'Are you all right?' Sherlock asked gently.

Matty nodded. 'Sorry,' he said, shamefaced. 'It just . . . spooked me. I don't like disease, ever since . . .'

'I understand. Look, I don't know what it was that you saw, but I'll give it some thought. My uncle's got a library the answer might be in there. Or in the local newspaper archives.'

They walked across a small bridge and back into town. The street led past a set of wooden gates set into a stone wall. An animal of some kind was lying by the gates, legs outstretched stiffly, not moving. Its fur was dirty and dull. For a moment Sherlock thought it was a dog, but as they got closer he could see the pointed snout, the short legs and the alternating stripes of black and white now lighter grey and darker grey that ran down its head. It was a badger, and Sherlock noticed that its stomach was nearly flat against the road. It had been run over, probably by the wheel of a cart.

Matty slowed down as he approached. 'You should be careful going past here,' he confided, as if he was perfectly safe and it was Sherlock who had to worry. 'I don't know what they do in there, but there's guards inside. They got billy clubs and boat hooks. Big blokes too.'

Sherlock was about to say something about the likelihood that the men were just providing some protection for the wages of the workers within when the gates swung open. Two men stepped out into the road; their faces were battered, scarred and grim but their clothes were immaculate in black velvet. They looked left and right, checking the boys out momentarily and dismissing them, then gestured to someone inside.

A carriage pulled by a single black horse nosed out of the courtyard. Its driver was a ma.s.sive man with hands like spades and a head that was bald and covered in scars. They closed the gates, then jumped on the back of the carriage, hanging on as it moved away.

'Let's see if the gent will give us a farthing,' Matty whispered. Before Sherlock could stop him, he was running towards the carriage.

Surprised, the horse shied back against the shafts that connected it to the carriage. The driver tried to regain control, slashing at it with his whip, but he just made things worse. The carriage slewed around as the horse tried to prance away from Matty.

Through the carriage window, Sherlock was momentarily shocked to see a pale, almost skeletal face framed with wispy white hair staring at him with unblinking eyes that were small and pink, like the eyes of a white rat. He felt an instant flash of instinctive revulsion, as if he had reached out for a lettuce leaf on his dinner plate and touched a slug instead. He wanted to move, to back away, but that pale, malevolent gaze held him pinioned, unable to move. And then the burly driver managed to regain control and the horse cantered past the two boys, taking the carriage and its occupant with it.

'Didn't even get a chance,' Matty moaned, dusting himself down. 'I thought that bloke was going to have a go at me with that whip.'

'Who was the man in the carriage?' Sherlock asked, his voice unsteady.

Matty shook his head. 'I never even got a look at him. Did he look rich?' he said hopefully.

'He looked like he was three days dead,' said Sherlock.

CHAPTER THREE.

Clouds of steam from the train's funnel billowed up through the slats of the bridge, scalding the boys' legs. Sherlock ran one way, Matty the other, both of them laughing and damp. The train ploughed majestically underneath them and into Farnham station, slowing as it arrived, and the boys moved back to the centre of the wooden bridge that connected the platforms, watching as it came gradually to a halt with a clanking of chains and a cacophonous hiss as the driver vented the remaining steam.

It was the morning of the following day. The platform had been deserted before the train arrived, but within moments it was magically transformed into a bustling ma.s.s of people heading for the exit. Men in black frock coats and top hats emerged from the First Cla.s.s compartments like insects from coc.o.o.ns, rubbing shoulders with the paunchy men in tweed jackets and flat caps and the women in decent frocks who had been sitting in Second Cla.s.s, and the various muscled and weather-beaten labourers in threadbare shirts and patched trousers who had been squashed together in Third. Men in uniform opened a sliding door in one of the carriages and began unloading wooden crates, and bags of what Sherlock supposed were letters. Station porters appeared from whatever offices they normally hid themselves away in and started moving the boxes and bags on trolleys away from the train. Within a few moments the platform was almost clear again, apart from a handful of lingering townsfolk who were chatting together, catching up on the events of the week. A guard, self-important in blue tunic and hat, stepped forward, looked up and down the length of the train, raised his whistle to his lips and blew a short, sharp blast. The train seemed to shudder and then began to heave itself out of the station, ponderously at first and then with increasing speed. The carriages clanked as their connections pulled taut, one after the other, and they were dragged after the engine.

'Is that the train to to London or the train London or the train from from London?' Sherlock asked. London?' Sherlock asked.

