Young Sherlock Holmes: Death Cloud

by Andrew Lane

  Sherlock’s head buzzed with details of the immense feats of engineering that had been required to bend the river to the will of man, and the many years that it had taken. He eventually tried to sleep, knowing that he was going to have a long day ahead of him. Although his mind seethed with ideas, images and facts, he slipped into a dreamless sleep before he knew it. When he woke it was still dark, but a fresh breeze was blowing through the window and the birds were beginning to sing in the trees and bushes. It was four o’clock.

  He had lain down dressed, and so within moments he was slipping through the darkened house, out on to the attic landing and down the narrow wooden stairs, making sure that he stepped on the outside of the treads to avoid creaks, then cautiously along the first-floor landing, past the bedroom of his aunt and uncle, past their dressing room, past the bathroom, trying not to breathe too heavily, and then down the main stairs that swept in a curve into the ground-floor hall, hugging close to the wall and sensing the weight of the paintings that hung above him, their ornately carved wooden frames dwarfing the pictures themselves into relative insignificance. The only noise was the ticking of the great clock that stood in the angle where the stairs met the tiled floor.

  He paused as he reached the hall. Now he had to cross the expanse of tiled floor towards the front door. No more sliding along the wall – he would be exposed, out in the open if anyone happened to come out of a doorway or looked down from the upstairs balcony. He knelt for a moment, trying to see if there was any light under any of the doors, but everything was dark. Eventually he screwed up his courage and crossed the tiles. By the time he reached the front door his heart was hammering twice as fast as the ticking of the clock.

  The door was bolted, but he slipped the bolt and slowly pulled it open. Someone might notice in the morning that the door had been unlocked, but hopefully they would assume that someone else had got there first.

  The door was almost closed when Sherlock remembered the note that he needed to leave, explaining that he had gone out early. He threw his weight against the door, pushing it open again, then slipped back inside and left the note on a small side table in the hall next to the hat-stand where the morning and afternoon post was usually placed awaiting collection.

  The air outside was cool and refreshing compared with the stuffiness within the house, and there was the suspicion of a glow above the trees where the darkness was giving way to the blue of the dawn. Sherlock sprinted as quickly as he could across the stones of the drive, hearing them crunch beneath his feet, before hitting the silence of the lawn.

  It took ten minutes for him to get to the riverbank, following Matty’s directions. A long black shape lay on the silvery river, moving back and forth as the water undulated. It looked strangely like a long, low hut that had been built on top of a narrow keel. The only gap was at the rear end, where the hut stopped and there was a platform with room for two people to stand, one of them holding the tiller. A rope attached to the front of the boat dipped towards the surface of the water, then rose again to where a horse contentedly ate its way along the grassy banks. Unlike Virginia Crowe’s magnificent black stallion, this appeared to be a heavy, thick-legged creature with a shaggy mane. It glanced once, incuriously, at Sherlock, then went back to eating.

  Matty was waiting on the front of the narrowboat, a dark shape against the dawn sky, like the figurehead on a ship or a gargoyle on a cathedral. He was holding a boathook – a long wooden pole with a metal hook on one end.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said as Sherlock clambered on to the boat. ‘That’s Albert, by the way.’ He made a clicking noise with his tongue. The horse looked round at him with an expression of regret on its long face, then started walking along the side of the river. The rope running between it and the boat pulled taut, then the boat began to move as Albert dragged it along. Matty used the boathook to push the narrowboat away from the bank so that it didn’t get caught in the reeds.

  ‘Does he know where he’s going?’ Sherlock asked.

  ‘What’s to know? He walks along the bank pulling the boat after him. If he comes to an obstruction, he stops and I sort it out. You stay at the back and keep a hand on the tiller. If we start drifting out into the river then steer us back towards the bank. There’s a blanket on the deck, if you get cold. It’s a horse blanket, but it’ll keep you just as warm as a fancy one.’

