Young Sherlock Holmes: Red Leech
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Sherlock knows that Amyus Crow, his mysterious American tutor, has some dark secrets. But he didn't expect to find a notorious killer, hanged by the US government, apparently alive and well in Surrey - and Crow somehow mixed up in it. When no one will tell you the truth, sometimes you have to risk all to discover it for yourself. And so begins an adventure that will take Sherlock across the ocean to America, to the centre of a deadly web - where life and death are cheap, and truth has a price no sane person would pay . . .
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Saw the gleam of tears in his brother’s eyes. He reached out tentatively and put a hand on Mycroft’s broad shoulder. ‘Mycroft. . . you’ve always been the steadiest thing in my life. I’ve always come to you for advice, and you’ve always been more than generous with your time. You’ve never made me feel like I’m bothering you, even when you’ve had more important things to do.’ Mycroft tried to say something, but Sherlock kept going. ‘We’ve never been the kind of brothers who would climb trees.
British soldiers, or anybody else, due to bee stings.’ ‘It’s debatable whether Maupertuis’s plan would have worked or not,’ Crowe said soberly. ‘I suspect he was mentally unstable. But it was best we didn’t take the chance.’ And the Government is suitably grateful,’ Mycroft replied. ‘Mycroft – what about Father?’ Sherlock blurted. Mycroft nodded. ‘His ship will be approaching India by now. I would expect him to disembark with his regiment within the week, but we will probably not get any word.
Said, gazing up at him. ‘I’d never thought about it before, but I guess that was a blessing. Seeing her slippin’ away over weeks, months, years . . . that must be terrible.’ Sherlock turned away so she couldn’t see the gleam of the tears that he felt pricking in his eyes. ‘Are we really goin’ to find him?’ she whispered. ‘Find who?’ ‘Matty.’ Sherlock felt his breath catch in his chest. He’d been asking himself the same question, and he was still no closer to an answer. ‘We’ll find him,’ he.
Material – varnished silk, Sherlock recalled from his meeting with the Graf von Zeppelin on the SS Scotia – attached them to baskets beneath, and they were being inflated by pipes that led away from them to carts filled with gleaming copper tanks. The tanks were producing hydrogen, Sherlock remembered, from a combination of sulphuric acid and iron filings. Thinking of the Graf von Zeppelin, Sherlock scanned the camp looking for his upright, Germanic figure. He had come across to America to talk.
On them from the blackness. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN The horse leaped sideways in shock, saving both of them. Whatever it was that had jumped towards them fell past and hit the ground off-balance in a flash of slashing claws, stumbling to one side but immediately springing back up to its feet. Sherlock had a momentary, confused impression of eyes reflecting moonlight and pointed fangs wet with saliva, gleaming in a slavering mouth. He ripped the knife from his belt and held it out. It wasn’t.