Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud - Andrew Lane [3]
‘Six weeks for the ship to reach port, six months in the country, I would estimate, and then another six weeks returning. Nine months in all.’
‘Nearly a year.’ He bowed his head for a moment, composing himself, then nodded. ‘Can we go home now?’
‘You’re not going home,’ Mycroft said.
Sherlock just stood there, letting the words sink into him, not saying anything.
‘He can’t stay here,’ the Headmaster muttered. ‘The place is being cleaned.’
Mycroft moved his calm gaze away from Sherlock and on to the Headmaster. ‘Our mother is . . . unwell,’ he said. ‘Her constitution is delicate at the best of times, and this business with our father has distressed her greatly. She needs peace and quiet, and Sherlock needs someone older to look after him.’
‘But I’ve got you!’ Sherlock protested.
Mycroft shook his large head sadly. ‘I live in London now, and my job requires me to work many hours each day. I would not, I’m afraid, be a fit guardian for a boy, especially an inquisitive one such as you.’ He turned towards the Headmaster, almost as if it was easier to give him the next piece of information than to tell Sherlock. ‘Although the family house is in Horsham we have relatives in Farnham, not too far from here. An uncle and aunt. Sherlock will be staying with them over the school holidays.’
‘No!’ Sherlock exploded.
‘Yes,’ Mycroft said gently. ‘It is arranged. Uncle Sherrinford and Aunt Anna have agreed to take you in for the summer.’
‘But I’ve never even met them!’
‘Nevertheless, they are family.’
Mycroft bade farewell to the Headmaster while Sherlock stood there blankly, trying to take in the enormity of what had just happened. No going home. No seeing his father and his mother. No exploring in the fields and woods around the manor house that had been home to him for fourteen years. No sleeping in his old bed in the room under the eaves of the house where he kept all of his books. No sneaking into the kitchens where Cook would give him a slice of bread and jam if he smiled at her. Instead, weeks of staying with people he didn’t know, being on his best behaviour in a town, in a county which he didn’t know anything about. Alone, until he returned to school.
How was he going to manage?
Sherlock followed Mycroft out of the Headmaster’s study and along the corridor to the entrance hall. An enclosed brougham carriage sat outside the doors, its wheels muddy and its sides dusty from the journey that Mycroft had already undertaken to the school. The crest of the Holmes family had been painted on the door. Sherlock’s trunk had already been loaded on the back. A gaunt driver who Sherlock did not recognize sat in the dicky box at the front, the reins that linked him to the two horses resting limply in his hands.
‘How did he know that was my trunk?’
Mycroft gestured with his hand to indicate that it was nothing special. ‘I could see it from the window of the Headmaster’s study. The trunk was the only one sitting unattended. And besides, it was the one Father used to have. The Headmaster was kind enough to send a boy out to tell him to load the trunk on to the carriage.’ He opened the door of the carriage and gestured to Sherlock to enter. Instead, Sherlock glanced around at his school and at his fellow pupils.
‘You look as if you think you’ll never see them again,’ Mycroft said.
‘It’s not that,’ Sherlock replied. ‘It’s just that I thought I was leaving here for something better. Now I know I’m leaving here for something worse. As bad as this place is, this is as good as it gets.’
‘It won’t be like that. Uncle Sherrinford and Aunt Anna are good people. Sherrinford is Father’s brother.’
‘Then why have I never heard about them?’ Sherlock asked. ‘Why has Father never mentioned having a brother?’
Mycroft winced almost imperceptibly. ‘I fear that there was a falling-out in the family. Relations