Young Sherlock Holmes: Fire Storm

by Andrew Lane

‘Absolutely sure,’ Matty interrupted through a mouthful of sandwich. ‘We did it together.’

  ‘You saw it?’ Sherrinford asked. ‘You saw it yourself?’

  ‘I did. The contents of every box have been rendered unreadable.’

  Sherrinford Holmes leaned back in his chair and ran his right hand across his brow. With his left hand he reached out and patted his wife’s arm. ‘Then the nightmare is . . . over.’ He sighed.

  There was silence in the room for a minute or so. No noise, no movement, but something changed. It was as if a cloud had moved away from the sun. The room seemed lighter and warmer than it had before.

  ‘You have done this family, and many others, a great service,’ Sherrinford Holmes said. ‘I can see the same mark of character in you that I see in your brother, and also in your father – my brother. I am in your debt.’ He turned to face Mrs Eglantine. ‘And I am no longer in thrall to you, evil woman that you are. Whatever you were looking for in this house, you will never find it. Pack your bags. If you are not out of this house within the hour then your possessions will be placed in a pile and I will personally set light to them and then horsewhip you into the bargain. I wish never to see your face or hear your voice for as long as I live. You are not welcome here.’

  ‘I still know what I know!’ Mrs Eglantine proclaimed, stepping forward. ‘You will not get rid of me so easily.’

  ‘Nobody will believe you,’ Aunt Anna said. She stood up, her diminutive form seemingly towering over the tall housekeeper. ‘England is full of former housekeepers with a grudge. Nobody believes their stories, and for good reason. “Gossiping and lying go hand in hand,” as they say.’

  Sherrinford nodded. ‘“Thy voice shall be a rebuke unto the transgressor; and at thy rebuke let the tongue of the slanderer cease its perverseness,”’ he quoted softly. ‘Leave here now, woman, while you still can.’

  Mrs Eglantine glared at the four of them – Sherlock, Matty, Uncle Sherrinford and Aunt Anna. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, as if she knew she wanted to say something but she didn’t know what exactly. Then she turned and slipped out of the room like a shadow banished by the opening of a curtain.

  ‘Can it be that simple?’ Sherrinford asked. He reached out to take his wife’s hand.

  ‘You’ll have to watch out for her,’ Sherlock replied. ‘She may try to take something. She may even try to slip back into the house when there’s nobody around. There’s something here she wants, and I can’t see her giving it up easily. But it’s going to be a lot more difficult for her now. Her power base has been taken away.’

  ‘I almost can’t believe it,’ Aunt Anna said. ‘She has been such a malign presence here for so long that I almost cannot imagine life without her.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what she was looking for?’ Matty asked.

  Sherrinford shook his head. ‘She never said. It was some time before I even realized she was searching for anything. She applied for the job of housekeeper three years ago, and since her references were impeccable I gladly gave her the job, but she was sullen and the staff did not take to her. Eventually I asked her to leave, but she revealed that she knew . . . certain facts about this family that I would not wish to be revealed. She forced us to let her stay, and she forced us to make payments to her that she transferred on to that odious man Joshua Harkness.’ He sighed. ‘One day I found her searching our bedroom. I demanded to know what she was doing. She told me to mind my own business. I told her that she was in my house and it was my business to know what she was doing. She laughed scornfully, and said that it was her house now.’

  ‘We became aware that she was searching every room, one by one,’ Aunt Anna said quietly when it became apparent that Sherrinford wasn’t going to continue. ‘But we never found out what she was looking for. It’s not as if there are many valuables in the house.’

  ‘She had blueprints of the house,’ Sherlock remembered. ‘They’re in her room, hanging outside the window. You should get them back, before someone else finds them.’

  Sherrinford shook his head, and smiled. Sherlock couldn’t remember ever seeing his uncle smile before. ‘I believe that I have a bottle of Madeira which I have been keeping for a special occasion,’ he said. ‘This is probably as close to a special occasion as I will get in my life. I appreciate that you are both barely more than children, but I feel that God and your families would forgive me if I offered you a glass. A small one, of course.’

