by Andrew Lane
He shook himself. He’d been travelling for too long without any distractions, and he was hungry. His imagination – usually the quietest part of his mind – was running wild.
‘Can you see that place?’ Matty called.
‘Yes,’ Sherlock said, more quietly than he had intended. It was as if he didn’t want the house to hear them.
‘Weird, ain’t it?’
‘Yes.’ He felt as if he needed to keep his answers as short and direct as possible, to avoid attracting attention. ‘It’s just a badly designed house,’ he said sharply. ‘Nothing to get panicked about.’
‘’Arold don’t like it,’ Matty pointed out, and indeed the horse did appear to be shying away from the building, as far as the rope that connected him to the barge would allow. Matty was having to steer the boat further out into the canal just to stop them from being pulled into the bank.
Sherlock glanced back towards the house as the inexorable progress of the barge carried them past its baleful gaze. The building almost seemed to shift with them as they moved, keeping its frontage facing them and its black windows fixed on them. Just as he was about to look away, the light from the setting sun illuminated a shape on the roof that was distinct from the chimneys and the carved decorations. It looked for all the world like a gargoyle, a stone demon poised up there, overlooking the house’s grounds, but who would decorate their house with just one gargoyle – and why put one on a house anyway? Gargoyles were generally found on churches or cathedrals, and usually came in groups rather than individually. Weren’t they meant to be water spouts for when it rained? Who would put just one water spout on a roof?
Even as the thoughts crossed Sherlock’s mind, the massive figure shifted. It moved to one side, and its right arm reached up to catch the edge of a chimney, stabilizing it against a sudden gust of wind that ruffled the waters of the canal and briefly caught the side of the barge. The figure looked to Sherlock as if it was about seven feet tall, with a chest like a barrel and a head that was bald and strangely lumpy, rather than smooth like a man’s scalp should have been. Its arms appeared overly long too. He shuddered, feeling an inexplicable fear. Then he blinked, and suddenly the figure was gone. The roofline was once again just chimneys and spiky decorations.
A trick of light and shadow – it must have been. He took a deep breath, suddenly aware that he had stopped breathing for a few moments.
‘Did you . . . ?’ he called, then bit down on the words he had been going to say.
‘Did I what?’ Matty asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘Do you want to stop for the night? It’s getting dark. We’ve got some sausage left, an’ some cheese.’
‘Let’s keep going for half an hour more.’ Sherlock glanced again at the house. ‘I want to get some more distance under our belt before we stop.’
‘You’re the boss,’ Matty said cheerfully, then added, more quietly, ‘even though it’s my barge an’ my ’orse.’
They kept going until the house was out of sight and Harold had calmed down, then they stopped and tied the barge up for the night. The sky was cloudless, speckled with stars, and the two of them lay back on the barge’s deck and ate their provisions as Harold noisily munched grass from the bank. They talked about everything and nothing, important things and trivial things, all mixed together. Sherlock hesitantly put forward his plans of moving back to London once he had finished at Oxford and working for, or with, the police, and Matty for the first time talked about his dreams of finding a girl, getting married and having a large family. They slept there, on the deck of the barge, and if Sherlock dreamed then he didn’t remember the dreams.
The next day they arrived in Oxford.
They tethered the barge on the outskirts of the town and walked in. By the time they got to the centre, Sherlock had fallen in love with the place. The various colleges – Christ Church, of course, but also Balliol, Jesus, Merton and many others, were scattered through the town like plums in a plum duff. The town itself was the usual mixture of shops, taverns, houses, official buildings and storehouses, but the college buildings were magnificent ancient stone edifices, like walled medieval mini-towns in their own right. Students in black robes and flat black caps were everywhere: walking, riding bicycles or standing around in groups and conversing. Sherlock noticed that the students appeared to stay in their own groups, and the townspeople just talked to each other. There was little mixing between the two. He filed that away for later consideration.
