Young Sherlock Holmes: Death Cloud

by Andrew Lane

  Sherlock felt his face burn with sudden anger. When he’d first arrived at Holmes Manor he’d seen the days stretching out before him, empty and barren, and wondered what he was going to do with his time, but meeting Matty Arnatt had opened up a whole set of possibilities. Now it looked as if they were all going to be closed off again.

  ‘Thank you, Uncle Sherrinford,’ he murmured. He tried to look pleased, but his face wouldn’t follow his instructions. Mrs Eglantine smiled slightly, without meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

  A meat pie with thick pastry and gravy followed the soup, and a summer pudding followed the pie. Sherlock ate, but he hardly tasted the food. His thoughts kept revolving around the fact that his holidays were turning into a personal hell, and he couldn’t wait to get back to the stability and predictability of school.

  After lunch, Sherlock asked to be excused.

  ‘Don’t go far,’ Sherrinford admonished. ‘Remember my visitor.’

  Sherlock hung around in the hall while the family went their separate ways – Sherrinford to the library and Aunt Anna to the conservatory. He spent his time looking at the paintings and trying to decide which one was executed in the most amateurish manner. After a while, a maid came up to him. She held a silver tray in her hand, and on the tray was an envelope.

  ‘Master Holmes,’ she said quietly, ‘this letter came for you this morning.’

  Sherlock snatched it from the tray. ‘For me? Thank you!’

  She smiled, and moved away. Sherlock looked around, half expecting Mrs Eglantine to materialize and snatch the envelope from his hand, but he was alone in the hall. The envelope was indeed addressed to ‘Master Sherlock Holmes, Holmes Manor, Farnham’. It was postmarked Whitehall. Mycroft! It was from Mycroft! Eagerly he ran his fingernail beneath the wax seal and pulled the flap open.

  There was a single sheet of paper inside. The address of Mycroft’s rooms in London was printed at the top, and underneath, in Mycroft’s peculiarly neat script, it read:

  My Dear Sherlock,

  I trust that this letter finds you in good health. You will, no doubt, be feeling abandoned and alone by now, and this will be making you angry. Please understand that i appreciate your feelings, and I only wish there was something I could do to help.

  There is! thought Sherlock. You could let me come and live with you for the holidays! He dismissed the thought as quickly as it had formed. Mycroft had his own problems: a demanding job, and now acting as de facto head of the family in the absence of their father, looking after their mother, whose physical health was frail, and their sister, who had her own problems. No, Mycroft had done the best thing for both of them. Sometimes, Sherlock thought, the only options open to you were all unfair, and you just had to choose the one that minimized the bad consequences rather than the one that maximized the good ones. It felt like a peculiarly adult thing to think, and he didn’t like the implication that this was what adult life was like.

  Any letter you send to the address above will reach me within a day, and I promise that I will respond instantly to any request you might make – apart from the obvious one that you should come and live with me here in London.

  Ah, ahead of me as usual, Sherlock mused. His brother had always displayed an uncanny ability to predict what Sherlock was about to say. He continued reading:

  I have suggested that Uncle Sherrinford employ a tutor in order to further your studies. I have received good reports of a man named Amyus Crowe, and I have mentioned his name to Sherrinford. I believe that you may place your trust in Mr Crowe. He also, I understand, has a daughter. Through her you may be able to make some friends of your own age in the local area.

  That shows how much you know, Sherlock thought. I’ve already started making my own friends.

  In conclusion, I exhort you to remember that this is a purely temporary situation. Things will change, as they always do. Take advantage of the situation you find yourself in. As the Persian poet Omar Khayyam wrote: ‘Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough, A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse – and Thou, Beside me singing in the Wilderness – And Wilderness is Paradise enow . . .’

