Stone Cold (2 page)

‘You are sending me back to school,’ Sherlock said, feeling his heart grow heavy. He had dreaded this moment. His life for the past two years had been interesting, exciting and even
dangerous. He had travelled to foreign countries and seen things that he would never have believed had he not experienced them himself. He had been thrown on to his own resources, and he had
survived. He couldn’t go back to school and meekly do what he was told to do by the teachers. Not now. He was a different person to the one who had left Deepdene School at the end of the
summer term two years before, in uniform and with his cases packed.

‘No,’ Mycroft said, surprising Sherlock, ‘that would be looking backwards, not forward, and to do so would be a capital mistake. No, I believe that your future lies at one of
the great universities, so I propose that you live either in Cambridge or in Oxford for now, having one-to-one sessions in the important subjects with an experienced tutor, with a view to your
entering either of those universities two years hence.’

‘Cambridge is nearer to the family manor house, for when father returns home,’ Sherlock said, feeling his heart lighten just a little bit. This could actually be fun.

‘I have acquaintances in Oxford,’ Mycroft continued, ‘so I propose to send you there. You will recall that I studied at Oxford a few years ago. It was not a happy time in my
life, but I value the education I received there and the friends I made. In particular, I knew a man named Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, who is now a lecturer in mathematics at Oxford, specializing in
the field of logic. I will find you rooms in the town, and he will teach you for an hour a day, when he is not engaged on lecturing duties or one of his odd hobbies. There was also a police officer
named Weston with whom I shared several very interesting conversations.’

Quickly going over Mycroft’s proposal – well, more of a fait accompli than a proposal, Sherlock thought – he found there were several things that caught his attention. A
lecturer in logic sounded fascinating. Sherlock’s mind had always worked in a logical manner, and he found the trust that other people appeared to put in luck, faith or superstition quite
odd. His former tutor and friend, Amyus Crowe, had done a lot to make him think in a rational manner. He thought he might enjoy studying logic.

‘What does this Charles Lutwidge Dodgson do that is so odd?’ he asked.

‘For a start, he is interested in this new-fangled thing called photography. You are familiar with it?’

Sherlock frowned, trying to remember things that he had read, or overheard. ‘It’s a way of capturing the details of a scene not in a painting or a drawing, but by letting the light
from that scene fall upon a chemically treated glass plate and recording the image directly, is it not?’ he said.

‘Indeed. The chemicals involve a nitrate of silver that changes colour when light touches it, or so I understand. I find myself in two minds about photography. On the one hand, the final
result is much less pretty than a painting, and is only represented in shades of grey. On the other hand, it does represent what is actually there, rather than what the artist thinks is there, or
hopes is there, or wants you to believe is there. It is either a fad or it will supplant portraiture and landscape painting and also help considerably in the investigation of crime – I do not
yet know which. I used to talk with my police acquaintance about that.’

‘You said, “On the one hand . . .”,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘What are his other hobbies?’

‘He is apparently, in his spare time, a writer of children’s books under the pen name “Lewis Carroll”. In particular, one with the title
Alice’s Adventures in
Wonderland
has caught the public imagination and sold rather well. It is published by Macmillan and Co, who are themselves a reputable publisher. It is even said that Her Majesty Queen Victoria
has read it and let her approval be known.’

‘A children’s book?’ Sherlock said, rather sniffily.

‘Indeed, and a rather odd one. On the face of it the book is a tale about a girl who falls down a rabbit hole and finds a fantasy world inhabited by talking animals, or who may just have
fallen asleep and dreamed the whole thing, but it is possible that there is a deeper meaning and that the entire thing is a satire on various mathematical and logical concepts.’

‘You’ve read it?’ Rufus Stone asked.

‘Certainly not,’ Mycroft huffed, but he wouldn’t meet Sherlock’s or Stone’s gaze, and Sherlock wondered if he was telling the truth. ‘But we are moving away
from the point, which is that I have already written to Mr Dodgson at his rooms in Christ Church College, and he has agreed to take you on as an extraordinary – in all senses of the word,
Sherlock – student. I am currently seeking accommodation for you in Oxford, probably at some boarding establishment close to Christ Church and beyond reproach.’

‘And will you have anyone following me around Oxford the way you have in London?’ Sherlock asked.