  The narrowboat drifted on. Water lapped against its sides in a regular rhythm that lulled Sherlock into a drowsy, almost hypnotic state. The river was empty of anything apart from the occasional duck or goose drifting past.

  ‘What did you find out about the man who died?’ Sherlock called forward after a while. ‘The first man. The one in the house.’

  ‘He was a tailor,’ Matty yelled back. ‘Worked for a company who were making uniforms for the Army in Aldershot. Big order, apparently, so the company were calling in all the local people who could cut cloth or sew the pieces together.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  Matty laughed. ‘I said I was his son, and that my mam wanted to find out if he had any money coming from an employer. Apparently he’s owed some back wages, but his landlord’s already got his eye on that for rent.’

  ‘Where was the company based?’ Sherlock called back.

  ‘They’ve got a main office near the market, but they’ve also got a warehouse on the edge of town where the cove worked. That’s probably the one you burned down!’

  Sherlock reflected, as the narrowboat drifted on, pulled by Matty’s horse. The man who died had been a tailor, making uniforms. The warehouse where he had worked had been full of boxes, which the thugs had loaded on to a cart. Boxes of uniforms? It seemed likely. But that still didn’t explain why the man had died, or how, and it didn’t explain the death of the second man, the one in the woods.

  The sky to the East was the deep purple of a fresh bruise, and the trees lining the river were just visible as darker shapes against adark background. A lone star shone brightly, close to the horizon. Ahead, Sherlock could see a black arch crossing their path: probably a bridge. Perhaps even the one that he and Matty had sat on, only a day or two before, watching the fish in the river.

  Albert snickered, as if something had startled him. Sherlock stared at the bank, trying to make out the animal’s shape against the darkness of the hedges that lined the bank. The sound of its hoofs against the path changed. To Sherlock it sounded as if the horse was trying to move away from something that was getting too close.

  Matty said something calming – more a reassuring noise than actual words – but Sherlock could tell from the tone of his voice that he was concerned. What was the problem? Was there a wild dog wandering around, spooking the horse, or had it just smelt something unexpected?

  Sherlock was about to call to Matty and ask him what the problem was when something moved on the bridge beyond the black shape of Matty’s head and shoulders.

  Sherlock switched his gaze on to the dark shape that was crossing the river ahead of them. Something was breaking the smooth arc of the bridge: a lumpy shadow slightly off-centre. Two lumpy shadows, as the first one was joined by a second. They conferred for a few moments, leaning together, and then moved apart.

  Locals from Farnham, out and about early? Poachers, perhaps?

  Theories that Sherlock abandoned when the flare of a match momentarily illuminated a swarthy face that he recognized from the warehouse.

  The thug named Clem.

  The flame turned into a warm glow that spilt across the brickwork. Clem held a lamp high, casting its light down on to the approaching narrowboat. As they headed towards the bridge Sherlock could see a cruel smile twisting his mouth. The glow from the lamp outlined Matty’s figure as he stood up in the bows of the boat. He seemed as if he was about to say something, but Clem swung the lamp above his head, sending shadows flickering everywhere, and then threw the lamp at Matty’s head.

  Matty ducked, and the lamp bounced twice before shattering across the back of the na
rrowboat, spilling burning oil everywhere. Tiny slivers of flame caught hold of the wood, licking hungrily across the veneer. Sherlock glanced around. They were on a river, for heaven’s sake, and he could see no way of getting the water to where they needed it!

  His gaze snagged on the horse blanket that Matty had pointed out to him, crumpled in the corner of the deck near the tiller. Sherlock swept it up and threw it forward, across the flames, keeping hold of one corner so that the blanket didn’t slide off into the water. Smoke rose from underneath, but no flames. Sherlock pulled the blanket back towards him. Half of the fire was out, suffocated by the thick material, but tiny ripples of flame were still investigating the seams in the boat’s construction.