  Sherrinford Holmes peered sideways at his wife and raised an enquiring eyebrow. She nodded, and he went to the sideboard to get a bottle and some glasses.

  ‘I feel that we owe you an explanation,’ he said as he returned and sat down. ‘Mrs Eglantine has made your life here unpleasant, to put it mildly, and after what you have done for us the least we can do for you is tell you what it was that she knew.’

  ‘Sherlock shook his head. ‘It’s not necessary,’ he said. ‘All families deserve to have their secrets.’

  ‘But this secret affects you,’ Sherrinford said. ‘We have kept it from you for long enough.’ He squeezed his wife’s arm, and she patted his hand in reassurance.

  Sherlock felt as if the ground beneath his feet was sliding slowly sideways. A secret that involved him?

  Sherrinford opened his mouth to say something, but hesitated. He gazed at Matty, frowning. ‘Perhaps . . .’ he ventured, ‘this should wait until later. When we can discuss things between ourselves.’

  Sherlock looked over at Matty. ‘Whatever it is,’ he said firmly, ‘I don’t want to keep it secret any more. Matty is my friend. There isn’t anything I don’t want him to know about me.’

  Sherrinford looked unconvinced. ‘Even so, Sherlock, this is a family matter. Is it appropriate that others find out? Perhaps your brother should be consulted before we speak in front of others.’

  ‘Others have already found out.’ Sherlock’s gaze moved from his uncle to his aunt and back again. ‘Look, I once heard Mycroft say that sunlight is the best cleaning agent. I thought he meant it literally at the time, that rooms with the curtains drawn get dusty and cobwebby, but I’ve come to realize that he was speaking figuratively. What he was trying to say was that hiding things away just makes the situation worse. Knowing the truth, letting everyone know the truth, is usually the best course of action.’

  Sherrinford sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said slowly, pouring the Madeira into the glasses. ‘This involves your father. It goes back to when we were children together. Siger – your father – was a strange child, even then. Some days he would be bright and full of energy, able to climb any tree and jump any fence, bolting his food and speaking faster than people could understand. Other days he would just lie in bed or mope around the house, listless and uninterested. Our father said that he would grow out of it. Our mother was less sure. She called in various doctors to give a diagnosis. The ones who came when he was running around and not stopping for breath said that he was naturally boisterous. The ones who saw him when he took no interest in anything around him said that he was sensitive and maudlin in nature – melancholic. When the melancholia or the mania became too much for our father and mother to manage, he was taken into an asylum and looked after there.’

  ‘My father was . . . is . . . insane?’ Sherlock whispered.

  ‘I would never have used that word to describe him,’ Sherrinford said sternly. ‘He was . . . is . . . my brother, and there were days when you could not tell there was anything wrong with him.’ He paused. ‘But on other days he would become so excited that he could be dangerous, or so maudlin that he talked of ending his own life. I say he was “looked after” at the asylum rather than “cared for”, because I visited him once, and I will never forget the abject horror of his surroundings. They left their mark on him, I am sure.’ He paused, staring at the table, but Sherlock suspected that, in his mind, he was seeing things from long ago. ‘One physician in particular who saw him when he was living at home, in between visits to the asylum, was particul
arly well read. He had heard of a Frenchman who had described a disease which he called folie à double forme, or ‘ “dual-form insanity”. Well, this particular physician tried various remedies – a tincture of black hellebore to induce vomiting, a decoction of foxglove, and hemlock juice. They had some effect, but not enough. The only thing that truly helped was morphine.’

  Morphine! The word struck Sherlock like an icy dagger through the heart. He’d had his own experiences with morphine. Baron Maupertuis’s men had drugged him with laudanum, which was morphine in alcohol, and the Paradol Chamber had later used a similar drug on Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft. Was the whole family’s history tied up with the horrible stuff?

  ‘What exactly is morphine?’ Matty asked.

  ‘It is a substance which can be derived from opium, which is itself the dried sap of the poppy plant. It is an evil chemical, of which I will say no more, except that it did stabilize Siger’s extreme mood swings.’ Sherrinford laughed humourlessly. ‘It is named for the Greek god of dreams – Morpheus.’

