Stone Cold

by Andrew Lane

  The untidy lawn had been transformed. That afternoon there had been nothing there over knee height, but now it was filled with trees. They were the trees from the orchard, but they appeared taller. It took a moment for Sherlock to see why, but when he did he smiled. It was, of course, the most logical solution.

  The roots of the trees weren’t buried in the soil, as they had been in the orchard. That would, of course, have made it impossible for them to be moved unless they had been dug up one by one, which would have taken too much time and left traces. It was apparent now that when the trees had been planted a couple of hundred years before, they had been planted in large wooden barrels which had been sunk into the earth. Their roots had grown inside the barrels as the years went on. If the roots had ever got to the edge of the barrels then they would have been forced back on themselves, which might explain why the trees were stunted. Now whoever was moving the trees had just pulled the barrels up out of the ground, taking the trees with them. Looking at the tops of the barrels now, Sherlock could see loops of thick rope that had been attached to them. They must have been buried loosely in the soil as well. The people moving the trees would just have to dig around until they found the rope loops, and then it would have been relatively easy to pull the barrels up.

  Relatively easy. It still would have taken a fair amount of time, and a fair number of people, which is why Maberley had to be drugged every time they did it.

  The apple trees weren’t arranged in nice rows, the way they had been in the orchard. They were just set down higgledy-piggledy, wherever the movers could find a space.

  Sherlock had been aware for some time of a rumbling noise, but now it was getting louder. He moved back a fraction, and pulled Matty back as well.

  Around the distant next corner of the house came a cart. Not the normal kind of cart that you could see on any road on any day, but a big, heavy cart with wheels as wide as Sherlock’s forearm. As he had suspected, the wheels were padded with big pillow-like objects that squashed under the weight of the cart and its contents as they moved. The cart was pulled by three enormous shire horses, and the horses were being guided by a team of men dressed in black, with black masks over their faces. On the cart, of course, were two apple trees in barrels that must have been removed from the ground only a few moments before.

  From down near his waist, Sherlock heard Matty make a hissing noise. ‘It’s obvious, ain’t it?’ he whispered. ‘If the house ain’t movin’, then it must be the orchard that moves!’

  ‘Oh, yes, now it’s obvious,’ Sherlock muttered. ‘It wasn’t so obvious earlier on, was it?’

  Another man, tall but thinner than the others, walked behind the cart, checking where it was going. He communicated with the others through hand gestures. It looked as if he was the one in charge.

  As Sherlock and Matty watched, the cart slowed to a halt and the masked men scrambled up on top of it. Each one took hold of a rope loop, and together they lifted the first tree, moved it to the edge of the cart and lowered it down to the ground.

  ‘The fairy rings!’ Matty whispered.

  ‘No fairies,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘Just thieves.’

  ‘But I still don’t understand – what are they stealin’? Not the trees – they always put them back again when they’ve finished.’ Matty hesitated, then hit his forehead with his palm. ‘Of course – they think there’s somethin’ under the trees!’

  ‘Let’s go and check,’ Sherlock said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The men had finished dropping the trees off the cart now, and were leading the shire horses around in a wide half-circle so they could take them back to the orchard again and, presumably, pick up another couple of trees. The thinner man who was supervising them took a last look around, glanced at the house, then followed them back.

  Sherlock and Matty moved cautiously along the side of the house, keeping low so that their bodies would just be dark shapes against the blackness of the house itself. When they got to the end they peered around the edge. They were looking towards the orchard now, and past more of the relocated trees. The empty cart was rumbling slowly down a gap that had been left between the trees.

  Sherlock spotted a large bush over near the waist-high wall that bounded the house’s grounds. He glanced around to check that they weren’t being watched, then dragged Matty across the open ground and dived behind the bush. They were looking diagonally across at the orchard now, and it was obvious what was happening.

