Young Sherlock Holmes_ Red Leech - Andrew Lane [48]
There was no lobster, which was probably a blessing.
After dinner Sherlock had headed for bed, leaving Amyus Crowe in the bar, and if Crowe had come to bed at all then Sherlock had been asleep in his bunk when he had done so. When Sherlock woke up and got ready for breakfast, Crowe had already left the cabin. He seemed to be able to survive on small amounts of sleep.
Despite the fact that it was being cooked at sea, in a cramped galley, the food was excellent. Each meal had something different in it, and waiting to see what would arrive on the plate at breakfast, lunch or dinner was one of the highlights of the day. Everything was prepared from fresh, of course – it would be difficult to store anything for very long – but even though the numbers of animals on the foredeck would diminish during the voyage there was no obvious sign of them being slaughtered – no washes of blood across the deck, no piteous bleats as the animals were taken away to their final end. The crew obviously had their own routine, which they had been following for years.
The skies on that first day were clear and blue, and the waves were small enough in comparison to the size of the ship that they just slapped across its sides without making it pitch and toss at all. Sherlock had read stories about storms at sea, and he overheard a couple of the passengers who were scaring the rest by telling stories of horrendous previous passages across the Atlantic where vast waves had hung above the ship before crashing down and sweeping the animals overboard, but so far the ocean had been calm enough that some people were actually playing bowls in a clear area of deck.
The steerage passengers had their own fenced-off area of deck for walking and for washing their clothes. It was at the top of the stairs that led down to the dark areas of the ship where their hammocks were slung. The smell that wafted up sometimes was an eye-watering mix of bodily odours. Presumably, down there where there was no breeze and nobody could see the sky and the horizon, seasickness was a constant companion. When they came on deck they either watched the First Class passengers with subdued malice in their eyes or stared at the deck in weary depression. Every time Sherlock passed them by he thanked God that Mycroft had paid for them to travel First Class. He wasn’t sure he could have survived steerage. He wasn’t sure how anyone could.
The massive paddle wheels on each side of the ship were in constant motion, driven by the steam engines whose rumbling could be felt whenever one touched a wooden surface. The paddles which were spaced around their circumference pushed against the sea as they rotated, propelling the ship forward. The captain had ordered the sails to be unfurled shortly after Southampton dropped out of sight over the horizon, but the way they hung limply suggested to Sherlock that there wasn’t enough breeze to keep the ship moving very fast.
Surprisingly, for much of that first day after breakfast he hadn’t seen much of Amyus and Virginia Crowe. She had seemed subdued, and had taken to her cabin, and her father seemed to be spending his time alternately checking that she was all right and brooding in the cabin which he shared with Sherlock. Something was bothering her. Casting his mind back, Sherlock tried to remember whether Virginia had mentioned anything about the trip from America to England that she and her father had taken apart from the fact that they hadn’t travelled First Class but weren’t in steerage either. He had a feeling that she had said something important when they first met, but he couldn’t remember what.
Somewhere towards the back of the ship Sherlock could hear music playing. He turned from his position staring out at the waves, trying to trace its source. The music floated overhead, as light as the seagulls which followed in the wake of the ship and