Authors: Andrew Lane
Remembering the address that had been in Charles Dodgson’s letter, Sherlock found the house where he would be living just around the corner from Christ Church College. Number 36 was a
three-storey stone house set in a terrace of similar houses. There was nothing special about it, but the stone steps outside were scrubbed clean and the windows gleamed. Mrs McCrery was obviously
very house-proud.
‘What d’ya want to do?’ Matty asked.
Sherlock thought for a minute. ‘I want some lunch,’ he said, and then I want to go back to the barge and get my stuff. I’ll need a carriage, I guess, to get it all here. I
can’t carry it all the way, even with your help, but that’s going to be expensive.’
‘Don’t worry about a carriage,’ Matty said mysteriously. ‘I’ll sort that out. You see about getting us some lunch.’
They ate sitting on the banks of the River Isis – a tributary of the Thames, Sherlock remembered. Rather than steal something off a stall or from the counter of a shop, he had spent some
of the money that his brother had given him on a couple of bread rolls filled with roast pork and bottles of lemonade. They watched the boats, barges and punts float past them as the clouds sailed
past overhead.
When they got back to the barge Sherlock moved his stuff out on to the bank while Matty vanished off on some mysterious errand. When he returned, he was leading Harold, his horse, who was now
attached to a cart. There was straw on the cart. He had obviously borrowed it from some nearby farmer or workman.
Sherlock just hoped that the owner knew that it had been borrowed.
‘Load ’er up,’ Matty called cheerfully.
‘I doubt this is the way that most students arrive in Oxford,’ Sherlock said dubiously. ‘Even the ones who are here to prepare for the University, rather than actually attend
it.’
‘Well, that’s okay then,’ Matty said. ‘You ain’t like any other student.’
‘A fair point, well made,’ Sherlock conceded, and so they spent the next hour or so riding sedately through the town, both perched on the driver’s bench at the front of the
cart while Sherlock’s possessions teetered precariously on the back. Several times he had to dive backwards to prevent a bag or a trunk from sliding into the road.
When they got back to Edmonton Crescent Matty helped Sherlock unload his stuff. ‘Well,’ he said brightly, ‘that’s it then. I’ll see you around.’
‘Perhaps you could come in,’ Sherlock said. ‘Check the place out.’
Matty looked down at his scruffy clothes and dirty hands. ‘I dunno. People around ’ere are very particular about who they invite into their houses. I ain’t sure I’ll fit
properly.’
Sherlock was about to argue with him when a voice interrupted them. ‘You’ll be young Master Holmes then?’
He turned to see a large lady dressed in black crinoline. She was standing on the steps of number 36, staring down at them. Her hair was grey, her eyes were a faded blue, but her fierce
demeanour was offset by the way her eyes crinkled in a smile of welcome.
‘I am,’ he said. ‘My friend here was just—’
‘Get yourselves inside, into the parlour, both of you. I’ll make a pot of tea. There’s scones, jam and cream, if you’re hungry.’
‘Actually—’
‘We’re starvin’,’ Matty interrupted.
‘Well then, come ye in and relax. I can’t have starving children on the street. What would the neighbours think?’
Sherlock indicated his bags and trunks. ‘What about—’
‘I’ll get one of my boys to fetch them in,’ she said. ‘That’s “my boys”, as in the boys who fetch the coal and shine the shoes in the house. There are
also “my boys” who are staying here, as you will be, and “my boys”, as in the five strapping lads that my late husband left me with, but they’re scattered around the
south of England now.’
‘I’m sorry to hear about your husband,’ Sherlock said. That would explain the black clothes – she was in mourning. ‘When did he die?’
‘Thirty-five years ago next month,’ she said. ‘Now, come on in. You’re making the street look untidy, and if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s
untidiness.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And gypsies. And dogs.’
Sherlock glanced at Matty and raised an eyebrow. Matty looked back at him with an unreadable expression on his face. ‘I think you’ll fit in here just fine,’ he said
quietly.
They climbed the steps to the doorway and passed through into the house. It was possibly the neatest place Sherlock had ever seen on land. He was used to life on ships, where everything had to
be stowed away where it couldn’t fall over and break in case of rough seas, but this was the first time he had seen the principle applied on terra firma.
‘Your husband was a sailor,’ he ventured.
‘Bless you, that’s right.’ Mrs McCrery was right behind them as they entered the sitting room. ‘How can you tell? Is it the drawing?’ She indicated a framed sketch
on the wall of a bearded man in uniform, arms folded and staring out at the observer from beneath heavy eyebrows.