  The apple trees nearest the house had been removed and relocated to the lawn. The trees further into the orchard had been moved as well, some of them to the lawn and some of them put into the holes left by trees that had already been moved. There was now a gap in the middle of the orchard where there had previously been apple trees, but now there were only dark holes, like pockmarks in the earth. The thinner man and a couple of his companions were bent down at the edge of one of the holes, staring in. As Sherlock watched, one of them jumped in. His head ducked out of sight as he crouched and began to hunt around inside. The thinner man, on the lip of the hole, looked as if he was whispering instructions.

  ‘They’re lookin’ for somethin’ that’s been buried,’ Matty observed. ‘The problem is, they don’t know where it’s been buried, just that it’s under one of them apple trees.’

  ‘That’s right. They’re working their way across the orchard in a logical sequence, from the easiest trees to the most difficult to reach.’ Sherlock felt a warm glow of satisfaction. He had been right in his deductions. ‘Do you remember the story that Ferny Weston told us, the one about the orchard having been planted around the same time as the English Civil War? He said that there was a rumour that Prince Charles had been hidden here from Oliver Cromwell’s Roundhead forces, and that in return he had given the Maberley family a great treasure when he was finally crowned king. I’d been wondering where exactly the Cavalier sympathizers and the Prince could have been hidden – there’s nowhere in the house they could have been secreted. I think it’s obvious now that there are hiding places beneath the trees of the orchard. The holes must go deeper than the barrels, leaving space for refugees to curl up and wait until the searchers had gone away, when the trees could be pulled up again and they could be rescued. They must have taken food down with them, and maybe even oil lamps so they could read, and keep warm.’ He gestured to the searching men. ‘I think that they think that the treasure is hidden in one of the holes as well, and that would make perfect sense. We know they searched Maberley’s house first off, because he said that there was a time when he woke up to find the house tidier than it had been. They didn’t find the treasure in the house anywhere, so they started on the orchard. Very clever of them to work that out.’

  ‘An’ they’ve been workin’ all this time to find the treasure? That’s dedication for you.’

  ‘It’s probably something incredibly valuable – jewels and gold certainly, but the historical connections would make it much more important.’

  Matty sounded grudgingly impressed. ‘All that time, night after night, an’ they keep on goin’.’

  ‘I don’t know why,’ Sherlock murmured. ‘It’s obvious where the treasure actually is.’

  ‘Is that right?’ a voice said loudly behind them. ‘In that case, you can save us all a lot of effort.’

  Sherlock and Matty turned around. Behind them three masked men stood. Two of them held knives – wickedly curved and serrated. The other held a gun, which was pointed mid-way between the two boys.

  ‘We should’ve woken Maberley up,’ Matty pointed out. ‘Or at least taken ’is gun.’

  ‘Don’t tell me that now,’ Sherlock muttered. ‘Tell me that half an hour ago.’

  ‘Hey, you’re supposed to be the intelligent one.’

  ‘No talking,’ the man with the gun said. ‘At least, not for a few minutes. Then you can talk all you want. In fact, you won’t be able to talk fast enough.’ He gestured with the gun. ‘Go on – into the orchard.’r />
  The group moved off, with Sherlock and Matty in the lead and their captors bringing up the rear. The two men with knives spread out to either side, in case Sherlock or Matty made a run for it. They walked across the lawn, between the massive barrels that held the apple trees, and into the orchard itself.

  In the centre of the orchard there were twelve holes where trees had been removed. In the light of the stars and the three-quarter moon, and the shielded lamps that he now saw the men were using, the sides of the holes looked smooth, lined with tiny roots and soil. He glanced into one, and saw that the bottom was circular, but that there was a smaller square hole dug into the earth in its centre. That hole was lined with wood – it looked like a crate had been dropped in and the top taken off. That, he guessed, was where the Cavalier refugees would have hidden from the Roundhead searchers.

  ‘Who’s this?’ a voice said. Sherlock looked up, and saw the thinner masked man that he had seen directing the others earlier. The boss. The one in charge.

  ‘We found them over by the house, boss. They were watching you.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ The man walked over to look at Sherlock. ‘What is it that you want?’

  Sherlock shrugged. ‘Just to know what’s going on. Mr Maberley told us his story – about the house moving. I wanted to see what the truth was.’

