Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud - Andrew Lane [79]
‘Since we’re both here,’ he said, ‘we ought to take the opportunity to work out where this boat is going.’ He looked around for the man he had seen earlier – the man with the sheaf of papers. ‘I think that man over there is the dockmaster, or wharfmaster, or something. We can ask him.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Your father gave me some good tips on how to ask questions.’
Looking around, and choosing a moment when nobody was facing their way, Sherlock led Virginia out of hiding and across the quay to a point where they could sit on the stone wall overlooking the Thames. He felt the back of his neck prickling, telling him he was being watched, but he suppressed the feeling. Denny was probably with a doctor or a surgeon by now, assuming his jaw really was broken, and the chances were that the other men hadn’t got a good enough look at him to tell him apart from any other kid – especially now, when he was covered in dirt, smoke, rat hair and possibly other things that he didn’t want to consider. They sat there, on the wall, for a good half hour, making desultory conversation and generally becoming part of the landscape. The dockmaster, or wharfmaster, or whatever he was eventually finished his business with the ship and started to walk in their direction. As he came past them, Sherlock looked up and said: ‘Hey, boss. Any chance of some work on the dock?’
The man glanced scornfully at Sherlock’s skinny frame. ‘Come back in five years, son,’ he said in a not unkindly tone. ‘Get some muscle on those bones.’
‘But I gotta get out of London,’ Sherlock continued in a pleading tone of voice. ‘I can work hard, honest I can.’ He pointed at the nearby boat. ‘What about them – they look like they’re short-handed.’
‘They are,’ the man said. ‘They’re three men down this afternoon. But I can’t see you filling in for any of them, and besides, that boat’s not going to take you far out of London.’
‘Why not?’ Sherlock asked.
‘It’s just going to France and back. Quick turnaround, no stopping off for the crew.’ He laughed. ‘You want to get away for a while, go join the Navy. Or hang around here long enough and they’ll come and take you.’
He moved off, still laughing.
‘France,’ Sherlock said, intrigued. ‘Interesting.’
‘I hear you want to join our crew,’ a voice called from the bows of the boat. Sherlock grimaced and looked away, but the voice continued: ‘Why don’t you and the girl come aboard? Yeah, we know it’s a girl. We’ve been watching you since you both turned up. What, you thought you were invisible?’
Sherlock glanced along the dock to where the dock-master had stopped and was looking back at them. The expression on his face was sympathetic but stern. He wasn’t going to be any help.
Sherlock took Virginia’s hand and pulled her upright. ‘Time to go,’ he said, but when he turned he found that a loose semicircle of sailors and dockers had formed around them, materializing out of nowhere. Dragging Virginia with him he tried to run, but heavy hands caught him and pulled him away from her. He fought against them, but the hands held him firmly. He saw Virginia struggling as well, but then a hand holding a cloth clamped itself over his face. The cloth smelt medicinal, bitter and heavy. He nearly choked. And then suddenly he found himself falling into a bottomless pit that was exactly the colour of Virginia’s eyes, and for a while he slept, and dreamed of terrible things.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In his dreams Sherlock was wrestling with a huge serpent. Its body was as thick as a beer barrel, all muscle and ribs for as far as he could see, and its head was a flat triangle edged with saw-like teeth. They were fighting in water, but in his dream the water was as thick and as dark as treacle. The snake slowly coiled itself around him and squeezed, attempting to snap his ribs, but the water hampered its movements and Sherlock was able to prise its coils apart by pushing hard with his arms and legs. But then, as he tried to get away, his swimming was grotesquely slowed by the water and the serpent