Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud - Andrew Lane [10]
As they reached an alleyway that ran sideways off the main road, Matty paused.
‘What’s the matter?’ Sherlock asked.
Matty hesitated. ‘That thing I saw.’ He shrugged. ‘It was down there, a few days back. Something I don’t understand.’
‘Do you want to show me?’
Instead of replying, Matty ran off down the alley. Sherlock sprinted to catch up with him.
The alley dog-legged into a side street narrow enough that Sherlock could touch the buildings on either side. People were leaning out of upper windows and talking to one another just as easily as if they were leaning over garden fences. Matty was staring up at a particular window. It was empty, and the door below it was shut. The place looked deserted.
‘It was up there,’ he said. ‘I saw smoke, but it moved. It came out of the window, crawled up the wall and vanished over the roof.’
‘Smoke doesn’t do that,’ Sherlock pointed out.
‘This smoke did,’ Matty said firmly.
‘Maybe the wind was blowing it.’
‘Maybe.’ Matty seemed unconvinced. His brow was furrowed as he recalled what had happened there. ‘I heard someone screaming inside. I ran off, cos I was scared, but I came back later. There was a cart outside, and they was loading a dead body into it. There was a sheet over the body, but it got caught in the door and it got pulled off. I saw the body. I saw its face.’ He turned to Sherlock, and his face was a mask of fear and uncertainty. ‘He was covered in boils – big red boils, all over his face and neck and arms – and his face was all twisted, like he’d died in agony. Do you think it was the plague? I’ve heard about it, ravaging the country in the past. Do you think it’s come back?’
Sherlock felt a chill run across his shoulders. ‘I suppose this might be the start of another outbreak, but one death doesn’t make a plague. It could have been scarlet fever, or any number of other things.’
‘And that shadow I saw moving over the roof – what about that? Was that his soul? Or something come to take it?’
‘That,’ Sherlock said firmly, ‘was just an illusion caused by the angle of the sun and a passing cloud.’ He took Matty by the shoulder and pulled him away. ‘Come on – let’s go.’
He guided Matty away from the house and down the narrow street. Within moments they were back on the main road through Farnham. Matty was pale and quiet.
‘Are you all right?’ Sherlock asked gently.
Matty nodded. ‘Sorry,’ he said, shamefaced. ‘It just . . . spooked me. I don’t like disease, ever since . . .’
‘I understand. Look, I don’t know what it was that you saw, but I’ll give it some thought. My uncle’s got a library – the answer might be in there. Or in the local newspaper archives.’
They walked across a small bridge and back into town. The street led past a set of wooden gates set into a stone wall. An animal of some kind was lying by the gates, legs outstretched stiffly, not moving. Its fur was dirty and dull. For a moment Sherlock thought it was a dog, but as they got closer he could see the pointed snout, the short legs and the alternating stripes of black and white – now lighter grey and darker grey – that ran down its head. It was a badger, and Sherlock noticed that its stomach was nearly flat against the road. It had been run over, probably by the wheel of a cart.
Matty slowed down as he approached. ‘You should be careful going past here,’ he confided, as if