'Don't you want to tell someone where you're going?' he asked as Virginia stepped up into one stirrup, grasped the front of the saddle with her left hand and pulled herself up into a sitting position on the horse. Her hand caressed its mane.

'There's n.o.body home,' she called. 'My father is out, remember.'

'What about your mother?' he asked. The way her expression changed into something hard but strangely fragile made him wish he could pull the words right back out of the air.

'My mother is dead,' Virginia said flatly. 'She died on the ship, coming across the Atlantic to Liverpool. That's why I hate this country, and I hate being in it. If we hadn't come here, she'd still be alive.'

With a flick of the reins she turned the horse round and started trotting away. Sherlock watched her go, embarra.s.sed at the pain on her face and angry with himself for causing it.

When he finally turned round to leave he found Amyus Crowe standing patiently at the end of the path, leaning on a walking stick. He was gazing levelly at Sherlock.

'I see you've met my daughter,' he said finally, his accent, like Virginia's, making it sound more like Ah see you've met mah dawter Ah see you've met mah dawter.

'She didn't seem impressed with me,' Sherlock admitted.

'She ain't impressed with n.o.body. Spends her time riding the countryside dressed like a boy.' His mouth twisted into a lopsided grimace. 'Can't say I blame her. Getting dragged from Albuquerque to here is enough to put a child into a foul mood, without-' He stopped abruptly, and Sherlock got the impression that he was going to say something else and had just stopped himself in time. 'Did you want to see me about something in particular, or were you just lookin' for the chance to have another lesson?'

'Actually,' Sherlock said, 'there was something.' He quickly sketched for Crowe what had happened in Farnham the man with the yellow powder, the warehouse, the fire. He found himself trailing off towards the end, aware that he was admitting to what might have been seen as criminal activity if looked at from a certain perspective and uncertain from Crowe's expression what his reaction was going to be.

In the end, Crowe just shook his head and gazed into the distance. 'You've had an interestin' time,' he said. 'But I'm unsure what it all adds up to. There's still two fellows dead, an' a possible outbreak of disease. If you want my opinion, let it be. Let the doctors and the administrators deal with it. There's a useful rule in life along the lines that you shouldn't try to fight all the battles that come your way. Choose the battles that are important, an' let some other fellow fight the rest. An' in this case, it ain't your battle.'

Sherlock felt a frustration bubbling up within him, but he kept quiet. He had a strong feeling that this was his battle, if only because n.o.body else had seen the man in the carriage or thought the yellow powder was important, but maybe Amyus Crowe had a point. Maybe trying to persuade Crowe that something was going on wasn't a battle that Sherlock ought to be fighting. Maybe there was another way around.

'So, what's on the timetable for today?' he asked instead.

'I do believe that we never got to the bottom of edible fungi,' Crowe replied. 'Let's have a wander, and see what we can find. An' on the way I'll point out some wild plants that can be eaten raw, cooked up or boiled into a drink that can relieve pain.'

'Great,' said Sherlock.

He and Amyus Crowe spent the next few hours wandering through the local countryside, eating whatever was safe and within easy reach. Despite himself, Sherlock learned a lot about spending time in the wild, and not only surviving but prospering. Crowe even showed him how to make a comfortable bed by piling bracken up to shoulder height and then climbing on it and using his weight to squash it down to the thickness and softness of a mattress.

