learn all about edible fungi, and telling about the state of a man’s marriage by the stains on his hat, but why? What’s the point? That just turns me into some kind of super-predator, able to track its prey through nearly invisible signs. Surely it has to mean something? Surely there has to be more to life than just being a better kind of animal?’
‘And music is the thing that separates us from animals?’ Crowe asked, eyes guarded.
‘One of them.’
Crowe shrugged. ‘Can’t say ah’ve ever had much time for it. For me, bein’ human means lookin’ after my kin, lookin’ after myself an’ tryin’ to ensure that the people around me look after each other. If that makes me just another animal, then that’s what ah am.’
‘But what’s it all for?’ Sherlock found himself asking. ‘If there’s nothing that makes us feel…’ he struggled for the right word, ‘uplifted, then what’s the point in doing anything at all.’
‘Survival,’ Crowe said simply. ‘We live to survive.’
‘And that’s it?’ Sherlock asked, disappointed. ‘We keep going so that we can keep going? We live to survive and survive to live?’
‘That’s about it,’ Crowe confirmed. ‘As philosophies go it ain’t pretty, but it has the advantage of bein’ succinct and largely undeniable. Now, you stayin’ here for food or you goin’ back to your kin?’
Sherlock suppressed the arguments he had been marshalling, disappointed that Crowe had changed the subject so abruptly but also glad that the two of them weren’t going to have a confrontation. He liked Amyus Crowe, and he didn’t want them to fall out over something as simple as music lessons. ‘Is Virginia around?’
‘She’s out back, gettin’ water for Sandia. Go lookin’ for her, if you want.’
As Sherlock turned towards the door, Crowe’s voice rumbled: ‘Might interest you to know that Rufus Stone is also the name of a village near Southampton. Maybe it’s a coincidence… or maybe he was short of a name at some point, and settled on one that was floatin’ around his mind cos he’d seen it on a road sign somewhere. Just a thought.’
A thought that Sherlock found unsettling. He also thought it was rather petty of Amyus Crowe to have raised it.
He found Virginia outside. She had bought a bucket of water around, and Sandia was drinking from it enthusiastically.
‘What has your father got against Rufus Stone?’ he asked.
‘And hello to you as well.’ She glanced sideways at him. ‘You really telling me you don’t know?’
‘I really don’t,’ he admitted.
She shook her head. ‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: for a clever lad you can be really stupid sometimes.’
‘But it doesn’t make any sense!’ he protested. ‘I thought your father would be glad that I was making new friends and finding new interests.’
Virginia turned full on to him and stood, hands on hips. ‘Let me ask you a question. If your father were still in this country, instead of being in India, what would he make of my father? Would they get on?’
Sherlock frowned, thinking. ‘I doubt it,’ he said finally. ‘They come from different social strata, for one, and…’
He trailed off, unsure how to put the thought into words.
‘And what?’ she prompted.
‘And in a way, your father is doing what my father would be doing if he were here.’ Sherlock felt awkward just voicing the words. ‘Teaching me stuff. Taking me out for walks. Giving me advice.’
‘Right. He’s acting like a father to you.’
He smiled at her uncertainly. ‘You don’t mind?’
She smiled too. ‘It’s nice having you around.’ She looked away, then back again. ‘An’ you’re right – your pa would be jealous that you were spending time with someone who was treatin’ you like their son. Especially if that person was teachin’ you things that he couldn’t teach you.’
A bright light of understanding seemed to explode like a star in Sherlock’s head. ‘And your father is jealous of Rufus Stone because he thinks Rufus is acting like a father to me?’ The thought was so big, so momentous, that it seemed to fill his entire mind. ‘But that’s stupid!’
‘Why?’
‘Because Rufus is nothing like a father. He’s more like a much older brother, or a young uncle, or something. And besides, me learning the violin from Rufus doesn’t mean I don’t value your father’s lessons any the less. The two things are completely separate. It’s just… illogical!’
She gazed at him, and shook her head. ‘Emotions ain’t logical, Sherlock. They don’t follow rules.’
‘Then I don’t like emotions,’ he said rebelliously. ‘They don’t do anything but cause confusion and hurt.’
The words hung between them for a long moment, vibrating like a struck bell.
‘Some emotions are worth having,’ she said softly, turning away. She bent down and picked the bucket up. ‘At least I think so, even if you don’t.’
She walked off, towards the rear of the house. Sherlock stared after her until she vanished around the corner. He felt like something big had just happened, but he wasn’t sure what it was.
After a while, he walked over to his horse. He hadn’t even told Virginia that he’d named it Philadelphia, he brooded. Maybe he didn’t know very much about emotions, but he knew enough to suspect that this wasn’t the time to go back and tell her.
He headed back to Holmes Manor, his head spinning with conjectures about Amyus Crowe, Virginia, Rufus Stone and his father, now so far away. He didn’t like these conjectures. They were complicated, grown up and illogical. Emotional.
When he got back he sought out his Uncle Sherrinford, and told him about Mycroft’s letter. He didn’t exactly ask permission to go to London, but he didn’t exactly tell Sherrinford that he was going regardless of what was said. He just left the impression that it was a fait accompli. Fortunately, his uncle was in the middle of drafting another of the religious sermons which he sold to vicars all around the country for a few shillings apiece, and his distraction meant that he was more than happy to accept what Sherlock wanted to do, as long as it was what Mycroft wanted as well.
The next morning, when he awoke, the sun was just clearing the trees and the sky was blue from horizon to horizon. The worries of the night before seemed trivial in the bright sunshine. He quickly dressed and, after a rushed breakfast of porridge and toast, asked if one of the carts could run him to the station. It was better than leaving his horse tied up there for hours while he was in London.
Amyus Crowe was waiting for him on the platform, impressive and almost monumental in his white suit and white hat. He nodded to Sherlock.
‘Think we got off on the wrong tack last afternoon,’ he rumbled. ‘Ah regret if ah sounded a mite terse an’ unreasonable.’
‘It’s all right,’ Sherlock said reassuringly. ‘If you believe something, you ought to say it. Not doing so is hypocritical.’
Crowe made a sound deep in his throat. ‘Ginnie’s mother liked opera,’ he said quietly. ‘Big on a German named Wagner, she was. After she died, ah could never stand the sound of an orchestra, nor the sound of a singer.’
‘I understand,’ Sherlock said quietly.
‘Then you’re a wiser man than ah am.’
Fortunately, the train arrived before the conversation could get any more awkward.
The two of them sat in a decent compartment by themselves. The seats were upholstered and comfortable. Steam from the engine rushed like low cloud past the window, and Sherlock watched through gaps as the countryside unfolded before them.
A ticket collector checked their tickets just past Woking. As he left the compartment, sliding the door shut as he went, Crowe said: ‘What did you make of the man that just left?’
Knowing the way Crowe’s mind worked, Sherlock had been expecting a question like that.
‘His shoes were freshly shined,’ he said, ‘and his shirt had been ironed. Either he’s got a maid or he’s married, and as I don’t expect a ticket collector to be able to afford a maid to iron his shirts then I assume it’s more likely that he’s married.’
