Andrew Lane - Red Leech

“If John St Helen is John Wilkes Booth then he’s a confirmed killer and a fugitive,” Crowe proclaimed, “who faces hangin’ if he returns — or is returned — to the USA. He’s like a cornered animal. If he thinks he’s under threat, then he’ll cover his tracks and vanish again, and I’d have to go after him. I’d hate to see you become one of the tracks that gets covered.”

“There is something else,” Mycroft murmured. He glanced at Crowe. “I don’t know to what extent the Pinkerton Agency have kept you apprised of the situation, but there is a growing belief that Booth and his collaborators were a part of something bigger.”

“Course they were,” Crowe rumbled. “It was called the War Between the States.”

“I meant,” Mycroft said heavily, “that the idea behind the assassination of President Lincoln didn’t come from them; that they were working under instructions, and that the guiding lights, if you like, are still at large. If Booth really is here in England then it’s possible he’s heading back to America, and if that is the case then one might well ask why. What is his aim?”

Crowe smiled. “If he’s headin’ back to America, then my job’s a lot easier. All I have to do is raise the alarm and get him arrested when he steps off the boat.”

“But wouldn’t it be preferable to establish his intentions first? Stopping him doesn’t necessarily stop the conspiracy.”

“If there is a conspiracy,” Crowe said, shaking his head.

Sherlock felt as if he was caught in the middle of a philosophical discussion. All he knew was that the informal tutor he’d got used to having in his life was faced with a problem that might call him back to his home country, or set him chasing this man all over the world. If Sherlock could do something to solve that problem, he would. He just wouldn’t tell Mycroft about it.

“Can I go now?” he asked.

Mycroft waved a hand dismissively. “Go and ramble in the countryside, or whatever you do. We will talk for a while.”

“Come to my cottage tomorrow mornin’,” Crowe said, not even looking at Sherlock. “We’ll continue then.”

Sherlock slipped out while the two men were starting a conversation about the intricacies of extradition treaties between individual US states at the federal level and the British Government.

Outside the sun was still a heavy presence in the sky. He could smell woodsmoke, and the distant malt odour of the breweries in Farnham.

Godalming couldn’t be that far away, could it? There was a Guildford Road leading out of it, which indicated it was somewhere near Guildford, and Guildford was somewhere near Farnham.

Matthew Arnatt would know.

Matthew — or Matty, as he liked to be called — was a boy Sherlock had come to know pretty well over the past month or two. He lived alone, on a narrowboat, moving between towns on the canals, stealing food where he had to and avoiding the workhouse. He’d settled down in Farnham for longer than he usually stayed in a town, although neither he nor Sherlock had spoken about the reasons why.

If Sherlock was going to head across to Godalming to take a look at this house named Shenandoah, and the man who lived there who might or might not be an assassin named John Wilkes Booth, then he wanted Matty on his side. Matty had saved his life a couple of times already Sherlock trusted him.

He walked round the back of the house, past the kitchens, across to the stables. The horses that he and Matty had taken from Baron Maupertuis’s manor house some weeks ago were both standing there, contentedly eating from a bag of hay. Sherlock hadn’t quite known what to do with them after the Baron’s colossal scheme fell apart, so he’d just asked the stable boys to look after them for him, and slipped them a shilling. Nobody else seemed to notice that there were two extra horses hanging around the house. And, of course, he could go riding with Virginia. She was giving him lessons, and he was actually enjoying the fact that he could ride a horse properly.

Sherlock saddled up his horse and then, taking the reins of the other horse in his left hand, he trotted his horse out into the open, leading the other horse after him. Having two horses rather than one to worry about made the ride slower, but he was still in Farnham within half an hour and heading for the spot on the river where Matty’s narrowboat was moored.

Matty was sitting on top of the boat, staring out at the river. He jumped up when he saw Sherlock.

“You’ve got the horses,” he pointed out.

“I know,” Sherlock said. “Your powers of observation are amazing.”

“Shove off,” Matty said calmly. “I observe that you want me to come with you someplace. If that’s right, you don’t want to be too sarcastic’

“Point taken,” Sherlock replied. “Sorry I can’t help myself sometimes’

“So, what’s up?”

“I thought you might want to have a ride out to Godalming,” Sherlock told him.

Matty squinted at Sherlock. “What would I want to do that for?”

“I’ll tell you on the way,” Sherlock replied.

The ride to Godalming took them up a gradual slope which went on for miles. The hill was actually the beginning of a ridge that led away into the distance. It fell away to both sides, and the countryside spread out before them until it was lost in a haze of distant smoke.

Matty glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock. “We go along the Hog’s Back for a while, then we come off downhill, through Gomshall. It’ll take an hour or so. You OK to keep going, or do you want to rest for a moment?”

“Let’s just admire the view for a minute or two,” Sherlock said. “Let the horses get their breath back.”

“The horses are fine,” Matty pointed out. “You’re not getting saddle-sore, are you?”

The rest of the ride was easier, taking them past fields and large areas of common ground where sheep and goats and pigs grazed side by side. As they came to the edges of Godalming they passed across a bridge over a narrow river lined with green reeds as tall as a man. A road led off to the left, just over the bridge.

“I think that’s the Guildford Road,” Matty said, pointing. “Which way do you want to go?”

“Let’s head out of town for a while,” Sherlock replied. “I’ve got a feeling the place I’m looking for is further out, more isolated.”

They rode along for a while, slower this time so Sherlock could check out the houses as they passed. Matty seemed content just to look around, without asking Sherlock what they were doing.

Many of the houses weren’t named, or were smaller than Sherlock was expecting to find. After all, there was no point calling a place Shenandoah if it was a broken-down hovel, was there? A name, especially one that grand, implied something bigger, more substantial. A few of the houses had kids playing outside, either with wooden tops and string or with leather balls. One or two of them waved as the boys trotted past.

Eventually they came to a house set apart from any others; not in its own grounds, but isolated by a bend in the road and a copse of trees. From the road, Sherlock could see a wooden plate by the door. The word on it was long, and it might have begun with an “S”. Or it might not. Purple-flowering wisteria vines curled up the side of the building, clinging to any gap or projection they could find.

“Is this it?” Matty asked. “Shall we go and knock?”

“No,” Sherlock said. “Keep riding till we get past, then stop.”

The front of the house was whitewashed, and there were shutters on the windows. The garden was well maintained, he noticed as they went past. Someone was obviously living there.

Once past the house, the boys slowed down to a stop.