Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud - Andrew Lane [48]
The Professor nodded. He tipped the yellow powder – the harmless yellow powder, Sherlock had to remind himself – from the sheet of parchment on to his blotter. Reaching for an inkwell on the edge of his desk, he withdrew a quill and began to write on the parchment. His handwriting was spidery but Sherlock could just make out the words.
Dear Mr Crowe,
I have had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of your student –
‘What is your name, young fellow?’ he asked, turning to Sherlock.
‘Holmes, sir. Sherlock Holmes.’
Master Sherlock Holmes – who has brought me a sample of a yellow powder that he tells me was found near the unfortunately deceased fellows whose demise you described to me in your letter, which arrived this morning. Having examined the powder I recognize it to be simple bee pollen, and thus I deduce that your two men were killed not by bubonic plague or some-such illness, but by bee stings. If you request a local doctor to exmaine the supposed ‘boils’ I suggest he will find small stingers embedded in each one, or at the very least the marks left by such stingers. I commend this young man for bringing the sample of powder to me. Had he not, rumours of a fatal fever sweeping the county might have caused great panic.
I look forward to renewing our acquaintance at some time convenient to you.
Yours sincerely,
Arthur Winchcombe, Esg (Phd).
Folding the sheet, he slipped it into an envelope which he took from a drawer of the desk, sealed the envelope with a blob of wax from the candle that he had been using to illuminate the microscope, and handed the envelope to Sherlock.
‘I trust this will save you from too painful a punishment,’ he said. ‘Please convey my respects to your tutor.’
‘I will.’ Sherlock paused, then continued: ‘Thank you.’
Professor Winchcombe rang a small bell that sat on the blotter, by the microscope. ‘My butler will show you out. If you want to know anything more about tropical diseases, beekeeping or China, feel free to call on me again.’
Outside, Sherlock was surprised to see that the sun hadn’t changed its position in the sky by more than a few degrees. It had felt as if he had been in Professor Winch-combe’s house for hours.
Matty was sitting on the garden wall. He was eating something from a paper cone. ‘Done what you came for?’ he asked.
Sherlock nodded. He gestured towards the cone of paper. ‘What have you got there?’
‘Cockles and winkles,’ the boy replied. He tipped the mouth of the cone towards Sherlock. ‘Want some?’
Inside the cone, Sherlock saw a pile of seashells. ‘Are they cooked?’ he asked.
‘Boiled,’ Matty replied succinctly. ‘I found a fishmonger’s stall. He was selling them. Prob’ly came up from Portsmouth overnight. I helped out for a while, tidying up his boxes, fetching more ice and stuff. He gave me a twist of them in payment.’ He reached into the cone and picked out a shell. Resting the cone on the wall, he retrieved a folding knife from his pocket and fiddled around inside the shell with the point, spearing whatever was inside. After a few seconds he pulled out something dark and rubbery, then popped it into his mouth. ‘Lovely,’ he beamed. ‘Don’t get these very often, ’less you live near the sea. Bit of a treat when you do.’
‘I think I’ll pass,’ Sherlock said. ‘Let’s go home.’
This time they walked down the High Street to the river, then walked along the river bank until they found the narrowboat. As Matty had predicted, both it and the horse were still there. Sherlock wondered how they were going to turn the narrowboat round, but Matty led the horse along the bank towards town until they got to a bridge, then led the horse across the bridge to the other side, pulling the nose of the boat round while Sherlock used the boathook to stop it hitting the banks on either side. And then it was a case of making their slow way back, Sherlock in front this time, keeping