Stone Cold by Andrew Lane Read Free Book Online Page A

glanced over his shoulder, into the shadows. ‘Stevens, look
after the lodge for a minute – I’m escorting a visitor.’
    Within a few seconds he was out of the lodge and leading Sherlock into the quadrangle – a large area of grass, bordered with a paved path, that lay just inside the main gates. He headed
around the path, avoiding the pristine green grass, and through an archway. All the while as he led Sherlock along several zigzag paths, across tiny open areas and then finally up a set of narrow
and twisted stairs, he engaged the boy in conversation about China and sailing. It was obvious he missed the old days, and by the time they arrived at Charles Dodgson’s door the two of them
were best friends. Sherlock had a strong feeling that, if ever Mr Mutchinson found him climbing over the walls of Christ Church after the gates were locked, then the Porter would turn his head and
look the other way.
    Mutchinson rapped on the door, which was tiny and warped. ‘Mr Dodgson – a visitor for you, sir!’ He turned his head to look at Sherlock. ‘Mr Dodgson hasn’t got any
tutorials this morning, otherwise I’d have asked you to wait,’ he said more quietly.
    ‘Thank you, Mutchinson. I will attend to him m-m-momentarily,’ a thin, reedy voice called from inside.
    ‘Will you be dining in college tonight, sir?’
    ‘I will, Mutchinson. Is there any of that rather excellent claret left?’
    ‘I dare say, sir. I dare say there will be.’
    ‘And giraffe? Will there be giraffe?’
    ‘No sir.’ Mutchinson turned to Sherlock and raised an eyebrow. ‘We appear to be completely out of giraffe. It will be mutton, sir.’
    A sigh came from inside the room. ‘There’s never any giraffe, and precious little hippopotamus on the menu these days. I sometimes fear for this college.’
    ‘Good luck, sir.’ Mutchinson nodded at Sherlock, then turned around smartly and marched off down the stairs.
    Sherlock stood there for a few moments. Nothing happened. He could feel his heart beating fast within his chest. This meeting was going to be important, and he wanted to make a good initial
impression. He wondered whether to knock on the door himself and remind Mr Dodgson that he was there, but he didn’t know how the man might react. Could he take offence at being reminded?
    Eventually, just as he was about to screw up enough courage to knock on the door, it abruptly opened.
    The man standing inside was tall and thin – taller and thinner than anyone Sherlock had ever seen. His hair was a glossy brown: straight on top but curled at the ends, which were further
down his cheeks and neck than fashion normally dictated. His suit was slightly too small for him, and his wrists projected from the ends of his sleeves. He wore white cotton gloves on his hands
– inappropriate both for indoors and the weather, Sherlock thought. He wondered briefly what it was about his hands that Dodgson was trying to hide. He put the thought to one side. Looking
down, he could see Dodgson’s socks in the gap between the bottom of his trousers and his shoes, which were scratched and had traces of mud on them. A walker then, and one with little money to
spend on either clothes that fit or shoe repairs. Or one who cared little about his appearance. Or perhaps both.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Mr Dodgson? My name is Sherlock Holmes. I was told to report to you here by—’
    ‘By your brother M-M-Mycroft, of course.’ Dodgson’s voice was as thin and reedy in person as it had sounded from outside the room, and he had a slight stammer on certain
letters. ‘Come in, come in. I can offer you tea or sherry, or tea
and
sherry, although I do not recommend the m-m-mixture. I can also offer you biscuits in the plural, as I have three
left and I only require one myself.’
    ‘Thank you.’ Sherlock entered the room, which was larger than the cramped stairway outside had suggested. It was furnished as a sitting room, with comfortable chairs, a table and