Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud - Andrew Lane [76]
The flames took hold quickly as the stallholder stood there. Then, thrashing his arms around, he scuttled out into the left-hand main tunnel. People backed away in horror. The stallholder bumped into a passer-by, and the fire jumped on to the man’s frock coat. The man staggered to one side, brushing at the flames, but succeeding only in setting alight the billowing crinoline skirt of a woman next to him. A horse, being led down the tunnel, bolted at the sight of the flames, dragging its owner along behind it.
Within a few moments the tunnel was seething with flame. Clothes caught light quickly, cloth coverings on stalls followed, and even the wood of the stalls themselves caught fire, despite being damp. Smoke and steam filled the tunnel in a choking mist. Horrified, Sherlock backed away from the smoke and the fire into the right-hand main tunnel, which was mercifully flame-free.
But it still had one of his pursuers in it.
A hairy hand clamped on his shoulder.
‘Got you, scum,’ the man spat. The underarms of his jacket were so blackened with old sweat patches that they had become waxy and stiff. The smell of the man’s clothes was indescribable.
Sherlock struggled in his grip, but it was useless. The man’s fingers dug hard into his shoulder.
‘Denny’ll want a word wiv you,’ the man whispered, bringing his face close to Sherlock’s. His breath smelt like something had died inside his mouth. ‘An’ I don’t think you’re gonna like what he has to say.’
Sherlock was just about to reply when he noticed that the floor of the side tunnel was heaving underneath the smoke, undulating as if it were alive. And then he realized it was alive. Alive with rats. Frightened out of their holes and burrows by the fire, they had all headed in the same direction – to safety. A living carpet of ragged brown and black fur swept along the floor of the tunnel. People and horses backed away in horror from the mass of hair and teeth and tails. A small child being dragged away by its parents lost its footing and fell. The rats swarmed over it, covering its face.
The man holding Sherlock’s shoulder relaxed his grip as the rats swirled about his ankles, biting at him with their tiny teeth. Cursing, he swatted at them with his spade-like hands. Sherlock pulled loose from his grip and dived into the mass of living creatures, grasping for the child who had vanished beneath the seething tide. Tiny claws pattered over his arms, his back, his legs and his scalp. He could smell a rank, dry odour, like old urine. His fingers closed over a small arm, and he pulled hard. A little girl emerged from the flood of rats, eyes wide and mouth already opening to scream. ‘You’re safe,’ Sherlock said, thrusting her back into the arms of her parents, who were batting and kicking to keep the rats at bay. They snatched the girl from him and hugged her tight.
And then the tidal wave of rats was gone, apart from a few weak and lame stragglers. Sherlock could see them rushing off in both directions, away from the smoke which continued to pour from the side tunnel. The thug who had grabbed hold of Sherlock was still brushing desperately at his clothing, beneath which Sherlock could see moving lumps where rats had run for safety and then become trapped. Sherlock turned and was about to run back towards the south side of the river when he remembered the other two ruffians. They would undoubtedly still be waiting at the top of the shaft. No, his best bet was to head the other way. He ran down the tunnel, towards the north side of the river. There were bridges across the river, and boatmen. He could find his way back. Eventually.
Sherlock headed