Young Sherlock: Night Break

by Andrew Lane

  He sprinted towards the door.

  ‘Sherlock!’ Rufus shouted, but a red mist of fury had descended across Sherlock’s vision. ‘Matty!’ he yelled over his shoulder. ‘Check on Emma and tell Mycroft what’s happened. Ask him to sort through the stuff on the desk to see if he can work out what they wanted. Rufus – can you secure the house and get the window boarded up? Otherwise they might come back and find a way in again.’

  Both Matty and Rufus called out something after him, but he was already heading out of the door into the cold night air and he didn’t hear what it was.

  There was no sign of the black-clad figures on the drive or the lawn. They had probably managed to get to the entrance and out on to the road. He was about to run after them but his eyes scanned the lawn, noticing the undisturbed beads of moisture on the tips of the leaves of grass, and then looked across the gravel, undisturbed by any footprints. Maybe they hadn’t gone that way after all.

  He swerved, heading sideways towards the bushes where he had seen the figure earlier, watching the house. He glanced sideways, up at the house, as he ran, seeing the silhouetted figure of his sister in the upstairs bedroom window. He thought she waved to him, but he wasn’t sure.

  His feet pounded across the lawn, driving deep into the earth and sending divots of grass flying. He could feel the air burning in his lungs and whistling in his throat. He burst through a gap in the bushes into a clearing beyond, sprinting along a path that he remembered from his childhood towards the wall around the estate. There were boot-prints ahead of him on the path: three sets, deeper in the front than they were at the back, indicating that whoever or whatever had left them had been running as well.

  The ground was muddy underfoot, and Sherlock found that he was using a lot of energy wrenching his shoes out at each step. It gave him a strange, lurching gait as he ran. His only consolation was that the same thing was probably happening to the people he was chasing.

  People? A sudden shiver ran down his spine. The black bandages around their faces, the wrinkled leather gloves and the long black coats gave them an unearthly impression, as if they weren’t human at all, but some bizarre visitations from another realm. He shook his head to dislodge the thought. It was stupid; whoever they were, they had to be humans – just wearing things that would help disguise them. Maybe they wanted to be mistaken for supernatural entities, or maybe it was just an accidental thing, but they were people. Spirits didn’t steal from humans.

  Branches lashed at his face as he ran. One nearly caught him across the eyes, and he flinched. He raised his hands to protect himself, but that made running even more clumsy, and the springy wood just whipped across his palms instead. For a second his mind flashed back to Deepdene Academy for Boys, where even the slightest disobedience resulted in five strokes of the cane across the open hand. He’d been caned several times over the years – he had a habit of telling teachers that they were wrong during lessons, or climbing over the school’s wall during prep so he could get to the local town and visit the library. He was well out of that place. It had been a form of hell.

  As this was, in a different way. His face and hands were bleeding, and mud was weighing down his shoes, making him run slower and slower. He suddenly had a vision of the faceless things he was chasing, managing to somehow skim across the wet ground without touching it, borne up by the flapping black wings that he had mistaken for coats. Again, he had to force the thought away. There was nothing supernatural about these thieves.

  Really, there was nothing.

  The moon kept coming into sight through the tangled branches of the trees and then vanishing again. He was running across a patchwork of brightly illuminated ground and deep shadow, like some crazy chessboard. The constant flickering of the light made him feel dizzy, and twice he had to stop himself from veering away from the path that he was following.

  Fortunately he ran into a clearing before things got too bad. The moon shone down on to the space like a spotlight illuminating a stage. In the middle of the clearing was a stone folly: a little pyramid, about twice Sherlock’s height, made of grey stone and built by some Holmes ancestor who had either travelled to Egypt or just read a book about it – the family stories were contradictory. Weathering and bad construction had led to some of the stones having cracked, or fallen from their positions to the stone podium on which the pyramid had been built.

