by Andrew Lane
‘Why—’
‘I followed a man from a house in Farnham!’ Sherlock yelled. ‘He went to the warehouse!’
The voice was silent for a moment, thinking. Then:
‘Why were you following the man from the house?’
Blood from Sherlock’s ear was wet and warm against his neck now. The whole right side of his face throbbed sickeningly. ‘Someone died in that house. I wanted to find out how.’
‘They died from the plague, surely?’ the voice whispered. ‘That’s what people are saying,’
Sherlock bit his tongue before he could say anything about the bee stings, but the whip lashed out of the darkness again and bit into his forehead above his left eye. His head jerked back against the chair, sending waves of agony crashing through his skull. When he tried to open his eye he found it was glued shut by blood dripping down from the cut that had been laid open.
If he kept on like this his head would be slashed to ribbons.
‘He died of bee stings,’ he shouted. ‘Hundreds of bee stings.’
Silence. The pain from the three slashes in Sherlock’s skin flowed together into one red-hot centre of agony that throbbed with the rapid beating of his heart.
‘Who else knows about the bees?’
‘Just me!’ he lied.
Again the whip cracked out of the shadows like a striking serpent, hitting just to the side of his left eye, a hair’s breadth from cutting into the soft jelly of the eyeball itself. Blood flecked his eyelashes: black globules hanging in his field of vision.
‘The next time my whip-master strikes, he will blind you in your left eye,’ the voice said. ‘The time after that he will remove your right ear. Answer my questions fully, and do not lie to me.’
My whip-master? Sherlock thought. That meant whoever was asking the questions and whoever was handling the whip were two different people. How many more were hidden there, in the darkness, watching and listening?
‘I already know some of the answers to the questions that I ask you,’ the whispering voice went on, ‘and if your answers are different then you will suffer, both now and for the rest of your life. Who else knows about the bees?’
‘Professor Winchcombe in Guildford and Amyus Crowe in Farnham.’ Sherlock’s voice was trembling with the effort of keeping the pain under control. ‘My uncle Sherrinford. Amyus Crowe told the local doctor. I don’t know who else.’ Deliberately, Sherlock left Matthew Ar-natt’s name off the list, hoping that the man in the shadows didn’t know about him, or was discounting him as anyone important.
‘Too many,’ the voice said. Sherlock got the impression that it was talking to itself rather than him. Or perhaps to someone else, someone who was remaining silent. ‘We must accelerate the operation.’ A pause, as if the man behind the voice was thinking, and then: ‘Take the boy away and kill him. Make it look like an accident. Run him over with a horse and cart. Make sure the wheels crush his neck.’
Sherlock had a sudden horrific vision of the dead badger he had seen outside the warehouse – the one whose midriff had been flattened by a passing cart. And now the same thing was going to happen to him.
Hands grabbed his shoulders and hauled him out of the chair. He stumbled across to the door, pushed by the two footmen who had been standing silently behind him all this time. His mind flashed through a kaleidoscope of ideas for how to escape, but all of them depended on the first step of getting away from those clutching, pushing hands. Light suddenly spilt across the three of them as the door opened outward, pushed by one of the footmen who had momentarily released Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock turned, lashing out with a foot, hoping to hurt the other one enough that he would let him go, but his shoe just connected with the side of a leather boot and bounced off. A fist lashed out and cuffed the side of his head. Galaxies of light pinwheeled across his vision.
The door to the darkened room closed behind them, revealing Matty Arnatt standing there, holding a studded metal club. It looked like something an old-fashioned knight would have used on the field of battle.
He whacked it down on the head of the nearest footman. The man fell with all the grace of a sack of coal flung into a cellar. The other footman let go of Sherlock and took a step towards Matty, scowling, his burly hand reaching for Matty’s head. Sherlock stepped around him and punched him hard in the groin. The man folded, gasping for breath.
‘This way,’ Matty hissed, gesturing to Sherlock to follow him.
The two of them raced through the corridors of an unfamiliar house, all dark oak panels and black velvet curtains and startlingly white alabaster statues of naked Greek nymphs.
