Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud - Andrew Lane [64]
A girl in a pinafore emerged from the tavern carrying a tray with four plates of steaming meat. She walked across, put the plates and cutlery down on the table without a word, and left.
Virginia wandered across to join them, and Sherlock edged up to make room for her. She picked at the hot slices of lamb with a fork. She paused for a moment, fork held near her lips. ‘You know I didn’t write that note, don’t you?’
‘I know that now.’ Sherlock looked away, across the countryside, unable to meet her direct gaze. ‘I thought it was you at the time, but I suppose that’s because I wanted it to be you. If I’d thought about it, I should have known it wasn’t.’
‘How so?’
He shrugged. ‘The paper was delicate and feminine, and the writing was very precise. It was as if someone was trying to pretend to be a girl.’ He caught himself. ‘I mean a woman. A young woman. I mean—’
‘I know what you mean.’ She smiled slightly. ‘So what makes you think I don’t normally use feminine writing paper and neat handwriting?’
This time he could meet her eyes, and the contact held for a long moment. ‘You’re not like any girls I’ve met in England,’ he said. ‘You’re unique. I’m still trying to work you out, but I think if you wanted me to go somewhere, like a fair, you’d just come and ask me.’ He stopped for a moment and considered. ‘Or, more likely, just tell me,’ he added.
This time it was her turn to blush. ‘You think I’m too bossy?’
‘Not too bossy. Just bossy enough.’ Matty’s gaze was flicking between them. ‘What are you two talking about?’
‘Nothing,’ Sherlock and Virginia chorused.
Looking through the window again, Sherlock noticed that Crowe had joined the four men who were sitting together. They all appeared to be getting along well. Crowe gestured to the landlord, who began pouring more tankards of beer from a pewter jug on the counter.
‘Your father’s an interesting man,’ Sherlock said, turning to Virginia.
‘He has his moments.’
‘What did he do, back in America?’
She kept her gaze fixed on her plate. ‘You really want to know?’
‘Yes.’
‘He was a tracker.’
‘You mean he hunted animals?’
She shook her head. ‘He hunted men. He tracked killers who had escaped justice, and he tracked Indians who had attacked isolated settlements. He’d follow them for days through the wilderness until he got close enough to take them by surprise.’
Sherlock couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. ‘And what – he bought them back to face justice?’
‘No,’ she said quietly. Abruptly she stood upright and walked away, back towards the horses.
Sherlock and Matty sat in silence for a while, each occupied with his own thoughts.
Eventually Amyus Crowe left the tavern and joined them, squeezing his bulky form between the bench and the table. ‘Interestin’,’ he said, back in his ‘American’ persona again.
‘What’s happened?’ Sherlock asked. ‘What do they know about the house?’
‘And how did you get them to answer your questions?’ Matty added. ‘You’re a stranger around here, and people don’t usually open up to strangers.’
‘Best thing to do is not be a stranger then,’ he replied. ‘If you just sit there for a while, makin’ conversation with the barman, you become part of the furniture. Then you join in with the conversation, if you see an openin’, an’ tell them somethin’ about yourself – who you are, why you’re there. I told ’em I was lookin’ to buy a farm an’ raise pigs, on the basis that the new soldiers in Aldershot are goin’ to need a lot of feedin’. They was interested to know how many soldiers are goin’ to be garrisoned there, and we got talkin’ about the business opportunities. I asked if there was anyone around here who might be interested in investin’ in a business opportunity, or who might have some land to spare, an’ they told me ’bout the estate down the road. Owned by a man named Maupertuis – some kind