Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud - Andrew Lane [11]
Sherlock was about to say something about the likelihood that the men were just providing some protection for the wages of the workers within when the gates swung open. Two men stepped out into the road; their faces were battered, scarred and grim but their clothes were immaculate in black velvet. They looked left and right, checking the boys out momentarily and dismissing them, then gestured to someone inside.
A carriage pulled by a single black horse nosed out of the courtyard. Its driver was a massive man with hands like spades and a head that was bald and covered in scars. They closed the gates, then jumped on the back of the carriage, hanging on as it moved away.
‘Let’s see if the gent will give us a farthing,’ Matty whispered. Before Sherlock could stop him, he was running towards the carriage.
Surprised, the horse shied back against the shafts that connected it to the carriage. The driver tried to regain control, slashing at it with his whip, but he just made things worse. The carriage slewed around as the horse tried to prance away from Matty.
Through the carriage window, Sherlock was momentarily shocked to see a pale, almost skeletal face framed with wispy white hair staring at him with unblinking eyes that were small and pink, like the eyes of a white rat. He felt an instant flash of instinctive revulsion, as if he had reached out for a lettuce leaf on his dinner plate and touched a slug instead. He wanted to move, to back away, but that pale, malevolent gaze held him pinioned, unable to move. And then the burly driver managed to regain control and the horse cantered past the two boys, taking the carriage and its occupant with it.
‘Didn’t even get a chance,’ Matty moaned, dusting himself down. ‘I thought that bloke was going to have a go at me with that whip.’
‘Who was the man in the carriage?’ Sherlock asked, his voice unsteady.
Matty shook his head. ‘I never even got a look at him. Did he look rich?’ he said hopefully.
‘He looked like he was three days dead,’ said Sherlock.
CHAPTER THREE
Clouds of steam from the train’s funnel billowed up through the slats of the bridge, scalding the boys’ legs. Sherlock ran one way, Matty the other, both of them laughing and damp. The train ploughed majestically underneath them and into Farnham station, slowing as it arrived, and the boys moved back to the centre of the wooden bridge that connected the platforms, watching as it came gradually to a halt with a clanking of chains and a cacophonous hiss as the driver vented the remaining steam.
It was the morning of the following day. The platform had been deserted before the train arrived, but within moments it was magically transformed into a bustling mass of people heading for the exit. Men in black frock coats and top hats emerged from the First Class compartments like insects from cocoons, rubbing shoulders with the paunchy men in tweed jackets and flat caps and the women in decent frocks who had been sitting in Second Class, and the various muscled and weather-beaten labourers in threadbare shirts and patched trousers who had been squashed together in Third. Men in uniform opened a sliding door in one of the carriages and began unloading wooden crates, and bags of what Sherlock supposed were letters. Station porters appeared from whatever offices they normally hid themselves away in and started moving the boxes and bags on trolleys away from the train. Within a few moments the platform was almost clear again, apart from a handful of lingering townsfolk who were chatting together, catching up on the events of the week. A guard, self-important in blue tunic and hat, stepped forward, looked up and down the length of the train, raised his whistle to his lips and blew a short, sharp blast. The train seemed to shudder and then began to heave itself out of the station, ponderously at first and then with increasing speed. The carriages clanked