Young Sherlock Holmes: Fire Storm Part 9

Thinking of survival in unfamiliar environments provoked a memory of New York, and his arrival in that city a year or so before. He'd been amazed then at the number of newspapers that had been on sale on street corners. Thinking about it now, he wondered how many different newspapers there were in London, and whether they all printed the same story. Presumably not a each must have its own style and its own bias. If he really wanted to know more about the background and the details of this murder in Edinburgh, then it might be a good idea if he bought as many different papers as he could, cut the relevant stories out and compared them against one another, looking for differences and for things that one report mentioned that the other ones ignored.

The train was some distance beyond Guildford now, and he had lost the opportunity to dive back out and pick up some more newspapers. He made a mental note to do it at Waterloo when they arrived.

Finis.h.i.+ng the newspaper, he made sure that he carefully tore out the report of the Edinburgh murder and folded it several times before putting it in his pocket. If nothing else, comparing the various reports would be an interesting exercise.

Matty was curled up on a seat, head against the window, fast asleep. Rufus Stone had his eyes closed as well, but judging by the way his hands were twitching he was mentally rehearsing the violin part of the music score.

Sherlock glanced out of the window again, but the countryside flas.h.i.+ng past held little to interest him. He opened the bag that he had brought with him and pulled out a book. It was all about theatrical make-up a how to make it, and how to apply it to produce various effects.

He buried himself in the book, memorizing the details of how to make your own theatrical putty and make-up, and how to apply it so that n.o.body could tell unless they were within a few inches of you. The book also talked about changing posture a the way you stood a to make yourself look taller or shorter. He forgot about the train, and the journey, until they clattered over a particularly noisy set of points, and he looked up to find that Rufus Stone was staring at him.

'Thinking of a career in the theatre?' Stone asked, indicating the book. 'I advise against it, the way I would advise against sticking your hand inside a dog's mouth and pulling on its tongue. The pay is bad, the hours are long and unsociable and society does not value those who entertain it. I should know a I've spent more time than I care to think about in darkened theatres playing for small, unappreciative audiences.'

'I don't know what I want to do when I grow up,' Sherlock said honestly, 'but I like the idea of being able to change my appearance so that n.o.body knows that it's me.'

'To be honest,' Stone admitted, 'there are times when I've been grateful for the ability to slip past an irate landlord or a former girlfriend without them realizing.'

'You know about theatrical make-up?' Sherlock asked, intrigued.

'I've picked things up, over the years, working in theatres a or, more accurately, spending time in dressing rooms with young and beautiful actresses. Working for your brother, as well. There are some striking similarities between acting and spying.' He smiled, but there was little humour in his expression. 'Of course, dying on stage in front of an unappreciative audience is nowhere near as painful as dying in a back alley of a foreign city with a knife between your ribs.'

'Can you teach me?' Sherlock asked.

Stone shrugged. 'I could give it a go. You'll need a certain amount of raw artistic talent, and a lot of practice a not a million miles away from what you need to play the violin properly, in fact. Tell me what you already know, and I'll see what I can add.'

They spent the rest of the journey with Stone giving Sherlock tips on the art of theatrical make-up. He brought the dry facts in Sherlock's book to life with funny anecdotes of times when he'd seen false moustaches slide off actors' faces or watched their make-up streak as they perspired until they looked like some bizarre striped animal. Sherlock found himself laughing, but also learning at the same time, and the rest of the journey seemed to flash past in moments.

Arrival at Waterloo was becoming a regular occurrence for Sherlock by now. The station, with its soaring iron arches and its gla.s.s panels, was a familiar sight, as were the crowds of people in all kinds of clothes, from black tailcoats to bright red-and-yellow checked jackets.

Rufus Stone led the way outside. 'We need to get to King's Cross,' he said over his shoulder. 'It's on the other side of London. Trains leave there for the north of the country.'

Sherlock looked back over his shoulder, wondering if he would see the two Americans, but if they had been on the train then they were hanging back, keeping out of sight. Perhaps they had stayed at Guildford to ask questions about a big American and a girl who would have been travelling a day or two before.

A cab was waiting directly outside the station, ignoring the traffic that was struggling to get past. Its driver kept shaking his head at the various people who tried to hail it or climb in. Sherlock a.s.sumed that it was waiting for someone important, and he was prepared to walk right past it, but Rufus Stone walked straight up and opened the door. Instead of waving him away or shouting at him, the driver jumped down and took his bag, then looked at Sherlock and Matty expectantly, obviously wanting to take their bags as well.

Sherlock had been encouraged by his brother Mycroft never to hail the first cab that he saw a just in case it was a trap or a trick of some kind a so Stone's behaviour surprised him. The violinist was so confident, however, that Sherlock found himself leaving his bag on the pavement and following him inside. Matty did the same.

Everything became clear when Sherlock found that he was settling himself opposite the impressive bulk of Mycroft Holmes.

