Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud - Andrew Lane [57]
Smoke seemed to be curling above some of the boxes, but the wind must have been eddying in strange ways because the smoke from different boxes was moving in different directions. Some of the plumes were trailing upward, some to the left and some to the right, and some were just hanging around the entrance to the boxes as if trying to get in or out.
A figure moved from behind one of the boxes. It was clad in a loose one-piece overall that seemed to be made of canvas, and its head was covered in a mask made of muslin thin enough to see through, held away from its face by wooden hoops. The figure moved to another box and carefully lifted the lid. More smoke puffed outward and enveloped its head. It didn’t seem to mind. It bent closer, gazing into the box, then closed the lid again and pulled what looked like a wooden tray from underneath. The figure gazed at it for a few seconds, then walked a few steps and placed the tray on to a pile of similar ones.
His brain finally waking up properly, Sherlock realized what he was watching. The cloud he had seen leaving the body of the man in the woods around Holmes Manor, the smoke Matty had witnessed, the pollen he’d taken to Professor Winchcombe – it was finally making sense. This was not smoke but bees. Small black bees. And that meant the boxes were beehives and the man in the mask was a beekeeper.
But what kind of bees were they, and what were they for? Making honey? Defence? Or something else?
More importantly, where in heaven’s name was he?
Behind him, the door to the bedroom opened. He turned quickly. Two men were standing inside the doorway. They were dressed in immaculate black velvet clothes of an old-fashioned cut – breeches, stockings, waistcoats and short jackets – and their faces were covered with black velvet masks with slits cut in at eye-level for them to see through.
One of them gestured over his shoulder. His meaning was clear – Sherlock was to go with them. For a moment he rebelled – he’d never been good at following orders given with no explanation – but a moment’s thought suggested that if he didn’t do what they said then they would just pick him up and carry him. And they probably wouldn’t be careful either.
It also occurred to him that going with them was probably the only way to find out what was going on.
Heart pounding, but keeping a calm, even bored expression on his face, Sherlock walked over to the door. The two footmen backed away to let him through.
The hall outside the bedroom door was opulently decorated in rich reds and purples, with a distinctive coat of arms woven into the wallpaper and embroidered on the velvet curtains. One footman led Sherlock down a wide flight of white marble stairs, while the other one followed behind. Sherlock’s footsteps were the only noise: the footmen’s shoes were muffled, and barely produced a whisper on the treads.
At the bottom of the stairs the first footman led Sherlock towards a closed door beside a heavy teak cabinet. He pulled it towards him, and gestured Sherlock through. With only a moment’s hesitation, the boy complied.
The door shut behind him with a muffled but definitive thud.
The room inside the doorway was large, shadowy and cool. All the windows were covered with thick curtains. Only a few diagonal shafts of light penetrated the gloom, and in their meagre light Sherlock could just make out one end of a massive wooden table with a heavy chair set in front of it. All else was darkness apart from the glint of what might have been objects made of metal hanging on the stone walls.
It seemed obvious what was expected of him. Feeling nervous beads of sweat trickling down his back, he walked forward and sat in the chair.
For a long while there was silence, apart from the rapid beating of his heart. He strained his eyes against the darkness, but he couldn’t make out anything apart from the surface