Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud - Andrew Lane [72]
‘Easy for you to say.’
Crowe laughed.
‘Can I ask you something?’ Sherlock said, wanting to keep Crowe there for a few moments more.
‘Sure.’
‘What are you doing in England? What is that “business” you mentioned earlier?’
Crowe smiled without humour, and glanced away, not meeting Sherlock’s gaze. ‘Not to be a tutor, that’s for sure,’ he said softly, ‘although that’s becomin’ an interestin’ pastime. No, I was retained by . . . well, let’s say the American government to make it easy, to seek out men who’d committed crimes, atrocities, the most terrible things durin’ the recent Civil War an’ escaped the country before the hand of justice could come down on their shoulder. That’s how I came to know your brother – he signed the agreement that allows me to be here. An’ that’s why I’ve been developin’ a network of useful people, especially in docks and ports. So when you told me that the Baron was accelerating his plan, whatever that may be, I just sent out the word to look for his carts. An’ I got to say, I was surprised that my people found them so easily.’ He looked back at Sherlock. ‘Satisfied?’
Sherlock nodded.
‘Not many people I’ve told that to,’ Crowe added. ‘Grateful if you’d keep it to yourself.’ He moved away before Sherlock could say anything more.
Sherlock continued playing his game, rolling the cobble back and forth, as the minutes slid away, one after the other. He kept watch on the warehouse doors, but they were firmly closed and nothing was stirring. He was beginning to think that they were all on a wild goose chase.
A sudden escalation of noise from behind him almost made him turn and look, but he stopped himself just in time. He let the cobblestone run a little further, turning to retrieve it and letting his eyes drift upward to take in the tavern. One of the doors was open and a group of men were emerging, obviously the worse for drink. They bantered for a moment, then turned and walked towards him. He concentrated on his stone, listening to whether they were saying anything about the warehouse, or the beehives, or Baron Maupertuis, or anything related to the mystery.
‘When’re we hauling out?’ one of them said.
‘First light tomorrow morning,’ another replied. There was something familiar about the voice, but Sherlock couldn’t quite place it.
‘Who’s got the roster?’ a third voice asked.
‘It’s in my head,’ the second man replied. ‘You head off to Ripon, Snagger goes to Colchester, the lad Nicholson here gets an easy ride to Woolwich an’ I get to go back to Aldershot.’
‘Can’t I go to Ascot instead?’ asked a Northern-accented voice – presumably the lad Nicholson.
‘You go where you’re told, sunshine,’ the second man responded. As he was talking, he passed close to Sherlock. His foot caught the cobblestone, kicking it across the alley. Unwittingly, Sherlock glanced up and met the man’s gaze.
It was Denny, the man who Sherlock had followed back to the warehouse in Farnham, the man who had been there when his friend Clem jumped on the narrow-boat to attack Sherlock and Matty. The man who worked for Baron Maupertuis.
So much for being invisible. Denny’s face instantly flushed with anger.
Sherlock rolled away as hands reached for him. He sprang to his feet and sprinted off down the alley. He wanted to run towards the tavern where Amyus Crowe was, but the men were between him and the tavern door. Instead he found himself running further and further away from Crowe, from Matty and from anything he knew.
Footsteps thudded behind him, echoing off the walls of the buildings as he ran past them. His breath rasped in his throat and his heart pounded like a living thing trapped inside his ribcage and fighting to get out. Twice he felt fingers touch the back of his neck and scrabble for a grip on his collar, and twice he had to tear himself loose with a frantic burst of energy. His pursuers were growling beneath their breath as they ran, but apart from that, the thud of their boots and the sound of his heart, the chase was conducted