Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud - Andrew Lane [15]
Sherlock found himself pulled in two directions by the letter. On the one hand he felt reassured and happier now that Mycroft had got in contact, and now that he knew that Mycroft approved of Amyus Crowe, but on the other hand he was now actively worried about something that had previously been just a nagging concern – Mrs Eglantine, and her obvious dislike for him.
‘Interestin’ letter?’
The voice was deep and warm, and held an accent that Sherlock couldn’t place. He turned, folding the letter up and slipping it into his pocket.
The man standing just outside the open front door was tall and wide-chested. His unruly shock of hair was pure white and the skin of his neck sagged, but the way he held his body belied his obvious age. His skin was leathery and brown, as if he had spent a great deal of time outdoors in a hotter sun than England could offer. He wore a beige suit of a cut and material that Sherlock wasn’t familiar with, and held in his hand a wide-brimmed hat.
‘From my brother, Mycroft,’ Sherlock said, uncertain how to proceed. Should he call for a maid, or invite the man in?
‘Ah, Mycroft Holmes,’ the man said. ‘We have mutual acquaintances, I understand. And as I refuse to believe that you are old enough to be Mr Sherrinford Holmes, I guess that you must be young Sherlock instead.’
‘Sherlock Scott Holmes, at your service,’ Sherlock said, drawing himself up. He looked around. ‘Ah, would you care to come in, Mr . . . ?’
‘Mr Amyus Crowe,’ the man replied. ‘Formerly of Albuquerque in the state of New Mexico, part of the United States of America. And you’re very kind.’ He stepped inside. ‘But you had probably already deduced my identity. I am here at the recommendation of your brother, and he would hardly write to you without mentioning it, now would he?’
‘I should find a maid, or—’
Before he could finish the sentence, Mrs Eglantine stepped out from the shadows beside the main staircase. How long had she been standing there? Had she seen Sherlock reading the letter?
‘Mr Crowe?’ she asked. ‘The Master has been expecting you. Please – come this way.’ She gestured towards the door to the study.
Sherlock shivered, despite himself. There was no way she could have known what was inside his letter short of opening and then resealing it, and he refused to believe that of her, but nevertheless he felt as if he had been caught doing something wrong.
Amyus Crowe entered the hall and left his hat and walking stick on the coat rack. He walked up to Sherlock. ‘We’ll talk later,’ he said, putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock was tall for his age, but Amyus Crowe towered over him, making him feel like a ten-year-old. ‘Hang around, son.’ He glanced around the hall. ‘While you’re waiting, try to work out how many of these paintings are fakes.’
Mrs Eglantine stiffened. ‘None of these paintings is fraudulent!’ she hissed. ‘The Master would never allow it!’
‘“None of them” is an acceptable answer,’ Crowe said, walking past Sherlock with a wink. He handed Mrs Eglantine a card. ‘Grateful if you could announce my presence.’
Mrs Eglantine led Amyus Crowe into the library. Moments later she emerged and moved away without looking at Sherlock. He followed her with his eyes as she vanished into the shadows by the stairs, and wondered whether she had stopped there, turned around, and was watching him.
Sherlock could hear voices from inside the library, but could not make out any words. He wandered along the oak panelling, taking in the details of each of the paintings in turn. None of them were labelled. Art appreciation had not been on the syllabus at Deepdene School, and he found that he could not raise much interest in the various landscapes, seascapes and hunting scenes. They all appeared to him to be false, with their perfect trees, their wild seas and their horses with spindly legs.
Albuquerque. America. It all sounded so romantic. Sherlock knew little about the country, save the fact that it