Young Sherlock Holmes: Fire Storm

The creature in the pit roared. Sherlock heard the thudding of paws and the clicking of claws as whatever it was rushed towards his side of the pit.

He grabbed a panel and pulled it upward. It was loosely bolted to the floor and resisted for a moment, but in his desperation his strength was such that he tore it loose. He didn’t have the luxury of failure. The panel was perhaps fifteen feet long and three feet wide, and so heavy that he had difficulty in manoeuvring it, but somehow he managed to turn it and throw it into the pit so that one end was left on the edge by his feet, right in the gap where the panel had been fastened.

He had made a ramp so that whatever was in there could get out.

It was the only thing he could think of that could even up the odds.

With a roar, a massive shape surged out of the pit and loomed above him, shaggy arms wide and claws spread like handfuls of knife blades. It was a bear – a brown bear – and it must have measured ten feet from its tail to the tip of its nose. Its eyes gleamed red with rage and madness. God alone knew where Macfarlane had got it. Probably he’d had it since it was a cub. The chances were that it had been penned up for years, taunted and abused and forced to fight, and now it was free.

It swiped at Sherlock with a massive paw. Sherlock dropped to the floor and rolled beneath it, just as Scobell’s remaining men burst through the doorway looking for him. The bear forgot about Sherlock. It saw the men, and it saw their crossbows. It remembered all the pain it had suffered.

And it attacked.

Sherlock rolled over the edge of the pit. As he was falling he could hear screams from Scobell’s men and terrifying roars from the bear.

The impact with the floor of the pit drove the breath from his body in a whoosh. His vision filled with stars. It took him a moment to recover. He rolled over and stood up cautiously, looking around. The sides of the pit were about fifteen feet deep, and it was littered with bones. Some were old, but some were fresh and bloody. Sherlock could have sworn that some were human.

He climbed carefully back up the ramp. The bear had gone into Macfarlane’s main room, but five or six of Scobell’s men were lying on the ground just inside the doorway. It was hard to tell exactly how many there were, given the state they were in.

Cautiously Sherlock moved into the doorway.

Most of Macfarlane’s men had run. Macfarlane himself was still there, on the dais by his throne, with Rufus Stone, Matty, Amyus Crowe and Virginia clustered around him. They were watching what was happening in the centre of the room with horror.

The remainder of Scobell’s men had been pulled apart by the bear’s claws. They had obviously tried to stop it: their crossbows had been fired, and there were bolts sticking out of the bear’s fur, but that hadn’t helped them at all. Having dealt with them, the bear was rearing over Bryce Scobell. It was nearly twice his height. There was no trace of fear on Scobell’s face. There was no trace of pain either, despite the blood that was streaming from his right hand where the blade from the cane had sliced through it.

‘Get out of my way,’ he said with just a tinge of annoyance in his voice. ‘I have business to attend to.’

The bear swiped at Bryce Scobell with a deadly paw. The sharp claws caught in his chest, picking him up like a rag doll. He flew across the room and hit the wall. As Sherlock watched, his body slid, broken and crumpled, to the ground. His expression was as calm, as uninterested, as it had always been, and now would always remain.

The bear scented the group of people on the dais. It dropped to all fours and stalked towards them. The growl that rumbled deep in its chest reverberated through the floor.

Sherlock moved up behind it. He knew he had to stop it, but he didn’t know how. One of the crossbows dropped by Scobell’s men lay by his feet. It hadn’t been fired. He bent and scooped it up. Five or six bolts were already sticking out of the bear’s body, but maybe Sherlock could hit a vulnerable spot. Did bears even have vulnerable spots?

Gahan Macfarlane took a step forward, but Amyus Crowe put a hand on his shoulder. Macfarlane looked at the American, frowning. Crowe moved past Macfarlane, stepping off the dais. He walked forward, towards the bear. Matty and Rufus Stone were frozen. The bear padded towards Crowe, growling. Sherlock could see Virginia raise a hand to her mouth. Her face was shocked, her eyes wide. She could see her father’s death unfolding right in front of her.

Sherlock raised the crossbow, taking aim at the back of the bear’s neck. Maybe he could sever its spinal column. He knew his chances were very slim, especially given how much his hands were shaking. But he had to do something.

The bear reared up on its back legs. It loomed above Crowe, front legs stretched wide and paws spread. It raised its snout and let out a deafening roar.

And then Amyus Crowe did the most amazing thing Sherlock had ever seen. He threw his arms wide and his head back, and he roared as well. His voice echoed through the room. With his massive chest and his heavily muscled arms and legs he seemed suddenly larger than life. He was like a bear as well, but white instead of brown – a polar bear instead of a grizzly bear.

The bear dropped its head and gazed down at Crowe. It sniffed uncertainly.

‘Ah have eaten bigger bears than you for mah breakfast,’ Crowe said firmly. ‘Go back from whence you came, mah friend. Live for another day.’

Unbelievably, the bear sank to all fours. Even so, its head was on a level with Crowe’s. It sniffed at him for a long moment, then it turned round and shambled out of the room, back towards its pit. It passed by Sherlock without even a glance, head held low.

‘Now that,’ Macfarlane said, breaking the silence, ‘is something men would pay to see. Can I perhaps offer you a job, Mr Crowe? Fights twice weekly, payment to be agreed?’

Crowe glanced at Sherlock. He saw the crossbow, still held in Sherlock’s hand, and nodded. ‘Ah gave up bear-wrestlin’ some years ago,’ he said. ‘Ah much prefer bein’ a teacher. More of a challenge, ah find.’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

They returned home from Scotland the next day. Sherlock slept for most of the journey. He was exhausted, both mentally and physically. None of the others seemed inclined to talk. In those occasional moments when Sherlock’s mind rose from the depths of sleep he found them either asleep, reading newspapers or just moodily staring out of the window. Matty dashed off the train at Newcastle and came back just as it was leaving with a paper bag full of bread rolls. That was the extent of anything momentous happening.

At Farnham they said their goodbyes as passengers disembarked around them and porters unloaded crates and boxes from the train.

‘You’ll be staying around?’ Rufus said to Crowe, phrasing the question that Sherlock had been wanting to ask but didn’t dare.

‘No reason to go anywhere else now,’ Crowe replied. He had his left arm protectively around Virginia’s shoulders. She looked pale. ‘We don’t need to run any more, and we got nothin’ pullin’ us home.’ He gazed down at Virginia and then across at Sherlock. ‘In fact, we’ve got a shovelful of reasons to stay. As long as the cottage is still standin’, an’ nobody’s moved into it, ah think you’ll be seein’ a deal more of us in the future.’

‘I think I speak for all of us,’ Stone said, ‘when I say that I’m glad. Life would be a lot less interesting without you around, although to be fair it would also be a lot safer.’

Crowe extended his right hand towards Stone. ‘You were there for us when we needed you. That’s the only definition of friendship that counts, in my book. Thank you.’

Stone, taken by surprise, shook Crowe’s hand. He winced at the pressure of Crowe’s grip on his still tender fingers. ‘I’d say it’s been a distinct pleasure, Mr Crowe, but it hasn’t; and I’d say don’t hesitate to call on us again if you need any help, but I’m seriously hoping that you will forgo that opportunity.’ He smiled, to show that he wasn’t serious. ‘Regardless of all that, however – you’re more than welcome.’

Crowe shook Matty’s hand next. ‘Son, you’re brave an’ you’re street-smart. With your instincts an’ Sherlock’s brainpower, you make an unbeatable combination. Thanks.’