Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud - Andrew Lane [19]
Straightening up, he found himself looking at a figure in the distance, sitting on a horse. They were just beyond the gateway leading out into the road, the other side of the high wall. The horse was stationary, and it looked to Sherlock as if the figure was watching him. He squinted, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, but in the moment that his hand blocked his gaze the horse moved on and the figure was gone.
Putting the figure from his mind, Sherlock found a wheelbarrow near the henhouse, and quickly pushed it back through the woods to where the body lay. He found Crowe going through the man’s pockets.
‘Nothing to say who he is,’ he said without looking round. His voice was muffled by the handkerchief. ‘Do you recognize him?’
Sherlock gazed at the swollen face, feeling his stomach rolling uneasily. He tried to see past the boils and the redness to the features beneath. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said eventually, ‘but it’s difficult to tell.’
‘Look at the ears,’ Crowe said. ‘People’s ears are quite distinctive. Some don’t have ear lobes, some are crinkly and some are like perfect shells. It’s a simple way to tell people apart, especially if they’re tryin’ to disguise themselves.’
Sherlock bit back his immediate response that the man lying dead on the ground was hardly in a position to be disguising his identity, and concentrated instead on his exposed left ear. He noticed it had a distinct nick in the skin, about halfway up, as if it had been caught by a knife in a fight somewhere, or by an axe while he was chopping wood. The thought triggered a memory: he had seen this man before. But where?
‘I think he works for my uncle,’ he said at last. ‘I saw him driving a cart.’
‘When was that?’ Crowe asked.
‘Only this morning.’ Sherlock frowned. ‘But he looks like he’s been ill for days. He was fine when I saw him.’
‘Instructive,’ Crowe murmured. ‘Very well; let’s get him into the wheelbarrow and back to the house. Your vinegar-faced housekeeper can send for the local sawbones.’
‘Sawbones?’
‘Doctor,’ Crowe laughed. ‘You never heard the word “sawbones” before?’
Sherlock shook his head.
‘They’re called that because not so long ago that was about all they could do – amputate fingers or toes, hands or feet, arms or legs if there was an accident.’ Crowe snorted. ‘Fortunately, civilization has advanced somewhat since then.’ He bent down towards the body, then straightened up again and glanced over at Sherlock. ‘Remember – don’t touch his skin,’ he warned. ‘Just his clothes. Best not to take chances.’
The journey through the woods took them nearly half an hour. Amyus Crowe pushed the wheelbarrow with the dead body balanced awkwardly inside. Sherlock ran ahead of the wheelbarrow, bending down and removing stones and branches that might catch the wheel or cause Crowe to trip. The dead man’s hands flopped up and down whenever the wheelbarrow went over a bump, making it look as if he was trying to struggle up into a sitting position. Sherlock tried not to look.
By the time they saw the house Sherlock’s breath was coming in short gasps, and he could feel his muscles burning with fatigue. Someone must have caught sight of them, because Mrs Eglantine was already striding out towards them.
She met them as they were emerging from the tree-line.
‘You will not,’ she said stiffly, ‘bring that thing anywhere near the house.’
‘This thing,’ Crowe rebuked her calmly, ‘is one of your master’s workers. I know he’s dead, but I think he deserves a little respect nonetheless.’
Mrs Eglantine folded her arms. ‘Worker or not,’ she said, ‘I will not have him taken anywhere near the house. Look at him. I don’t know if it’s smallpox or the plague, but the body needs to be burned.’
‘I agree,’ Crowe said, ‘but first I want a doctor to see it. And, of course, his family needs to be told. Be so kind as to send for a doctor from the town. In the meantime, is there somewhere we can store the body?’
Mrs Eglantine sniffed. ‘There is a shed over by where the manure is piled,’ she