‘Er, yes,’ he replied.
‘You two make yourselves comfortable. I’ll go and get the tea.’
‘And the scones,’ Matty said, settling into a comfortable chair as Mrs McCrery left. ‘I like this place.’ He leaned back, and the frilly lace material that ran along the
top fell across his face. He struggled free. ‘What
is
this thing?’ he said, holding the lace up and examining it.
‘It’s an antimacassar,’ Sherlock explained patiently.
‘What’s that when it’s at ’ome?’
‘It prevents macassar oil from gentlemen’s heads from staining the material of the sofa.’
‘Oh.’ A pause. ‘What’s “macassar oil” then? Is it like oil for oil lamps?’
‘No, it’s for the hair. It conditions it, and makes it easier to comb. It’s made from coconut oil and ylang-ylang oil.’
Matty ran his hand through his own unruly hair. ‘Oh. Should I be usin’ it?’
‘I don’t think so. I really don’t think so. The grease from the hot pies you keep eating seems to do a good enough job.’
Matty sniffed. ‘Reckon you’re right.’
Sherlock looked around. There wasn’t that much to see – apart from the portraits on the walls and a ginger cat dozing by the glowing fireplace the room was remarkably bare – no
knick-knacks or odd little possessions that might have helped Sherlock get a handle on Mrs McCrery’s personality, although he had already begun to develop an opinion.
He walked over to the fire and bent down to stroke the cat. Best to start making friends straight away, he thought. He ran his hand over the cat’s back, brushing it from head to tail. It
didn’t seem to mind. In fact, it didn’t even seem to notice. Possibly it was fast asleep, but it didn’t seem to be breathing: its sides were stationary, rather than going in or
out. Listening closely, he couldn’t hear any purring either, and he noticed that it was cold.
Maybe the cat was dead. That would be a terrible way to start his time here – having to tell Mrs McCrery that her cat was dead.
He rested his hand cautiously on its back again. No reaction. He pressed harder. The cat was curiously stiff. Maybe rigor mortis had set in – that stiffening of the muscles that apparently
occurred within a few hours of death.
He pressed harder still, but there was no give at all in the cat’s flesh. It was as hard and as cold as stone.
‘It’s stuffed,’ he said in surprise, leaning back on his heels.
‘What is?’
‘The cat – I think it’s stuffed.’
‘Well –’ Matty started to say, but before he could get the words out Mrs McCrery reappeared in the doorway with a tray. She set it down on a low table next to Matty, turned her
head to look at Sherlock, and said: ‘Ah, you’ve met Macallistair then?’
‘Macallistair?’ He glanced at the cat. ‘Yes – we’ve made our introductions.’
‘The poor thing, he died last winter. It was fearfully cold, and I found him on the front step one morning, frozen solid.’
Sherlock glanced at the cat again. Surely it wasn’t still frozen? Not in front of that coal fire.
‘So you had him stuffed,’ he said casually.
‘So he could always be here with me, curled up in his favourite place.’ She straightened and gestured towards the contents of the tray. Tea and scones and jam and cream. ‘Just
help yourselves, and don’t stand on ceremony. I’ll come and show you to your room later, Mr Holmes.’
She turned and sailed out of the room.
There was silence for a few moments.
‘I wonder what she did with her husband,’ Matty said eventually. ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t go down into the cellar, especially at night.’
‘Maybe all of her previous lodgers are somewhere still in the house,’ Sherlock observed darkly, ‘all curled up comfortably in their favourite places.’
Matty looked dubiously at the tea tray, then at Sherlock. ‘Do you want to try the tea and the scones first?’
Sherlock laughed suddenly. This was just too stupid. ‘She’s not a mass murderer,’ he said, ‘she’s just a lady who loved her husband and her cat. There’s no
law against that. The tea isn’t poisoned, and neither are the scones. Come on – let’s eat.’
They did, and the scones were lovely – crumbly and still warm. After he’d finished two of them, and had a cup of tea, Matty decided it was time to go. He left, and Sherlock sat there
for a while in the sitting room, letting his thoughts wander.
‘I’ll show you to your room now,’ Mrs McCrery said, reappearing quietly in the doorway. ‘Och, you and your young friend certainly enjoyed the scones.’
‘They were perfect,’ he said, following her out of the room and up the stairs.
‘I made the jam myself,’ she announced. ‘You’ll never guess what fruit I used.’
‘Holly berries?’ he asked innocently.
