Part 11 (2/2)

'Correct.' Crowe smiled. 'It may not be sensible, but it's eminently logical, if you accept the system they've chosen to use.'

They found a carriage to themselves, and settled down for the journey. Sherlock had never been on a train before, and everything was new to him: the vibration of the seats and the walls and the windows as they moved, the strangely sweet-smelling smoke that drifted in, the way the countryside flashed past, ever-changing and yet strangely consistent. Matty was wide-eyed and nervous; Sherlock suspected that the boy had never experienced even the meagre luxury of a second-cla.s.s compartment before.

Woods flashed past and gave way to fields, but the plants grown in these fields weren't corn or wheat or barley; they were brown, spindly plants with small green leaves, curling around sticks that had been fixed in the ground up to a height of five or six feet. Sherlock was just about to ask Crowe what they were when Matty, noticing his interest, leaned forward to take a look.

'Hops,' he said succinctly. 'For the breweries. This area's noted for the quality of the beer it brews. There's thirty pubs and taverns in Farnham alone.'

And so the journey went on, punctuated by a change of trains at Guildford, until they reached the great terminus of Waterloo Station in that busy metropolis of London.

The place where Mycroft Holmes lived and worked.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

Waterloo Station was a bustling ma.s.s of humanity heading in all directions and carrying all kinds of boxes, parcels, suitcases and trunks, all beneath a ma.s.sive roof of arched metal and gla.s.s. The warmth of the sun was magnified by the gla.s.s, making the station hotter than the streets around it. Trains heaved themselves into their platforms and disgorged clouds of steam and even more people, which added to the warmth. Sherlock could feel sweat gathering beneath his collar.

Amyus Crowe engaged a porter straight away and got him to retrieve their bags from the train. The porter then led them outside, to where a line of hansom cabs were picking up pa.s.sengers from a long queue. An additional halfpenny tip persuaded their porter to take them along the line to where newly arrived cabs were letting out their pa.s.sengers before joining the line of waiting ones. A few moments' d.i.c.kering and they were climbing aboard a cab through one door as its previous occupants were exiting the other.

Amyus Crowe seemed to be familiar with London, and told the cabbie to take them to the Sarbonnier Hotel. The cab trotted off, with Sherlock leaning out of one window to see the sights and Matty leaning out of the other.

The scale of buildings was immense compared with Farnham, Guildford and the other towns that Sherlock was used to. Many of them reached up five or six storeys. Several had columns supporting porticoes above their front doors and rows of sculptures along their rooflines, some obviously of human figures and others of mythical creatures with wings, horns and fangs.

Within a few moments they were heading across a bridge that spanned a wide river.

'The Thames?' Sherlock asked.

'It is,' Crowe agreed. 'One of the most dirty, congested and evil rivers it has been my displeasure to experience.'

Clattering off the bridge on the other side of the river, the hansom made a few turns and ended up outside a long building constructed of orange stone. The driver hopped down and helped unload the bags. Three porters emerged from a rotating door at the front of the building and took the bags away.

Once inside the impressive lobby white pillars with sculpted bases, a mosaic set into the ceiling and rose marble tiles on the floor Amyus Crowe strode across to a long wooden desk.

'Three rooms, for two nights,' he said to the uniformed man behind the desk.

The man nodded. 'Of course, sir,' he said, reaching up to retrieve three keys from a board behind him. Turning back, he added, 'Perhaps you would care to sign the guest book, sir.'

Crowe signed with a flourish, and the concierge handed him the keys. They were attached to large bra.s.s b.a.l.l.s, probably so that they couldn't be lost easily, Sherlock guessed.

'Sherlock and Matthew, you will have one room,' Crowe said, handing them a key. 'Virginia will have a room to herself and I will have the third room. Your bags will be taken up to your rooms. Matthew, I suggest you and I head for somewhere we can get you some clothes and toiletries.' He gazed critically at Matty. 'And a haircut,' he added. 'Sherlock, Virginia I suggest you take a walk outside. Turn right and walk to the end of the street, and you'll find something that might interest you. Be back in an hour for lunch. If you get lost, ask someone to direct you back to the Sarbonnier Hotel.'

Taking Crowe at his word, Sherlock led Virginia outside and turned right. The two of them were immediately dragged along by the throng of people who were heading in the same direction. Worried that they might be separated, Sherlock reached out his hand to guide Virginia closer to him. Instead, her hand clasped his warm and soft, for a moment. His heart felt like it was beating twice as fast. He glanced at her, startled. She smiled back, uncharacteristically shy.

It only took a few minutes before they were at the end of the block of buildings. The road widened out into a vast open plaza which was dominated by a tall column which rose up from a central pedestal. For a moment Sherlock thought that a man was standing on top of the pillar, and his mind suddenly ricocheted back to Holmes Manor, and his uncle talking over dinner one night about the ascetic religious hermits who abandoned their lives and their families to live on top of poles, meditating on the nature of G.o.d and eating only what was thrown up to them by pa.s.sers-by. A moment's attention showed him that the figure on top of the column wasn't a man, but a statue which had been carved to look as if it was wearing naval uniform.