  Matty cried out as another oil lamp hit the edge of the boat near Sherlock’s head and bounced into the river, where it sank, spitting and hissing as the wick touched the water. Sherlock whirled round and dipped the blanket over the side of the boat, making sure he kept a tight grip on it. Before it became too saturated, he pulled it out and heaved it across the wood again. This time the flames hissed as the sodden material extinguished them.

  Sherlock glanced up at the bridge as the narrowboat passed beneath it, expecting a third oil lamp to come hurtling down on to his head, but their assailants appeared to have no more. Instead, Sherlock was shocked to see a body plunging down towards him. Clem had jumped. The thug hit the roof of the narrowboat, cracking the wood with his boots. He fell backwards on to the deck. Pulling himself to his feet, teeth clenched and eyes gleaming, he advanced towards Sherlock. Reaching down with his right hand, he pulled a wickedly curved knife from his belt.

  ‘You thought you could break into our barn an’ get away with it?’ he snarled. ‘You was seen running off from the blaze like the rat you are.’ He reached for Sherlock’s hair with his left hand. ‘Prepare to meet your Maker!’

  Sherlock backed into the corner of the tiny deck area, feeling the breeze as Clem’s flailing fingers passed in front of his eyes. The man was so close that Sherlock could smell the rank, sweaty odour rising from his rough clothes and see the dirt ingrained beneath his chipped fingernails.

  Clem lunged forward and wound his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, pulling the boy forward. Sherlock couldn’t help crying out at the pain as his hair was almost yanked out of his scalp. For a moment, bizarrely, the memory of Albert tearing clumps of grass out of the riverbank filled his mind.

  Clem pulled Sherlock against his shirt and gazed down into the boy’s eyes. Sherlock could feel Clem’s right hand coming up towards his throat, holding the knife. He was seconds away from having his throat slit open, and he didn’t even know why!

  Something slammed against Clem’s back. Clem’s eyes widened in shock, and Sherlock felt the tight grip on his hair relax. He took a step backwards, pushing Clem away with both hands. The man didn’t resist, but staggered back before shuffling round, taking exaggeratedly careful steps.

  Matty stood behind Clem. He was holding the boathook raised in both hands. For a moment Sherlock couldn’t quite work out what had happened, and then, as Clem turned fully towards Matty, Sherlock could see a deep and bloody gash running down the back of his head from the crown to his thick, bullish neck. The skin was split open, and Sherlock could see white bone beneath the blood. Matty had hit him squarely on the back of the head with the boathook.

  Clem took a step forward towards Matty, and then another. He raised the hand that held the knife, but he didn’t seem to know what to do with it. He gazed stupidly at the knife, and then he toppled sideways, off the narrowboat and into the river, like a falling tree. The splash as he hit the surface of the water reached up almost as far as the bridge. For a moment Sherlock could see Clem’s face as he sank, and the expression of disbelief in his mad eyes, and then he was vanishing into the murk and sediment at the bottom of the river. His hands were the last to disappear, fingers waving like weeds in the current, and then they too were gone.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sherlock was still shivering by the time the sun was fully above the horizon and hanging in the sky behind the black silhouettes of the trees like an overripe fruit. Clem’s grip on his shoulder had left a deep ache that radiated downward into his back. If he looked he was sure he would find bruises there – five oval bruises left by four fingers and a thumb.

  After the attack, after Clem had sunk in the water and his companion had run off, Matty and Sherlock had just stared at each other for a few moments, shocked by the sudden violence and the equally sudden cessation.

  ‘He wasn’t trying to steal the boat,’ Matty had whispered eventually. ‘He was trying to destroy it. I’ve had coves trying to steal it before, but why would someone want to burn it? I never seen ’em before! What have I ever done to them?’

  ‘They wanted me,’ Sherlock had said reluctantly. ‘That was one of the men from the warehouse. I think he was in charge – at least, in charge of the men who were there. The Baron that they talked about is really in charge. He must have seen me leaving the warehouse when it was burning and realized that I’d overheard them. But I don’t know how they tracked us down to the barge.’ He had shaken his head in disbelief. ‘What is it that they’re doing that they’re willing to kill us to protect their secret? What is that important?’