‘Will I need to?’ Mycroft countered.

Before Sherlock could say anything, Rufus Stone said, ‘Almost certainly.’

A bell rang, indicating the end of the intermission.

‘I shall leave now,’ Mycroft said, but he made no move away from the bay window. ‘Or perhaps I will stay for one more dry sherry. You two head back in and listen to the rest of
that infernal racket. Sherlock – I will send you a note within the next few days outlining where you will be living, when you will be moving and when your tutorials will start.’

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but one look at his brother’s face made him shut it again. Once Mycroft made his mind up about something, there was no changing it.

As a second bell rang out, Sherlock and Stone headed back into the auditorium. Sherlock glanced back briefly over his shoulder. Mycroft was still there, sitting in the alcove – filling the
alcove, to be more precise – and sipping at his sherry. As Sherlock watched, a man in a faded jacket and trousers that were too short for him approached the bay window and hesitated, holding
back. Mycroft looked up and nodded to him. The man took an envelope from his pocket and handed it over. Mycroft took a small knife from his pocket and slit the envelope open. Taking out the letter
inside, he read it briefly, then sighed. Sherlock was too far away to hear any words, but he could distinctly see Mycroft’s lips forming the words ‘The Mortimer Maberley problem again
– I don’t know what he thinks I can do!’

Even when he was supposed to be at an evening’s entertainment, Sherlock reflected, his brother still appeared to be working. Sherlock turned away, shaking his head. He loved his brother,
but he was increasingly becoming annoyed by him. Sherlock was growing up, but Mycroft still treated him like a child.

The second half of the concert was, if anything, more technically and artistically amazing than the first, but Sherlock didn’t enjoy it as much. His thoughts kept turning to what his
brother had said, and to his own particular future. He had no great love for Farnham – it was a pleasant town, with pleasant people, but he had never considered it as anything more than a
temporary waypoint in his life, a stopping station, like those places horse-drawn carriages used to break their journeys across country so that the passengers could eat a meal and sleep before
continuing their travels. London, on the other hand, had captivated him during his short time there. The city was almost like a person – it had its own character, its own moods, and it could
change in a moment. He loved it, and he wanted to live the rest of his life there, if he could.

But first, Oxford. There seemed to be no way to avoid it. The trouble was that it was all built up like a row of dominos in Mycroft’s mind – two years living in Oxford, being tutored
by this Charles Dodgson, leading to entrance into the University and full-time studies, leading to a degree in some useless subject, leading to a dull job in government or in a bank, leading to . .
. what? Retirement somewhere by the sea? That was not the kind of life he had planned out for himself.

Of course, he didn’t actually have a plan for his life. At the moment he was just drifting, testing the waters, seeing where the currents would take him. Somewhere in the back of his mind
was the vague thought that he might turn his logical thoughts and his ability to see through complex problems to the simple truths that lay within them into a full-time career – but as what?
Some kind of policeman? A secret agent, maybe, like the ones that obviously reported to his brother?

He sighed. Life appeared to get more and more complicated the older he got.

That thought led on naturally to thoughts of Virginia Crowe. He had, in the past, assumed that she and he would have some kind of life together, although he had never dared wonder at the nature
of that life. It had just seemed that she would always be there for him, and him for her. But she was in America now, engaged to be married to someone else, and her father – the man who had
taught Sherlock more in two years than he had learned in his entire life up to that point – was probably teaching someone else’s son. Life, it would appear, had other plans for
Sherlock.

It would be nice, he reflected bitterly, if life could actually let him know what those plans were.

The concert came to an end. The violinist took several curtain calls as the applause kept on coming. Stone was on his feet, clapping wildly. Sherlock joined in, but his heart wasn’t in it.
Thoughts of Oxford, and degrees, and banks, kept intruding.

The two of them made their way out of the theatre, along with the rest of the audience. On the pavement, Stone turned to Sherlock and extended a hand. ‘Good night, Sherlock,’ he
said, and then added, ‘Don’t let your brother’s words discourage you. He may have his plans, but it’s your life to live. Go with your heart.’

‘Thanks,’ Sherlock replied, shaking Stone’s hand. ‘But wherever I end up, I hope you will seek me out there. I haven’t made many friends in my life, but I count you
as one of them.’

