dolorous_ett | Sherlock Holmes and the Ravenclaw Codex, Chapter Three

This chapter is a slight misnomer - most of the revelations actually occur in Chapter 4. I just thought it would be fun to keep you guessing a little longer about some of the details...

Chapter 1 can be found here.
Chapter 2 can be found here.

Chapter 3: Revelations Aboard the Hogwarts Express

For all its lamentable effect on my health, my time in Afghanistan had taught me how to pack quickly and efficiently, and within an hour I was all prepared and ready to turn in. The same could not be said for my friend. Although uniquely gifted with a razor-sharp mind, Holmes was extremely lax in his personal habits, and I slept but poorly that night due to the thumps, crashes and curses that issued from next door, as Holmes attempted to muster his possessions for the trip ahead. It was plain that he was expecting our trip to be of some duration.

It seemed that I had barely got my head down before I was awakened by a violent banging at the door.

“Watson!” came Holmes’s voice, disgustingly cheery for that early hour, “Don’t hang about, man, it’s half past five! Our breakfast is on the table, together with a pot of Mrs Hudson’s excellent coffee. Make haste, or we will miss our train!”

Despite his late night, Holmes was in excellent humour, and almost before I had the chance to finish the brimming plate that had been sent out for me, he was chivvying me out of the door and into a waiting cab.

“But Holmes,” I protested with some heat, as he jumped nimbly into the cab beside me, “our train does not leave until past nine! There is no need for this unseemly haste!”

“No time for that now!” he snapped, as he hurled a small package out of the window into the hands of an astounded milkman on his rounds. “Drive on, cabman!”

I would be hard put to say whether the route on which he took us was more remarkable for its strangeness or for its length. As dawn broke over London, we rode from some of the proudest and most majestic streets in Europe, to some of the vilest, most degraded slums to shame the nation, and back again, stopping at irregular intervals for Holmes to leap out of the vehicle, either to post a letter or on some other strange errand. I waited in the cab as he rang on the door of the American Embassy and ran away; stopped outside a grimy, run-down lodging house, where Holmes handed the landlady a bundle of what appeared to be dirty linen, to wait until called for; we paused outside an obscure office in Whitehall as he turned the doormat upside down, and then we proceeded to the fish market at Billingsgate, where he bargained heatedly with several vendors before purchasing a large salmon, which he presented with a flourish to the astonished commissionaire at the door of our next stop – the Ritz.

“Here, mister,” said the cabbie, as Holmes sprang once more from the carriage to present a bunch of roses to an elderly charwoman on her way to work, “is this friend o’ yours queer in the head, to carry on like that?”

“Queer in the head?” I exclaimed indignantly. “You are in the presence of the greatest detective in the land – Mr Sherlock Holmes!”

“Cor!” exclaimed our driver in tones of deep satisfaction, “Sherlock Holmes! Well, I never! Wait till I tell the lads at the pub about this! Sherlock Holmes – in my cab!” He made no further complaint for the rest of the journey.

We arrived at King’s Cross, already somewhat travel-weary, just as the clock was striking nine. Holmes paid the driver a sovereign for his trouble, and he drove away in high good humour, cracking his whip and calling out over his shoulder: “I hope he swings for it, mister!” We had barely a chance to draw breath and gather up our belongings when we were accosted by a wheezing Weaselby, his titian hair sticking up at even more improbable angles than the previous day.

“Where have you been?” he gasped. “I had hoped to talk with you about – oh – but now there is no time – we must get you through the gate or you will miss your train! Oh! Why did you not come earlier?”

Gripping each of us by the arm, he steered us not to the usual turnstiles, but through a warren of back rooms, storerooms and deserted offices, to emerge once more into daylight on a bustling platform, where I caught a brief glimpse of a brightly dressed, bustling crowd of people boarding a long train. Something about the scene seemed strangely out of kilter, but before I had a chance to put my finger on what aspect of the prospect disconcerted me so much, the train let off steam with a shriek, and the whole platform was obscured in a whirling mist. Weaselby led us rapidly through the thinning fog to the last first-class carriage and handed us aboard, followed by our luggage. Still, he seemed reluctant to depart.

