Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud - Andrew Lane [42]
The sky to the East was the deep purple of a fresh bruise, and the trees lining the river were just visible as darker shapes against adark background. A lone star shone brightly, close to the horizon. Ahead, Sherlock could see a black arch crossing their path: probably a bridge. Perhaps even the one that he and Matty had sat on, only a day or two before, watching the fish in the river.
Albert snickered, as if something had startled him. Sherlock stared at the bank, trying to make out the animal’s shape against the darkness of the hedges that lined the bank. The sound of its hoofs against the path changed. To Sherlock it sounded as if the horse was trying to move away from something that was getting too close.
Matty said something calming – more a reassuring noise than actual words – but Sherlock could tell from the tone of his voice that he was concerned. What was the problem? Was there a wild dog wandering around, spooking the horse, or had it just smelt something unexpected?
Sherlock was about to call to Matty and ask him what the problem was when something moved on the bridge beyond the black shape of Matty’s head and shoulders.
Sherlock switched his gaze on to the dark shape that was crossing the river ahead of them. Something was breaking the smooth arc of the bridge: a lumpy shadow slightly off-centre. Two lumpy shadows, as the first one was joined by a second. They conferred for a few moments, leaning together, and then moved apart.
Locals from Farnham, out and about early? Poachers, perhaps?
Theories that Sherlock abandoned when the flare of a match momentarily illuminated a swarthy face that he recognized from the warehouse.
The thug named Clem.
The flame turned into a warm glow that spilt across the brickwork. Clem held a lamp high, casting its light down on to the approaching narrowboat. As they headed towards the bridge Sherlock could see a cruel smile twisting his mouth. The glow from the lamp outlined Matty’s figure as he stood up in the bows of the boat. He seemed as if he was about to say something, but Clem swung the lamp above his head, sending shadows flickering everywhere, and then threw the lamp at Matty’s head.
Matty ducked, and the lamp bounced twice before shattering across the back of the narrowboat, spilling burning oil everywhere. Tiny slivers of flame caught hold of the wood, licking hungrily across the veneer. Sherlock glanced around. They were on a river, for heaven’s sake, and he could see no way of getting the water to where they needed it!
His gaze snagged on the horse blanket that Matty had pointed out to him, crumpled in the corner of the deck near the tiller. Sherlock swept it up and threw it forward, across the flames, keeping hold of one corner so that the blanket didn’t slide off into the water. Smoke rose from underneath, but no flames. Sherlock pulled the blanket back towards him. Half of the fire was out, suffocated by the thick material, but tiny ripples of flame were still investigating the seams in the boat’s construction.
Matty cried out as another oil lamp hit the edge of the boat near Sherlock’s head and bounced into the river, where it sank, spitting and hissing as the wick touched the water. Sherlock whirled round and dipped the blanket over the side of the boat, making sure he kept a tight grip on it. Before it became too saturated, he pulled it out and heaved it across the wood again. This time the flames hissed as the sodden material extinguished them.
Sherlock glanced up at the bridge as the narrowboat passed beneath it, expecting a third oil lamp to come hurtling down on to his head, but their assailants appeared to have no more. Instead, Sherlock was shocked to see a body plunging down towards him. Clem had jumped. The thug hit the roof of the narrowboat, cracking the wood with his boots. He fell backwards on to the deck. Pulling himself to his feet, teeth clenched and eyes gleaming,