Stone nodded. ‘And I you.’ He smiled. ‘I have friends in the Oxford area – well, to be completely honest, I have friends pretty much everywhere. Farnham was always just
somewhere to live while I carried out a job – a job that became something much more, I should point out. I could just as well live in Oxford as in Farnham – and, I have to say, the
chance to listen to, and play, good music is much better there. Do not be surprised if you bump into me sometime soon.’ He raised a hand to his head in a sketchy salute. ‘I will see you
again, Sherlock. Until then, be careful, and take care of yourself.’

Stone vanished into the crowd, Sherlock turned away. He had only taken two steps when a voice beside him said, ‘What was all that about then?’

It was Matty – Matthew Arnatt. Sherlock knew the voice without having to look.

‘It looked pretty serious,’ he went on. ‘It looked like a “goodbye and fare thee well”. You’re not off to China again, are you?’ Matty’s tone was
casual, but Sherlock could detect an undercurrent of unease in his friend’s voice. Matty had once told Sherlock that he had spent his life watching friends and family leave him. He had
resigned himself to being lonely all his days.

‘It’s Mycroft,’ Sherlock admitted without turning. ‘He’s got plans for me. He wants me to go to Oxford.’

There was a moment’s silence. Sherlock didn’t dare look at Matty’s face. He and the boy had spent a lot of time together over the past few years, but that had been broken by
his unplanned visit to China. Although the two of them had grown close again since they had met up in Ireland, the more so after a few weeks in London, he wasn’t sure that Matty would want to
be uprooted again.

He was surprised.

‘Oxford’s nice,’ Matty said. ‘You can get there by boat, all the way up the Thames, pretty much. Been there before, I have, an’ it’s very pleasant. Lots of
toffs leaving half-eaten food lying around on the grass by the river after they’ve ’ad a picnic, an’ lots of absent-minded lecturers doin’ the same. Rich pickings, for
someone like me. Even the swans there eat better than some of the people ’ere in London.’

‘You would come with me?’ Sherlock asked, finally turning to look into Matty’s face.

The boy was smiling. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘This city’s too big for me, an’ the market stallholders are too fly. It’s difficult to get a decent meal without
them chasin’ after me twice a day. When are we off?’

‘Soon, I think,’ Sherlock said.

‘Fair enough. I’ve got everything I need on the barge, an’ Harold’s been itching for a move. ’E’s not like my old ’orse, Albert. ’E just wanted to
stand in one spot an’ eat grass an’ ’ay forever. ’Arold likes to move around.’

‘Can you get the barge along the Thames?’ Sherlock asked. ‘After all, it’s a river, rather than a canal.’

Matty nodded. ‘It’s possible, but the width makes it tricky – not so much when you’re movin’ along the river, but more when you need to come off it on to the Oxford
Canal. Thinkin’ ’bout it, might be better if we went straight up the Grand Junction Canal, then came off on to the Oxford Canal at the top rather than the bottom an’ get to Oxford
from the north, rather than the south.’

‘Sounds good to me.’ Sherlock caught the boy’s eye. ‘Look, are you sure you want to come? Don’t do it just because you think I need looking after.’

Matty nodded. ‘Yeah.’ He seemed as if he was about to go on, then he looked away, suddenly embarrassed. ‘That is, if you want me to. I mean, if you’d rather be on your
own . . .’

‘No,’ Sherlock said firmly. ‘There might be times when I like being alone, but there are definitely times I need to be with friends – and I haven’t got that many of
them.’

‘Suppose I’ll ’ave to do then,’ Matty said with a lopsided smile.

‘Suppose you will,’ Sherlock echoed.

‘Besides . . .’ Matty said, and trailed off.

‘Besides what?’

‘Well, I don’t like to say. It’s not very nice.’

‘Force yourself.’

‘Well, I s’pose we’ll be seeing less of your brother in Oxford.’

Sherlock thought for a moment. It was getting harder and harder to get Mycroft out of London. In fact, it was getting harder and harder to get Mycroft out of the Diogenes Club. There was a
distinct correlation between his reluctance to travel and his size. ‘I doubt,’ Sherlock replied, ‘that Mycroft would spend as much time with us as he does here, in
London.’