  Matty had just stared at Sherlock as if he’d been betrayed, then he had abruptly turned away and flicked the rope to get the horse moving again.

  And now, as the sun was rising and Sherlock’s shoulder was aching like a rotting tooth, they were coming in to Guildford, and he still hadn’t worked out what it was he was meant to know. All he had was questions, and the attack had just added to them.

  A small pack of scruffy dogs was following them along the riverbank, watching in the hope that they might throw some scraps of food away. Sherlock smiled briefly, thinking how much like Matty they were in that regard. He glanced forward, to the back of Matty’s head, and the smile faded from his face. He had put the boy’s boat at risk – the only real home that Matty possessed. Worse, he had put the boy’s life at risk. And for what?

  People were beginning to appear at the side of the river now. Some were obviously on their way into or out of town, using the riverbank as a convenient route, while others were sitting on boxes and dangling makeshift fishing rods into the water, hoping to catch some fish for their breakfast. Smoke was rising into the sky ahead of them, as Guildford’s occupants set about their cooking for the day. Buildings began to line the banks: some makeshift shacks formed out of wood that had been nailed together at various angles and some more substantial affairs of brick. Stone paving slabs appeared, patchy at first but eventually forming a pavement of sorts along the edge of the water.

  After a while, as they approached a collection of warehouse-like buildings clustered together on the riverbank, Matty began to pull on the rope. The horse slowed, and the narrowboat coasted gently into the bank. Matty had timed it well: they ended up coming to a rest just by a large iron ring that had been set into one of the slabs. Sherlock expected him to wrap the rope about the ring, but instead Matty reached into the bows of the boat and pulled out a chain which appeared to be fastened to an eyelet sunk into the wood. He threw it to the bank and jumped after it. Winding the chain about the iron ring, he took a large old padlock out of his pocket and slipped it through several links of the chain.

  ‘Can’t trust anyone round here,’ he muttered, still not looking at Sherlock. ‘A rope they could cut, but a chain and padlock’ll take them a pretty time to get through. More time than the boat’s worth, I reckon.’

  ‘What about the horse?’ Sherlock asked.

  ‘If he can find someone who’ll treat him better than me, he’s welcome to go,’ Matty said. He took a step on to the grass, then looked back at Sherlock. His expression wasn’t exactly apologetic, but at least he was willing to make eye contact now. ‘He’s too old and lame to pull a plough or a cart,’ he explained. ‘A boat’s about his limit, and even then he’s slow. He’s not wort
h stealing.’

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened,’ Sherlock said awkwardly.

  ‘S’not your fault,’ Matty said, wiping a sleeve across his mouth. ‘You’ve fallen into something, and it’s got hold of you. I’m just caught in it as well. Best thing to do is try and get ourselves out as quickly as we can, and move on.’ He looked around. ‘This is Dapdune Wharf,’ he said. ‘If we get separated, which is likely, then just remember to meet back here. I won’t go without you.’ He looked critically at Sherlock. ‘An’ I’m pretty sure you can’t leave without me. Now, what was the name of that cove you was lookin’ for?’

  ‘Professor Winchcombe,’ Sherlock said.

  ‘Then let’s go and find him. And maybe we can get some breakfast on the way.’

  Together, the two boys headed away from the river, along a path that promised to lead them out on to a larger thoroughfare. It took them an hour of walking, and asking several passers-by, before they discovered that Professor Winchcombe’s house was in Chaelis Road, which led off the High Street, and then another half an hour to find the High Street, which led uphill away from the river and was lined with two- and three-storey shops constructed out of black wooden beams with white plaster infill. Signs hung outside: wooden plaques with paintings of fish, bread, vegetables and all manner of other goods. The people walking up and down the street and looking in the windows were, for the most part, dressed better than the people in Farnham. Their clothes were made of finer fabrics, trimmed with lace and ribbon, more colourful and cleaner than Sherlock had seen for a while.