'Ah, Sherlock,' Mycroft said. 'Welcome. Please make yourself comfortable. And young Mr Arnatt a perhaps you could squeeze yourself in beside me. I believe there is enough room, if you don't mind pressing yourself up against the far side. Do be careful of my top hat.'

'You sent a telegram to Mycroft,' Sherlock said accusingly to Rufus Stone as they sat. From outside he could hear the driver throwing their bags on to the back of the carriage.

Stone's face was impa.s.sive. 'I had to,' he said. 'I work for your brother, and if he found out that I had let you go to Edinburgh without notifying him, there would be h.e.l.l to pay.'

'There would indeed,' Mycroft confirmed. 'I pride myself on knowing everything that goes on around me. If I discovered that my brother had slipped unnoticed through the city, I would be mortified.'

'I'm still going to Edinburgh,' Sherlock said levelly.

Mycroft nodded. 'Of course you are.' He reached up and rapped with his cane on the carriage roof. 'King's Cross!' he called.

'What?'

The carriage jerked and began to move away from the kerb.

'Do you think that the disappearance of Amyus Crowe is of no interest to me?' Mycroft shook his head. 'He is, apart from being the closest thing I have to a personal friend, a man of exceptional abilities, for whom I have a great deal of professional respect. If he has disappeared suddenly, then there must be a reason, and I wish to know what that reason is. The presence of these two Americans is unsettling as well, given that we do not know whether they are friends or foes. Like you, Sherlock, I am puzzled, and that is a state of mind that I find particularly painful.'

'What about you?' Sherlock asked. 'Will you be coming with us?'

'I fear my days of travelling are past,' Mycroft replied. 'Our Russian expedition convinced me that I am better staying in London, where I am comfortable, and letting others actually seek out evidence and answers. But I shall be doing my part a while you are looking for Mr Crowe and his daughter, I shall be making enquiries about these two American visitors.'

Sherlock felt his heart sink. He wasn't surprised at Mycroft's decision, but he would have felt more confident with his brother at his side.

'Oh,' Mycroft continued, 'I almost forgot. Congratulations on your deduction concerning exactly where Mr Crowe was headed. I cannot fault your logic, although I can fault Mr Crowe's use of a rabbit's head. There must have been something less offensive to hand and something less likely to have been stolen by a pa.s.sing carnivore.' He peered around the inside of the cab. 'Do you think,' he mused, taking the conversation off at a tangent, 'I could have a carriage panelled, upholstered and carpeted to look like my office? Or like the Diogenes Club? That way I could travel in perfect comfort without the nausea that usually comes with a change of location.'

'But who would bring your morning cup of tea or your afternoon sherry?' Rufus Stone asked with a smile.

'Those things can be arranged,' Mycroft said. 'The cab could stop outside certain establishments at pre-planned times, and waiters could pa.s.s trays through the window. I could have entire meals delivered for me to consume on the move. Think of the time saved!'

'If you were allowed to eat and drink in here,' Sherlock pointed out, 'then you would grow so fat that you would never be able to get out again, which would undermine the entire point of having your own carriage in the first place. You would be like a snail in its sh.e.l.l.'

Mycroft nodded. 'A fair point,' he conceded.

'If you're not going to stop us going to Edinburgh,' Matty piped up, 'then why are you here, Mr Holmes?'

'An excellent question, young man, and one that cuts right to the heart of the matter. I am here to see my younger brother, of course a something that hasn't happened for a while now a and I am also here to warn the three of you to be careful. It has presumably occurred to you that anything which could cause Amyus Crowe to run rather than fight is likely to be bigger and more dangerous than you expect. I have always regarded Mr Crowe as a man entirely without fear. To find out that there is something that scares him is like finding out that the moon is entirely hollow at the back, like a dish, rather than a ball, like the Earth.' He sighed. 'I am also led to understand that Edinburgh is an unusually dark and violent city. The Scots themselves are a Celtic race, which means that they are p.r.o.ne to moods that range from maudlin depression to sudden anger. Do not think Scotland will be like Farnham, or London. Although you will not cross water a apart from the River Tyne, of course a and although the people you meet will speak English a of a sort a you should treat Scotland as you would a foreign country.' He handed across an envelope. 'I have taken the liberty of making your travel arrangements. Here are your tickets, and the address of a hotel into which you have been booked. Keep me informed as to what you discover. I regret to say that I have no agents of my own in Edinburgh, otherwise I would ask them to be on the lookout for Amyus Crowe and his daughter, and to keep the three of you from harm as well.'

'Thank you,' Sherlock said, taking the envelope. 'Mycroft . . .'

'Yes, Sherlock.'

He paused before going on. 'I think you should know that Mrs Eglantine has left the employ of Uncle Sherrinford and Aunt Anna.'

