Young Sherlock Holmes: Death Cloud Page 18

  Sherlock struggled in his grip, but it was useless. The man’s fingers dug hard into his shoulder.

  ‘Denny’ll want a word wiv you,’ the man whispered, bringing his face close to Sherlock’s. His breath smelt like something had died inside his mouth. ‘An’ I don’t think you’re gonna like what he has to say.’

  Sherlock was just about to reply when he noticed that the floor of the side tunnel was heaving underneath the smoke, undulating as if it were alive. And then he realized it was alive. Alive with rats. Frightened out of their holes and burrows by the fire, they had all headed in the same direction – to safety. A living carpet of ragged brown and black fur swept along the floor of the tunnel. People and horses backed away in horror from the mass of hair and teeth and tails. A small child being dragged away by its parents lost its footing and fell. The rats swarmed over it, covering its face.

  The man holding Sherlock’s shoulder relaxed his grip as the rats swirled about his ankles, biting at him with their tiny teeth. Cursing, he swatted at them with his spade-like hands. Sherlock pulled loose from his grip and dived into the mass of living creatures, grasping for the child who had vanished beneath the seething tide. Tiny claws pattered over his arms, his back, his legs and his scalp. He could smell a rank, dry odour, like old urine. His fingers closed over a small arm, and he pulled hard. A little girl emerged from the flood of rats, eyes wide and mouth already opening to scream. ‘You’re safe,’ Sherlock said, thrusting her back into the arms of her parents, who were batting and kicking to keep the rats at bay. They snatched the girl from him and hugged her tight.

  And then the tidal wave of rats was gone, apart from a few weak and lame stragglers. Sherlock could see them rushing off in both directions, away from the smoke which continued to pour from the side tunnel. The thug who had grabbed hold of Sherlock was still brushing desperately at his clothing, beneath which Sherlock could see moving lumps where rats had run for safety and then become trapped. Sherlock turned and was about to run back towards the south side of the river when he remembered the other two ruffians. They would undoubtedly still be waiting at the top of the shaft. No, his best bet was to head the other way. He ran down the tunnel, towards the north side of the river. There were bridges across the river, and boatmen. He could find his way back. Eventually.

  Sherlock headed along the tunnel, moving further and further away from the fire. Men in uniform with buckets of water ran past him, a ragtag fire brigade charged with the safety of the tunnel. He ignored them, and moved on.

  Eventually he got to the north side of the Thames. The shaft there, with its spiralling stairway, was the mirror image of the one on the south side. He trudged up the stone steps, energy almost spent. He had to stop at each balcony level to catch his breath.

  Emerging from the darkness into the afternoon light was like emerging from Hell into Paradise. The air smelt sweet, and the breeze was cool against his skin. He stopped for a moment, eyes closed, to appreciate the feelings. So simple, and yet so perfect.

  The area around the north side of the tunnel was more upmarket than the south side. Wharves were occupied by ships of all sizes, with goods being run up and down gangplanks by burly stevedores. Sherlock walked along the side of the Thames, past the ships, looking for a bridge that he could use to cross back to the other side. He knew there were bridges over the Thames; he just wasn’t sure where they were in relation to Rotherhithe and the tunnel. But logically, if he walked for long enough he would find one. Assuming he was walking in the right direction of course – towards the centre of the City rather than away from it – but he knew that if the tunnel was in East London, which it was, and if he had traversed it south to north, which he had, then if he turned left out of the tunnel entrance he would be heading in the right direction. The Sarbonnier Hotel, where Amyus Crowe had booked their rooms, was just about on the Thames, and on the north side as well, so if he walked far enough then he would probably find it, but what he really wanted was to cross back over and find Amyus Crowe and Matty Arnatt.

  After half an hour or so he did find a bridge: a massive affair, with twin towers of grey stone linked by a covered roadway which was lined with shops and stalls. He crossed it wearily, ignoring the cries of the various vendors who tried to sell him everything from a whole ox to a loaded pistol. London appeared to him to be a place of almost infinite possibilities, if you were prepared to pay for them.