Cycling back to Holmes Manor afterwards, he tried to turn his mind back to the two dead men, the burned-out warehouse, the yellow powder and the mysterious crawling shadowofdeath,buthekepthavinghis thoughts interrupted by Virginia's red hair falling around her shoulders and her proud, straight back, by the tightness of her riding breeches and by the way her body rocked up and down as she rode away from him. He remembered the sample of yellow powder that he had scooped from the ground in the woods and sealed inside the envelope. If the ruffians in the warehouse were right then there was something a.s.sociated with the deaths of the two men that was contagious, or contaminating, or at least could cause health problems if touched. a.s.suming it was the yellow powder, he needed to find out what it was, despite Amyus Crowe's thinly disguised warning. He certainly didn't have the knowledge or the equipment to do it himself. He needed a chemist, or an apothecary, or someone similar who could a.n.a.lyse the powder, and he was unlikely to find anyone like that in Farnham. His brother had taken them through Guildford on their way to Farnham, and if that was the nearest big town then that was where Sherlock could find someone trained in natural science who could tell him what the powder was. Amyus Crowe had mentioned an expert there Professor Winchcombe. Perhaps Sherlock could go and see him. All he had to do now was get to Guildford.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Sherlock caught up with Matty Arnatt next day at the market. He was beginning to be able to predict Matty's movements. It was late morning, and the market traders had been working since early morning. They would be thinking about food, and possibly taking it in turns to go and get something to eat one of them watching over two stalls while the other went to get some bread and some meat, or a pie, and maybe a pint of beer. That meant lunchtime was one of those times when their attention would be spread thinnest, giving Matty the chance to snitch some fruit or vegetables from the corner of a stall without being noticed. Sherlock disapproved of theft, but he also disapproved of people starving and of kids being rounded up and sent to a workhouse, so he supposed it was a balance of ethical dilemmas, and to be honest he didn't begrudge Matty the odd worm-eaten apple. It wasn't going to bring down the Empire.

The market was spread over a small field with buildings on three sides. There were stalls selling piles of onions and parsnips, potatoes and beets, and other vegetables in a variety of colours that Sherlock didn't even recognize. Other stalls had knuckles of ham suspended from hooks with flies buzzing around them, and fish laid out on straw. There were people selling various materials and clothes as well druggets and bombazines, barragons and shalloons, tub greens and serges. A makeshift pen to one side held a herd of sheep along with a couple of pigs that were lying down, sleeping despite the hubbub. The mixture of smells was almost overwhelming, with only a faint hint of decay in the air. By sundown, Sherlock guessed, the whole place would stink of rotting vegetables and fish, but by then most of the shoppers would have gone and only the poorer locals would remain, hoping the market traders would start to reduce their prices to get rid of their stock.

There seemed to be a subdued air to the market. It wasn't as lively as Sherlock remembered. Rather than the hustle and bustle that a small town market ought to generate, with people treating it as much as a social event as an opportunity to buy whatever they needed, the shoppers appeared to be set on heading towards whatever they needed, buying it with the minimum of bartering and then heading out again.

'Was Crowe in?' Matty asked as Sherlock approached. He was sitting on an upturned wooden crate, watching the market traders intently for a moment's inattention.

'Not at first, but I met his daughter.'

'Yeah, I've seen her around.'

'You could have told me about her,' Sherlock complained. 'She caught me by surprise. I wasn't expecting her to be there. I must have looked like an idiot.'

Matty glanced momentarily at Sherlock, eyeing him up and down. 'Yeah, pretty much,' he said.

Sherlock felt self-conscious and changed the subject. 'I've had a thought-'

He stopped as Matty suddenly darted off into the crowd, slipping between shoppers like an eel between rocks. Within moments the boy was back again, brushing dirt off a pork pie. 'It fell off the edge of a stall,' he said proudly. 'I've been waiting for that to happen. Too much stuff piled too high something was bound to fall off eventually.' He took a huge bite, then handed it to Sherlock. 'Here, try it.'

Sherlock nibbled a bit off the edge of the crust. It was salty, b.u.t.tery and thick. He took another bite, managing to scoop up some of the pinkish meat and transparent jelly inside. The meat was tasty, studded with bits of fruit prunes, perhaps? Whatever it was, the combination was incredible.

He handed the pie back. 'I already had some apple and cheese,' he explained. 'You finish this.'

'You said you had a thought.'

'I need to get to Guildford.'

'Take a good few hours on the bike,' Matty said, still scanning the crowd.

Sherlock thought back to his trip from Deepdene School for Boys to Farnham, pa.s.sing through Guildford and then Aldershot on the way. He didn't particularly relish the thought of cycling all the way to Guildford and then all the way back again, and he wasn't sure he could do it in a day and find an expert to talk to about poisons and diseases as well.

He sighed. 'Forget it,' he said. 'It was a stupid idea.'