  The man – in fact, by the tone of his voice he was closer to a boy – laughed. ‘Yes, he’s been telling that story for a while now. At first I thought someone might listen to him, check what was going on, but they didn’t, so I stopped worrying. What’s your name?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Sherlock stared at the boy’s eyes, which were clear and blue beneath the mask. ‘I don’t think you’re going to let us go, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m not. Maybe, like you, I just wanted to know.’

  The man with the gun stepped forward. ‘He said he knows where the treasure is.’

  The boyish leader moved to face Sherlock and stared into his eyes for a long moment. ‘He doesn’t,’ he said eventually, with complete confidence. ‘He thinks he does, but it’s just a guess. He isn’t sure.’

  ‘But if he does, he could save us all a lot of time.’

  The boy shook his head again. ‘He doesn’t. He’s just inflating the importance of some small deduction he has made, trying to keep himself and his friend alive.’

  ‘But—’

  The boy made a chopping motion with his hand. ‘Enough. The subject is closed.’ He turned back to Sherlock, and pulled his mask abruptly off. He was about the same age as Sherlock, and about the same height, although his brown hair was longer. He stared at Sherlock challengingly. ‘I thought you might want to see my face, before you die,’ he said. ‘A last courtesy.’

  ‘Very kind.’ Sherlock smiled. ‘Or is it more that you’re tired of nobody knowing who you are, and you want at least one person to see your face, to know your name and to tell you how clever you are before this is all over?’

  The boy shrugged. ‘Fame has its benefits, and its problems. That being said, I’ve been unknown for a good while now. Maybe that should change.’

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Jude,’ the boy said.

  ‘Jude what?’

  He smiled. ‘That’s all you’re getting for the moment. And you are . . . ?’

  ‘Sherlock Holmes. And this is Matthew Arnatt. I must admit, I’m impressed at how you manage to keep all these men in line – you being so young and inexperienced, and them being so much bigger and stronger than you. I’m surprised it hasn’t occurred to them to get rid of you and take over. That way they’d get a bigger share of the treasure, and they wouldn’t have to take orders from a kid.’

  The boy laughed. ‘You’re trying to drive a wedge between us,’ he said. ‘It won’t work. They know I’m going to give them what they want.’

  ‘They want money,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘It’s not that hard to work out.’

  Jude shook his head. ‘That’s not it. Everyone wants something different – but they almost always think that money will get it for them.’ He indicated one of the men, who was trying to get an apple tree out of the ground. ‘Take Sutton there. He says he wants money, but what he actually wants is good health, and an end to the terrible pain he gets from his rotten teeth. I know that. I can talk to him about it, and take him seriously.’ He pointed to another man, this one patrolling the edge of the orchard. ‘Dillman, over there, also says he wants money, but he really wants a family who love him – a wife and three kids. I understand that, and he knows that I understand. That’s why they all follow me – I know their deepest desires.’

  ‘How can you do that?’ Sherlock asked, intrigued.

  ‘I can see what people want. I can tell from the way they look off to one side when they speak, or the way they play with their fingers, even the specific words they use. It’s a talent I’ve always had.’

  ‘What do I want then?’ Matty asked pugnaciously.

  Jude glanced at him. ‘You want a good kicking,’ he snapped.

  Matty scowled at him. ‘You know what – I don’t like you.’

  ‘Imagine the pain that gives me,’ Jude said, looking away. ‘Regardless – your own particular desires and wishes are irrelevant. As of now, what happens to you is what I want.’

  ‘You were a student at the University,’ Sherlock guessed. ‘Allowed in early because of your academic brilliance.’

  ‘Well deduced. I was a scholarship pupil – I got in on my merits, not because my parents paid. They weren’t rich enough, or of the right social circle.’

  ‘And you were thrown out.’