  Sherlock shook his head. ‘I’m not sure I understand. My father was ill, and this drug made him better. What’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem,’ Sherrinford answered, ‘is that our society is not tolerant of those who have . . . problems of the mind. With his morphine treatment Siger grew up tall and strong, with nobody outside the family knowing that anything was wrong. He married into a good family, and joined the Army. If it was discovered that he was ill in the head, then he would be cashiered from the Army. His friends and neighbours would withdraw from him. Shame would be brought on the family – not that I care particularly about that, but he and your mother would lose everything. Not only that, but the stigma would attach itself to him, to her, and to you and your brother. You would be labelled as the sons of a madman. People would assume you were likely to go mad yourselves.’

  ‘How did Mrs Eglantine find out about this?’ Sherlock whispered.

  ‘She was a maid at the asylum,’ Aunt Anna said quietly. ‘This was when she was young. She must have seen Siger one day, quite by accident, when he was older and wearing his Army uniform. She realized the scandal that would attach itself to the family if it were known that he had spent time in an asylum and was dependent on drugs for his sanity, and she started blackmailing us.’

  Sherlock frowned. ‘That’s what I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Why blackmail you? Why not blackmail my father, or my mother, or Mycroft?’

  ‘Perhaps she was,’ Sherrinford said simply. ‘We never asked.’

  A thought occurred to Sherlock. He paused before saying anything, turning the thought over and over in his mind, examining it from all angles just in case he’d missed something. It was a big thought, and he wanted to make sure he’d got it right before he said something embarrassing.

  ‘From what you’ve told us,’ he said eventually, and carefully, ‘the family secret that you were keeping concerned my father, and my father’s side of the family. It occurs to me that if the secret got out, the family shame wouldn’t reflect on you. It would be us – and in particular him – who would face problems.’

  Sherlock’s Aunt Anna smiled at him and reached out across the table to pat his hand. ‘Bless you, Sherlock,’ she said. ‘We couldn’t let that happen to Siger. He’s family. He and Sherrinford grew up together. We couldn’t stand by and let him be shamed in that way. I remember how proud he was when he got into the Army. It would be quite wrong to take that away from him.’

  ‘But your lives have been affected badly by Mrs Eglantine’s presence in this house.’

  ‘The Good Lord puts us all through the fire at some time in our lives,’ Sherrinford said. ‘He tests us, and we must not be found wanting.’

  ‘What else should we have done?’ Aunt Anna asked, more practically. ‘Should we have told that odious Mr Harkness that we were not going to pay, and then watched as our own kin was humiliated in public? That would not have been right.’

  Sherlock glanced from his aunt to his uncle. He found himself thinking about them in a different way. They weren’t fusty old relics of a bygone age to him now; they were living people, with feelings and cares and concerns. He tried to visualize Sherrinford and his father playing together as boys. He tried to visualize his aunt as a younger woman, in her finest dress, perhaps attending the wedding of Siger Holmes and Sherlock’s mother. For a moment he found that he could.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said simply. ‘On behalf of my mother and my father, neither of whom can say this themselves for different reasons, thank you.’

  ‘It was the least we could do,’ said Sherrinford.

  ‘It wasn’t,’ Sherlock replied. ‘That’s why it was such a noble and self-sacrificing gesture.’

  ‘Now,’ Aunt Anna said, ‘I must go and see to hiring another housekeeper. This place won’t run itself, and the maids are so flighty that they need someone looking over their shoulder all the time, otherwise who knows what will happen.’

  ‘And I have a library to tidy,’ Uncle Sherrinford said. ‘That could take some time.’

  They both stood. With a final smile from Sherlock’s aunt, and an absent wave of the hand from his uncle, they left the room.

  ‘Nice people,’ Matty observed.

  ‘Nice doesn’t anywhere near cover it,’ Sherlock replied.

  ‘So, what do you want to do now?’

  Sherlock thought for a moment. ‘I was thinking of going over to Amyus Crowe’s cottage. I think he ought to hear what’s happened. We should also probably let him know about those American men who were looking for him in the market earlier. They did mention his name.’