‘Where did you get that mace?’ Sherlock yelled as they ran. He could hear sounds of pursuit behind them.
‘There’s suits of armour and stuff all over the house,’ Matty called back over his shoulder. ‘I just took it.’
‘And what are you doing here?’
‘I was at the fair. I saw how you got suckered into that fight. I went to help, but you were being dragged off by two big coves. They threw you into the back of a cart and drove you here. I hung on to the back of the cart where they couldn’t see me, and then hopped off when it turned into this place. I’ve been looking for you ever since.’
‘Right,’ Sherlock gasped. ‘Where are we?’
‘’Bout three miles from Farnham. Other side from Holmes Manor.’ Matty led the way through an unremarkable door into what was probably the servants’ area, and from there to a bare brick corridor that led to a door into the garden. They emerged into blessedly fresh air and bright sunlight.
‘And you didn’t bring the bicycles?’
‘How could I?’ Matty shouted, affronted. ‘I was hanging off the back of a cart! I could hardly carry them, could I?’
‘Good point!’ Sherlock glanced around as they ran. They were at the back of the house. Instead of a garden, past a wide paved veranda and a short wall was the field full of beehives that he had seen earlier. ‘So how are we going to get out?’
‘I found a stable, didn’t I,’ Matty said, still aggrieved. ‘There’s ’orses!’
‘I can’t ride!’
Behind them, three men wearing black masks and black clothes erupted from an open set of glazed doors that probably led into a drawing room. They scattered in different directions. One of them saw Sherlock and Matty, and let out a yell.
Matty scowled at Sherlock. ‘Well, you ain’t got much time to learn, mate!’ he said.
Matty led the way round the corner of the house. A large barn lay ahead of them. The two boys raced across the open ground, hearing the rapid thump thump thump of running footsteps from behind them. They got to the barn and sprinted in through the open doors.
Inside, the barn was in shadow, and Sherlock’s eyes took a moment to adjust. Matty, who had been there before, immediately moved across to where two horses had been tied to wooden pillars outside their stalls. Both were already saddled.
‘Get on,’ Matty said. ‘Use the side of the stalls as a step.’
The pounding footsteps outside were getting closer. As Matty grabbed the saddle of the smaller horse, placed his foot in a stirrup and hoisted himself up, Sherlock half-climbed up the wooden side of the stalls with his right foot, slipped his left foot into the stirrup and tried to copy Matty’s smooth action on the other horse, a large chestnut mare. He ended up sitting in the saddle more through luck than judgement. The horse looked back at him calmly. It seemed unfazed by having a stranger suddenly jumping on its back.
‘Let’s go!’ Matty called. He’d taken the reins in one hand and was untying his horse with the other. Sherlock grabbed at his own reins and tried to remember what Virginia had told him about riding horses. Guide with your knees, not the reins. Use the reins for slowing the horse down.
Without glancing backwards, Matty urged his horse out of the barn doors. He seemed to assume that Sherlock would just follow. Sherlock shook loose the rope that kept his own horse from wandering off. A sudden wave of panic sw
ept over him as he realized that Virginia had told him how to steer and how to stop, but not how to start. Tentatively, he pressed both knees into the horse’s sides. Obediently, the horse began to walk. Sherlock leaned forward in the saddle to compensate for the swaying movement. He pressed harder with his knees and gave the reins an experimental shake. The horse broke into a trot, then a canter. Why did people make out that riding was so hard? It was just a series of signals and actions!
The scene outside burst upon Sherlock in a blaze of colour and action as they left the barn. Matty was racing off, with a group of masked servants chasing him on foot and falling behind. Two masked men were standing in front of Sherlock, trying to block his path. One of them was waving a revolver. He fired in Sherlock’s direction, and Sherlock felt something hot brush past his hair. He urged his horse into a gallop. The horse ploughed straight through the middle of the two men, knocking them to the ground. Using his knees, he pushed his horse into speeding up. It seemed as if they were flying across the ground, catching up with Matty.
