Young Sherlock Holmes_ Fire Storm - Andrew Lane [63]
‘All right – where is this Cramond?’
Sherlock pulled out the map he had bought from the bookshop. On the reverse side of the Edinburgh map was a map of the surrounding area. In the top right-hand corner was an index relating to a grid of letters and numbers around the edge. He scanned down the index until he found Cramond – not without a little flash of pride – and then checked the grid reference on the map. ‘It’s on the coast,’ he said. ‘Just a few miles away. We can probably get someone to take us there in a cart.’ He folded up the map and the newspaper, putting them into his pockets. He felt a sense of relief and weariness wash over him. He’d done it! He’d located Amyus and Virginia Crowe!
Now came the hard part – finding out why they had left, and persuading them to return . . .
A movement over Matty’s shoulder made him glance past his friend. Two men were approaching. One held something in his hands: it looked like an empty sack. It took a moment for Sherlock to identify him as the smallpox-scarred American he had seen in Farnham, and then again at Newcastle Station. A chill ran down his spine, and he felt his heart suddenly speed up. His eyes flickered sideways, to Matty’s face. He was just about to tell Matty to run when he noticed that the boy was staring over Sherlock’s shoulder. His eyes were wide and scared.
More men must have been coming up behind Sherlock – probably including the man with the missing ear and the ponytail. Sherlock was about to push Matty left and dive right himself when the man behind Matty realized that they’d been spotted, rushed forward and threw the sack over the boy’s head. Sherlock reached out to tear the sack away, but the world went dark as something heavy dropped over his head and covered his face. Hands grabbed him and pushed him off his feet.
CHAPTER TEN
The sack smelled strongly of pipe tobacco, and Sherlock found himself choking on a combination of the heat, the lack of air and the pungent odour. A small amount of light filtered through the gaps in the material, but not enough for him to see out. The hessian weave rubbed roughly against his forehead, his ears and the back of his neck. He could feel the skin being rubbed away, leaving sore patches behind. He was going to have some serious scrapes when he got out.
If he got out.
His wrists and ankles had been quickly and expertly bound with rope, tight enough to cut off the blood supply. Arms were wrapped around his chest and around his legs. He was being hoicked around like a sack of barley, carried rapidly across the park before anybody spotted what was going on. The same thing must have been happening to Matty. He tried experimentally kicking out with his left foot, but the grip around his legs tightened before he could move more than an inch. It was like having leather belts strapped around him. Perhaps this was what it was like to be crushed to death by one of those big snakes they had in South America – anacondas, or pythons, or whatever they were.
He opened his mouth to yell for help, but a fist impacted beneath his ear. A red spike of agonizing pain flashed through his head like lightning, leaving a sick ache in its wake. He felt as if he was going to throw up, but he knew that if he did so with his head in the sack then he was going to have to live with the consequences, so he swallowed several times, forcing his stomach to calm down.
Tiny flecks of tobacco had got into his mouth while it was open. He could feel the strands between his lips and his teeth, and sticking to his tongue. The bitter taste made him gag again, and he desperately swallowed more saliva. He knew that people not only smoked tobacco but chewed it as well. How could they stand it?
His fingers prickled with pins and needles as the blood fought to get past the ropes that bound his wrists. The fingers themselves felt as large and as tight as sausages frying in a pan.
The men carrying him changed their grip. For a moment Sherlock wondered