‘Oh, no,’ she said, shocked, ‘those are poisonous! I used redcurrants.’
Sherlock’s room was on the third floor. It was small but very tidy, with a comfortable-looking bed and a desk where he could work. There was also a stuffed chair where he could relax and
maybe read, and a wardrobe. A porcelain basin on a stand completed the room’s furnishings. His cases and trunk were set against the wall beneath the window.
‘The bathroom is down one flight of stairs,’ Mrs McCrery said. ‘You need to know that there can be a bit of a queue in the mornings when the students have lectures to get to. I
understand from Mr Dodgson that you will be attending his rooms for lessons, rather than the college, so you might want to wait until everyone has finished.’
‘I’ll do that,’ he said. ‘Unless I’m up really early and get in there before anyone else.’
‘Don’t leave a dirt ring around the bath if you use it,’ she continued, ‘and don’t leave whiskers in the sink if you shave. Apart from that, I don’t really
have any rules, except for general ones about tolerance, quietness, sobriety and no women in the house under any circumstances.’
A sudden and bittersweet memory of Virginia Crowe flashed across Sherlock’s mind. ‘I don’t think,’ he said, ‘that will be a problem.’
‘Dinner tonight, and every night, will be at seven o’clock. Breakfast every morning will be at seven o’clock as well. Apart from that, you are free to make your own
arrangements.’ She paused, thinking. ‘Although I don’t allow food in the bedrooms.’
‘Of course.’
‘Neither do I allow food in the bathroom. I only mention that because one undergraduate, a few years ago, used to smuggle pies in and eat them in the bath, knowing that they weren’t
allowed in his bedroom. That’s undergraduates for you – always trying to find a way around the rules – bending them without actually breaking them.’
Sherlock thought back to all the times he had obeyed the letter of a rule while disobeying its spirit. That was the curse of a logical mind – you could usually see a way around
something.
‘No food in the bathroom,’ he promised.
Mrs McCrery nodded. ‘Haddock tonight,’ she said brightly, ‘and I made some special sauce myself!’
‘Lovely!’
As she left the room, Sherlock crossed to the window and looked out. His room was at the back of the house, and he could see the gardens of this and the neighbouring houses below. Further away
were the gardens of the houses in the next road, and then the houses themselves: their backs looking less well maintained than their fronts that he remembered passing earlier. It was, he thought,
human nature to clean those things that everyone could see and ignore those things that were usually unobserved.
Beyond the roofs of the houses in the next road he could see the needle-like spires of one of the college chapels, thrusting up against the blue sky. He thought, from the position relative to
the house, that it was Christ Church College chapel. Tomorrow he would head to the college and introduce himself to Charles Dodgson. He wondered what the man would be like. Based on the fact that
he wrote children’s books, and based also on the way he had written the letter to Mycroft, Sherlock pictured him as a free spirit, a man who always wanted to be – or perhaps always
had
to be – amusing and unusual, whatever the circumstances, but how did that square with the fact that he was a lecturer in logic at one of the world’s greatest
universities?
Tomorrow, he thought, was going to be interesting.
Thoughts of his brother reminded him that he ought to write to Mycroft, reassuring his brother that he had arrived safely in Oxford. He did so, then sealed the letter up and left it, intending
to post it on the morrow. Checking his watch he found that he still had several hours before dinner. He didn’t feel like going out again, so he got on to the bed and closed his eyes,
intending to rest. He drifted for a while on the edge of sleep, kept from falling deeper by the noises from outside, but eventually he did sleep, and found himself dreaming of a dinner table where
all the other guests – boys of his own age – were stuffed and varnished. He awoke with a start to find that it was dark outside. Shaking off the last vestiges of the dream, he got up,
unpacked his possessions, washed in the cold water in the bowl and changed his clothes before heading down the stairs to dinner.
Dinner was a surprisingly entertaining affair. There were five of them around the table – apart from Sherlock they were all students at Christ Church College. Initially
he felt out of place, younger and less experienced than the others, but soon he realized that the various things he had done in his life made him into something of a celebrity in their eyes –
not just travelling to Russia, America and China, but even something as simple as living in London, which they regarded as the centre of sophistication. As dinner went on he found that they were
asking more and more questions of him, and he was finding it more and more difficult to answer those questions without getting into dangerous territory regarding Mycroft’s sensitive job in
the British Government and the schemes of the Paradol Chamber. He had to resort to various stratagems to turn the conversation back to his co-diners and find out more about them.