point,
waiting for a passing cart that could take him back to the centre of Oxford, and he slowed down momentarily to look through the gates.
He saw something that he had seen before, but from a different direction.
It was the house that he and Matty had seen when they were on Matty’s barge, heading into Oxford. He could only see a corner of it from the gate, but he knew instantly, instinctively, that
it was the same place. His heart felt as if it lurched inside his chest as he looked at it, and he had the oddest urge to put his head on one side and squint in order to make sense of the
construction of the house.
Even though he could only see a fraction of the place, it still appeared as if the various lines and angles that made it up didn’t make any sense. He was reminded of the conversation
he’d had with Charles Dodgson about the elements of Euclid. According to Euclidian geometry the interior angles of a triangle always added up to 180 degrees, but looking at the house Sherlock
wondered if there was another kind of geometry entirely, one in which the angles of a triangle added up to less than, or more than, that, and in which parallel lines could actually meet at some
distant point. The house gave the impression of being
skewed
, as if a giant hand had taken it and twisted it slightly, so that everything was out of true.
Despite the warmth of the day, he suddenly felt cold. He shivered. This was not logical. This was not
right
. Buildings couldn’t inspire
feelings
like this, surely. They were
just stone and brick and plaster and lathe. They couldn’t inspire
dread
in the way that this building did. He was obviously hungry, and this was making him dizzy. Either that or the
sun had caused a slight case of sunstroke.
A clattering behind him made him turn expectantly. If this was a cart heading for Oxford then he could ask for a ride. He could lie back and rest, and hopefully be more like himself when he got
back to Mrs McCrery’s. Once he had some food inside him, he would be fine.
It wasn’t a cart; it was a carriage, constructed from black-painted wood and pulled by two entirely black horses. The driver was dressed in black as well: not just his clothes, but his
broad-brimmed hat and the kerchief which was tied over the lower part of his face. Only his eyes could be seen, and in the late-afternoon sun they looked black too.
The carriage slowed as it approached the gates. Sherlock stepped out of the way, on to the grass verge. The gates opened, apparently by themselves, as Sherlock couldn’t see any evidence of
anyone pulling them. The horses turned into the gateway, and the carriage began to follow. Sherlock looked up into the window, and froze.
All he could see inside the carriage was a hand, resting on the lower part of the window frame. The hand was large and pale, and a crimson scar ran around its wrist. Other scars, also a livid
red, ran around the bases of the fingers, where they joined the palm. A further scar ran up the arm, away from the wrist and into the darkness inside the carriage. All of the scars bore evidence of
having been stitched at some time in the past.
And somehow Sherlock knew that he was being watched from inside the carriage by eyes that regarded him with interest but no emotion. Cold, empty eyes.
The whole incident took just a moment to play out, and then the carriage had passed him by and the gates were closing again. Sherlock stared after it, trying to work out what had just happened.
The house might cause strange feelings of panic within him, and whoever lived there seemed to have the same effect. The owner and the property were perfectly matched.
He half walked and half ran along the wall to the corner, where the road went one way and the wall went off at a right angle – or maybe something that was close to a right angle but not
exact. Sherlock headed away from the house, along the road, and felt a weight gradually lift from his mind.
What
was
that
waiting for a passing cart that could take him back to the centre of Oxford, and he slowed down momentarily to look through the gates.
He saw something that he had seen before, but from a different direction.
It was the house that he and Matty had seen when they were on Matty’s barge, heading into Oxford. He could only see a corner of it from the gate, but he knew instantly, instinctively, that
it was the same place. His heart felt as if it lurched inside his chest as he looked at it, and he had the oddest urge to put his head on one side and squint in order to make sense of the
construction of the house.
Even though he could only see a fraction of the place, it still appeared as if the various lines and angles that made it up didn’t make any sense. He was reminded of the conversation
he’d had with Charles Dodgson about the elements of Euclid. According to Euclidian geometry the interior angles of a triangle always added up to 180 degrees, but looking at the house Sherlock
wondered if there was another kind of geometry entirely, one in which the angles of a triangle added up to less than, or more than, that, and in which parallel lines could actually meet at some
distant point. The house gave the impression of being
skewed
, as if a giant hand had taken it and twisted it slightly, so that everything was out of true.
Despite the warmth of the day, he suddenly felt cold. He shivered. This was not logical. This was not
right
. Buildings couldn’t inspire
feelings
like this, surely. They were
just stone and brick and plaster and lathe. They couldn’t inspire
dread
in the way that this building did. He was obviously hungry, and this was making him dizzy. Either that or the
sun had caused a slight case of sunstroke.
A clattering behind him made him turn expectantly. If this was a cart heading for Oxford then he could ask for a ride. He could lie back and rest, and hopefully be more like himself when he got
back to Mrs McCrery’s. Once he had some food inside him, he would be fine.
It wasn’t a cart; it was a carriage, constructed from black-painted wood and pulled by two entirely black horses. The driver was dressed in black as well: not just his clothes, but his
broad-brimmed hat and the kerchief which was tied over the lower part of his face. Only his eyes could be seen, and in the late-afternoon sun they looked black too.
The carriage slowed as it approached the gates. Sherlock stepped out of the way, on to the grass verge. The gates opened, apparently by themselves, as Sherlock couldn’t see any evidence of
anyone pulling them. The horses turned into the gateway, and the carriage began to follow. Sherlock looked up into the window, and froze.
All he could see inside the carriage was a hand, resting on the lower part of the window frame. The hand was large and pale, and a crimson scar ran around its wrist. Other scars, also a livid
red, ran around the bases of the fingers, where they joined the palm. A further scar ran up the arm, away from the wrist and into the darkness inside the carriage. All of the scars bore evidence of
having been stitched at some time in the past.
And somehow Sherlock knew that he was being watched from inside the carriage by eyes that regarded him with interest but no emotion. Cold, empty eyes.
The whole incident took just a moment to play out, and then the carriage had passed him by and the gates were closing again. Sherlock stared after it, trying to work out what had just happened.
The house might cause strange feelings of panic within him, and whoever lived there seemed to have the same effect. The owner and the property were perfectly matched.
He half walked and half ran along the wall to the corner, where the road went one way and the wall went off at a right angle – or maybe something that was close to a right angle but not
exact. Sherlock headed away from the house, along the road, and felt a weight gradually lift from his mind.
What
was
that
Similar Books