“Have a good journey,” he said. “I hope to have the pleasure of speaking to you again at Hogwarts, Mr Holmes, when you are more at leisure.”

“I do not wish to associate with you, Weaselby,” retorted my friend. “You are in the pay of Phineas Nigellus Black, and listen to keyholes on his behalf. Good day to you!”

Weaselby looked like he had a good deal to reply to that last comment, but before he had a chance to speak, the guard’s whistle blew, and he had barely time to leap clear before the train started to move.

Holmes settled himself in his seat, and stretched his legs out in front of him.

“Well?” I inquired impatiently. “Now will you tell me what all this is about? Where are we going? Who is the mysterious Headmaster? What was the meaning of that ridiculous cab journey? Why were you so abrupt with the unfortunate Weaselby? And most of all, what kind of school calls itself Hogwarts?”

“Not now, Watson,” Holmes replied. “This morning’s activities have wearied me, and I find myself much in need of a restorative nap. I would recommend that you do the same – we will both stand in need of all our faculties when we arrive at our destination.”

And with that, he leaned back, tipped his tweed hat over his eyes and fell into a profound slumber.

I stared at my friend in exasperation. I was burning with curiosity, but many years of association had taught me that no good could possibly come of attempting to wake him at this juncture. I consoled myself by surveying my surroundings. I consider myself something of a connoisseur of trains, having visited almost every part of the British Isles either as Holmes’s assistant or on commissions of my own as a physician, but this seemed to be an unusually fine specimen, and I resolved to explore. Our compartment, one of several, all of which were unoccupied, was lit by globe-shaped lamps of an unusual design, with a door leading onto a corridor carpeted in luxurious Chinese rugs into which my boots slipped almost to the ankles. At the end of the corridor was a heavy, brass-bound door, which, much to my disappointment was locked, as was the door at the other end of the carriage.

Disappointed, I returned to our compartment, where, although Holmes remained obdurately asleep, I found much to console me in the view that was speeding past outside our window. We had left the grimy centre of London behind us, and were now passing through some of the city’s trimmer and more pleasing suburbs. Soon even these petered out, and we were travelling through the rolling farmland of the Home Counties, interspersed with clumps of trees weighed down with the last dark green leaves of summer. The storm had blown itself out at last, and a weak, watery sunshine pervaded the landscape. I watched the scene in delight for a while, but the warm sunshine and gentle of the motion of the train began to have their effect on me also. I felt my eyelids grow heavy, and fell at last into an uneasy slumber.

I woke some hours later, as our train was passing through Durham, to find Holmes watching me.

“Well, Watson,” he said, “I see you have been exploring our noble conveyance. Have you found anything to our advantage?”

I knew a trick worth several of that, however.

“The pile on the rug showed you where I had walked, and no doubt I left some fingerprints on the door handle,” I replied impatiently. “And if you have been there you will also know that I found nothing of any use. Why, I could not even get into the next carriage! But never mind that! Where are we going, and what the devil will we find when we get there?”

Holmes sighed, seeming uncharacteristically reluctant to explain himself.

“Then I must begin at the beginning,” he said. “It will take some time – are you quite comfortable? Would you care for a smoke before we begin? Is the light shining in your eyes? – shall I pull down the blinds? Would you care for one of Mrs Hudson’s beef dripping sandwiches? Or perhaps some bottled beer?”

“Holmes, for pity’s sake!” I exclaimed.

“Forgive me, old friend,” he said sadly. “I have merely been attempting to postpone the evil moment. Very well then, let us begin with the story of my brother.”

“Mycroft?” I exclaimed. “You mean that Mycroft is embroiled in this mystery too?”

“Not Mycroft,” replied Holmes softly, “or at least not directly. The story begins with our late elder brother, Marchmont.”