'Not necessarily,' Matty replied. 'There are other ways of getting to Guildford.'

'I can't ride, and I haven't got a horse.'

'What about the train?'

'I'd rather do it without leaving a trail without anyone knowing. Mrs Eglantine seems to be friendly with the stationmaster I don't want her knowing what I do all the time.'

Mrs Eglantine is no friend of the family. The words from Mycroft's letter suddenly floated across his mind, causing him to shiver.

'There's another way,' Matty said cautiously.

'What's that?'

'The Wey.'

'What way?'

'No, the Wey Wey. The River Wey. Runs from here to Guildford.'

Sherlock considered the thought for a moment. 'We'd need a boat.' And then, before Matty could say anything, he exclaimed, 'And you've got one a narrowboat, at least!'

'And a horse to pull it.'

'How long would it take?'

Matty considered for a moment. 'Prob'ly as long as cycling, but it's a lot less effort. I don't think we can do it today. You could meet me at sunrise tomorrow, and we could spend the day on the water, but that wouldn't give you much time in Guildford.'

'What about if we start before dawn?' Sherlock asked.

Matty glanced curiously at him. 'Won't your aunt and uncle worry?'

Sherlock's mind was whirring away like a grandfather clock about to strike. 'I can go back for dinner, then tell them I'm going to bed. I can sneak out of the house later, when it's dark and everyone's gone to sleep I'm sure of it. n.o.body ever checks on me. And I can leave a note in the dining room saying that I've got up before breakfast and gone out with Amyus Crowe. They won't find it until the morning. It'll work!'

'The river loops close to your uncle's house,' Matty said. 'I can draw you a map and meet you there. We can be in Guildford for morning, and back before sunset.'

Quickly, Matty scratched a map on a sc.r.a.p of wood that he pulled from the crate he was sitting on, using a sharp stone from the ground. Sherlock suspected that the boy couldn't read or write, but his map was perfect and nearly to scale. Sherlock could visualize exactly where they would meet.

'I need you to do something,' Sherlock said.

'What?'

'Ask around. See if you can find out about the man who died the man whose house you were standing outside. Find out what he did.'

'What do you mean?'

'What he did for a job. Where he earned his money. I've got a feeling that might be important.'

Matty nodded. 'I'll do what I can,' he said, 'but n.o.body usually tells kids anything.'

After that, everything went smoothly. Sherlock rode back to Holmes Manor and arrived just as the family was sitting down for lunch. He tried to think through his plan, testing each step for resilience against unexpected events and checking the details for flaws, but he found that his thoughts kept shifting around to Virginia Crowe. He couldn't get the shape of her face, and her cascading hair, from his mind.

Amyus Crowe arrived after lunch, and spent several hours outside, on the veranda, testing Sherlock's thinking processes with mind games and puzzles. One in particular stuck in Sherlock's mind.

'Let's imagine there's three fellows who decide to split the cost of a hotel room,' Crowe said. 'The room costs thirty shillings a night includin' dinner an' breakfast obviously a prestigious place. So the fellows pay the manager ten shillings each. OK so far?'

Sherlock nodded.

'Good. Next mornin' the manager realizes he's made a grievous error. There's a special rate on the room cos of buildin' work in the hotel. So he sends a bellhop bellboy, I think you call 'em to the fellows' room with five shillings to give back. The fellows are so pleased they decide to keep a shilling each an' tip the bellboy two shillings. So, each of the men ended up payin' nine shillings instead of ten, an' the bellboy made two shillings. Right?'

Sherlock nodded again, but his mind was rushing to keep up. 'Hang on if each man ended up paying only nine shillings, that's twenty-seven shillings in total. Add that to the two shillings the bellboy got, and you get twenty-nine shillings. There's a shilling missing.'

'That's right,' Crowe said. 'You tell me where it went.'

Sherlock spent the next twenty minutes working it out, first in his mind and then on paper. Eventually he admitted defeat. 'I don't know,' he said. 'The manager gave back five shillings, so he didn't keep it; the bellboy got two shillings, so he didn't get it, and the men each got one shilling back, so they didn't get it.'

