Rebel Fire Read Free Page A

answer’s goin’ to be presented to you on a plate momentarily.”
    They reached the step leading up to the front door. Sherlock ran up to the door, which was half-open, while Crowe followed on sedately behind.
    The hall was dark, with buttresses of dusty light crossing it from the sun shining through the high windows. The oil paintings lining the walls were nearly invisible in the gloom. The summer heat was an almost physical presence.
    â€œI’ll tell someone you’re here,” Sherlock said to Crowe.
    â€œNo need,” Crowe murmured. “Someone already knows.” He nodded his head towards the shadows under the stairs.
    A figure stepped out, black dress and black hair offset only by the whiteness of the skin.
    â€œMr. Crowe,” said the housekeeper. “I do not believe we were expecting you.”
    â€œPeople speak far and wide of the hospitality of the Holmes household,” he said grandly, “and of the victuals it provides to passing travellers. And besides, how could I forgo the opportunity to see you again, Mrs. Eglantine?”
    She sniffed, thin lips twitching under her sharp, thin nose. “I am sure that many women succumb to your colonial charms, Mr. Crowe,” she said. “I am not one of those women.”
    â€œMr. Crowe will be staying for lunch,” Sherlock said firmly, though he felt a tremor in his heart as Mrs. Eglantine’s needlelike gaze moved to him.
    â€œThat is up to your aunt and uncle,” she said, “not to you.”
    â€œThen I will tell them,” he said, “not you .” He turned back to Crowe. “Wait here while I check,” he said. When he turned back, Mrs. Eglantine had faded into the shadows and vanished.
    â€œThere’s something odd about that woman,” Crowe murmured. “She don’t act like a servant. She acts like she’s a member of the family sometimes. Like she’s in charge.”
    â€œI don’t know why my aunt and uncle let her get away with it,” Sherlock said. “I wouldn’t.”
    He walked across to the salon and glanced inside. Maids were bustling around the sideboards at one end of the room, preparing plates of cold meat, fish, cheese, rice, pickled vegetables, and breads that the family could come in and graze on, as was the normal way of taking lunch at Holmes Manor, but there was no sign of his aunt or uncle. Heading back into the hall, he paused for a moment before approaching the door to the library and knocking.
    â€œYes?” said a voice from inside, a voice that was used to practising the sermons and speeches that its owner spent most of his life writing: Sherlock’s uncle, Sherrinford Holmes. “Come in!”
    Sherlock opened the door. “Mr. Crowe is here,” he said as the door swung open to reveal his uncle sitting at a desk. He was wearing a black suit of old-fashioned cut, and his impressively biblical beard covered his chest and pooled on the blotter in front of him. “I was wondering if it would be possible for him to stay for lunch.”
    â€œI would welcome the opportunity to talk to Mr. Crowe,” Sherrinford Holmes said, but Sherlock’s attention was distracted by the man standing over by the open French windows, his long frock coat and high collar silhouetted by the light.
    â€œMycroft!”
    Sherlock’s brother nodded gravely at the boy, but there was a twinkle in his eye that his sober manner could not conceal. “Sherlock,” he said. “You’re looking well. The countryside obviously suits you.”
    â€œWhen did you arrive?”
    â€œAn hour ago. I came down from Waterloo and took a carriage from the station.”
    â€œHow long are you staying?”
    He shrugged, a slight movement of his massive frame. “I will not be staying the night, but I wanted to check on your progress. And I was hoping to see Mr. Crowe as well. I’m glad he’s here.”
    â€œYour