  The three things he was pursuing were standing in front of the pyramid, waiting for him. The moonlight seemed to sink into the blackness of their clothes and their bandaged heads, and vanish. Their coats hung down to the ground, hiding their bodies. Their shadows, cast by the moonlight, just seemed to be extensions of their coats, making them look even taller and more frightening.

  They were holding curved silver knives that glowed in the moonlight.

  Sherlock hesitated. It wasn’t exactly a trap, but there were three of them, and one of him. Logically he ought to withdraw. The odds were against him.

  But they had been in his house. They had been searching through his father’s papers. He couldn’t just let them go.

  Torn between logic and anger, he just stood there on the edge of the clearing, hesitating. Retreat or advance? Fight or run?

  The little voice of reason that he could sometimes hear in the back of his mind chose that moment to say something. It pointed out, quite calmly, that even if he could fight one of them for a few minutes, he might be able to tear off a part of their coat, or hear their voice as they taunted him. Any clue might allow him to track them all down later. Even better, if he confidently strode forward to fight one of them, then the others might take the opportunity to run. After all, they were men, not some kind of demon, and he could almost certainly deal with one of them, knife or no knife.

  Heart beating fast, he walked forward into the clearing. A line of dead branches lay on the ground, fallen from the trees edging the space. He bent and picked two of them up. He hefted them: they felt good and heavy in his hands, not likely to break if he hit someone with them.

  Ahead of him, the shadowy creatures to his left and right spread out, moving to either side and leaving the one in the centre to face him. That one just stood there, waiting. Who knew what was going through its mind?

  Sherlock kept walking forward, deliberately not hesitating or showing any sign of fear. When he’d been in China, just a year ago, he had come across a book by a philosopher named Sun Tzu. The philosopher had said, about warfare, that most battles were won or lost before they were fought. Sherlock had assumed at the time he meant that the person with the largest army or the most strength would always win, but the more he had thought about it, the more he realized that it was all about confidence. Walk into a fight believing absolutely that you will win, and you will make your enemy hesitate, and an enemy that hesitates is at an immediate disadvantage.

  That, at least, was the theory. Sherlock wasn’t sure whether Sun Tzu had ever put it into practice.

  Suppressing any nerves and any worry about being hurt or killed, Sherlock walked towards the dark figure. He stopped about ten feet away, hands partly raised to keep the branches up as protection. The holes in the figure’s face that hid its eyes were just black against black, but Sherlock could still feel its gaze burning him.

  ‘You broke into my house,’ he said, and he was glad to hear that his voice was steady. ‘I want to know what you were looking for.’

  Silence. The figure just stood there, motionless, but Sherlock was aware that the ones on his left and right were moving to put him at the centre of a triangle.

  ‘Was it something that belonged to my father?’ he went on. ‘Or were you just looking for money or jewellery, like common thieves?’

  Still nothing.

  ‘Do you know how ridiculous you look?’ he asked. ‘Where did you get the costumes from – a fancy-dress shop? The bandages just make you look like you’ve been in an accident.’

  Sherlock had been in fights before, and he’d had instruction from both Amy
us Crowe and Rufus Stone. The key thing, they had told him, was to watch your opponent’s eyes. Don’t get distracted by his weapon or what he does with his hands – those could be a feint, meant to fool you. Watch his eyes, and read in them when he is committing to an attack.

  That was all well and good, but the dark figure’s eyes were hidden in the darkness of the holes left by the way the bandages had been wrapped.

  If it even had eyes.

  Without warning, the dark figure stepped forward and slashed at Sherlock with its knife, bending slightly and bringing the blade slicing up from the level of its left knee to above its head. At least, that had been its intention. Sherlock had seen a tell-tale twitch in the material of its coat sleeve, however, and he had already predicted what move it might make. He twisted and brought his right arm down hard. The branch connected with the figure’s right forearm. Its knife spun away, across the clearing. The figure made a stifled grunting noise as it reflexively grabbed its right arm with its left, and stepped backwards in pain.