  Reading the words, Sherlock tried to puzzle out their meaning. He was reasonably familiar with the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, thanks to a copy that had been donated by its translator, Richard Burton, to the library at Deepdene School. The general thrust of the various quatrains seemed to be that the wheel of fate kept turning and that nobody could stop it, although humanity could take some pleasure along the way. The particular quatrain that Mycroft had quoted implied that Sherlock should seek out his own ‘loaf of bread’ – something simple which would help him get through the days. Did Mycroft have anything specific in mind, or was it just general advice? Sherlock was tempted to write back immediately asking his brother to explain in more detail, but he knew enough about Mycroft to realize that once he had said something, he rarely went into more detail.

  Sherlock turned his attention back to the final lines.

  One last piece of advice – watch out for Mrs Eglantine. Despite her position of trust, she is no friend to the Holmes family.

  I know that you will not leave this letter lying around unitidily, but will store it somewhere safe.

  Your loving brother,

  Mycroft

  Sherlock felt a chill run through him as he read those final lines. For Mycroft to be as direct as to warn him against Mrs Eglantine was entirely out of character, and raised the question, why was he being so outspoken? Was it because he wanted Sherlock to be in no doubt about his opinion of Mrs Eglantine? His final suggestion – no, his final instruction – not to leave the letter lying around was Mycroft’s coded way of saying destroy it. That was more in character.

  He slipped the letter back into the envelope, but there was something else in there – another piece of paper. Sherlock pulled it out, and found himself staring at a Post Office Money Order for five shillings. Five shillings! He’d been afraid to broach the subject of pocket money with his aunt and uncle, but it looked as if Mycroft would provide.

  Sherlock found himself pulled in two directions by the letter. On the one hand he felt reassured and happier now that Mycroft had got in contact, and now that he knew that Mycroft approved of Amyus Crowe, but on the other hand he was now actively worried about something that had previously been just a nagging concern – Mrs Eglantine, and her obvious dislike for him.

  ‘Interestin’ letter?’

  The voice was deep and warm, and held an accent that Sherlock couldn’t place. He turned, folding the letter up and slipping it into his pocket.

  The man standing just outside the open front door was tall and wide-chested. His unruly shock of hair was pure white and the skin of his neck sagged, but the way he held his body belied his obvious age. His skin was leathery and brown, as if he had spent a great deal of time outdoors in a hotter sun than England could offer. He wore a beige suit of a cut and material that Sherlock wasn’t familiar with, and held in his hand a wide-brimmed hat.

  ‘From my brother, Mycroft,’ Sherlock said, uncertain how to proceed. Should he call for a maid, or invite the man in?

  ‘Ah, Mycroft Holmes,’ the man said. ‘We have mutual acquaintances, I understand. And as I refuse to believe that you are old enough to be Mr Sherrinford Holmes, I guess that you must be young Sherlock instead.’

  ‘Sherlock Scott Holmes, at your service,’ Sherlock said, drawing himself up. He looked around. ‘Ah, would you care to come in, Mr . . . ?’

  ‘Mr Amyus Crowe,’ the man replied. ‘Formerly of Albuquerque in the state of New Mexico, part of the United States of America. And you’re very kind.’ He stepped inside. ‘But you had probably already deduced my identity. I am here at the recommendation of your brother, and he would hardly write to you without mentioning it, now would he?’

  ‘I should find a maid, or—’

  Before he could finish the sentence, Mrs Eglantine stepped out from the shadows beside the main staircase. How long had she been standi
ng there? Had she seen Sherlock reading the letter?

  ‘Mr Crowe?’ she asked. ‘The Master has been expecting you. Please – come this way.’ She gestured towards the door to the study.

  Sherlock shivered, despite himself. There was no way she could have known what was inside his letter short of opening and then resealing it, and he refused to believe that of her, but nevertheless he felt as if he had been caught doing something wrong.

  Amyus Crowe entered the hall and left his hat and walking stick on the coat rack. He walked up to Sherlock. ‘We’ll talk later,’ he said, putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock was tall for his age, but Amyus Crowe towered over him, making him feel like a ten-year-old. ‘Hang around, son.’ He glanced around the hall. ‘While you’re waiting, try to work out how many of these paintings are fakes.’