'The problem's in the description,' Crowe explained. 'Yep, three times nine shillings does equal twenty-seven shillings, but the tip is already included in that. It makes no sense to add the tip to that to make twenty-nine shillings. If you restructure the problem, you realize that the men paid twenty-five shillings for the room and two shillings for the tip, then got a shilling back each, making thirty shillings. And the upshot is . . . ?'

Sherlock nodded. 'Don't let someone else phrase the problem for you, because they might be misleading you. Take the facts they provide, then rephrase the problem in a logical way that enables you to solve it.'

Amyus Crowe left before dinner, and Sherlock returned to his room to think about what he had learned. He came back down for dinner and ate in silence, while his uncle read and his aunt talked to herself. Mrs Eglantine eyed him suspiciously from the side of the room, but he didn't meet her gaze. The only conversation was when his uncle looked up from the book he was reading and said to the housekeeper: 'Mrs Eglantine, what stocks of food do we have within the Manor House gardens?'

'For vegetables, we grow enough for our needs,' she said, her mouth pinched. 'For fowl and for eggs, likewise. As far as meat and fish are concerned, we can probably manage for a few weeks before we run out, if it is carefully husbanded.'

Uncle Sherrinford nodded. 'I think we must a.s.sume the worst. Prepare to smoke or otherwise preserve as much of the meat as possible. Lay in stocks of essentials. If the plague gets hold of Farnham then we may be isolated for some time. I know that Amyus Crowe is counselling caution, but we should take precautions.' He turned to Sherlock. 'Which reminds me Mr Crowe tells me you haven't spent much time on your Latin and Greek.'

'I know,' Sherlock said. 'Mr Crowe and I have been concentrating on . . . Mathematics.'

'Mr Crowe's time is valuable,' Uncle Sherrinford went on in a calm, measured manner. 'And your brother has gone to some expense to secure his services. You may wish to reflect on that.'

'I will, Uncle.'

'Mr Crowe will return tomorrow afternoon. Perhaps you might do some translation for me.'

Remembering Matty's estimate that they wouldn't be back until dinner time, Sherlock winced. He couldn't tell his uncle that he was going to Guildford, however. He might be forbidden to go. Glancing up, he found that Mrs Eglantine was glaring at him with her small, beady eyes. What did she know?

'I'll be here,' he promised, knowing as he said the words that he was unlikely to make it back in time. He would worry about explaining that when it happened.

Finishing dinner, he excused himself and pushed open the door to the library. His uncle was still in the dining room, eating, and he had said a day or two back that Sherlock could go in the library if he wished, but still he felt like an intruder in this hushed room, curtains drawn against the sunlight, with the smell of leather and old paper filling every nook and cranny. Sherlock browsed along the shelves, looking for something related to local geography. He found several different sets of encyclopaedias, bound volumes of ecclesiastical periodicals, a myriad books containing collections of sermons from what he presumed were renowned clergymen of the past, and many histories of the Christian Church, and eventually came across several shelves of local history and geography. Choosing a book about the waterways of Surrey and Hampshire, he left the library and returned to his room in the eaves of the house.

For half an hour or so he composed a note explaining that he had gone out early and that he would be back later. His first few attempts were too detailed, specifying various untruths about what he was going to do and where, but he realized after a while that the simpler his note was, and the fewer facts it contained that could be checked, the better. Once he had finished it, he lay on his bed and read the book that he had taken from the library.

Sherlock scanned the book looking for mentions of the River Wey, preferably with a map that he could memorize, but soon found more than he expected. The Wey, for instance, wasn't just a river it was apparently something called a 'navigation'. Rivers tended to wind around the landscape in unpredictable directions, whereas ca.n.a.ls built for purposes of trade between towns were straight where possible and used step-like constructions called 'locks' to raise and lower the level of the water depending on the shape of the land. A navigation, he discovered, was a river that had been made more navigable by the building of weirs and locks converting a natural river into something closer to a ca.n.a.l.

