Young Sherlock Holmes_ Red Leech - Andrew Lane [7]
‘He’s a Holmes,’ Crowe pointed out. ‘He can be guided, but he can’t be forced. You were the same.’
Yes,’ Mycroft said simply. ‘I was, wasn’t I?’ Before Sherlock could check his sudden realization that Crowe had been Mycroft’s teacher as well, Mycroft said: ‘Would you be good enough to allow Mr Crowe and I to speak privately, Sherlock? We have some business to discuss.’
‘Will I . . . see you before you leave?’
‘Of course. I won’t be going until this evening. You can show me around the house, if you like.’
‘We could go for a walk in the grounds,’ Sherlock suggested.
Mycroft shuddered. ‘I think not,’ he said. ‘I do not believe I am properly dressed for rambling.’
‘It’s just around the outside of the house!’ Sherlock protested. ‘Not out in the woods!’
‘If I cannot see a roof over my head and cannot feel floorboards or pavement beneath my feet then it counts as rambling,’ Mycroft said firmly. ‘Now, Mr Crowe – to business.’
Reluctantly Sherlock left the library and closed the door behind him. Judging by the voices coming from the dining room, his aunt had joined his uncle for lunch. He didn’t feel like subjecting himself to the constant stream of chatter from his aunt, so he headed outside. He wandered around the side of the house, hands in pockets and kicking at the occasional stone. The sun was almost directly overhead, and Sherlock could feel a thin film of sweat appearing on his forehead and between his shoulderblades.
The French windows to the library were ahead of him. The open French windows.
He could hear voices from inside the library.
A part of his mind was telling him that this was a private conversation from which he had been specifically excluded, but another part, a more seductive part, was saying that Mycroft and Amyus Crowe were discussing him.
He moved closer, along the stone balcony that ran along the side of the house.
And they’re sure?’ Crowe was saying.
‘You’ve worked for Pinkertons before,’ Mycroft replied. ‘Their intelligence sources are usually very accurate; even this far from the United States of America.’
‘But for him to have travelled here
‘I presume America was too dangerous for him.’
‘It’s a big country,’ Crowe pointed out.
And much of it uncivilized,’ Mycroft countered.
Crowe wasn’t convinced. ‘I would have expected him to head across the border to Mexico.’
‘But apparently he didn’t.’ Mycroft’s voice was firm. ‘Look at it this way – you were sent to England to hunt down Southern sympathizers from the Civil War who had a price on their heads. What better reason for him to travel here than because they are here?’
‘Logical,’ Crowe admitted. ‘Do you suspect a conspiracy?’
Mycroft hesitated for a moment. ‘“Conspiracy” is probably too strong a term as yet. I suspect they have all gravitated to this country because it is civilized, because people speak the same language and because it is safe. But give it time, and a conspiracy could grow. So many dangerous men with nothing to do but talk to each other . . . we need to nip this in the bud.’
Sherlock’s head was spinning. What on earth were they talking about? He’d come in to the conversation just too late to make sense of it.
‘Oh, Sherlock,’ his brother called from inside the room, ‘you may as well join us, given that you’re listening in.’
CHAPTER TWO
Sherlock entered the library through the French windows with his head hung low. He felt hot and embarrassed and, strangely, angry; although he wasn’t sure whether he was angry with Mycroft for catching him eavesdropping or with himself for being caught.
‘How did you know I was there?’ he asked.
‘Firstly,’ Mycroft said without any trace of emotion, ‘I expected you to be there. You’re a young man with an overdeveloped sense of curiosity, and recent events have shown that you have little regard for playing by the proper rules of society. Secondly, there is a slight breeze that blows in through the gap in the French windows. When you were standing outside, although you could not be seen, and your shadow wasn’t cast in front of the windows, your body