Matty looked up and down the line. 'To,' he said finally. 'From here the line goes to Tongham, Ash, Ash Wharf and then on to Brookwood and Guildford. From there you can get a train straight through to London.'

London. Sherlock gazed along the tracks to where the train was just pulling around a bend and out of sight. At the end of its journey it would be within a mile or two of his brother Mycroft, who would be sitting in his office reading doc.u.ments, or poring over a map of the world, coloured red where the British Empire had made its mark. For a moment the desire to run after the train and climb on board was almost overwhelming. He missed his brother. He missed his father and his mother and his sister. He even missed Deepdene School for Boys, although not as much.

'What's at Brookwood?' he asked, trying to distract his thoughts more than anything else.

Matty seemed to shiver. 'Don't ask,' he said.

'No, really.' Sherlock's interest was piqued now. 'Is it anything worth us going to see?'

Matty shook his head. 'There's nothing there that you want to see in daylight,' he said with finality, 'and you wouldn't want to be there at night, believe me.'

'I was thinking that we could get hold of some bicycles,' Sherlock pressed. 'Get out and about. See some of the villages and the towns around here.'

Matty glanced over at him, frowning. 'Why would we want to do that?'

'Curiosity?' Sherlock asked. 'Don't you ever wonder what things are like before you see them?'

'Towns look like towns and villages look like villages,' Matty averred, 'and all the people look like each other. That's the way life is. Come on, let's go.'

He led Sherlock along the bridge, down the cast iron stairs and on to the platform where the pa.s.sengers had earlier disembarked. From there they walked out into the road.

A cart had drawn up by the side of the road, and three men were loading it up with crates of ice insulated with straw that had come off the train.

One of the men was a weasely-faced fellow with yellow teeth. He scowled at the boys as they walked past.

'Young Master Sherlock,' a cutting voice said from behind them. 'I am disappointed to find you consorting with scruffy street Arabs. Your brother would be mortified.'

Sherlock turned, already blushing despite not knowing who was talking to him, to find the housekeeper, Mrs Eglantine, standing a few feet away. Two men who Sherlock recognized from Holmes Manor were loading a series of boxes of groceries on to a cart which was. .h.i.tched to a large and apparently placid horse. The boxes had almost certainly come off the train.

'Street Arabs?' Sherlock looked around. Matty was the only other person there and he was watching Mrs Eglantine with a cautious eye, looking ready to run if things went bad. 'If you think he's a street Arab then you need to get out more, Mrs Eglantine,' Sherlock said boldly, irritated by her att.i.tude.

Her lips twisted. 'The Master wishes to see you when you return,' she said as the two men behind her loaded the last box on to the cart. 'Please do not keep him waiting.' She turned and stepped up into one of the front seats. 'Lunch will be served whether you are present or not,' she added, as one of the men swung up to join her at the front and the other climbed on the back. 'Your friend is not not invited.' invited.'

The horse trotted off, pulling the cart behind it. Mrs Eglantine didn't turn to look at Sherlock, but kept staring ahead. The man sitting on the back of the cart glanced at the boy and nodded agreeably, touching the front of his cap. He was missing several teeth, and there was a notch in his ear that looked like he'd caught it with a knife, or an axe, or something.

'Who was that?' Matty said, coming up beside Sherlock.

'That was Mrs Eglantine. She's the housekeeper at the place where I'm staying.' He paused. 'She doesn't like me.'

'I'm guessing that she doesn't like anyone,' Matty said.

'I'd better go,' Sherlock said. 'It'll take me half an hour to get back if I'm fast, and she was serious about food. I'll go hungry until dinner if I miss it.' He turned to look at Matty. 'Will I see you tomorrow?'

Matty nodded. 'Back here, at about ten o'clock?'

It took Sherlock almost forty-five minutes to walk back to Holmes Manor, and he arrived just as the gong was being sounded for lunch. He brushed the worst of the dust from his clothes and entered the dining room. Unusually, Sherrinford Holmes was seated at the head of the table, reading a pamphlet. His wife, Anna, was bustling around, checking the cutlery and talking to herself. Mrs Eglantine stood behind Uncle Sherrinford. She didn't react as Sherlock entered, but the way she pointedly avoided looking at him told him that she had noticed his arrival.

'Good afternoon Uncle Sherrinford, Aunt Anna,' Sherlock said politely as he sat down.