Within moments they were approaching the boundary wall of the estate. It must have been ten feet high. The two boys guided their horses into a curve, towards the main gates. The two horses pounded across the ground, the sound of their hoofs changing as they went from soft earth to the stones of the drive. Sherlock’s heart sank as he saw that the main gates of the estate were being pushed closed. Two masked servants with shotguns were standing in front of them, aiming at the horses. At the same moment, Sherlock and Matty hauled back on their reins. With a spray of stones, the horses skidded to a halt.
One of the men fired his shotgun. The blast echoed across the grounds. Sherlock glimpsed the buckshot flying past them in an expanding cloud, like an explosion of midges.
Using his knees to guide the horse, and instinctively tugging on the left side of the reins for emphasis, Sherlock pulled the animal around. Matty did likewise. The boys urged their horses forward into a gallop again. The house loomed before them, dark and forbidding.
Glancing to left and right, Sherlock saw masked men coming round both sides of the house, armed with a collection of revolvers, shotguns, fowling pieces and pitchforks. The only direction was straight on, towards the main doors of the house.
Matty began to slow. He glanced round uncertainly.
Sherlock galloped past his friend, yelling: ‘Follow me!’ Left and right were blocked, as was behind. He could almost hear his brother Mycroft’s voice saying: ‘When all other options are impossible, Sherlock, embrace the one that’s left, however improbable it might be.’
His horse, sensing his intentions, jumped the few steps up to the portico in front of the house and headed unerringly for the wide front doors.
Sherlock ducked as his horse galloped through the open doors and into the entrance hall, feeling the lintel of the doorway brush his hair. The horse’s hoofs skidded and clattered on the tiled flooring, nearly unseating Sherlock before the animal could get its footing again. The darkness of the hall confused him for a moment, but his eyes adjusted within seconds and he urged the horse forward, past the marble stairs and towards the back of the house. Masked servants ran out of doorways and then fell back, terrified by the two horses that almost filled the space. Rather than head for the servants’ areas, Sherlock guided the horse sharply right, pushing open a door into what he suspected – based on its placement and comparing it with Holmes Manor – was a drawing room. He was right.
The room was spacious and bright, with large glazed double doors leading out on to a veranda. And, as Sherlock remembered from the escape earlier, the doors were open!
Within seconds, he and the horse were galloping through the drawing room and out on to the veranda. He heard a commotion as Matty’s horse knocked aside furniture in the room behind him, and then the clatter of hoofs on the flagstones of the veranda.
Ahead, across the field of beehives, he caught sight of a smaller back gate, through which provisions and supplies were probably delivered. It looked unguarded. He raced for it, the horse’s mane whipping against his face and the breeze rushing past his ears. The boxy shapes of the beehives formed a geometrical grid through which the horse galloped in a straight line. Clouds of bees took flight behind them, but the horse was too fast for them and they just milled and roiled in confusion.
The back gate was locked, but it only took a moment for Sherlock to dismount and throw the bolt back. He turned and looked across the grounds of the house as Matty cantered up beside him. Masked men, armed, were massing on the other side of the field of beehives. They obviously didn’t want to risk entering the area. One or two of them were already batting at the air as the angry bees attacked the first thing that came to hand.
‘I thought that went well,’ said Matty. ‘Shall we stay and watch?’
‘Let’s not,’ said Sherlock.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Amyus Crowe finished cleaning the cuts on Sherlock’s face with a flannel and a liquid that smelt sharp and stung wherever he touched it, then walked across his cottage and sat in a wicker chair. It creaked beneath his weight. He pushed back with his feet, balancing the chair on its two back legs, and rocked it gently. All the time his eyes were fixed on Sherlock.
Beside Sherlock, Matty shifted uncertainly, like an animal that wanted to run but didn’t know which direction was safe.
‘Quite a story,’ Crowe murmured.
Assuming that Crowe’s words were just a way of breaking the silence while he was thinking, Sherlock kept quiet. Crowe rocked back and forth, all the while staring at Sherlock. ‘Yep, quite a story,’ he said after a while.