  At the south side of the towered bridge he turned left again, walking along roads, streets, alleys and in some cases the tops of thick walls in order to keep heading towards the warehouse at Rotherhithe where he had lost Amyus Crowe and Matty. The masts of ships projected high into the air along the side of the river, forming a forest of slender wood. The smell of the Thames was an ever-present odour of human excrement. If Mycroft worked every day in this place then he deserved some kind of medal just for survival.

  A mile or so downstream from the towered bridge, Sherlock came across a ship that was being loaded by a gang of stevedores. They were sweating and cursing, trying to manoeuvre bulky boxes up gangplanks without dropping them into the river. Something about the size and the shape of the boxes intrigued him, and he moved closer, keeping in the lee of a nearby building.

  A burly man in a navy-blue jacket stood to one side, consulting a sheaf of papers that were pinned to a board. Every now and then he made an annotation with a pencil, licking it first.

  The boxes were identical to the ones that Sherlock had seen in the gardens of the manor house in which he had been kept captive – the beehives with jagged, slatted sides. And nearby were piles and piles of the wooden trays that he had seen slotted underneath the hives. Now they had been wrapped in waxed paper, but their shape was unmistakable.

  He had inadvertently stumbled across Baron Maupertuis’s operation. This was why Denny and his gang had been here!

  Sherlock moved closer, watching. Some of the beehives were being loaded on to a pallet which was pulled up on ropes by sweating stevedores and then dropped into the hold of the ship. Heaven alone knows how the bees were being kept from attacking the men, as they had done to the two unfortunates in Farnham. Perhaps the Baron had some method of quietening them down.

  As Sherlock watched, a rope holding one of the corners of a pallet that was being swung towards the ship snapped. The pallet dropped sideways, and four beehives slid off. They fell, turning slowly, and smashed into wooden splinters on the stones below.

  Men ran in from the side carrying tin buckets with nozzles attached. Something inside the buckets was producing smoke, and the smoke seemed to be lulling the bees into a soporific state. A few escaped, but most of them stayed near the smashed hives, weaving around like drunks. Tarpaulins were thrown across the remains of the hives, and everything was slid across the cobbles and dropped into the foaming torrent of the Thames. Sherlock supposed that it was almost impossible to rebuild a hive after it had been smashed.

  ‘Sherlock?’

  A voice called his name softly. He glanced around from his place of concealment. It didn’t sound like Amyus Crowe. Or Matty Arnatt.

  ‘Sherlock?’ The voice was more urgent now. He scanned the area, and suddenly became aware of another figure, hidden like him behind a pile of crates. A female figure.

  ‘Virginia?’

  She was wearing her riding breeches and a jacket over a plain white linen blouse. She glanced across at him, and her eyes were wide. ‘What are you doing here?’ she hissed.

  Sherlock scooted over to join her. ‘It would take too long to explain,’ he said.

  She looked him up and down. ‘What have you been doing?’

  He considered for a moment. ‘Swimming in rats,’ he said eventually. ‘Amongst other things. What’s your story?’

  She looked away, unexpectedly embarrassed. ‘I wasn’t going to be left behind while you guys had all the fun,’ she whispered, ‘so I got changed into my riding breeches and followed you.’

  ‘We went down the river. In a boat. How di
d you follow us?’

  She stared strangely at him. ‘In another boat, of course. I just told the boatman to follow you. He got a bit funny about it, but I had some money that my father had given me, and that seemed to calm him down. While you were watching the warehouse, I was watching you. Then I saw some of the men come this way, and you all seemed to be staying put, so I followed them here.’

  ‘I saw nothing of you,’ Sherlock said lamely.

  ‘Dad taught me all his tracking skills,’ she said proudly. ‘If I’m following you, then “nothing” is exactly what you can expect to see.’ She paused, and reached out to touch his arm briefly.

  ‘What you did was incredibly dangerous,’ Sherlock said, ‘but I’m pleased to see you.’

  She shrugged. ‘It was better than waiting in the hotel for you all to come back.’

