Young Sherlock Holmes: Fire Storm (11 page)

Sherrinford sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said slowly, pouring the Madeira into the glasses. ‘This involves your father. It goes back to when we were children together. Siger – your father – was a strange child, even then. Some days he would be bright and full of energy, able to climb any tree and jump any fence, bolting his food and speaking faster than people could understand. Other days he would just lie in bed or mope around the house, listless and uninterested. Our father said that he would grow out of it. Our mother was less sure. She called in various doctors to give a diagnosis. The ones who came when he was running around and not stopping for breath said that he was naturally boisterous. The ones who saw him when he took no interest in anything around him said that he was sensitive and maudlin in nature – melancholic. When the melancholia or the mania became too much for our father and mother to manage, he was taken into an asylum and looked after there.’

‘My father was . . .
is
. . . insane?’ Sherlock whispered.

‘I would never have used that word to describe him,’ Sherrinford said sternly. ‘He was . . .
is
. . . my brother, and there were days when you could not tell there was anything wrong with him.’ He paused. ‘But on other days he would become so excited that he could be dangerous, or so maudlin that he talked of ending his own life. I say he was “looked after” at the asylum rather than “cared for”, because I visited him once, and I will never forget the abject horror of his surroundings. They left their mark on him, I am sure.’ He paused, staring at the table, but Sherlock suspected that, in his mind, he was seeing things from long ago. ‘One physician in particular who saw him when he was living at home, in between visits to the asylum, was particularly well read. He had heard of a Frenchman who had described a disease which he called
folie à double forme
, or ‘ “dual-form insanity”. Well, this particular physician tried various remedies – a tincture of black hellebore to induce vomiting, a decoction of foxglove, and hemlock juice. They had some effect, but not enough. The only thing that truly helped was morphine.’

Morphine!
The word struck Sherlock like an icy dagger through the heart. He’d had his own experiences with morphine. Baron Maupertuis’s men had drugged him with laudanum, which was morphine in alcohol, and the Paradol Chamber had later used a similar drug on Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft. Was the whole family’s history tied up with the horrible stuff?

‘What exactly
is
morphine?’ Matty asked.

‘It is a substance which can be derived from opium, which is itself the dried sap of the poppy plant. It is an evil chemical, of which I will say no more, except that it did stabilize Siger’s extreme mood swings.’ Sherrinford laughed humourlessly. ‘It is named for the Greek god of dreams – Morpheus.’

Sherlock shook his head. ‘I’m not sure I understand. My father was ill, and this drug made him better. What’s the problem?’

‘The problem,’ Sherrinford answered, ‘is that our society is not tolerant of those who have . . . problems of the mind. With his morphine treatment Siger grew up tall and strong, with nobody outside the family knowing that anything was wrong. He married into a good family, and joined the Army. If it was discovered that he was ill in the head, then he would be cashiered from the Army. His friends and neighbours would withdraw from him. Shame would be brought on the family – not that I care particularly about that, but he and your mother would lose
everything
. Not only that, but the stigma would attach itself to him, to her, and to you and your brother. You would be labelled as the sons of a madman. People would assume you were likely to go mad yourselves.’

‘How did Mrs Eglantine find out about this?’ Sherlock whispered.

‘She was a maid at the asylum,’ Aunt Anna said quietly. ‘This was when she was young. She must have seen Siger one day, quite by accident, when he was older and wearing his Army uniform. She realized the scandal that would attach itself to the family if it were known that he had spent time in an asylum and was dependent on drugs for his sanity, and she started blackmailing us.’

Sherlock frowned. ‘That’s what I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Why blackmail
you
? Why not blackmail my father, or my mother, or Mycroft?’

‘Perhaps she was,’ Sherrinford said simply. ‘We never asked.’

A thought occurred to Sherlock. He paused before saying anything, turning the thought over and over in his mind, examining it from all angles just in case he’d missed something. It was a big thought, and he wanted to make sure he’d got it right before he said something embarrassing.

