Sherlock Holmes and the Ghosts of Bly by Donald Thomas Page A

off. I shouted after ’im and asked what the damnation he thought he was doing. I couldn’t go and leave the engine standing there, but the whole thing was reported as soon as we got to Ryde. Now I’m told they’re going to do what they should have done long ago. Put a proper barbed-wire fence from the linesman’s hut to the tunnel mouth. They’ll care too much about their skins to try getting over that.”
    â€œWhoever they were,” said Holmes thoughtfully, “one might have expected them to run down the bank towards the school. But they did not, did they? The first one ran down the bank away from the school, did he not? And your terrier followed him.”
    â€œHow could you tell which way they ran?” Mr Wesley asked with a laugh. “You was never there, sir.”
    â€œNo,” said Holmes in the same thoughtful tone, “but someone else was.”
    Samuel Wesley’s evidence, which seemed to have been sought by no one but Holmes and me, altered the story of the drama.
    To a more distant observer on higher ground, the sight of Patrick Riley running out on to the track in front of an oncoming train might look like an attempt at suicide. At least, it might be conveniently described as that. This more distant observer, perhaps smoking his pipe among the elders and ash saplings by the pond, might not see the second boy with the train blocking his view. After hearing Mr Wesley, however, I could not help feeling that our young client had indeed gone out with a rage to murder rather than an impulse to destroy himself.
    As we walked back to St Vincent’s, I said, “Tell me, Holmes, how could you know which way they ran? I should have thought it most likely that they would have gone down the near side of the embankment and back to the school.”
    â€œAcross Reginald Winter’s field of vision,” he said sceptically. “Unless my brains have turned to sawdust, the unknown boy was one who had determined that he would not be seen during this little drama, while making certain that Patrick Riley should. I can prove that in the next half-hour. If not, on our return to town I shall stand you the most expensive dinner on the menu of the Langham Hotel.”

7
    O ur second interview with Patrick Riley was one of the most difficult that Holmes and I had ever undertaken. I was reminded of nothing so much as the occasion when an injured sparrow stumbled on to our window-sill in Baker Street. It had damaged a wing, and, for my part, I should have thought it best put out of its misery. Nothing would do for Sherlock Holmes, however, but it must be caught. Then it must be installed in a cage with a makeshift splint and fed on bread and cheese until the frail little thing had mended. It was duly released among the trees of the Regent’s Park.
    I shall never forget the pantomime of catching it to begin with, the twin dangers of letting it fall off the sill to certain death or doing it some terrible damage by snatching at its elusive little body. Cadet Riley was a case in point. One wrong word, one ill-chosen nuance, and we should lose him. As we sat once again at the table in the school sanatorium with its empty beds and sunlight through a mullioned window, Holmes asked, “May we count upon you to tell us the truth this time, Patrick Riley?”
    The young face looked startled, first at Holmes and then at me.
    â€œI don’t know what you mean, sir.”
    â€œI suggest you know perfectly well. You were not going out on that Sunday afternoon to kill yourself, were you? I think we have established that.”
    â€œWas I not?” There was such confusion in the response.
    â€œYou know you were not. You told us you were far more likely to kill someone else!”
    The fourteen-year-old sat and stared at us. Was it that he did not understand the point of the question? Or did he understand it pretty well and not know what to say?
    Holmes let a long silence