  Jude nodded. ‘Things went missing. Money was stolen. I was younger then, and I was inexperienced. I hadn’t thought through the implications of what I was doing. I acted impulsively, rather than thinking things through. So – they got rid of me. The University authorities didn’t have enough evidence to go to the police with, but that didn’t stop them. I stayed in the area, and I started specializing in high-end robberies – artworks, statues, that kind of thing. There are a lot of rich people with nice rare stuff around Oxford, and there are a lot of even richer people further away from Oxford who don’t have this nice rare stuff but want it. I decided to act as a middle-man, taking from the rich and giving – well, selling – to the even richer. It’s funded a very comfortable lifestyle for me, and it has bought the loyalty of these excellent fellows, each of whom is earning the kind of money that an Oxford lecturer might expect, as well as satisfying their own deepest desires.’

  Sherlock remembered something that Ferny Weston had told him, about a gang of art thieves that couldn’t be caught. ‘You kept evading the police,’ he said. ‘You must have had inside information – not only about the big houses and their art collections, but also about the progress of the police investigation.’

  The boy smiled. ‘Inside information is my speciality. It’s what gives me my edge.’

  ‘Who was it? Who gave you the information about the big houses and the police?’

  ‘Now that,’ Jude said, laughing, ‘is a step too far. I don’t mind gloating about how clever I am, but I’m not going to risk telling you how clever other people are, especially if they work for me.’

  ‘Or you work for them.’ Sherlock caught the telltale twitch of Jude’s lip. ‘Yes, you’re not the top dog, are you? You’re not quite as clever as you want us to think.’

  Jude turned to the man with the gun. ‘I’ve had my fun,’ he said curtly. ‘Throw them into a hole, put a tree on top of them, and leave them to starve or suffocate.’

  The man looked at his gun. ‘Why not just shoot them?’ he asked, puzzled.

  ‘I don’t like them,’ the boy said, staring at Sherlock. ‘This one’s too clever by half. I want them to suffer, and as they lie there, dying, I want them to remember who it was that bested them.’

  He stalked off. Matty looked up at Sherlock and said: ‘’E’s not as bright as ’e thinks ’e is, is ’e?’


  ‘Like a lot of people,’ Sherlock replied, ‘he’s clever in one direction, but not in others.’

  ‘Enough talking.’ The man with the gun stepped forward, pointing the gun at Sherlock. ‘Get in the hole.’

  ‘Or what?’ Sherlock challenged. ‘You’re going to shoot me? Your boss specifically told you not to.’

  The man didn’t say anything in reply. He just stepped forward and lashed out at Sherlock with his gun. The barrel caught Sherlock on his forehead. Through the haze of pain, Sherlock felt himself being pushed by someone’s foot closer and closer to the edge of the nearest hole. He tried desperately to dig his fingers into the soil to stop himself moving, but it was no good. If he did manage to get a grip, the person moving him just kicked him in the stomach until he let go.

  ‘There ain’t room for both of them in the same hole!’ someone called.

  The man pushing Sherlock responded: ‘It’s not like they’re going to be there forever. The air’ll run out before they get too uncomfortable! Let them squash up – the other one’s a tiddler anyway!’

  ‘No, I mean with two of them in the same hole we won’t be able to get the tree back in properly. It’ll stick up, and someone’ll notice.’

  A hesitation, then: ‘All right – put the small one in that hole over there. I’ve just about got this one in here.’

  Sherlock glanced around desperately, tying to see where Matty was. He got one fragmentary glimpse of the boy over to his right, fighting with his captors, and then Sherlock felt his shoulders tip over the edge of the hole and into empty space. He tried to roll back, but a firm boot between his shoulderblades dissuaded him. The boot pushed hard, and he was falling, dropping through the air with a circle of sky getting ever-smaller above him. His shoulders and back smashed into the soil lip around the top of the crate that was buried inside the hole, while his legs fell inside. A spike of raw agony flared through him. He thought he might have broken his back. The weight of his legs falling into the crate pulled the rest of him over the edge. He tried to get his legs working beneath him so that he could push himself up and climb back out – although what he intended to do then wasn’t exactly obvious. One step at a time. He could feel his legs, thank heavens, but they refused to obey his orders, and just gave way like rubber when he tried to put any weight on them.