  Mrs Eglantine stiffened. ‘None of these paintings is fraudulent!’ she hissed. ‘The Master would never allow it!’

  ‘“None of them” is an acceptable answer,’ Crowe said, walking past Sherlock with a wink. He handed Mrs Eglantine a card. ‘Grateful if you could announce my presence.’

  Mrs Eglantine led Amyus Crowe into the library. Moments later she emerged and moved away without looking at Sherlock. He followed her with his eyes as she vanished into the shadows by the stairs, and wondered whether she had stopped there, turned around, and was watching him.

  Sherlock could hear voices from inside the library, but could not make out any words. He wandered along the oak panelling, taking in the details of each of the paintings in turn. None of them were labelled. Art appreciation had not been on the syllabus at Deepdene School, and he found that he could not raise much interest in the various landscapes, seascapes and hunting scenes. They all appeared to him to be false, with their perfect trees, their wild seas and their horses with spindly legs.

  Albuquerque. America. It all sounded so romantic. Sherlock knew little about the country, save the fact that it had been settled from England over two hundred years before, that it had rebelled against English rule about a hundred years later and that its people were independent and brash. Oh, and that there had been a civil war a few years ago which had something to do with slavery. But he had liked Amyus Crowe instantly, and if Crowe was at all representative of his countrymen then Sherlock wanted to go to America one day.

  It was probably half an hour later that the door to the study opened and Amyus Crowe emerged. He was smiling, and shaking Sherrinford Holmes’s hand. Behind them, the serried ranks of green leather-bound books blurred together like a grassy landscape.

  ‘Ah, Sherlock,’ Sherrinford said. ‘Mr Crowe, allow me to introduce my nephew, Sherlock.’

  ‘We met earlier,’ Mr Crowe said, nodding at Sherlock.

  ‘Very well. Thank you for coming. I will have a maid show you out.’

  ‘No bother, Mr Holmes – I’ll take a walk through your grounds with young Master Sherlock, if I may.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ Sherrinford withdrew back into the study like a tortoise into its shell, and Crowe strode over to where Sherlock was standing.

  ‘Well, which one is it?’ he asked. ‘If any.’

  Sherlock scanned the paintings. Despite careful observation, he still wasn’t sure. He pointed to a particularly clumsy painting of a rider on a horse whose legs were so thin they should have snapped under the weight. ‘That one’s not particularly well painted,’ he hazarded. ‘The perspective is all distorted and the anatomy is wrong. Is that the fake?’

  ‘The thing about fraudsters,’ Crowe said, examining the painting, ‘is that the less talented ones get caught pretty quickly. Often fraudsters are more convincing than the real thing. You’re right about the painting being clumsily executed, but it’s real.’ He moved across to a dramatic coastal scene, with waves crashing on to a beach while a ship tossed in the background. ‘This is the fake.’

  Sherlock stared at it. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Like a number of your uncle’s paintings, it’s attributed to Claude Joseph Vernet. Your uncle also has a few paintings by Vernet’s son, Horace. The elder Vernet was famous for his coastal landscapes. This is a painting of Dover Harbour, but Vernet never visited England. The detail is too realistic: it’s obviously painted from life; therefore, by definition, it’s not by Vernet. It’s a fake in his style.’

  ‘I couldn’t have known that,’ Sherlock protested. ‘I never learned anything about Vernet, or any painter.’

  ‘And what does that tell you?’ Crowe asked. He gazed down at Sherlock, his china-blue eyes nearly hidden behind crinkled skin.

  Sherlock thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘That you can deduce all you like, but it’s pointless without knowledge. Your mind is like a spinnin’ wheel, rotatin’ endlessly and pointlessly until threads are fed in, when it starts producin’ yarn. Information is the foundation of all rational thought. Seek it out. Collect it assiduously. Stock the lumber room of your mind with as many facts as you can fit in there. Don’t attempt to distinguish between important facts and trivial facts: they’re all potentially important.’