'Who is it?' Virginia asked, entranced.

'I think it's Admiral Nelson,' Sherlock replied. 'Which makes this Trafalgar Square. It commemorates a famous naval victory in 1805.'

At the base of the pillar were two fountains whose spray glowed with all the colours of the rainbow in the bright sunlight. This was the heart of London. This was the central point of an Empire that stretched to the other side of the globe.

And somewhere nearby, Sherlock's brother Mycroft was probably sitting at his desk, helping to run it.

They wandered around Trafalgar Square for a while, watching the people and looking at the fine buildings which lined the roads around, and then they headed back to the hotel. They were just in time: Amyus Crowe was standing in the foyer, waiting for them. With him was a boy of about Matty Arnatt's age, but with neat hair and decent clothes and a scowl on his face. It took Sherlock a few moments to realize that this was was Matty. Matty.

'Don't,' Matty warned. 'Just . . . don't.'

Sherlock and Virginia laughed.

Together, the four of them went into the dining room and ordered lunch. They were surrounded by women in silks, crinolines, peac.o.c.k feathers and hats and gloves, and men with s.h.i.+ning moustaches in frock coats, but n.o.body gave them a second glance. They were accepted as a family, taking in the sights of the capital city of the most important country on the face of the planet.

Sherlock had lamb cutlets, which were perfectly cooked b.l.o.o.d.y in the centre and came with potatoes and beans. Matty and Amyus Crowe both went for steak and kidney pudding, while Virginia, more adventurous, risked chicken served with a French sauce with peppercorns and cream.

As they were eating, Amyus Crowe bought them up to date on the reason they were there.

'I telegraphed ahead to a man I know in this fair city,' he said between mouthfuls of food. 'A business a.s.sociate of sorts.'

Sherlock wondered briefly what kind of 'business' Crowe was involved with, as he had never mentioned it before, but the American continued speaking.

'I told him which road the convoy of carts were coming in on, and asked him to intercept them and find out their ultimate destination. I told him where I'd be stayin', and he's just sent a telegram back to tell me that the carts ended up unloading their various boxes and suchlike at a warehouse in a place called Rotherhithe. He told me where the warehouse was located.'

'Rotherhithe?' Sherlock asked.

'It's a few miles downriver an unsavoury location where sailors take their entertainment between voyages and goods are stored before being loaded on to s.h.i.+ps. Not a place where you want to be after dark.' He shook his head unhappily. 'I wouldn't normally risk taking you there, but this is too big. The Baron's up to something, an' it's important enough that he's willing to kill for it. Already has. He'll no more baulk at disposin' of the two of you than he would steppin' on a spider. The trouble is that we need to check that the boxes on the carts are the beehives you saw back in Farnham, and that means I need you to come to Rotherhithe to take a look, Sherlock. But I warn you it might be dangerous. Really dangerous.'

Sherlock nodded slowly. 'I'll take the chance. I want to find out what's going on why he keeps trying to kill me.'

Crowe glanced across at Matty, who was shovelling peas into his mouth with a spoon. 'As for you, young man, I guess that you've seen your fair share of wharves and warehouses, given that you spend your life travelling around in a narrowboat. And I guess too that you can handle yourself in a fight.'

'If a fight starts,' Matty said through a mouthful of peas, 'I run. If I can't run, I punch low and I punch hard.'

'I couldn't have put it better myself.' Crowe nodded. 'I'll come with you, of course, but we may have to separate to watch different areas.'

'And what about me?' Virginia's voice was high-pitched with indignation, and her violet eyes flashed dangerously. 'What do I do?'

'You stay here,' Crowe said darkly. 'I know you can handle yourself in a sc.r.a.p, but you don't know what can happen to a young woman in Rotherhithe. The people who live there are worse than animals. I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to you, not after ' He stopped abruptly. Looking across at Virginia, Sherlock saw her eyes suddenly glisten. 'Stay here,' Crowe repeated. 'If we get separated, we need to know that there's someone back here who can take messages and pa.s.s them on. That's your job.'

Virginia nodded, not saying anything.

Crowe looked back at the two boys. 'When you're ready,' he said, 'we'll head off.'

As they crossed the foyer of the hotel, Sherlock turned and looked back at Virginia. She was staring at him. She tried to smile, but the expression turned into a worried twist of her lips. He smiled back at her rea.s.suringly, but he suspected that the expression on his own face wasn't much more convincing.

Instead of taking a hansom cab to Rotherhithe, Crowe led the two boys to the side of the Thames, where stone steps stained green with algae led down into a foul-smelling brown river. The far bank was hidden by a haze of smoke and a brownish miasma that seemed to be rising from the river itself. A boat was bobbing up and down on the water. Its owner sat in the bows, smoking a pipe.

'Rotherhithe,' Crowe said grimly, tossing a coin. The boatman nodded, catching the coin deftly and biting it to make sure it was real. Crowe and the boys settled into the stern while the boatman set to, facing backwards and pulling the boat through the water with his oars.

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