Read Online Rebel Fire by Andrew Lane - Free Book Online Page B

they’d put the horses in the stables, “good luck.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, good luck? Aren’t you coming in with me?”
    â€œAre you joking? Mr. Crowe scares me, and your brother terrifies me. I’m going back to the narrowboat. Tell me all about it tomorrow.” And with that he turned and walked off.
    Taking a deep breath, Sherlock entered the hall, crossed to the library, and knocked on the door.
    â€œCome in,” his brother’s voice boomed.
    Mycroft and Amyus Crowe were sitting together at a long reading desk over to one side of the library. A huge pile of books was sitting in front of them—histories, geographies, philosophies, and three very large atlases which had been opened to show a map of what looked to Sherlock like the Americas.
    Mycroft looked Sherlock up and down critically.
    â€œYou have been assaulted,” he said, “and not by someone your own age.”
    â€œOr from this country,” Amyus Crowe rumbled.
    â€œIn fact,” Mycroft said, glancing at Sherlock’s shoes, “there were two assailants. One of them was mentally deficient in some way.”
    â€œAnd both men were armed with pistols,” Crowe added.
    â€œHow do you know these things?” Sherlock asked, amazed.
    â€œA trifling matter,” Mycroft said, waving his hand airily. “Explaining it would waste time. More important is, where did you go and why were you attacked?”
    Reluctantly Sherlock told them both everything that had happened, ending with the realization that he still had Ives’s pistol tucked into the back of his trousers. He pulled it out and put it on the desk in front of the two men.
    â€œColt Army model,” Crowe observed mildly, “.44 calibre, six rounds. Fourteen inches from hammer to the end of the barrel. Replaced the Colt Dragoon as the preferred weapon of the U.S. Army. Accurate up to around a hundred yards.” His fist slammed down on the table, making the gun jump. “What in the name of God and all his angels did you think you were doin’, goin’ to that house?” he shouted. “You’ve alerted Booth an’ his handlers to the fact someone’s on to them! They’ll clear out like greased lightnin’.”
    Sherlock bit the inside of his lip, trying to stop himself responding. “I just wanted to take a look,” he said eventually. “I thought I could help.”
    â€œYou’ve not helped; you’ve actively hindered,” Crowe exploded. “This is a business for grownups. You ain’t got the skills or the knowledge to do it properly.”
    Part of Sherlock’s mind—a dispassionate, detached part—noticed that Amyus Crowe’s accent became thicker when he was angry, but the greater part was cringing at the knowledge that he had let down two of the three men whose opinion mattered most to him in the world. He opened his mouth to say “Sorry,” but his mouth was dry and he couldn’t get the word out.
    The expression on Mycroft’s face was of disappointment rather than anger. “Go to your room, Sherlock,” he said. “We will call for you when”—he glanced at Crowe—“we can be more assured of a calmer discussion. Now go.”
    Feeling his cheeks burning with shame, Sherlock turned around and walked out of the library.
    The hall was stifling in the afternoon heat. He stopped for a moment, head hanging, letting the feelings drain away from him and waiting until he felt he could face the long climb up to his room. His head hurt.
    â€œNo longer the favoured child?” said a voice from the shadows.
    Sherlock glanced up as Mrs. Eglantine glided out from the cubbyhole beneath the stairs. She was smiling nastily. Her black crinoline dress moved stiffly around her, and the sound of it brushing against the floor was like someone whispering in a distant room.
    â€œHow is it that you manage to survive in this house,