Andrew Lane - Black Ice

It took another half an hour to reach the gates of Holmes Manor.

‘Ah’ll take my leave of you here,’ Crowe said. ‘Let’s pick up again tomorrow. Ah’ve got some more to teach you about trackin’ and huntin’.’

‘Do you want to come in for a time?’ Sherlock asked. ‘I could get Cook to make a pot of tea, and one of the maids could gut and bone those fish for you.’

‘Mighty accomodatin’ of you,’ Crowe rumbled. ‘Ah believe ah will take advantage of that offer.’

Together they walked up the gravelled drive towards the impressive frontage of Holmes Manor. This time Sherlock was in the lead.

Without knocking, he pushed open the front door.

‘Mrs Eglantine!’ he called boldly.

A black shape detached itself from the shadows at the base of the stairs and slid forward.

‘Young Master Sherlock,’ the housekeeper answered in her dry-as-autumn-leaves voice. ‘You seem to treat this house more like a hotel than the residence of your family.’

‘And you seem to treat it as if you are a member of that family rather than a servant,’ he retorted, voice cold but heart trembling. ‘Mr Crowe will be taking afternoon tea with me. Please arrange it.’ He stood waiting, uncertain whether she would take his orders or dismiss him with a cutting word. He had a feeling that she wasn’t sure either, but after a moment she turned and moved towards the kitchens without saying anything.

He felt a sudden and irresistible urge to push things a bit, to needle the woman who had done so much to make his life uncomfortable over the past year.

‘Oh,’ he added, gesturing towards the wicker basket at Amyus Crowe’s feet, ‘and Mr Crowe has caught some fish. Be so good as to have someone gut them and bone them for him.’

Mrs Eglantine turned back, and the expression on her face could have curdled milk and caused sheep to give birth prematurely. Her lips twisted as she attempted to force back something she was going to say. ‘Of course,’ she said finally, through gritted teeth. ‘I will send someone up for the basket. Perhaps you would be so good as to leave it here and repair to the reception room.’

She seemed to melt back into the shadows.

‘You should watch that woman,’ Amyus Crowe said quietly. ‘When she looks at you there is violence in her eyes.’

‘I don’t understand why my aunt and uncle tolerate her presence,’ Sherlock replied. ‘It’s not as if she’s a particularly good housekeeper. The other staff are so terrified by her that they can barely do their jobs properly. The scullery maids keep dropping dishes when she’s around, their hands shake so much.’

‘The subject would benefit from some further investigation,’ Crowe mused. ‘If, as you say, she’s not a particularly good housekeeper then there must be some other compellin’ reason why she’s kept on, despite her vinegary personality. Perhaps your aunt and uncle are indebted to her, or to her family, in some manner, and this is a way of repayin’ a debt. Or perhaps she’s privy to some fact that your family would rather keep secret, and is blackmailin’ herself into a cosy job.’

‘I think Mycroft knows,’ Sherlock said, remembering the letter his brother had sent him when he first arrived at Holmes Manor. ‘I think he warned me about her.’

‘Your brother knows a lot of things,’ Crowe said with a smile. ‘And the things he don’t know generally ain’t worth knowin’ anyway.’

‘You taught him once, didn’t you?’ Sherlock asked.

Crowe nodded.

‘Did you take him out fishing as well?’

A laugh burst through Crowe’s usually calm expression. ‘Only the once,’ he admitted, through chuckles. ‘Your brother an’ the great outdoors ain’t exactly on speakin’ terms. It’s the first time and the last time ah’ve seen a man try and catch a fish by chasin’ it into its natural environment.’

‘He dived in after a fish?’ Sherlock said, trying to imagine the scene.

‘He fell in, tryin’ to reel it in. He told me, as ah was haulin’ him out, that he would never leave the safety of dry ground again, and if that dry ground was a paved city street then so much the better.’ He paused. ‘But if you ask him, he can still tell you the feedin’ an’ swimmin’ habits of all the fish in Europe. He may have a dim view of physical exertion, but his mind is as sharp as a seamstress’s bag of pins.’

Sherlock laughed. ‘Let’s go into the reception room,’ he said. ‘Tea will be on its way.’

The reception room was just off the main hall, at the front of the house. Sherlock threw himself into a comfortable chair while Crowe settled himself on a sofa large enough to take his considerable bulk. It creaked beneath his weight. Amyus Crowe was, Sherlock estimated, probably as heavy as Mycroft Holmes, but in Crowe’s case it was solid bone and muscle.

A soft knock on the door heralded the appearance of a maid carrying a silver tray. On the tray were a pot of tea, two cups and saucers, a small jug of milk and a plate of cakes. Either Mrs Eglantine was being unusually generous or one of the staff had decided to make the guest feel welcome.

There was also an envelope, white and narrow.

‘A letter for you, sir,’ the maid said without making eye contact with Sherlock. She set the tray down on a table. ‘Will there be anything else?’

‘No, thank you.’

As she left he reached out eagerly to take the envelope. He didn’t get many letters at Holmes Manor, and when he did they were almost always from -

‘Mycroft!’

‘Is that a fact or a deduction?’ Crowe asked.

Sherlock waved the envelope at him. ‘I recognize the handwriting, and the postmark is Westminster, where he has his office, his lodgings and his club.’

He ripped the envelope open, pulling the flap from the grip of the blob of wax that held it firm.

‘Look!’ he said, holding the paper up. ‘The letter is written on the headed stationery of the Diogenes Club.’

‘Check the postmark on the envelope,’ Crowe murmured. ‘What time does it show?’

‘Three thirty yesterday afternoon,’ Sherlock said, puzzled. ‘Why?’

Crowe gazed imperturbably at Sherlock. ‘Mid-afternoon on a weekday, and he’s at his club, writing letters, rather than at his office? Does that strike you as unusual behaviour for your brother?’

Sherlock thought for a moment. ‘He once told me that he often walks across to his club for lunch,’ he said after a moment. ‘He must have written the letter over lunch and got the footman to post it for him. The post would have been collected in the early afternoon, and the letter would have got to the sorting office for around three o’clock, then been stamped half an hour later. That’s not suspicious, is it?’

Crowe smiled. ‘Not in the slightest. Ah was merely tryin’ to indicate that there’s a whole lot of facts that can be deduced from a simple letter. If the postmark had been Salisbury rather than Westminster it would have been unusual, and would have prompted further questions. If we knew your brother never left his desk durin’ the day, not even for lunch – an unlikely occurrence, ah have to admit – and yet the letterheaded stationery was from his club then that would have been unusual as well. You might have surmised that your brother had lost his job, or was sufficiently disturbed that he had not gone into work, or left early.’

‘Or maybe he’d just taken some stationery from the Diogenes Club and was using it in his office,’ Sherlock pointed out.

Crowe looked discomfited. ‘Ah guess there’s always an alternative explanation,’ he growled.

Sherlock scanned the letter quickly, excitement growing as he read the words until he was almost at fever pitch.

My dear Sherlock,