Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud - Andrew Lane [36]
‘There’s nobody home,’ she called. ‘My father is out, remember.’
‘What about your mother?’ he asked. The way her expression changed into something hard but strangely fragile made him wish he could pull the words right back out of the air.
‘My mother is dead,’ Virginia said flatly. ‘She died on the ship, coming across the Atlantic to Liverpool. That’s why I hate this country, and I hate being in it. If we hadn’t come here, she’d still be alive.’
With a flick of the reins she turned the horse round and started trotting away. Sherlock watched her go, embarrassed at the pain on her face and angry with himself for causing it.
When he finally turned round to leave he found Amyus Crowe standing patiently at the end of the path, leaning on a walking stick. He was gazing levelly at Sherlock.
‘I see you’ve met my daughter,’ he said finally, his accent, like Virginia’s, making it sound more like Ah see you’ve met mah dawter.
‘She didn’t seem impressed with me,’ Sherlock admitted.
‘She ain’t impressed with nobody. Spends her time riding the countryside dressed like a boy.’ His mouth twisted into a lopsided grimace. ‘Can’t say I blame her. Getting dragged from Albuquerque to here is enough to put a child into a foul mood, without—’ He stopped abruptly, and Sherlock got the impression that he was going to say something else and had just stopped himself in time. ‘Did you want to see me about something in particular, or were you just lookin’ for the chance to have another lesson?’
‘Actually,’ Sherlock said, ‘there was something.’ He quickly sketched for Crowe what had happened in Farnham – the man with the yellow powder, the warehouse, the fire. He found himself trailing off towards the end, aware that he was admitting to what might have been seen as criminal activity if looked at from a certain perspective and uncertain from Crowe’s expression what his reaction was going to be.
In the end, Crowe just shook his head and gazed into the distance. ‘You’ve had an interestin’ time,’ he said. ‘But I’m unsure what it all adds up to. There’s still two fellows dead, an’ a possible outbreak of disease. If you want my opinion, let it be. Let the doctors and the administrators deal with it. There’s a useful rule in life along the lines that you shouldn’t try to fight all the battles that come your way. Choose the battles that are important, an’ let some other fellow fight the rest. An’ in this case, it ain’t your battle.’
Sherlock felt a frustration bubbling up within him, but he kept quiet. He had a strong feeling that this was his battle, if only because nobody else had seen the man in the carriage or thought the yellow powder was important, but maybe Amyus Crowe had a point. Maybe trying to persuade Crowe that something was going on wasn’t a battle that Sherlock ought to be fighting. Maybe there was another way around.
‘So, what’s on the timetable for today?’ he asked instead.
‘I do believe that we never got to the bottom of edible fungi,’ Crowe replied. ‘Let’s have a wander, and see what we can find. An’ on the way I’ll point out some wild plants that can be eaten raw, cooked up or boiled into a drink that can relieve pain.’
‘Great,’ said Sherlock.
He and Amyus Crowe spent the next few hours wandering through the local countryside, eating whatever was safe and within easy reach. Despite himself, Sherlock learned a lot about spending time in the wild, and not only surviving but prospering. Crowe even showed him how to make a comfortable bed by piling bracken up to shoulder height and then climbing on it and using his weight to squash it down to the thickness and softness of a mattress.
Cycling back to Holmes Manor afterwards, he tried to turn his mind back to the two dead men, the burned-out warehouse, the yellow powder and the mysterious crawling shadowofdeath,buthekepthavinghis thoughts interrupted by Virginia’s red hair falling around her shoulders and her proud, straight back, by the tightness of her riding breeches and by the