Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud - Andrew Lane [12]
‘Is that the train to London or the train from London?’ Sherlock asked.
Matty looked up and down the line. ‘To,’ he said finally. ‘From here the line goes to Tongham, Ash, Ash Wharf and then on to Brookwood and Guildford. From there you can get a train straight through to London.’
London. Sherlock gazed along the tracks to where the train was just pulling around a bend and out of sight. At the end of its journey it would be within a mile or two of his brother Mycroft, who would be sitting in his office reading documents, or poring over a map of the world, coloured red where the British Empire had made its mark. For a moment the desire to run after the train and climb on board was almost overwhelming. He missed his brother. He missed his father and his mother and his sister. He even missed Deepdene School for Boys, although not as much.
‘What’s at Brookwood?’ he asked, trying to distract his thoughts more than anything else.
Matty seemed to shiver. ‘Don’t ask,’ he said.
‘No, really.’ Sherlock’s interest was piqued now. ‘Is it anything worth us going to see?’
Matty shook his head. ‘There’s nothing there that you want to see in daylight,’ he said with finality, ‘and you wouldn’t want to be there at night, believe me.’
‘I was thinking that we could get hold of some bicycles,’ Sherlock pressed. ‘Get out and about. See some of the villages and the towns around here.’
Matty glanced over at him, frowning. ‘Why would we want to do that?’
‘Curiosity?’ Sherlock asked. ‘Don’t you ever wonder what things are like before you see them?’
‘Towns look like towns and villages look like villages,’ Matty averred, ‘and all the people look like each other. That’s the way life is. Come on, let’s go.’
He led Sherlock along the bridge, down the cast iron stairs and on to the platform where the passengers had earlier disembarked. From there they walked out into the road.
A cart had drawn up by the side of the road, and three men were loading it up with crates of ice insulated with straw that had come off the train.
One of the men was a weasely-faced fellow with yellow teeth. He scowled at the boys as they walked past.
‘Young Master Sherlock,’ a cutting voice said from behind them. ‘I am disappointed to find you consorting with scruffy street Arabs. Your brother would be mortified.’
Sherlock turned, already blushing despite not knowing who was talking to him, to find the housekeeper, Mrs Eglantine, standing a few feet away. Two men who Sherlock recognized from Holmes Manor were loading a series of boxes of groceries on to a cart which was hitched to a large and apparently placid horse. The boxes had almost certainly come off the train.
‘Street Arabs?’ Sherlock looked around. Matty was the only other person there and he was watching Mrs Eglantine with a cautious eye, looking ready to run if things went bad. ‘If you think he’s a street Arab then you need to get out more, Mrs Eglantine,’ Sherlock said boldly, irritated by her attitude.
Her lips twisted. ‘The Master wishes to see you when you return,’ she said as the two men behind her loaded the last box on to the cart. ‘Please do not keep him waiting.’ She turned and stepped up into one of the front seats. ‘Lunch will be served whether you are present or not,’ she added, as one of the men swung up to join her at the front and the other climbed on the back. ‘Your friend is not invited.’
The horse trotted off, pulling the cart behind it. Mrs Eglantine didn’t turn to look at Sherlock, but kept staring ahead. The man sitting on the back of the cart glanced at the boy and nodded agreeably, touching the front of his cap. He was missing several teeth, and there was a notch in his ear that looked like he’d caught it with a knife, or an axe, or something.
‘Who was that?’ Matty said, coming up beside Sherlock.
‘That was Mrs Eglantine. She’s the housekeeper at the place where I’m staying.’ He paused. ‘She doesn’t like me.’
‘I’m guessing that she doesn’t like anyone,’ Matty said.
‘I’d better go,