‘From what you’ve told us,’ he said eventually, and carefully, ‘the family secret that you were keeping concerned my father, and my father’s side of the family. It occurs to me that if the secret got out, the family shame wouldn’t reflect on
you
. It would be us – and in particular
him
– who would face problems.’

Sherlock’s Aunt Anna smiled at him and reached out across the table to pat his hand. ‘Bless you, Sherlock,’ she said. ‘We couldn’t let that happen to Siger. He’s family. He and Sherrinford grew up together. We couldn’t stand by and let him be shamed in that way. I remember how proud he was when he got into the Army. It would be quite wrong to take that away from him.’

‘But your lives have been affected badly by Mrs Eglantine’s presence in this house.’

‘The Good Lord puts us all through the fire at some time in our lives,’ Sherrinford said. ‘He tests us, and we must not be found wanting.’

‘What else should we have done?’ Aunt Anna asked, more practically. ‘Should we have told that odious Mr Harkness that we were not going to pay, and then watched as our own kin was humiliated in public? That would not have been right.’

Sherlock glanced from his aunt to his uncle. He found himself thinking about them in a different way. They weren’t fusty old relics of a bygone age to him now; they were living people, with feelings and cares and concerns. He tried to visualize Sherrinford and his father playing together as boys. He tried to visualize his aunt as a younger woman, in her finest dress, perhaps attending the wedding of Siger Holmes and Sherlock’s mother. For a moment he found that he could.

‘Thank you,’ he said simply. ‘On behalf of my mother and my father, neither of whom can say this themselves for different reasons, thank you.’

‘It was the least we could do,’ said Sherrinford.

‘It wasn’t,’ Sherlock replied. ‘That’s why it was such a noble and self-sacrificing gesture.’

‘Now,’ Aunt Anna said, ‘I must go and see to hiring another housekeeper. This place won’t run itself, and the maids are so flighty that they need someone looking over their shoulder all the time, otherwise who knows what will happen.’

‘And I have a library to tidy,’ Uncle Sherrinford said. ‘That could take some time.’

They both stood. With a final smile from Sherlock’s aunt, and an absent wave of the hand from his uncle, they left the room.

‘Nice people,’ Matty observed.

‘Nice doesn’t anywhere near cover it,’ Sherlock replied.

‘So, what do you want to do now?’

Sherlock thought for a moment. ‘I was thinking of going over to Amyus Crowe’s cottage. I think he ought to hear what’s happened. We should also probably let him know about those American men who were looking for him in the market earlier. They did mention his name.’

Matty shrugged. ‘He might have some advice on what to do if Josh Harkness decides to hang around and take his lost money out of your hide,’ he said. ‘And I suppose it would be nice to see Virginia again.’

Sherlock stared at him, but Matty just gazed back innocently.

‘You don’t have to come,’ Sherlock said evenly. ‘I thought maybe Albert might need feeding.’

‘He’s a horse,’ Matty said, shrugging. ‘Where I left him, he’s surrounded by food. It’s like leaving me in a pie shop. He’ll eat grass until he’s full, and then he’ll sleep.’

‘Do you think horses get bored?’ Sherlock asked him. ‘I mean, just standing around in fields all the time.’

Matty raised an eyebrow. ‘Never really thought about it. I don’t suppose they mind. P’raps they spend their time thinking deep thoughts about the world and the things in it, or p’raps they can’t think much beyond what’s at the end of their nose.’ He frowned at Sherlock. ‘You think too much. Anybody ever told you that?’

They headed out into the late-afternoon sunshine. Sherlock managed to borrow another horse from the stables, and together they rode across the fields towards where Amyus Crowe and his daughter lived.

As they rode, Sherlock found his thoughts flipping between two extremes – a nervousness at the thought of seeing Virginia again and a confusion over what he felt about his father: a man who had always previously seemed like a force of nature to Sherlock, with his loud laugh and his love of the outdoors, but who he saw now as someone much more complicated.