Remembering the address that had been in Charles Dodgson’s letter, Sherlock found the house where he would be living just around the corner from Christ Church College. Number 36 was a three-storey stone house set in a terrace of similar houses. There was nothing special about it, but the stone steps outside were scrubbed clean and the windows gleamed. Mrs McCrery was obviously very house-proud.
‘What d’ya want to do?’ Matty asked.
Sherlock thought for a minute. ‘I want some lunch,’ he said, and then I want to go back to the barge and get my stuff. I’ll need a carriage, I guess, to get it all here. I can’t carry it all the way, even with your help, but that’s going to be expensive.’
‘Don’t worry about a carriage,’ Matty said mysteriously. ‘I’ll sort that out. You see about getting us some lunch.’
They ate sitting on the banks of the River Isis – a tributary of the Thames, Sherlock remembered. Rather than steal something off a stall or from the counter of a shop, he had spent some of the money that his brother had given him on a couple of bread rolls filled with roast pork and bottles of lemonade. They watched the boats, barges and punts float past them as the clouds sailed past overhead.
When they got back to the barge Sherlock moved his stuff out on to the bank while Matty vanished off on some mysterious errand. When he returned, he was leading Harold, his horse, who was now attached to a cart. There was straw on the cart. He had obviously borrowed it from some nearby farmer or workman.
Sherlock just hoped that the owner knew that it had been borrowed.
‘Load ’er up,’ Matty called cheerfully.
‘I doubt this is the way that most students arrive in Oxford,’ Sherlock said dubiously. ‘Even the ones who are here to prepare for the University, rather than actually attend it.’
‘Well, that’s okay then,’ Matty said. ‘You ain’t like any other student.’
‘A fair point, well made,’ Sherlock conceded, and so they spent the next hour or so riding sedately through the town, both perched on the driver’s bench at the front of the cart while Sherlock’s possessions teetered precariously on the back. Several times he had to dive backwards to prevent a bag or a trunk from sliding into the road.
When they got back to Edmonton Crescent Matty helped Sherlock unload his stuff. ‘Well,’ he said brightly, ‘that’s it then. I’ll see you around.’
‘Perhaps you could come in,’ Sherlock said. ‘Check the place out.’
Matty looked down at his scruffy clothes and dirty hands. ‘I dunno. People around ’ere are very particular about who they invite into their houses. I ain’t sure I’ll fit properly.’
Sherlock was about to argue with him when a voice interrupted them. ‘You’ll be young Master Holmes then?’
He turned to see a large lady dressed in black crinoline. She was standing on the steps of number 36, staring down at them. Her hair was grey, her eyes were a faded blue, but her fierce demeanour was offset by the way her eyes crinkled in a smile of welcome.
‘I am,’ he said. ‘My friend here was just—’
‘Get yourselves inside, into the parlour, both of you. I’ll make a pot of tea. There’s scones, jam and cream, if you’re hungry.’
‘Actually—’
‘We’re starvin’,’ Matty interrupted.
‘Well then, come ye in and relax. I can’t have starving children on the street. What would the neighbours think?’
Sherlock indicated his bags and trunks. ‘What about—’
‘I’ll
get one of my boys to fetch them in,’ she said. ‘That’s “my boys”, as in the boys who fetch the coal and shine the shoes in the house. There are also “my boys” who are staying here, as you will be, and “my boys”, as in the five strapping lads that my late husband left me with, but they’re scattered around the south of England now.’
‘I’m sorry to hear about your husband,’ Sherlock said. That would explain the black clothes – she was in mourning. ‘When did he die?’
‘Thirty-five years ago next month,’ she said. ‘Now, come on in. You’re making the street look untidy, and if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s untidiness.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And gypsies. And dogs.’
Sherlock glanced at Matty and raised an eyebrow. Matty looked back at him with an unreadable expression on his face. ‘I think you’ll fit in here just fine,’ he said quietly.
