Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud - Andrew Lane [67]
‘A Joseph Beattie “Saxon” class locomotive,’ Amyus noted. ‘Generically referred to as a 2-4-0. Sherlock, can you tell me why?’
‘Why the “Saxon” or why the “2-4-0”?’
Amyus nodded. ‘The collection of proper information depends primarily on the proper phrasing of the question,’ he noted. ‘I meant the “2-4-0” designation. I suspect the “Saxon” part was just a piece of historical fancy on the part of the engineer. He also designed an engine he called the “Nelson”.’
Sherlock let his gaze wander across the engine. The wheels, he noticed, weren’t equally spaced, but grouped together in clusters. ‘I’d say because that’s the way the wheels are arranged,’ he ventured, ‘but that can’t be the case.’
‘Actually, it is,’ Crowe replied. ‘There are two wheels on a single axle at the front, independently swivelling to allow the engine to transit curves. Then there are four wheels attached to the engine proper, on two axles. Those are the powered wheels.’
‘And the “0”?’ Sherlock asked.
‘Some engines have a set of wheels at the rear,’ Crowe replied. ‘The “0” indicates that this engine doesn’t have that third set of wheels.’
‘So it’s got a number to indicate that there is no number,’ Sherlock said.
‘Correct.’ Crowe smiled. ‘It may not be sensible, but it’s eminently logical, if you accept the system they’ve chosen to use.’
They found a carriage to themselves, and settled down for the journey. Sherlock had never been on a train before, and everything was new to him: the vibration of the seats and the walls and the windows as they moved, the strangely sweet-smelling smoke that drifted in, the way the countryside flashed past, ever-changing and yet strangely consistent. Matty was wide-eyed and nervous; Sherlock suspected that the boy had never experienced even the meagre luxury of a second-class compartment before.
Woods flashed past and gave way to fields, but the plants grown in these fields weren’t corn or wheat or barley; they were brown, spindly plants with small green leaves, curling around sticks that had been fixed in the ground up to a height of five or six feet. Sherlock was just about to ask Crowe what they were when Matty, noticing his interest, leaned forward to take a look.
‘Hops,’ he said succinctly. ‘For the breweries. This area’s noted for the quality of the beer it brews. There’s thirty pubs and taverns in Farnham alone.’
And so the journey went on, punctuated by a change of trains at Guildford, until they reached the great terminus of Waterloo Station in that busy metropolis of London.
The place where Mycroft Holmes lived and worked.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Waterloo Station was a bustling mass of humanity heading in all directions and carrying all kinds of boxes, parcels, suitcases and trunks, all beneath a massive roof of arched metal and glass. The warmth of the sun was magnified by the glass, making the station hotter than the streets around it. Trains heaved themselves into their platforms and disgorged clouds of steam and even more people, which added to the warmth. Sherlock could feel sweat gathering beneath his collar.
Amyus Crowe engaged a porter straight away and got him to retrieve their bags from the train. The porter then led them outside, to where a line of hansom cabs were picking up passengers from a long queue. An additional halfpenny tip persuaded their porter to take them along the line to where newly arrived cabs were letting out their passengers before joining the line of waiting ones. A few moments’ dickering and they were climbing aboard a cab through one door as its previous occupants were exiting the other.
Amyus Crowe seemed to be familiar with London, and told the cabbie to take them to the Sarbonnier Hotel. The cab trotted off, with Sherlock leaning out of one window to see the sights and Matty leaning