He couldn’t help but wonder if the
folie à double forme
that his father suffered from was hereditary, like a birthmark, or just a disease that could be caught, like influenza.

As they rode up to the small cottage, Sherlock noticed that Virginia’s horse wasn’t in its field. ‘Sandia’s missing,’ he pointed out. ‘Virginia’s not here.’

‘You want to go looking for her?’ Matty called.

Sherlock glared at him. ‘Let’s go inside,’ he said darkly. ‘It’s been half an hour since you ate – you’re probably hungry again by now.’

‘I probably am,’ Matty agreed.

They dismounted and tied their horses to the fence outside the cottage. Something was bothering Sherlock as they approached, and it took him a moment to work out what it was. The usual clutter of objects outside the cottage – axes, muddy boots and so on – was gone.

The door, unusually, was closed. Sherlock knocked, feeling an unaccustomed premonition that something was badly wrong. His mind returned to the conversation he’d overheard in the market. He’d assumed the two Americans had wanted Mr Crowe’s help. Had he been wrong?

There was no answer from inside.

He knocked again. Still no answer.

He looked at Matty, who was standing beside him. Matty stared back, a frown on his face.

Sherlock pushed the door open.

The room inside was empty of any personal possessions. Not only were Amyus and Virginia Crowe not there, but there was no sign that they ever had been.

CHAPTER SIX

Shocked, Sherlock pushed the door fully open and entered the room. The size, the layout, the furniture – everything was familiar to him, but at the same time everything was different. The absence of the usual clutter made the room look much larger than he remembered.

The amount of bare wall disturbed him – he was used to seeing it covered with sketches and maps. The plaster was marked with pinholes where things had been fastened, which was reassuring because it meant that he was actually in the right cottage, not one the same size and shape just down the road that he had mistaken for Amyus Crowe’s residence.

‘They must’ve upped and left in a hurry,’ Matty said, following Sherlock inside.

‘Perhaps they left a note.’ Sherlock indicated the downstairs area. ‘You look down here – I’ll check upstairs.’

‘There’s nothing obvious here,’ Matty said. ‘If they’d left a note, they would have left it in plain sight.’

‘They might not have wanted it to be found by anyone who wandered in. Maybe they’ve hidden it.’

Matty looked at him critically. ‘You’re clutching at straws,’ he said. ‘Face it – they’ve just upped and left. Done it myself too many times to count. Someone’s after you for the rent so you do a midnight flit. Pull up roots and plant yourself somewhere new where nobody knows you from Adam.’ He frowned. ‘Wouldn’t ’ave figured Mr Crowe for a runner though. Whoever’s after ’im must be pretty fearsome for ’im to up sticks just like that.’

‘You’re forgetting those two Americans in the market,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘They said they wanted to warn Mr Crowe about something.’

‘Maybe they was the ones he was runnin’ away from.’

‘But he wouldn’t have
done
that,’ Sherlock protested. ‘Not without telling us.’

Matty shrugged. ‘Maybe you thought they were better friends than they actually were,’ he said callously. ‘In my experience, stuff like friendship gets thrown away when times are tight and money is scarce.’

Sherlock just stared at him. ‘Do you really mean that?’

Matty wouldn’t meet his gaze. ‘It’s a hard world, Sherlock. You’ve always had it easy. Wait until you’re cold and hungry and poor – see how much friendship is worth then.’

‘You’re my friend.’ Sherlock felt as if the world he depended on was suddenly slipping away from him. ‘I’ll never forget that. I mean it – I’m not lying!’

‘I know you mean it, but your stomach is full and you’ve got money in your pocket. Tell me that again when you’ve lost it all.’ He shook his head. ‘Look, I’ll check for a note. Nobody will be happier than me if I find one.’

As Matty began to check in drawers and behind cushions Sherlock headed up the narrow wooden stairs, nearly bumping his head on the low ceiling. He felt sick, partly because of the disappearance of his friends but partly at Matty’s words. Was friendship really that disposable? Did Matty think Sherlock would just drop him if things got tough?