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

pass. Then he said, very gently, “You must trust me again before I can trust you.”
    â€œYes …” His head was down and even sitting at the same table I could barely hear the soft whisper of that single syllable.
    â€œGood!” said Holmes enthusiastically, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Now why did you go out on that Sunday afternoon?”
    Riley still hesitated and then gave up the game.
    â€œTo meet John Porson.”
    â€œThe boy who lost the postal order? He who had been your friend?”
    â€œYes, Mr Holmes. They would never have let me go to him, at least on my own.”
    â€œWhose idea was it? Porson’s?”
    â€œI thought so.”
    â€œIf they would not let you go out for a walk, do you ask us to believe that they would let you exchange messages with Porson? How could you communicate with him?”
    Riley shook his head and then pushed his chair back. Beside his bed was a tin tray, a dark brown thing of the kind familiar in hospital wards. He brought it back to us and sat down.
    â€œTwo days before, Mr Holmes, on the Friday, the headmaster’s maid—‘Mitzi,’ we call her—brought my lunch in here. I wasn’t allowed to mix with the other boys, so I had all my meals here. When I lifted the plate, there was chalk writing on the tray. The plate had hidden it. Just a message. ‘Linesman’s hut. Sun 3.30. JLP. RSVP.’ That was all.”
    â€œJohn Learmount Porson,” said Holmes quietly, “You were to meet him by the railway line on Sunday afternoon at half-past three. What happened then?”
    He looked at us as if we should have known better.
    â€œI knew he would help me if he could. If he’d bothered to smuggle a message to me, he must be on my side. Even if he only went to Mr Winter and told him that we were friends and I would never have robbed him.”
    â€œAnd how did you reply?”
    â€œI had nothing that would do for writing on the tray. But with my forefinger I rubbed out the ‘JLP RSVP.’ I collected the chalk on my fingertip and just managed to make a smudgy ‘PR’ so that it read, ‘Linesman’s hut. Sun. 3.30 PR’ If it came from Porson, he would be on the look-out for the maid taking back the tray to the scullery. They pile them up there and wipe them over. He must have been able to get at the tray or he couldn’t have sent the message in the first place. As for Mitzi, she would never take any notice of a chalk mark like that, even if she saw it. I covered the writing with the plate when she took it away.”
    To those who knew Holmes well, there was a look of satisfaction on that sharp profile which had not been there since Sir John Fisher first told us his story.
    â€œGood,” he said soothingly. “I believe we have got somewhere at last.”
    â€œIt was my one chance,” the boy insisted. “For two days I thought that at last I could talk to someone who would listen to me. Porson would trust me.”
    â€œAnd then?”
    Riley looked at us uncertainly, living through all his difficulties again.
    â€œI thought I should never get to the linesman’s hut, sir. Any master who saw me leaving the building would stop me. There might not be many boys crossing the field at that moment, but I could still get stopped. It was my one chance, Mr Holmes. You do see that, don’t you?”
    â€œI see that, Patrick Riley, plainly enough.”
    â€œI could have watched for Porson, but I hadn’t got a view from this window of anyone walking across the field. I decided the best thing was to leave it till the last minute and then run. I’d be there before they could stop me. About twenty past three I crept down the sanatorium stairs, always looking ahead and round corners first. There’s almost no one about in the middle of a Sunday afternoon. I moved round the edge of the lawn below this window and through the little gate