  ‘But why follow me? Why not find your dad and tell him what had happened?’

  ‘I was following you,’ she said simply, ‘not him. I lost track of where he went.’

  ‘But a girl . . . alone . . . in the East End of London . . .’ He trailed off, not sure how he was going to finish the sentence. ‘There are some very bad people around here . . .’ he started eventually, and then went on to explain exactly what had happened that afternoon, including the stabbing and the fire in the tunnels. It was a relief to talk about it, but at the same time Sherlock knew that his life had been in mortal danger, and that he still didn’t know why.

  ‘They can’t be allowed to get away with it,’ Virginia said when he had finished. ‘You’re just a kid. They could have killed you.’

  ‘You’re just a kid too,’ Sherlock protested lamely.

  Virginia smiled. ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ she said. ‘I meant we shouldn’t be mixed up in something like this.’

  ‘But we are,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘And whatever’s going on, we have to stop it.’

  ‘Well, I’m prepared. I’m in disguise as a boy. I found a hat,’ Virginia said proudly, pulling it out from beneath where she crouched. It was a peaked cloth cap. She smoothed her hair up behind her head with one hand and slipped the cap on with the other. With her hair hidden and her coat buttoned up, Sherlock could see how she might have been mistaken for a boy. And she was wearing her riding breeches, of course. Girls wore dresses, not breeches. Nobody who didn’t know her would have any reason to suspect her.

  ‘Since we’re both here,’ he said, ‘we ought to take the opportunity to work out where this boat is going.’ He looked around for the man he had seen earlier – the man with the sheaf of papers. ‘I think that man over there is the dockmaster, or wharfmaster, or something. We can ask him.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Your father gave me some good tips on how to ask questions.’

  Looking around, and choosing a moment when nobody was facing their way, Sherlock led Virginia out of hiding and across the quay to a point where they could sit on the stone wall overlooking the Thames. He felt the back of his neck prickling, telling him he was being watched, but he suppressed the feeling. Denny was probably with a doctor or a surgeon by now, assuming his jaw really was broken, and the chances were that the other men hadn’t got a good enough look at him to tell him apart from any other kid – especially now, when he was covered in dirt, smoke, rat hair and possibly other things that he didn’t want to consider. They sat there, on the wall, for a good half hour, making desultory conversation and generally becoming part of the landscape. The dockmaster, or wharfmaster, or whatever he was eventually finished his business with the ship and started to walk in their direction. As he came past them, Sherlock looked up and said: ‘Hey, boss. Any chance of some work on the dock?’

  The man glanced scornfully at Sherlock’s skinny frame. ‘Come back in five years, son,’ he said in a not unkindly tone. ‘Get some muscle on those bones.’

  ‘But I gotta get out of London,’ Sherlock continued in a pleading tone of voice. ‘I can work hard, honest I can.’ He pointed at the nearby boat. ‘What about them – they look like they’re short-handed.’

  ‘They are,’ the man said. ‘They’re three men down this afternoon. But I can’t see you filling in for any of them, and besides, that boat’s not going to take you far out of London.’

  ‘Why not?’ Sherlock asked.

  ‘It’s just going to France and back. Quick turnaround, no stopping off for the crew.’ He laughed. ‘You want to get away for a while, go join the Navy. Or hang around here long enough and they’ll come and take you.’

  He moved off, still laughing.

  ‘France,’ Sherlock said, intrigued. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘I hear you want to join our crew,’ a voice called from the bows of the boat. Sherlock grimaced and looked away, but the voice continued: ‘Why don’t you and the girl come aboard? Yeah, we know it’s a girl. We’ve been watching you since you both turned up. What, you thought you were invisible?’

  Sherlock glanced along the dock to where the dock-master had stopped and was looking back at them. The expression on his face was sympathetic but stern. He wasn’t going to be any help.