Sherrinford nodded towards Sherlock without raising his eyes from the pamphlet. Anna managed to incorporate what sounded like a greeting into her continuous monologue.

A maid entered with a tureen of soup and proceeded to spoon it out into bowls, under the supervision of Mrs Eglantine. Sherlock watched without much interest until Sherrinford put down his pamphlet, leaned forward and said: 'Young man, I have a visitor coming after lunch, and I would be obliged if you could be present. Your brother has exhorted me to ensure that your education is kept up whilst you are away from school, and has also indicated that he wishes you to be kept away from trouble. To that end I have retained the services of a tutor. He will take you on for three hours a day, every day of the week apart from Sunday, when I will expect you to attend church with the rest of the family. His name is Amyus Crowe.' He sniffed. 'Mr Crowe is a visitor to this country from the Colonies, I believe, but none the less has demonstrated himself to be a man of learning and discrimination. His Latin and Greek are excellent. I expect you to abide by his instructions.'

Sherlock felt his face burn with sudden anger. When he'd first arrived at Holmes Manor he'd seen the days stretching out before him, empty and barren, and wondered what he was going to do with his time, but meeting Matty Arnatt had opened up a whole set of possibilities. Now it looked as if they were all going to be closed off again.

'Thank you, Uncle Sherrinford,' he murmured. He tried to look pleased, but his face wouldn't follow his instructions. Mrs Eglantine smiled slightly, without meeting Sherlock's eyes.

A meat pie with thick pastry and gravy followed the soup, and a summer pudding followed the pie. Sherlock ate, but he hardly tasted the food. His thoughts kept revolving around the fact that his holidays were turning into a personal h.e.l.l, and he couldn't wait to get back to the stability and predictability of school.

After lunch, Sherlock asked to be excused.

'Don't go far,' Sherrinford admonished. 'Remember my visitor.'

Sherlock hung around in the hall while the family went their separate ways Sherrinford to the library and Aunt Anna to the conservatory. He spent his time looking at the paintings and trying to decide which one was executed in the most amateurish manner. After a while, a maid came up to him. She held a silver tray in her hand, and on the tray was an envelope.

'Master Holmes,' she said quietly, 'this letter came for you this morning.'

Sherlock s.n.a.t.c.hed it from the tray. 'For me? Thank you!'

She smiled, and moved away. Sherlock looked around, half expecting Mrs Eglantine to materialize and s.n.a.t.c.h the envelope from his hand, but he was alone in the hall. The envelope was indeed addressed to 'Master Sherlock Holmes, Holmes Manor, Farnham'. It was postmarked Whitehall. Whitehall. Mycroft! It was from Mycroft! Eagerly he ran his fingernail beneath the wax seal and pulled the flap open. Mycroft! It was from Mycroft! Eagerly he ran his fingernail beneath the wax seal and pulled the flap open.

There was a single sheet of paper inside. The address of Mycroft's rooms in London was printed at the top, and underneath, in Mycroft's peculiarly neat script, it read: My Dear Sherlock,I trust that this letter finds you in good health. You will, no doubt, be feeling abandoned and alone by now, and this will be making you angry. Please understand that i appreciate your feelings, and I only wish there was something I could do to help.

There is! thought Sherlock. thought Sherlock. You could let me come and live with you for the holidays! You could let me come and live with you for the holidays! He dismissed the thought as quickly as it had formed. Mycroft had his own problems: a demanding job, and now acting as de facto head of the family in the absence of their father, looking after their mother, whose physical health was frail, and their sister, who had her own problems. No, Mycroft had done the best thing for both of them. Sometimes, Sherlock thought, the only options open to you were all unfair, and you just had to choose the one that minimized the bad consequences rather than the one that maximized the good ones. It felt like a peculiarly adult thing to think, and he didn't like the implication that this was what adult life was like. He dismissed the thought as quickly as it had formed. Mycroft had his own problems: a demanding job, and now acting as de facto head of the family in the absence of their father, looking after their mother, whose physical health was frail, and their sister, who had her own problems. No, Mycroft had done the best thing for both of them. Sometimes, Sherlock thought, the only options open to you were all unfair, and you just had to choose the one that minimized the bad consequences rather than the one that maximized the good ones. It felt like a peculiarly adult thing to think, and he didn't like the implication that this was what adult life was like.

