Sherlock's Apprentice (The Crimson Glove)

1.2

The evening was warm for December, a light breeze stirring the branches of the trees in the garden. The sky was slowly darkening. An orange pinprick of light could just be seen on the back veranda, and if you looked closely, you could make out the tall figure of a man standing in the shadows, smoking a cigarette.

The back door swung open, bright yellow light streaming into the garden. The man straightened abruptly, peering round for the origin of the light. He hesitated, as though unsure he wanted to be seen. Then another person's head was silhouetted in the doorway and a loud whisper cut through the dusky air.

"That you, Crawford?"

"Yes - what took so long, man?"

The figure stepped into the light, snatching his hat from his head. He was instantly remarkable by his shock of orange hair, which he rumpled with one hand while extending the other to the man who had opened the door. Bright eyes reflected the light, flashing out merrily from a youthful, freckled face, and all at once he appeared no older than twenty.

"Better late than not at all," laughed his friend, clasping his hand. "Come on in - that's right - I've only got a moment to spare. Mother wants the family to make a formal entrance, and I can't find my dinner-jacket. What is it? You look queer."

The redhead started, turning away from the door. "Do I? I'm fine, really. Er - how long will the formal entrance take?"

"Just a minute. She wants us coming down the staircase, and I'm not even ready. Where are your parents? I thought they were coming tonight."

They had turned, walking briskly down a narrow hallway, and in this light the person who had opened the door could be seen. He was nearly as tall as his friend but darker in appearance, a slim young fellow with unconventionally long dark hair, cut raggedly at his jawline. He was certainly younger than the man he'd addressed as Crawford, but had an air of confidence about him.

"My parents - er - were unable to come tonight." Crawford said vaguely. "It's all right - I'd rather have my own fun anyway, if you know what I'm saying." He shot his friend a half-hearted grin.

"Really? Well, Callie said you were here this morning already," replied the dark-haired gentleman mischievously. "She's always going on about your adventures. Archie this, Archie that - have a nice outing, did you?"

"Oh... yes. Where were you, then - entertaining Miss Macmillan?"

"Studying, my friend. I ought to be at school, you know that, but Father gets us these exemptions occasionally. I haven't seen Sara for a few days, she'll come tonight."

They had come out into a large room, arranged like a study. Bookshelves lined one wall, but the armchairs were centred around a low table with a half-finished game of checkers on it. Crawford hung back at the doorway, but the other boy swept in as though he owned the place.

"There's my jacket!" he exclaimed, snatching it off the back of a low sofa. "I must have been half mad, to take it off and forget it here. Anyhow, Sara's a pretty girl, but Mother's the one in love with her - her title anyway. Their family are second cousins to some duke, and her father probably seven hundredth in line for the throne of England or some such nonsense. I don't keep track. Are you coming in? You can put your hat and coat in the front hall, there will probably be people arriving now."