Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud - Andrew Lane [75]
He was at the bottom before he realized, feet stumbling on the level surface. He was in a gas-lit hall. Two arched tunnels led away from the hall, both heading in the same direction. The arches were fully four or five times the height of a grown man, and made of brick, but the brickwork was wet everywhere he looked. Judging by the direction taken by the tunnels, he knew why. They went straight out under the Thames, and presumably ended at a similar shaft on the north side.
If he could make it to the other side, he might just escape with his life.
He stumbled on into the left-hand tunnel. There were people ambling along as if walking beneath the surface of a river was nothing special. There were even horses down there, being led calmly along. They obviously had no idea about the uncountable tons of water just a few feet above their head, kept at bay by crumbling brickwork and plaster.
There were times when being too logical was a curse. This was one of those times. Sherlock knew the kind of pressure that was being exerted on the tunnel walls. One slight crack and the water would pour in, drowning them all.
But he kept on running. He had no choice.
Or did he? As he hurried on, he noticed that the two tunnels ran in parallel, and were linked by smaller side tunnels every ten yards or so. In each of the side tunnels enterprising Londoners had set up stalls selling food, drink, clothes and all kinds of bric-a-brac. If he could just worm his way through one of the side tunnels, he could go back down the other main tunnel to the shaft, return to the warehouse and find Amyus Crowe.
He veered right, towards the side of the main bore, and nipped into the first side tunnel he came to. A man turned towards him, illuminated by an oil lamp that hung from a nail on his wooden stall. His skin was grey-white and moist, like something that had lived underground for too long. He was wrapped in an old blanket that had become stiff with dirt over time, like some bizarre armour. His eyes seemed to be all black pupil, and he peered at Sherlock for a moment.
‘You want a clock?’ he said hopefully. ‘Good timepiece. Always right. Always correct. Grandfather clock, grandmother clock – whatever you want, I got.’
‘No thanks,’ Sherlock said, pushing past the stall. It occurred to him that time was meaningless beneath the Thames. No sun, no moon, no day and night. Time just passed. Why would you need a clock?
‘What about a nice pocket watch? Never need to ask the time if you got a watch. Young gent like you, impress the ladies with a hunter on a chain. Real silver. Etched as well. You could keep a picture of your sweetheart inside.’
Real silver, etched, and certainly stolen property. ‘Thanks,’ Sherlock said breathlessly, ‘but my father has money. He’ll be coming through in a minute. Tell him I want a clock, and don’t let him go without buying one.’
The stallholder smiled, reminding Sherlock of some predatory crustacean lurking beneath a stone, waiting for its unsuspecting prey to pass by.
Sherlock peered round the edge of the side tunnel, back towards the shaft he had entered through, and cursed. His pursuers must have split up. One of them had followed him down the left-hand tunnel, but the other had headed down the right-hand one. He was pushing his way through the crowd, glancing suspiciously at every male who was younger than twenty, just in case. They obviously knew the area better than he did.
He decided to wait for this man to go past the side tunnel entrance, then he would double back. But his plan was dashed straight away by a sudden commotion behind him. Turning, he saw the stallholder trying to thrust a small carriage clock into the hands of the thug who had followed Sherlock into the left-hand tunnel – the bald man with ears like cauliflowers and a squashed nose. The thug pushed him away with a curse, but the stallholder scuttled back, looking more and more beneath his