  Sherlock thought for a moment. He’d been prepared to be embarrassed and hurt, but Crowe didn’t have a trace of criticism in his voice, and he was making a good point. ‘I understand,’ he said, nodding.

  ‘I do believe you do,’ Crowe replied. ‘Let’s walk and see what we can find.’

  Crowe retrieved his hat and stick from beside the door, and together they wandered out into the bright summer’s sunshine. Crowe struck out across the front lawn and into the trees, talking about the different cloud formations in the sky and how they were related to the weather.

  ‘Have you ever wondered about foxes and rabbits?’ he asked after a while.

  ‘Not especially,’ Sherlock responded, wondering where this change in tack would lead.

  ‘Let’s say you had a hundred foxes and a hundred rabbits in a wood, and there was a fence around the wood so that none of them could get out. What would happen?’

  Sherlock considered for a moment. ‘The rabbits would have baby rabbits, the foxes would have baby foxes and the foxes would eat the rabbits.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Most of them. Then the remaining rabbits would be difficult to find, and they’d probably start hiding.’

  ‘What would happen then?’

  Sherlock shrugged, unsure where this was leading. ‘The foxes would start dying off from starvation, I suppose.’

  ‘And the rabbits?’

  ‘They would keep hidden, eating the grass and breeding, so their numbers would start to increase.’ A bright light of understanding seemed to explode inside his head. ‘And then the numbers of foxes would start going up, because they’d be catching more rabbits and eating properly, and breeding. And eventually the number of foxes would be so great that they’d be eating more and more rabbits, and the number of rabbits would start going down again.’

  ‘And the process would keep repeatin’ itself, like two waves rising and fallin’, one behind the other. Somewhere at the back of all that there’s some mathematics called differential calculus, which you should look out for. It’s strangely useful. You could apply those same equations to criminals and policemen in a city, if you liked.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘The policemen don’t usually eat the criminals, but the fundamentals are the same. Isaac Newton and Gottfried Leibniz developed the mathematics independently, but it was recently developed further by Augustin Cauchy and Bernhard Riemann. Riemann died a few months back – great loss to the world, I believe, although I’m not sure the world has realized that yet.’

  Sherlock privately doubted that mathematics would ever be important, and set it to one side. He was happy to ‘stock the lumber room of his mind’ with stuff about art and music, which he found interesting, but equations he could probably do without.

  After a while they reached the drystone wall that marked the edge of the Holmes’s estate. Crowe gestured to the right. ‘You go that
way – collect as many mushrooms and toadstools as you can carry. I’ll go the other way. Let’s meet back here in half an hour, and I’ll show you how you can tell which ones are poisonous and which ones are not. Don’t sample any before I tell you, mind. It’s a valid analytical technique, to be sure, but it’s liable to be a fatal one.’

  Crowe wandered off to the left, moving bushes and clumps of grass to one side with his walking stick and peering underneath. Sherlock went in the opposite direction, scanning the ground for the telltale white, pulpy knuckles of fungus pushing their way up through the bracken.

  Within a few moments he was out of sight of Amyus Crowe. He kept moving, but apart from a series of brown, plate-like growths emerging from the side of a tree, which he wasn’t sure whether to collect or not, he could find nothing.

  A flash of colour through the trees caught his attention: red spots on a white background. He moved closer, thinking it was a clump of toadstools breaking through the ground, but there was something about the shape that bothered him. It looked like . . .

  A cloud of smoke began to rise from the object just as Sherlock recognized it for what it was: a man’s body, lying twisted on the ground. The smoke wafted away, driven by the breeze, but there was no sign of fire. For a moment Sherlock thought the man was lying there smoking a pipe, his face wrapped for some reason in a red-spotted white handkerchief, but as he got closer he realized that the red blotches were neither markings on a toadstool nor spots on a white handkerchief.