  With the middle figure momentarily disabled, Sherlock whirled around. As he had expected, the other two were closing in on him fast. He took two steps towards the one on his right and lashed out sideways at its head with the other branch. It brought its knife arm up to protect itself, but too late. Instead, it turned the movement into a clumsy stagger backwards, out of the way.

  That left the third figure, but by the time Sherlock could turn, it was closing in on him, knife jerking forward. Sherlock tried to twist out of the way but the knife tore through his jacket and scraped along his ribs. He could feel blood, hot and quick, run down his skin. Rather than back away, he clamped his right arm downward, to trap the knife. The figure tried to pull back, and Sherlock went with it, forcing it to move backwards faster and trip over its own long coat. The figure fell back. Sherlock tried to release the knife, bringing his arm up so that he could use the branch against the creature as it went down, but the blade had tangled in his jacket and the figure wouldn’t let go. Sherlock was pulled forward, off balance.

  Something sliced the air above his head. He could feel its passage, like a cold breeze across his scalp. He turned, still off balance, to see the figure on his right coming at him again, fast, knife raised and aimed at his eye. He twisted, falling backwards on to the figure whose knife he had already trapped. He came down heavily on it, feeling the air whoosh out of its lungs. The thrusting knife just missed slicing through his forehead. He kicked out with both feet, catching the lunging figure in the stomach. It folded up and fell sideways.

  The figure beneath him was struggling, and Sherlock brought his elbow back hard. It impacted in the figure’s stomach, and Sherlock heard a cry of pain. He rolled sideways, over and over, feeling his elbows scrape on the ground. When he thought he was safe he pushed himself up to his knees, and then scrambled to his feet. Quickly he glanced around, evaluating the situation.

  The figure that had started off in the middle was sitting on the stone podium surrounding the pyramidal folly, still holding its arm. Maybe Sherlock had broken a bone. The figure that had started off to his right was climbing to its feet shakily. The knife that it had been holding was lying on the ground. The third figure was also curled up on the ground, but it was still holding its knife.

  Sherlock realized that he had dropped his branches in the confusion of falling and rolling. He scanned the ground, looking for them, but realized they were too near the figure that was curled up. If he tried to retrieve them, it might come to its senses enough to lash out at him.

  He glanced over to the figure that had been climbing to its feet. It was standing upright now, and it looked like it was going to come at him again, even without its knife. Desperately Sherlock looked around for some other weapon he could use. Nothing! He might have to fight hand-to-hand with this one.

  Something pushed him hard from behind. He fell forward, twisting as he went down. One of the black-clad figures was behind him. As his back hit the ground, the impact pushing the breath from his lungs in a great whoosh!, he saw the man pick up the stone from the ground and move closer, ready to bring it down hard on his head. He tensed, ready to try and knock the stone away, but instead he heard shouting.

  ‘Hey! Stop where you are!’

  It was Rufus Stone’s voice.

  ‘Oy!’

  That was Matty’s: shorter but more emphatic.

  The black-clad figure glanced sideways, then dropped the rock and ran.

  Sherlock turned to watch him go, then started to climb to his feet.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  That was Rufus.

  ‘I think so,’ he muttered.

  ‘What did you think you were doing, chasing after them?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It seemed like a logical thing to do at the time.’

  ‘You might have got yourself killed!’

  ‘I might,’ he said, feeling the strength seeping back into his muscles. ‘Then again, I might get hit and killed by a passing carriage in the street. I can’t live my life avoiding all risk.’

  ‘There’s avoiding risk,’ Matty said from beside him, ‘and then there’s actively seekin’ it out.’

  ‘Have they gone?’ Sherlock asked.

  ‘They ran the minute they heard us,’ Matty confirmed. ‘Strange coves, wiv those long coats and that stuff round their heads. They was too fast for us to catch up.’