  Sherlock took Virginia’s hand and pulled her upright. ‘Time to go,’ he said, but when he turned he found that a loose semicircle of sailors and dockers had formed around them, materializing out of nowhere. Dragging Virginia with him he tried to run, but heavy hands caught him and pulled him away from her. He fought against them, but the hands held him firmly. He saw Virginia struggling as well, but then a hand holding a cloth clamped itself over his face. The cloth smelt medicinal, bitter and heavy. He nearly choked. And then suddenly he found himself falling into a bottomless pit that was exactly the colour of Virginia’s eyes, and for a while he slept, and dreamed of terrible things.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  In his dreams Sherlock was wrestling with a huge serpent. Its body was as thick as a beer barrel, all muscle and ribs for as far as he could see, and its head was a flat triangle edged with saw-like teeth. They were fighting in water, but in his dream the water was as thick and as dark as treacle. The snake slowly coiled itself around him and squeezed, attempting to snap his ribs, but the water hampered its movements and Sherlock was able to prise its coils apart by pushing hard with his arms and legs. But then, as he tried to get away, his swimming was grotesquely slowed by the water and the serpent could once again slip its body around him and slowly tighten its grip. And so it went on, with him eternally struggling to escape and the serpent eternally struggling to hold on to him.

  When he finally awoke, he had the feeling that a long time had passed. His mouth and throat were dry, and when he touched his tongue to the top of his mouth it stuck there. He was also very hungry.

  After a while, he felt strong enough to sit up without being sick. And what he saw temporarily drove all thoughts of thirst, hunger and sickness from his mind.

  He was lying in a four-poster bed with an embroidered canopy. The pillows were soft, filled with feathers, and the room beyond was panelled in oak. The floorboards were varnished and covered with exquisitely detailed rugs.

  It was the same room in which he had woken up after being knocked out after the boxing match at the fair – the one just outside Farnham.

  But how could that be? Baron Maupertuis had abandoned that manor house, leaving it empty. Surely he couldn’t have returned so quickly? Why would he?

  Sherlock rolled off the bed and stood upright. He ran a hand across his face, and was surprised when it encountered something dry around his nose and mouth. He rubbed at the stuff, pulling it off his skin, then looked at his fingers. They were covered with strands of something black. He rubbed his fingers together, and was surprised to find that the strands were slightly sticky.

  He remembered the cloth that had been clamped across his mouth. Some kind of chemical? A drug to make him sleep? It seemed likely.

  And Virginia! A sudden flush of anger drove the last remnants of sleep and nausea from his blood. What had happened to Virginia? If anyone had harmed
her, he would –

  He would what? Kill them? He wasn’t exactly in the best position to do that at the moment.

  He had to gather information. Find out what was going on, and why. Only then could he do something about it.

  Sherlock stepped across to the curtains and pulled them back, expecting to see the dry red earth and the hundreds of beehives that had been outside last time he was in the room, but what he saw sent him reeling backwards in surprise.

  A short distance from the house a beach of grey sand gave way to rolling spume-topped waves which extended all the way to a ruler-straight horizon. The sky was bright blue. Somewhere in the distance Sherlock could see sails.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, and thought. Was he hallucinating? It was possible, he supposed, but the dream about the snake and the treacle-like water had been tainted with a bizarre, illogical sensation which, looking back, had meant that he somehow knew that he was dreaming, whereas this was sharp-edged and rational.

  Was the picture outside the window just that – a perfectly executed painting that gave the impression of beach and sea and blue sky when it was just pigments on canvas or board? He opened his eyes again, and looked. Far away, circling above the peaks of the waves, were small white ‘w’ shapes, moving as he watched – seabirds riding the updraughts. That couldn’t be faked in a painting. Whatever was out there was real.

  And as there was no ocean anywhere near Farnham, the logical conclusion was that he wasn’t near Farnham any more, and probably wasn’t even in England. The wharfmaster had said that the boat was bound for France. This must be France then. And the room? Something as prosaic as the fact that Baron Maupertuis was a creature of habit, and liked to have his surroundings as familiar as possible, wherever he was. Assuming that the manor house outside Farnham wasn’t his ancestral home, he had probably had it remodelled and redesigned to look like wherever it was that he called home. Which might well be this French . . . chateau? Was that what they called it?