Sherlock's head buzzed with details of the immense feats of engineering that had been required to bend the river to the will of man, and the many years that it had taken. He eventually tried to sleep, knowing that he was going to have a long day ahead of him. Although his mind seethed with ideas, images and facts, he slipped into a dreamless sleep before he knew it. When he woke it was still dark, but a fresh breeze was blowing through the window and the birds were beginning to sing in the trees and bushes. It was four o'clock.

He had lain down dressed, and so within moments he was slipping through the darkened house, out on to the attic landing and down the narrow wooden stairs, making sure that he stepped on the outside of the treads to avoid creaks, then cautiously along the first-floor landing, past the bedroom of his aunt and uncle, past their dressing room, past the bathroom, trying not to breathe too heavily, and then down the main stairs that swept in a curve into the ground-floor hall, hugging close to the wall and sensing the weight of the paintings that hung above him, their ornately carved wooden frames dwarfing the pictures themselves into relative insignificance. The only noise was the ticking of the great clock that stood in the angle where the stairs met the tiled floor.

He paused as he reached the hall. Now he had to cross the expanse of tiled floor towards the front door. No more sliding along the wall he would be exposed, out in the open if anyone happened to come out of a doorway or looked down from the upstairs balcony. He knelt for a moment, trying to see if there was any light under any of the doors, but everything was dark. Eventually he screwed up his courage and crossed the tiles. By the time he reached the front door his heart was hammering twice as fast as the ticking of the clock.

The door was bolted, but he slipped the bolt and slowly pulled it open. Someone might notice in the morning that the door had been unlocked, but hopefully they would a.s.sume that someone else had got there first.

The door was almost closed when Sherlock remembered the note that he needed to leave, explaining that he had gone out early. He threw his weight against the door, pushing it open again, then slipped back inside and left the note on a small side table in the hall next to the hat-stand where the morning and afternoon post was usually placed awaiting collection.

The air outside was cool and refreshing compared with the stuffiness within the house, and there was the suspicion of a glow above the trees where the darkness was giving way to the blue of the dawn. Sherlock sprinted as quickly as he could across the stones of the drive, hearing them crunch beneath his feet, before hitting the silence of the lawn.

It took ten minutes for him to get to the riverbank, following Matty's directions. A long black shape lay on the silvery river, moving back and forth as the water undulated. It looked strangely like a long, low hut that had been built on top of a narrow keel. The only gap was at the rear end, where the hut stopped and there was a platform with room for two people to stand, one of them holding the tiller. A rope attached to the front of the boat dipped towards the surface of the water, then rose again to where a horse contentedly ate its way along the gra.s.sy banks. Unlike Virginia Crowe's magnificent black stallion, this appeared to be a heavy, thick-legged creature with a s.h.a.ggy mane. It glanced once, incuriously, at Sherlock, then went back to eating.

Matty was waiting on the front of the narrowboat, a dark shape against the dawn sky, like the figurehead on a ship or a gargoyle on a cathedral. He was holding a boathook a long wooden pole with a metal hook on one end.

'Let's go,' he said as Sherlock clambered on to the boat. 'That's Albert, by the way.' He made a clicking noise with his tongue. The horse looked round at him with an expression of regret on its long face, then started walking along the side of the river. The rope running between it and the boat pulled taut, then the boat began to move as Albert dragged it along. Matty used the boathook to push the narrowboat away from the bank so that it didn't get caught in the reeds.

'Does he know where he's going?' Sherlock asked.

'What's to know? He walks along the bank pulling the boat after him. If he comes to an obstruction, he stops and I sort it out. You stay at the back and keep a hand on the tiller. If we start drifting out into the river then steer us back towards the bank. There's a blanket on the deck, if you get cold. It's a horse blanket, but it'll keep you just as warm as a fancy one.'

The narrowboat drifted on. Water lapped against its sides in a regular rhythm that lulled Sherlock into a drowsy, almost hypnotic state. The river was empty of anything apart from the occasional duck or goose drifting past.

'What did you find out about the man who died?' Sherlock called forward after a while. 'The first man. The one in the house.'

'He was a tailor,' Matty yelled back. 'Worked for a company who were making uniforms for the Army in Aldershot. Big order, apparently, so the company were calling in all the local people who could cut cloth or sew the pieces together.'

'How did you find out?'