man named Maupertuis some kind of Baron, apparently, and a foreigner to boot.'

Sherlock glanced across at Matty and smiled. Crowe seemed oblivious to the fact that he was a foreigner in this country himself.

'n.o.body's ever seen this Baron Maupertuis, an' his staff were all brought with him, not hired locally, which didn't endear him to the villagers much. All their supplies and whatever were bought in from somewhere else, not purchased nearby. Anyway, the landlord was listenin' to us and said that the Baron had moved out earlier today. Apparently there was a convoy of carts went down the road, all stacked up with boxes and furniture, with a black two-wheeler bringin' up the rear. An' then a while later, there was more carts, this time stacked up with large boxes covered with sheets. I suspect those were the beehives you mentioned, young man. They probably used smoke to calm the bees down an' send them to sleep. That's what proper beekeepers do if they're movin' hives.'

'They took the beehives with them? Why?'

Amyus Crowe nodded. 'That's a very good question. If you're evacuatin' in a hurry, why take all the beehives with you? It's only goin' to slow you down, an' it's not like you can't get more bees elsewhere.' He mused for a moment. 'It looks like your escape has spooked them. They couldn't take the chance that you might go to the police and the police would come to investigate. They've relocated somewhere else, and we need to know where.'

'We could follow them,' Sherlock said.

Crowe shook his head. 'They've got too good a start.'

'They'll have to travel slowly,' Sherlock insisted. 'They've got the beehives with them. One person on a horse could catch up with them.'

'Too many roads they could have taken,' Crowe persisted.

'A long convoy of carts? People would spot them and remember. And they're not going to be taking country roads in bad condition they'll be sticking to main routes. That cuts down the options.'

Crowe grinned. 'Well thought through, lad.'

'You'd already thought of that?' Sherlock asked, frowning.

'Yeah, but I didn't want to spoon-feed you with the answers. I wanted to see if you were capable of thinking something through, especially if I was pus.h.i.+ng you in the opposite direction.' Crowe stood up. 'I know some guys near our cottage who have horses and could do with a few s.h.i.+llings. I'll send them out looking for this convoy. I suggest you go back to Holmes Manor and make your peace with your family. Tell them you were with me all the time that should calm things down. I'll swing round tomorrow and let you know what I've discovered.'

The four of them trotted back along back roads and cross-country paths until they were close to Farnham, where they said their goodbyes. Matty headed off towards wherever he'd left his boat, while Crowe and Virginia trotted in the direction of their cottage. Sherlock let his horse stand quietly for a moment, allowing the events of the past day to settle in his mind, becoming memories rather than a jumble of sensory impressions. Eventually, when he felt calmer, he guided the horse towards Holmes Manor.

When he arrived, he wondered for a moment where to leave the horse. It wasn't his, after all. On the other hand, its previous owner seemed to have abandoned it, and it was definitely a step up from the rackety old bicycle that Matty had found for him. In the end he left it in the stable with a bale of hay. If it was there tomorrow, he would take it as a sign that he was meant to keep it.

Dinner was just being served as he walked into the house. Normal behaviour, as if nothing had happened, as if the world was exactly the same as it had been that morning. He glanced at his clothes, dusted his jacket down, and headed into the dining room.

The meal was a surreal experience. His aunt chattered on about nothing in particular as usual, and his uncle read from a large book as he ate, muttering beneath his breath every now and then. Mrs Eglantine stared at him from her position over by the wall. It was hard to reconcile the calm, civilized atmosphere with the fact that he'd been knocked out, abducted, sentenced to death and escaped, all within the past few hours. He was famished, despite the meat he had eaten at the tavern, and he hungrily piled his plate with steaming slices of chicken and vegetables, then covered the whole lot with gravy.

'You look as if you've been in the wars, Sherlock,' his aunt said during dessert the closest she'd ever got to asking him a direct question.

'I . . . fell down,' he said, aware of the stinging cuts on his face and ears. 'I'm not used to riding a bike.'

It seemed to satisfy her, and she went back to murmuring to herself, continuing her perpetual monologue.

As soon as was polite, Sherlock broke away and headed for his room. He had intended to read for a while and then perhaps write some of the day's events down in a journal so that he didn't forget them, but as soon as his body hit the bed he found it difficult to keep his eyes open, and within moments he was asleep, still fully dressed.

