Young Sherlock Holmes_ Red Leech - Andrew Lane [65]
Virginia moved close and rested her head against his shoulder for a moment before moving away. ‘At least my ma was taken away quickly,’ she said, gazing up at him. ‘I’d never thought about it before, but I guess that was a blessing. Seeing her slippin’ away over weeks, months, years . . . that must be terrible.’
Sherlock turned away so she couldn’t see the gleam of the tears that he felt pricking in his eyes.
‘Are we really goin’ to find him?’ she whispered.
‘Find who?’
‘Matty.’
Sherlock felt his breath catch in his chest. He’d been asking himself the same question, and he was still no closer to an answer.
‘We’ll find him,’ he said. And he’ll be all right. The men who kidnapped him have every reason in the world to keep him alive.’
‘That’s not a real answer,’ she said softly, ‘and you know it.’
‘Have you seen the ship?’ he asked, deliberately changing the subject.
‘Not that much of it. I’ve been asleep most of the time.’
‘Then let me show you.’
He escorted her around the deck, showing her everything from the bows to the stern, including the pen where the animals were kept – now somewhat depleted after five days of the voyage. In the bows of the boat, she put her hand on his arm.
‘Pa said you’d got into a fight,’ she said. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m always getting into fights,’ he replied.
‘You should learn to fight better.’
‘Hey, I’ve managed so far. I’ve survived.’
‘What happened? Tell me!’
So he told her everything that had happened with Grivens, the steward, and unlike the time when he told the story to Amyus Crowe he found himself getting emotional and having to stop a couple of times in order to get his feelings in check. Somehow, telling Virginia the story made it more real. It wasn’t just a collection of facts any more.
When he’d finished, she squeezed his arm. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I will be, I suppose.’
‘It’s a shock, isn’t it?’
He glanced at her, puzzled. ‘What?’
‘Being responsible for the death of a human being. And knowing that it might have been you.’
He shrugged awkwardly. ‘I guess it is. I just . . . don’t know how to react to it. I don’t know what’s appropriate.’
‘I remember,’ she said, ‘when we were livin’ in Albuquerque, an’ when Pa used to come back from his trips, he’d just slump into a chair an’ want to drink whisky. We’d try to talk to him, but he wouldn’t respond. I didn’t know then what he did, or where he’d been. I only found out later that he’d been trackin’ some killer, or a traitor, an’ that sometimes it didn’t end well.’ She paused for a moment. ‘I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is that when it starts to not matter, when you find you don’t have a reaction, that’s when you need to worry, cos that’s the point where you ain’t quite human any more.’
She leaned up and kissed him briefly on the cheek: a touch of warmth in the cold air. ‘I’m goin’ to go an’ lie down for a while. I’ll prob’ly see you at dinner.’
She walked off. He could still feel the warm trace left by her lips on his cheek.
The last three days of the voyage were filled with anticipation, and with a strange betting fever that swept over the passengers as they wagered on everything from the exact day, hour and minute that they would see land to the first name of the pilot who would come aboard to guide them into New York harbour. Sherlock kept himself away from it, throwing himself with equal feverishness into his violin lessons with Rufus Stone. He practised the shapes of notes and chords with his left hand until the pads of his fingers were blistered. Only on the last day did Stone actually allow him to combine what he had learned about his stance, about his use of the bow and about how his left hand should grasp the neck of the violin, and actually play for real.
It was one of his proudest accomplishments.
‘You need to get yourself a violin,’ Rufus told him. ‘A good one, not something made out of boxwood and held together with horse glue.’ He scowled at Sherlock. ‘You have a certain natural talent, my friend, and your fingers are as long, as thin