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Right on this street. Watson had stayed in the shade. Another right, then left into…oh. No. No, this must be wrong. Had Watson truly—
Yes. He still followed Watson’s trail, which meant that his friend had come to the last place Holmes would have expected during one of their tracking games. How badly had he irritated his friend for Watson to go straight to King’s Cross Station?
Someone behind him halted much too close to Holmes’ person and swore before darting around, casting a glare for blocking the walkway as he went. Trains and crowds created a cacophony of sound around him, and a faint “all aboard!” drifted from the last platform, but he could only stare in mute horror. Surely Watson had not taken a train?
Except the small, round print he had followed could only be Watson’s cane. His friend had not even tried to disguise his trail. That familiar print had taken the most direct route from the flat to the largest train station in the area, and Holmes had no idea which direction he would have gone.
Or how far. Watson knew better than to think Holmes could search the entire island in a day!
“Nothing is impossible to discover, Sherlock. Search for what your target left behind.”
Mycroft’s chiding tone prodded him into motion, and he stepped out of the crowd to follow the trail as far as he could. He might not be able to find his friend, but he refused to give up without trying. Had Watson gone to the counter?
Yes, but the attendant would never remember one man among hundreds, so Holmes needed to narrow the possibilities. Watson would have wanted to leave on the first train going in his chosen direction. What were his options?
Considering he had walked from the flat, five or six trains would have left within five minutes of his arrival. Two went north. Two went west. One spur line wandered north of the city, mostly for tourists, and the last went to the Dover ferry.
He eliminated Dover completely. Watson would not have gone to the Continent, and that line remained too short for any other use in this game.
He would have had to wait a while for the meandering route. If Watson expected this to take Holmes all day, he would have worried that Holmes would catch up before that train arrived anywhere. Holmes put that one aside for now.
So would he have gone north or west?
North, he decided. The length of the island held more cities, and therefore more stations, than the comparatively shorter width from here to Bristol. Whether Watson rode his chosen train until he depleted his funds or found a station to sit and wait, he would have had a wider choice going north.
Though the money had been a hint, Holmes realized. Charging Holmes ten shillings had given Watson a range of some sixty miles one way. Accounting for luncheon, and divided for the trip back, Watson could go as far as St. Alban’s, Potter’s Bar, or Broxbourne headed north, depending on the track he chose, or Slough headed west.
Or twice that far, if he had taken a third-class ticket. Would he have ridden third class?
Unlikely. The two of them always traveled first class, and he doubted he had irritated Watson to the point of making this impossible. Just difficult. Extremely difficult. He would run with first class for now.
And the two northbound trains had gone to Cambridge and Stevenage. With the Cambridge Branch a spur nearly as useless as the Dover route, a stop at the counter boarded the train headed toward Stevenage just before it started to move. He found a compartment that overlooked any station they approached and settled in to wait.
And wait. And wait. The first five stations, while busy, held no sign of his friend. Watson would not have taken this past his chosen station, so every minute spent waiting for the other passengers to load and unload let Holmes scan benches and corners. And every single one of them had nothing.
Had he chosen wrongly?
Perhaps, but he might as well see this line to its end. Careful count of the miles finally reached the last stop in Watson’s range, where he disembarked to search the station. Benches, corners, hidden areas, even the stationmaster’s office held nothing of note, and Holmes changed platforms to board the returning train.
And disembark at every stop. Each station provided at least five minutes he could use to search the more hidden areas, and while he nearly missed the train at Oakleigh Park, he still found no indication that Watson had come this direction. The beating sun sent him to the shade for a few minutes to think.
He still doubted that Watson would have left the station, so if not the Great Northern Railway, could Watson have chosen the Cambridge Branch, after all? Or had he gone some other direction? He had proven an ability to lay a false trail multiple times, and he knew the clues Holmes used in his deduction well enough to mislead him, even if he could not deduce a scene himself. Could he have gone to Dover? Or taken the London route like a tourist? Any train would have had plenty of time to reach his chosen station by now.
He had no idea. Worse, he had no way of gathering the information he needed to find the answer without simply riding the tracks. Watson well knew how difficult train lines were to deduce. Without happening on the exact train and car Watson had boarded, Watson’s trail effectively ended at the station counter. Or the platform, on a quiet day, but this morning had been anything but quiet. Bustling crowds had darted this way and that from the first train early this morning, thoroughly destroying any hint of Watson’s trail once he left the street.
And midday remained at least two hours away. One hand ensured the hint remained in his pocket before he stood with a sigh. He might as well check the Cambridge Branch.