Any letter you send to the address above will reach me within a day, and I promise that I will respond instantly to any request you might make apart from the obvious one that you should come and live with me here in London.

Ah, ahead of me as usual, Sherlock mused. His brother had always displayed an uncanny ability to predict what Sherlock was about to say. He continued reading: Sherlock mused. His brother had always displayed an uncanny ability to predict what Sherlock was about to say. He continued reading: I have suggested that Uncle Sherrinford employ a tutor in order to further your studies. I have received good reports of a man named Amyus Crowe, and I have mentioned his name to Sherrinford. I believe that you may place your trust in Mr Crowe. He also, I understand, has a daughter. Through her you may be able to make some friends of your own age in the local area.

That shows how much you know, Sherlock thought. Sherlock thought. I've already started making my own friends. I've already started making my own friends.

In conclusion, I exhort you to remember that this is a purely temporary situation. Things will change, as they always do. Take advantage of the situation you find yourself in. As the Persian poet Omar Khayyam wrote: 'Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough, A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse and Thou, Beside me singing in the Wilderness And Wilderness is Paradise enow . . .'

Reading the words, Sherlock tried to puzzle out their meaning. He was reasonably familiar with the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, thanks to a copy that had been donated by its translator, Richard Burton, to the library at Deepdene School. The general thrust of the various quatrains seemed to be that the wheel of fate kept turning and that n.o.body could stop it, although humanity could take some pleasure along the way. The particular quatrain that Mycroft had quoted implied that Sherlock should seek out his own 'loaf of bread' something simple which would help him get through the days. Did Mycroft have anything specific in mind, or was it just general advice? Sherlock was tempted to write back immediately asking his brother to explain in more detail, but he knew enough about Mycroft to realize that once he had said something, he rarely went into more detail. thanks to a copy that had been donated by its translator, Richard Burton, to the library at Deepdene School. The general thrust of the various quatrains seemed to be that the wheel of fate kept turning and that n.o.body could stop it, although humanity could take some pleasure along the way. The particular quatrain that Mycroft had quoted implied that Sherlock should seek out his own 'loaf of bread' something simple which would help him get through the days. Did Mycroft have anything specific in mind, or was it just general advice? Sherlock was tempted to write back immediately asking his brother to explain in more detail, but he knew enough about Mycroft to realize that once he had said something, he rarely went into more detail.

Sherlock turned his attention back to the final lines.

One last piece of advice watch out for Mrs Eglantine. Despite her position of trust, she is no friend to the Holmes family.I know that you will not leave this letter lying around unitidily, but will store it somewhere safe.Your loving brother,Mycroft

Sherlock felt a chill run through him as he read those final lines. For Mycroft to be as direct as to warn him against Mrs Eglantine was entirely out of character, and raised the question, why was was he being so outspoken? Was it because he wanted Sherlock to be in no doubt about his opinion of Mrs Eglantine? His final suggestion no, his final he being so outspoken? Was it because he wanted Sherlock to be in no doubt about his opinion of Mrs Eglantine? His final suggestion no, his final instruction instruction not to leave the letter lying around was Mycroft's coded way of saying not to leave the letter lying around was Mycroft's coded way of saying destroy it destroy it. That was more in character.

He slipped the letter back into the envelope, but there was something else in there another piece of paper. Sherlock pulled it out, and found himself staring at a Post Office Money Order for five shillings. Five shillings! He'd been afraid to broach the subject of pocket money with his aunt and uncle, but it looked as if Mycroft would provide.

Sherlock found himself pulled in two directions by the letter. On the one hand he felt rea.s.sured and happier now that Mycroft had got in contact, and now that he knew that Mycroft approved of Amyus Crowe, but on the other hand he was now actively worried about something that had previously been just a nagging concern Mrs Eglantine, and her obvious dislike for him.

'Interestin' letter?'

The voice was deep and warm, and held an accent that Sherlock couldn't place. He turned, folding the letter up and slipping it into his pocket.

The man standing just outside the open front door was tall and wide-chested. His unruly shock of hair was pure white and the skin of his neck sagged, but the way he held his body belied his obvious age. His skin was leathery and brown, as if he had spent a great deal of time outdoors in a hotter sun than England could offer. He wore a beige suit of a cut and material that Sherlock wasn't familiar with, and held in his hand a wide-brimmed hat.

'From my brother, Mycroft,' Sherlock said, uncertain how to proceed. Should he call for a maid, or invite the man in?