  Matty shrugged. ‘He might have some advice on what to do if Josh Harkness decides to hang around and take his lost money out of your hide,’ he said. ‘And I suppose it would be nice to see Virginia again.’

  Sherlock stared at him, but Matty just gazed back innocently.

  ‘You don’t have to come,’ Sherlock said evenly. ‘I thought maybe Albert might need feeding.’

  ‘He’s a horse,’ Matty said, shrugging. ‘Where I left him, he’s surrounded by food. It’s like leaving me in a pie shop. He’ll eat grass until he’s full, and then he’ll sleep.’

  ‘Do you think horses get bored?’ Sherlock asked him. ‘I mean, just standing around in fields all the time.’

  Matty raised an eyebrow. ‘Never really thought about it. I don’t suppose they mind. P’raps they spend their time thinking deep thoughts about the world and the things in it, or p’raps they can’t think much beyond what’s at the end of their nose.’ He frowned at Sherlock. ‘You think too much. Anybody ever told you that?’

  They headed out into the late-afternoon sunshine. Sherlock managed to borrow another horse from the stables, and together they rode across the fields towards where Amyus Crowe and his daughter lived.

  As they rode, Sherlock found his thoughts flipping between two extremes – a nervousness at the thought of seeing Virginia again and a confusion over what he felt about his father: a man who had always previously seemed like a force of nature to Sherlock, with his loud laugh and his love of the outdoors, but who he saw now as someone much more complicated.

  He couldn’t help but wonder if the folie à double forme that his father suffered from was hereditary, like a birthmark, or just a disease that could be caught, like influenza.

  As they rode up to the small cottage, Sherlock noticed that Virginia’s horse wasn’t in its field. ‘Sandia’s missing,’ he pointed out. ‘Virginia’s not here.’

  ‘You want to go looking for her?’ Matty called.

  Sherlock glared at him. ‘Let’s go inside,’ he said darkly. ‘It’s been half an hour since you ate – you’re probably hungry again by now.’

  ‘I probably am,’ Matty agreed.

  They dismounted and tied their horses to the fence outside the cottage. Something was bothering Sherlock as they approached, and it took him a moment to work out what it was. The usual clutter of objects outside the
cottage – axes, muddy boots and so on – was gone.

  The door, unusually, was closed. Sherlock knocked, feeling an unaccustomed premonition that something was badly wrong. His mind returned to the conversation he’d overheard in the market. He’d assumed the two Americans had wanted Mr Crowe’s help. Had he been wrong?

  There was no answer from inside.

  He knocked again. Still no answer.

  He looked at Matty, who was standing beside him. Matty stared back, a frown on his face.

  Sherlock pushed the door open.

  The room inside was empty of any personal possessions. Not only were Amyus and Virginia Crowe not there, but there was no sign that they ever had been.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Shocked, Sherlock pushed the door fully open and entered the room. The size, the layout, the furniture – everything was familiar to him, but at the same time everything was different. The absence of the usual clutter made the room look much larger than he remembered.

  The amount of bare wall disturbed him – he was used to seeing it covered with sketches and maps. The plaster was marked with pinholes where things had been fastened, which was reassuring because it meant that he was actually in the right cottage, not one the same size and shape just down the road that he had mistaken for Amyus Crowe’s residence.

  ‘They must’ve upped and left in a hurry,’ Matty said, following Sherlock inside.

  ‘Perhaps they left a note.’ Sherlock indicated the downstairs area. ‘You look down here – I’ll check upstairs.’

  ‘There’s nothing obvious here,’ Matty said. ‘If they’d left a note, they would have left it in plain sight.’

  ‘They might not have wanted it to be found by anyone who wandered in. Maybe they’ve hidden it.’

  Matty looked at him critically. ‘You’re clutching at straws,’ he said. ‘Face it – they’ve just upped and left. Done it myself too many times to count. Someone’s after you for the rent so you do a midnight flit. Pull up roots and plant yourself somewhere new where nobody knows you from Adam.’ He frowned. ‘Wouldn’t ’ave figured Mr Crowe for a runner though. Whoever’s after ’im must be pretty fearsome for ’im to up sticks just like that.’