They climbed the steps to the doorway and passed through into the house. It was possibly the neatest place Sherlock had ever seen on land. He was used to life on ships, where everything had to be stowed away where it couldn’t fall over and break in case of rough seas, but this was the first time he had seen the principle applied on terra firma.
‘Your husband was a sailor,’ he ventured.
‘Bless you, that’s right.’ Mrs McCrery was right behind them as they entered the sitting room. ‘How can you tell? Is it the drawing?’ She indicated a framed sketch on the wall of a bearded man in uniform, arms folded and staring out at the observer from beneath heavy eyebrows.
‘Er, yes,’ he replied.
‘You two make yourselves comfortable. I’ll go and get the tea.’
‘And the scones,’ Matty said, settling into a comfortable chair as Mrs McCrery left. ‘I like this place.’ He leaned back, and the frilly lace material that ran along the top fell across his face. He struggled free. ‘What is this thing?’ he said, holding the lace up and examining it.
‘It’s an antimacassar,’ Sherlock explained patiently.
‘What’s that when it’s at ’ome?’
‘It prevents macassar oil from gentlemen’s heads from staining the material of the sofa.’
‘Oh.’ A pause. ‘What’s “macassar oil” then? Is it like oil for oil lamps?’
‘No, it’s for the hair. It conditions it, and makes it easier to comb. It’s made from coconut oil and ylang-ylang oil.’
Matty ran his hand through his own unruly hair. ‘Oh. Should I be usin’ it?’
‘I don’t think so. I really don’t think so. The grease from the hot pies you keep eating seems to do a good enough job.’
Matty sniffed. ‘Reckon you’re right.’
Sherlock looked around. There wasn’t that much to see – apart from the portraits on the walls and a ginger cat dozing by the glowing fireplace the room was remarkably bare – no knick-knacks or odd little possessions that might have helped Sherlock get a handle on Mrs McCrery’s personality, although he had already begun to develop an opinion.
He walked over to the fire and bent down to stroke the cat. Best to start making friends straight away, he thought. He ran his hand over the cat’s back, brushing it from head to tail. It didn’t seem to mind. In fact, it didn’t even seem to notice. Possibly it was fast asleep, but it didn’t seem to be breathing: its sides were stationary, rather than going in or out. Listening closely, he couldn’t hear any purring either, and he noticed that it was cold.
Maybe the cat was dead. That would be a terrible way to start his time here – having to tell Mrs McCrery that her cat was dead.
He rested his hand cautiously on its back again. No reaction. He pressed harder. The cat was curiously stiff. Maybe rigor mortis had set in – that stiffening of the muscles that apparently occurred within a few hours of death.
He pressed harder still, but there was no give at all in the cat’s flesh. It was as hard and as cold as stone.
‘It’s stuffed,’ he said in surprise, leaning back on his heels.
‘What is?’
‘The cat – I think it’s stuffed.’
‘Well –’ Matty started to say, but before he could get the words out Mrs McCrery reappeared in the doorway with a tray. She set it down on a low table next to Matty, turned her head to look at Sherlock, and said: ‘Ah, you’ve met Macallistair then?’
‘Macallistair?’ He glanced at the cat. ‘Yes – we’ve made our introductions.’
‘The poor thing, he died last winter. It was fearfully cold, and I found him on the front step one morning, frozen solid.’
Sherlock glanced at the cat again. Surely it wasn’t still frozen? Not in front of that coal fire.
‘So you had him stuffed,’ he said casually.
‘So he could always be here with me, curled up in his favourite place.’ She straightened and gestured towards the contents of the tray. Tea and scones and jam and cream. ‘Just help yourselves, and don’t stand on ceremony. I’ll come and show you to your room later, Mr Holmes.’
She turned and sailed out of the room.
There was silence for a few moments.
‘I wonder what she did with her husband,’ Matty said eventually. ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t go down into the cellar, especially at night.’
‘Maybe all of her previous lodgers are somewhere still in the house,’ Sherlock observed darkly, ‘all curled up comfortably in their favourite places.’