He woke once when it was dark outside and owls were hooting somewhere in the distance. He slipped his clothes off and slid beneath the rough sheet. He fell into a deep sleep like someone diving into a dark and mysterious lake.

The next day dawned bright and sharp. Amyus Crowe was standing downstairs in the hall when Sherlock descended for breakfast. He was wearing a white linen suit and a broad-brimmed hat.

We're going to London,'he boomed when he saw Sherlock. 'I have to go on business, and your uncle has given me permission to take you with me. It'll be an education. We'll see some art galleries, and I'll teach you some of the history a.s.sociated with that great city.'

'Is Virginia going too?' Sherlock asked without thinking, and immediately wished that he could pull the words back out of the air, but Crowe just grinned, his eyes twinkling. 'Why, yes,' he said. 'I could hardly leave her alone in the countryside now, could I? What kind of father would that make me?'

'Why London?' Sherlock asked more quietly as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

'That's where the convoy of carts was heading,' Crowe replied equally quietly. 'I suspect he has another house there somewhere.'

With a barely audible rustle of her skirt, Mrs Eglantine stepped out of the shadows at the end of the hall. 'You should eat your breakfast before I have to clear the table, young Master Sherlock,' she said, her voice laden with just enough dislike to be audible but not enough for Sherlock to take any active offence.

'Thank you,' he said, then turned back to Crowe. 'Are we leaving straight away?'

'Get some victuals inside you,' Crowe answered. 'You may need them. Pack a small bag for two days away. I'll wait in the carriage outside.' He turned to Mrs Eglantine and removed his hat with an exaggerated flourish. 'Ma'am,' he said, and left.

Sherlock ate his breakfast as fast as he could, barely tasting it. London! He was going to London! And if he was really lucky he might be able to see Mycroft while he was there!

Amyus Crowe was waiting in a four-wheeler carriage outside the Manor House. Virginia was sitting beside him. She looked uncomfortable, either because of the frilly dress and bonnet that she was wearing or because she was cooped up inside the carriage rather than being outside in the open air.

'You look nice,' Sherlock said as he sat opposite her and as the driver stacked his bag up with the rest. She scowled at him.

The clatter of wheels on gravel as the cart pulled off covered her reply, but Sherlock wasn't sure he wanted to hear it anyway.

When they got to Farnham station, Matty was waiting for them. Amyus Crowe smiled at him. 'You got my message, then?'

'Got woken up by the bloke delivering it. How did you know where my boat was moored?'

'It's my business to know where everything is. My business and my particular pleasure too. Fancy a journey, youngster?'

'I ain't got no change of clothes or nothing,' Matty said.

'We'll buy you whatever you need in London. Now, let's get our tickets.'

Crowe bought four tickets to London, second cla.s.s, and the party descended to the station platform while the driver of the cart offloaded their bags. He'd timed it perfectly. The train arrived within ten minutes, a great behemoth of a thing, its tubular front end venting steam, pistons pumping up and down like clockwork arms and its metal wheels, almost as big as Sherlock, squealing against the track.

'A Joseph Beattie ”Saxon” cla.s.s locomotive,' Amyus noted. 'Generically referred to as a 2-4-0. Sherlock, can you tell me why?'

'Why the ”Saxon” or why the ”2-4-0”?'

Amyus nodded. 'The collection of proper information depends primarily on the proper phrasing of the question,' he noted. 'I meant the ”2-4-0” designation. I suspect the ”Saxon” part was just a piece of historical fancy on the part of the engineer. He also designed an engine he called the ”Nelson”.'

Sherlock let his gaze wander across the engine. The wheels, he noticed, weren't equally s.p.a.ced, but grouped together in cl.u.s.ters. 'I'd say because that's the way the wheels are arranged,' he ventured, 'but that can't be the case.'

'Actually, it is,' Crowe replied. 'There are two wheels on a single axle at the front, independently swivelling to allow the engine to transit curves. Then there are four wheels attached to the engine proper, on two axles. Those are the powered wheels.'

'And the ”0”?' Sherlock asked.

'Some engines have a set of wheels at the rear,' Crowe replied. 'The ”0” indicates that this engine doesn't have that third set of wheels.'

'So it's got a number to indicate that there is no number,' Sherlock said.