Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud - Andrew Lane [5]
‘Well done.’ Mycroft nodded. ‘I’m glad to see that your mathematics, at least, is up to scratch.’ He glanced out of the window to his right. ‘Ah, Aldershot. Interesting place. Fourteen years ago it was named by Queen Victoria as the home of the British Army. Before that it was a small hamlet with a population of less than a thousand. Now it is sixteen thousand and still growing.’
Sherlock craned his neck to look over his brother at what lay outside the other window, but from this angle he could only see a scattering of houses and what might have been a railway line running parallel to the road at the bottom of the slope. He settled back into his seat and closed his eyes, trying not to think about what lay ahead.
After a while he felt the brougham heading downhill, and shortly after that they made a series of turns, and the sound of the ground beneath the horses’ hoofs changed from stone to hard-packed earth. He screwed his eyes more tightly shut, trying to put off the moment when he would have to accept what was happening.
The carriage stopped on gravel. The sound of birdsong and the wind blowing through trees filled the carriage. Sherlock could hear footsteps crunching towards them.
‘Sherlock,’ Mycroft said gently. ‘Time for reality.’
He opened his eyes.
The brougham had stopped outside the entrance to a large house. Constructed from red brick, it towered above them: three storeys plus what looked like a set of rooms in the attic judging by the small windows set into the grey tiles. A footman was just about to open Mycroft’s door. Sherlock slid across and followed his brother out.
A woman was standing in the deep shadows at the top of three wide stone steps that led up to the portico in front of the main entrance. She was dressed entirely in black. Her face was thin and pinched, her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed, as if someone had substituted vinegar for her cup of tea that morning. ‘Welcome to Holmes Manor; I am Mrs Eglantine,’ she said in a dry, papery voice. ‘I am the housekeeper here.’ She glanced at Mycroft. ‘Mr Holmes will see you in the library, whenever you are ready.’ Her gaze slid to Sherlock. ‘And the footman will transfer your . . . luggage . . . to your room, Master Holmes. Afternoon tea will be served at three o’clock. Please be so good as to stay in your room until then.’
‘I will not be staying for tea,’ Mycroft said smoothly. ‘Sadly, I need to return to London.’ He turned towards Sherlock, and there was a look in his eyes that was part sympathy, part brotherly love and part warning. ‘Take care, Sherlock,’ he said. ‘I will certainly be back to return you to school at the end of the holidays, and if I can I will visit in the meantime. Be good, and take the opportunity to explore the local area. I believe that Uncle Sherrinford has an exceptional library. Ask him if you can take advantage of the accumulated wisdom it contains. I will leave my contact details with Mrs Eglantine – if you need me, send me a telegram or write a letter.’ He reached out and put a comforting hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. ‘These are good people,’ he said, quietly enough that Mrs Eglantine couldn’t hear him, ‘but, like everyone in the Holmes family, they have their eccentricities. Be aware, and take care not to upset them. Write to me when you get a moment. And remember – this is not the rest of your life. This is just for a couple of months. Be brave.’ He squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder.
Sherlock felt a bubble of anger and frustration forcing its way up his throat and choked it back. He didn’t want Mycroft to see him react, and he didn’t want to start his time at Holmes Manor badly. Whatever he did over the next few minutes would set the tone for the rest of his stay.
He stuck out his hand. Mycroft moved his own hand off Sherlock’s shoulder and took it, smiling warmly.
‘Goodbye,’ Sherlock said in as level a tone as he could manage. ‘Give my love to Mother, and to Charlotte. And if you hear anything of Father,