Matty looked dubiously at the tea tray, then at Sherlock. ‘Do you want to try the tea and the scones first?’
Sherlock laughed suddenly. This was just too stupid. ‘She’s not a mass murderer,’ he said, ‘she’s just a lady who loved her husband and her cat. There’s no law against that. The tea isn’t poisoned, and neither are the scones. Come on – let’s eat.’
They did, and the scones were lovely – crumbly and still warm. After he’d finished two of them, and had a cup of tea, Matty decided it was time to go. He left, and Sherlock sat there for a while in the sitting room, letting his thoughts wander.
‘I’ll show you to your room now,’ Mrs McCrery said, reappearing quietly in the doorway. ‘Och, you and your young friend certainly enjoyed the scones.’
‘They were perfect,’ he said, following her out of the room and up the stairs.
‘I made the jam myself,’ she announced. ‘You’ll never guess what fruit I used.’
‘Holly berries?’ he asked innocently.
‘Oh, no,’ she said, shocked, ‘those are poisonous! I used redcurrants.’
Sherlock’s room was on the third floor. It was small but very tidy, with a comfortable-looking bed and a desk where he could work. There was also a stuffed chair where he could relax and maybe read, and a wardrobe. A porcelain basin on a stand completed the room’s furnishings. His cases and trunk were set against the wall beneath the window.
‘The bathroom is down one flight of stairs,’ Mrs McCrery said. ‘You need to know that there can be a bit of a queue in the mornings when the students have lectures to get to. I understand from Mr Dodgson that you will be attending his rooms for lessons, rather than the college, so you might want to wait until everyone has finished.’
‘I’ll do that,’ he said. ‘Unless I’m up really early and get in there before anyone else.’
‘Don’t leave a dirt ring around the bath if you use it,’ she continued, ‘and don’t leave whiskers in the sink if you shave. Apart from that, I don’t really have any rules, except for general ones about tolerance, quietness, sobriety and no women in the house under any circumstances.’
A sudden and bittersweet memory of Virginia Crowe flashed across Sherlock’s mind. ‘I don’t think,’ he said, ‘that will be a problem.’
‘Dinner tonight, and every night, will be at seven o’clock. Breakfast every morning will be at seven o’clock as well. Apart from that, you are free to make your own arrangements.’ She paused, thinking. ‘Although I don’t allow food in the bedrooms.’
‘Of course.’
‘Neither do I allow food in the bathroom. I onl
y mention that because one undergraduate, a few years ago, used to smuggle pies in and eat them in the bath, knowing that they weren’t allowed in his bedroom. That’s undergraduates for you – always trying to find a way around the rules – bending them without actually breaking them.’
Sherlock thought back to all the times he had obeyed the letter of a rule while disobeying its spirit. That was the curse of a logical mind – you could usually see a way around something.
‘No food in the bathroom,’ he promised.
Mrs McCrery nodded. ‘Haddock tonight,’ she said brightly, ‘and I made some special sauce myself!’
‘Lovely!’
As she left the room, Sherlock crossed to the window and looked out. His room was at the back of the house, and he could see the gardens of this and the neighbouring houses below. Further away were the gardens of the houses in the next road, and then the houses themselves: their backs looking less well maintained than their fronts that he remembered passing earlier. It was, he thought, human nature to clean those things that everyone could see and ignore those things that were usually unobserved.
Beyond the roofs of the houses in the next road he could see the needle-like spires of one of the college chapels, thrusting up against the blue sky. He thought, from the position relative to the house, that it was Christ Church College chapel. Tomorrow he would head to the college and introduce himself to Charles Dodgson. He wondered what the man would be like. Based on the fact that he wrote children’s books, and based also on the way he had written the letter to Mycroft, Sherlock pictured him as a free spirit, a man who always wanted to be – or perhaps always had to be – amusing and unusual, whatever the circumstances, but how did that square with the fact that he was a lecturer in logic at one of the world’s greatest universities?
Tomorrow, he thought, was going to be interesting.