'Ah, Mycroft Holmes,' the man said. 'We have mutual acquaintances, I understand. And as I refuse to believe that you are old enough to be Mr Sherrinford Holmes, I guess that you must be young Sherlock instead.'

'Sherlock Scott Holmes, at your service,' Sherlock said, drawing himself up. He looked around. 'Ah, would you care to come in, Mr . . . ?'

'Mr Amyus Crowe,' the man replied. 'Formerly of Albuquerque in the state of New Mexico, part of the United States of America. And you're very kind.' He stepped inside. 'But you had probably already deduced my ident.i.ty. I am here at the recommendation of your brother, and he would hardly write to you without mentioning it, now would he?'

'I should find a maid, or-'

Before he could finish the sentence, Mrs Eglantine stepped out from the shadows beside the main staircase. How long had she been standing there? Had she seen Sherlock reading the letter?

'Mr Crowe?' she asked. 'The Master has been expecting you. Please come this way.' She gestured towards the door to the study.

Sherlock shivered, despite himself. There was no way she could have known what was inside his letter short of opening and then resealing it, and he refused to believe that of her, but nevertheless he felt as if he had been caught doing something wrong.

Amyus Crowe entered the hall and left his hat and walking stick on the coat rack. He walked up to Sherlock. 'We'll talk later,' he said, putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock was tall for his age, but Amyus Crowe towered over him, making him feel like a ten-year-old. 'Hang around, son.' He glanced around the hall. 'While you're waiting, try to work out how many of these paintings are fakes.'

Mrs Eglantine stiffened. 'None of these paintings is fraudulent!' she hissed. 'The Master would never allow it!'

'"None of them" is is an acceptable answer,' Crowe said, walking past Sherlock with a wink. He handed Mrs Eglantine a card. 'Grateful if you could announce my presence.' an acceptable answer,' Crowe said, walking past Sherlock with a wink. He handed Mrs Eglantine a card. 'Grateful if you could announce my presence.'

Mrs Eglantine led Amyus Crowe into the library. Moments later she emerged and moved away without looking at Sherlock. He followed her with his eyes as she vanished into the shadows by the stairs, and wondered whether she had stopped there, turned around, and was watching him.

Sherlock could hear voices from inside the library, but could not make out any words. He wandered along the oak panelling, taking in the details of each of the paintings in turn. None of them were labelled. Art appreciation had not been on the syllabus at Deepdene School, and he found that he could not raise much interest in the various landscapes, seascapes and hunting scenes. They all appeared to him to be false, with their perfect trees, their wild seas and their horses with spindly legs.

Albuquerque. America. It all sounded so romantic. Sherlock knew little about the country, save the fact that it had been settled from England over two hundred years before, that it had rebelled against English rule about a hundred years later and that its people were independent and brash. Oh, and that there had been a civil war a few years ago which had something to do with slavery. But he had liked Amyus Crowe instantly, and if Crowe was at all representative of his countrymen then Sherlock wanted to go to America one day.

It was probably half an hour later that the door to the study opened and Amyus Crowe emerged. He was smiling, and shaking Sherrinford Holmes's hand. Behind them, the serried ranks of green leather-bound books blurred together like a gra.s.sy landscape.

'Ah, Sherlock,' Sherrinford said. 'Mr Crowe, allow me to introduce my nephew, Sherlock.'

'We met earlier,' Mr Crowe said, nodding at Sherlock.

'Very well. Thank you for coming. I will have a maid show you out.'

'No bother, Mr Holmes I'll take a walk through your grounds with young Master Sherlock, if I may.'

'Of course, of course.' Sherrinford withdrew back into the study like a tortoise into its sh.e.l.l, and Crowe strode over to where Sherlock was standing.

'Well, which one is it?' he asked. 'If any.'

Sherlock scanned the paintings. Despite careful observation, he still wasn't sure. He pointed to a particularly clumsy painting of a rider on a horse whose legs were so thin they should have snapped under the weight. 'That one's not particularly well painted,' he hazarded. 'The perspective is all distorted and the anatomy is wrong. Is that the fake?'

'The thing about fraudsters,' Crowe said, examining the painting, 'is that the less talented ones get caught pretty quickly. Often fraudsters are more convincing than the real thing. You're right about the painting being clumsily executed, but it's real.' He moved across to a dramatic coastal scene, with waves crashing on to a beach while a ship tossed in the background. 'This is the fake.'