Young Sherlock Holmes_ Red Leech - Andrew Lane [108]
He slept without dreaming, or if he dreamed then he did not remember the dreams when he woke up, and that was probably a good thing.
The sun was shining through his bedroom window when he awoke. He lay there for a while, cataloguing what had happened and consigning it to his memories. Then he got dressed and went downstairs.
Amyus Crowe was in the dining room, talking with two of the Pinkerton’s agents. He said something to them, then crossed over to Sherlock as they left.
‘Ain’t seen much of you since yesterday morning,’ he said. ‘I’ve been busy with the Pinkertons, but Matty and Virginia said you never left your room. You must have needed your sleep.’
‘I did,’ Sherlock said.
‘There’s scratches on your hands that I don’t recall from yesterday’
‘I think they came up overnight,’ Sherlock said.
‘Maybe they did.’ Crowe gazed at Sherlock levelly for a few moments.
‘What’s been happening?’ Sherlock asked. ‘What’s the news on Balthassar and the invasion of Canada?’
‘The balloon attack on the Confederate Army was called off,’ Crowe replied. ‘Someone set fire to the balloons. Probably one of Balthassar’s agents. That’s the general theory, anyway, and who am I to disagree?’
At least a massacre was avoided,’ Sherlock pointed out.
‘It was,’ Crowe agreed. ‘The Secretary of War was all for a big confrontation between his troops and Balthassar’s, but his orders got held up somehow, an’ I took the opportunity to put a plan of my own into effect. We used John Wilkes Booth to tell Balthassar’s Army to disperse. He can be very persuasive, when he’s given the proper medication an’ when he’s offered an alternative to the gallows. I don’t think many of the troops had the stomach for a real fight. They were glad to be told to go home.’
‘And John Wilkes Booth?’
‘As far as history is concerned, he’s already dead. A man named John St Helen will be committed to a lunatic asylum in Baltimore. If he’s given the correct medication at the right dose, he should be manageable. Until his death, at least.’
‘Incarceration,’ Sherlock said.
‘He’s an assassin, when all’s said an’ done. It’s better than he deserves.’
Sherlock nodded, not so much in agreement but more because he didn’t particularly want to argue. And what about us? What happens next?’
‘Next,’ Crowe said, ‘we return to New York and get tickets for England. That’ll probably take a day or two. I think we’ve spent more than enough time here. Much as I love the country of my birth, I do enjoy England. Overcooked vegetables and steamed puddings excepted.’
‘You’re not . . . staying?’ Sherlock asked tentatively.
Crowe shook his massive head. ‘Too much to do elsewhere,’ he said. ‘There’s lots of us here, but only me in England. I got a job to do. An’ I promised your brother I’d teach you to think logically an’ use evidence, an’ I suspect I’ve not done as much on that front as I should’ve done.’
Later that day the four of them – Crowe, Virginia, Sherlock and Matty – took a train back to New York, and Crowe found them tickets on a ship leaving in a few days for England. They even managed to eat at the famed Niblo’s Garden on their last night – oysters, of course, an huge steaks – but Sherlock found himself distanced from it all, watching it go past with little emotion. It was as if he’d been through so much over the past few days that something had been burned out in him. He hoped it would come back some time soon. He didn’t like the feeling of being separate from the rest of the world.
Virginia was worried about him, he could tell. She kept glancing across at him while they were eating, and once or twice she would just rest her hand on his arm for a moment, then take it away when he didn’t react.
A few days later, on the ship, watching from the rail as New York harbour slipped away in the distance, Sherlock found himself shivering despite the warmth of the sun and the lack of wind. He felt ill, out of sorts, but he didn’t know how to make himself better.
‘So,’ a familiar voice said from beside him, ‘how was the great metropolis of New York?