Young Sherlock Holmes_ Red Leech - Andrew Lane [22]
Mycroft looked Sherlock up and down critically.
‘You have been assaulted,’ he said, ‘and not by someone your own age.’
‘Or from this country,’ Amyus Crowe rumbled.
‘In fact,’ Mycroft said, glancing at Sherlock’s shoes, ‘there were two assailants. One of them was mentally deficient in some way.’
‘And both men were armed with pistols,’ Crowe added.
‘How do you know these things?’ Sherlock asked, amazed.
‘A trifling matter,’ Mycroft said, waving his hand airily. ‘Explaining it would waste time. More important is, where did you go and why were you attacked?’
Reluctantly Sherlock told them both everything that had happened, ending with the realization that he still had Ives’s pistol tucked into the back of his trousers. He pulled it out and put it on the desk in front of the two men.
‘Colt Army model,’ Crowe observed mildly. ‘Point four-four calibre, six rounds. Fourteen inches from hammer to the end of the barrel. Replaced the Colt Dragoon as the preferred weapon of the US Army. Accurate up to around a hundred yards.’ His fist slammed down on the table, making the gun jump. ‘What in the name of God and all his angels did you think you were doin’, goin’ to that house?’ he shouted. ‘You’ve alerted Booth an’ his handlers to the fact someone’s on to them! They’ll clear out like greased lightnin’.’
Sherlock bit the inside of his lip, trying to stop himself responding. ‘I just wanted to take a look,’ he said eventually. ‘I thought I could help.’
‘You’ve not helped; you’ve actively hindered,’ Crowe exploded. ‘This is a business for grown-ups. You ain’t got the skills or the knowledge to do it properly’
Part of Sherlock’s mind – a dispassionate, detached part – noticed that Amyus Crowe’s accent became thicker when he was angry, but the greater part was cringing at the knowledge that he had let down two of the three men whose opinion mattered most to him in the world. He opened his mouth to say ‘Sorry’, but his mouth was dry and he couldn’t get the word out.
The expression on Mycroft’s face was of disappointment rather than anger. ‘Go to your room, Sherlock,’ he said. ‘We will call for you when –’ he glanced at Crowe – ‘we can be more assured of a calmer discussion. Now go.’
Feeling his cheeks burning with shame, Sherlock turned around and walked out of the library.
The hall was stifling in the afternoon heat. He stopped for a moment, head hung, letting the feelings drain away from him and waiting until he felt he could face the long climb up to his room. His head hurt.
‘No longer the favoured child?’ said a voice from the shadows.
Sherlock glanced up as Mrs Eglantine glided out from the cubbyhole beneath the stairs. She was smiling nastily. Her black crinoline dress moved stiffly around her, and the sound of it brushing against the floor was like someone whispering in a distant room.
‘How is it that you manage to survive in this house, being so rude to everyone?’ he asked mildly, knowing that he had nothing to lose. Things were already as bad as they were going to get, that day. ‘I would have fired you years ago, if I was in charge.’
She seemed surprised by his reaction. The smile seemed to slip from her face. ‘You have no power here,’ she snapped. ‘Ihave the power in this house.’
‘Only until Uncle Sherrinford dies,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘Neither he nor Aunt Anna has any children, so possession of the house will pass to my father’s side of the family. And then you need to step very carefully, Mrs Eglantine.’
Before she could say anything in response, he headed up the stairs to his room. Looking down from the first-floor landing, he could still see her standing there.
He lay down on his bed, flung an arm across his eyes, and let the whirl of thoughts in his head take him over. What had he been thinking? Mycroft and Crowe had both warned him off from helping.