Crowe’s level gaze was making Sherlock edgy, so he looked away,letting his eyes drift around the room. Amyus Crowe’s cottage was cluttered, full of books, newspapers and periodicals that had been left wherever he had set them down. A pile of letters was fixed to the wooden mantelpiece with a knife through their centres, next to a clock that indicated that it was coming up to two o’clock. Beside them sat a single slipper, from which a handful of cigars protruded like grasping fingers. It should have looked squalid, but there was no dust, no dirt. The place was clean but untidy. It just seemed as if Crowe had a different way of storing things.
‘What do you make of it all?’ Crowe challenged eventually.
Sherlock shrugged. He didn’t like being the object of Crowe’s attention. ‘If I knew that,’ he countered, ‘I wouldn’t have had to come to you.’
‘It would be nice if one person could always make a difference,’ Crowe replied without a trace of irritation, ‘but in this complicated world of ours you sometimes need friends, and you sometimes need an organization to back you up.’
‘You think we should go to the Peelers?’ Matty asked, obviously nervous.
‘The police?’ Crowe shook his head. ‘I doubt they’d believe you, and even if they did there’s little they could do. Whoever lives in this big house of yours will deny everythin’. They’ve got the power and the authority, not you. And you got to admit, it’s a preposterous story on the face of it.’
‘Do you believe us?’ Sherlock challenged.
Crowe’s face creased up in surprise. ‘Of course I believe you,’ he said.
‘Why? Like you said, it’s a preposterous story.’
Crowe smiled. ‘People do things when they lie,’ he replied. ‘Lyin’ is stressful, cos you got to keep two different things straight in your head at the same time – the truth that you’re tryin’ to keep secret and the lie that you’re tryin’ to tell. That stress manifests itself in certain ways. People don’t make eye contact properly, they rub their noses, they hesitate and stammer more when they talk. And they go into more detail than is necessary, as if it makes their lie more believable if they can remember what colour the wallpaper was, and whether the people had beards or moustaches or suchlike. You told your story straight, you looked me in the eye and you didn’t add in extraneous details. Far as I can judge, you’re tellin’ the truth – or at least, what you believe to
be the truth.’
‘So what do we do now?’ Sherlock asked. ‘There’s something going on around here. It’s got to do with clothes that are being made for the Army, and bees, and that warehouse in Farnham. And that man in the big house – the Baron, I think – is behind it all, but I don’t know what he’s doing.’
‘Then we need to find out.’ Amyus Crowe let his chair settle back on to its four legs and stood up. ‘If you haven’t got enough facts to come to a conclusion then you go out and get more facts. Let’s go and ask some questions.’
Matty shifted uncomfortably. ‘I gotta go,’ he muttered.
‘Come with us, kid,’ Crowe said. ‘You were part of this adventure, and you deserve to find out what’s goin’ on. And besides, young Sherlock here seems to trust you.’ He paused. ‘If it helps make your mind up, I’ll get us some food on the way.’
‘I’m in,’ Matty said.
Crowe led the way outside. In the meadow beside the cottage, Virginia Crowe was brushing down her horse, Sandia. Beside it was a larger bay mare. Sherlock assumed it was Crowe’s horse. The two horses that Sherlock and Matty had ridden away from the Baron’s mansion were quietly cropping the grass off to one side.
Virginia looked up as they approached. Her gaze met Sherlock’s and she glanced away quickly.
‘We’re goin’ for a ride,’ Crowe announced. ‘Virginia, you come along too. The more people askin’ questions, the more chance of some half-decent answers.’
‘I don’t know what questions to ask,’ Virginia protested.
‘You were outside the door, listenin’,’ Crowe said with a smile. ‘I heard Sandia whinnying. He only ever does that if you’re within sight but not actually with him. And I could see somethin’ movin’ about, blockin’ the sunlight ’neath the door.’
Virginia blushed, but kept gazing at her father, half-defiantly. ‘You always taught me to take advantage of my opportunities,’ she said.