Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud - Andrew Lane [59]
‘I already know some of the answers to the questions that I ask you,’ the whispering voice went on, ‘and if your answers are different then you will suffer, both now and for the rest of your life. Who else knows about the bees?’
‘Professor Winchcombe in Guildford and Amyus Crowe in Farnham.’ Sherlock’s voice was trembling with the effort of keeping the pain under control. ‘My uncle Sherrinford. Amyus Crowe told the local doctor. I don’t know who else.’ Deliberately, Sherlock left Matthew Ar-natt’s name off the list, hoping that the man in the shadows didn’t know about him, or was discounting him as anyone important.
‘Too many,’ the voice said. Sherlock got the impression that it was talking to itself rather than him. Or perhaps to someone else, someone who was remaining silent. ‘We must accelerate the operation.’ A pause, as if the man behind the voice was thinking, and then: ‘Take the boy away and kill him. Make it look like an accident. Run him over with a horse and cart. Make sure the wheels crush his neck.’
Sherlock had a sudden horrific vision of the dead badger he had seen outside the warehouse – the one whose midriff had been flattened by a passing cart. And now the same thing was going to happen to him.
Hands grabbed his shoulders and hauled him out of the chair. He stumbled across to the door, pushed by the two footmen who had been standing silently behind him all this time. His mind flashed through a kaleidoscope of ideas for how to escape, but all of them depended on the first step of getting away from those clutching, pushing hands. Light suddenly spilt across the three of them as the door opened outward, pushed by one of the footmen who had momentarily released Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock turned, lashing out with a foot, hoping to hurt the other one enough that he would let him go, but his shoe just connected with the side of a leather boot and bounced off. A fist lashed out and cuffed the side of his head. Galaxies of light pinwheeled across his vision.
The door to the darkened room closed behind them, revealing Matty Arnatt standing there, holding a studded metal club. It looked like something an old-fashioned knight would have used on the field of battle.
He whacked it down on the head of the nearest footman. The man fell with all the grace of a sack of coal flung into a cellar. The other footman let go of Sherlock and took a step towards Matty, scowling, his burly hand reaching for Matty’s head. Sherlock stepped around him and punched him hard in the groin. The man folded, gasping for breath.
‘This way,’ Matty hissed, gesturing to Sherlock to follow him.
The two of them raced through the corridors of an unfamiliar house, all dark oak panels and black velvet curtains and startlingly white alabaster statues of naked Greek nymphs.
‘Where did you get that mace?’ Sherlock yelled as they ran. He could hear sounds of pursuit behind them.
‘There’s suits of armour and stuff all over the house,’ Matty called back over his shoulder. ‘I just took it.’
‘And what are you doing here?’
‘I was at the fair. I saw how you got suckered into that fight. I went to help, but you were being dragged off by two big coves. They threw you into the back of a cart and drove you here. I hung on to the back of the cart where they couldn’t see me, and then hopped off when it turned into this place. I’ve been looking for you ever since.’
‘Right,’ Sherlock gasped. ‘Where are we?’
‘’Bout three miles from Farnham. Other side from Holmes Manor.’ Matty led the way through an unremarkable door into what was probably the servants’ area, and from there to a bare brick corridor that led to a door into the garden. They emerged into blessedly fresh air and bright sunlight.
‘And you didn’t bring the bicycles?’
‘How could I?’ Matty shouted, affronted. ‘I was hanging off the back of a cart! I could hardly carry them, could I?’
‘Good point!’ Sherlock glanced around as they ran. They