  ‘They’ll be over the estate wall and gone,’ Rufus said. ‘What we need to do now is to get back and make sure that everyone else is all right.’

  Within a few minutes he was back at Holmes Lodge, sitting in a comfortable chair in the library with a cup of tea at his side. His brother was sitting in a second chair, behind the desk, wearing a silk dressing gown that made him look like a circus tent. Rufus Stone was standing by the window, and Matty was sitting cross-legged on the carpet beside him.

  ‘You,’ Mycroft said, ‘have been in the wars.’

  ‘At least I’m alive,’ Sherlock answered.

  ‘Leaving aside the odds of that outcome,’ Mycroft growled, ‘let us move on to these intruders, and what they might have wanted. Our sister tells us that she has seen them outside the house at night before, but that this is the first time she knows of that they have been inside. What, in your estimation, did they want?’

  Sherlock shrugged, feeling the muscles in his shoulder protesting. ‘I wish I knew,’ he said. ‘They were searching the desk – that is all I know.’

  ‘I have spent several hours going through every document here, and I can state with absolute assurance that, as far as I can see, there is nothing here in which anyone outside this family could have any interest. Perhaps they were opportunistic thieves, looking for some money or some bonds, or perhaps they thought there was something here but were mistaken. We may never actually know what they were truly after. I will put some of the footmen on watch, I will make sure all outside doors are locked and bolted, and I will inform the police tomorrow. Let us hope that this is the end of the matter, and that these ruffians will not return.’ He paused. ‘Well, when I say I, what I mean is that Mr Stone will do all of that – if you would be so kind, Mr Stone.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Rufus said.

  ‘And for now, I suggest that we all go back to bed.’ He paused. ‘After all, we have a funeral to attend tomorrow.’

  Sherlock nodded, and headed for the stairs alongside Matty and Rufus, but as he went he glanced back at Mycroft. His brother was still sitting behind the desk, his elbows on its leather surface and his head supported by his hands. He glanced briefly at Sherlock, and Sherlock could tell that he did not necessarily believe that this was the end of it.

  Not at all.

  The next morning dawned grey and blustery, with occasional squalls of cold rain. Sherlock woke to find that mourning clothes, sober and black, had been laid out for him. He put them on, feeling them scratch against his skin. Pulling off the bandages and the dressing, he found that the wound on his chest had sto
pped bleeding and was only tender to the touch. It had obviously seemed more impressive than it actually was.

  He went downstairs to where a breakfast had been laid out. He wasn’t hungry, but he helped himself to some toast and some kedgeree anyway. Emma was there, eating a slice of toast. She seemed to have completely forgotten about the events of the night before; Sherlock decided that he didn’t want to remind her. Not today, anyway.

  At the sound of a gong being rung, the family and servants assembled in the hall. Rufus Stone was there, standing with the butler and the housekeeper. Mycroft inspected them all, checking in particular that the servants were properly attired, and then he led the way out of the house and along a path that led to the family chapel.

  The chapel was an old stone building, partly covered in moss, which looked like the smaller brother of a regular church. It was where the Holmes family had worshipped for many generations. Sherlock himself was finding that the older he got, the harder it was to believe in an all-knowing, all-powerful deity who still somehow needed angels to carry messages for him and praise him for all eternity, but he had to admit that the chapel itself seemed to radiate peacefulness in the same way that the stones of his father’s church in India apparently radiated heat.

  A coffin had been placed on trestles in front of the altar.

  The vicar was a man that Sherlock recognized from his childhood. He never seemed to smile, and his unkempt white hair surrounded his head like a halo. He spoke, and the congregation sang, and then he spoke again, but Sherlock was only there in body. In spirit he was back in time, remembering listening while his mother played Bach sonatas on the piano, or watching while she embroidered a tapestry with a saying from the Bible, or telling her his theories about why dogs would answer to their names being called while cats never did. That was all he had of her now – memories.