Mycroft stared at Sherlock for a long moment. 'Has she indeed?' he murmured eventually. 'Do I take it that this sudden reversal of fortune for that remarkably unpleasant woman has something to do with you?'

'It has a lot to do with him,' Matty said proudly. 'And me!'

'You must tell me the story when you get back.' Mycroft kept staring at Sherlock. There was a strange look in his eyes, as if he was simultaneously seeing someone very familiar and someone who was a complete stranger. 'You have my gift of being able to see a seed and extrapolate the flower,' he said eventually, 'but you also have something I lack a a regard for flowers, and a dislike of weeds. I admire you, Sherlock. I admire you greatly.'

Sherlock looked away, suddenly feeling a lump in his throat. He watched the buildings flow past the windows until he had his feelings under control.

'I shall write to our mother,' Mycroft announced suddenly. 'I shall ask her to invite our aunt and uncle to stay with her for a few days. This family feud has long pa.s.sed the point where it should have been forgotten. By the time our father returns from India I want it forgotten.'

'Mother is . . . all right?' Sherlock asked hesitantly.

Mycroft's lips tightened almost imperceptibly. 'She has good days and bad, but I think she is on the mend.'

'And Emma?'

'Our sister is . . . well, she is what she is,' Mycroft said cryptically. 'Let us leave it there.'

The carriage suddenly swerved sideways, towards the kerb, and stopped. Sherlock heard a scrabbling sound as the driver climbed down from his perch. Moments later the door opened.

'King's Cross,' Mycroft announced. 'If I remember my Bradshaw's Railway Time Tables, then I believe you will find a train leaving for Edinburgh within the hour.'

'Thank you for meeting us,' Stone said. 'And for the tickets and the hotel arrangements.'

'Look after my brother,' Mycroft replied. He stared at Matty, and raised an eyebrow. 'If it isn't too much trouble, look after this one too. I find him curiously entertaining, and my brother obviously likes him.'

'You're a funny geezer,' Matty said chirpily, 'but thanks for the lift.'

Mycroft switched his glance back to Sherlock and stuck out a hand. 'Send me a telegram whenever convenient,' he said. 'You can reach me care of the Diogenes Club. Let me know how your search is going. And take care. Take great care. I have a bad feeling in my bones, and I do not think it is the gout from which I worry that I am beginning to suffer.'

The three of them a Sherlock, Matty and Rufus Stone a climbed out of the carriage. The driver shut the door and climbed nimbly back to his seat. Sherlock heard the rap of Mycroft's cane hitting the roof, and his m.u.f.fled voice calling, 'Admiralty Arch, my good man!' And then the carriage was pulling away from the station.

'We're on our own,' Matty said.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

King's Cross Station was just like Waterloo a a large s.p.a.ce filled with people waiting on the concourse and pigeons roosting in the cast-iron girders that held up the gla.s.s roof a except that it was smaller. Smoke drifted through the air, and the sulphurous smell of burning coal hung over everything. The walls and girders were coated with a thin film of black dust.

Sherlock looked around, wondering if it was worth asking someone if they had seen a big man in a white suit and hat with a younger girl in tow at some stage in the past day or two. Asking the people who were catching trains wouldn't do any good a the chance that they might have also been there at the same time as Amyus and Virginia Crowe was slim a but it might be worth talking to the ticket-office clerks or the station guards. Or, he thought, as his gaze scanned the walls of the arrivals and departures hall, he could talk to the beggars and pickpockets who moved like ghosts through the crowd, invisible and unnoticed apart from the occasional cries of 'I told you a I haven't got sixpence, and even if I did I wouldn't give it to you!' and 'My wallet! Where's my wallet?' that marked their progress. The beggars and pickpockets would always be there, he suspected a day and night. This was their place of work and their home as well.

He stopped himself before he could walk across to the nearest beggar and offer him sixpence for some information. Amyus Crowe had tried to explain to him a while back about the problem of trying to confirm something you already knew. Sherlock was as certain as he could be that Crowe and Virginia were making for Edinburgh and had gone through King's Cross on the way. Having a beggar tell him that yes, a big man in a white suit and hat had been there, with a girl, wouldn't change his certainty a it would just be extra information. On the other hand, having a beggar say that no, he hadn't seen a man or a girl fitting that description wouldn't mean that they hadn't been there. The beggar couldn't be expected to remember every single person who had been through the station concourse. 'The sensible man,' Crowe had said, 'don't look to confirm what he already knows a he looks to deny it. Finding evidence that backs up your theories ain't useful, but finding evidence that your theories are wrong is priceless. Never try to prove yourself right a always try to prove yourself wrong instead.'

The trouble was, in this case, if Sherlock's theory was that Amyus Crowe and Virginia had travelled through King's Cross, the only way to prove that theory wrong was to discover that they had travelled from a different London terminus a and that would mean a day wasted while they checked Paddington, Euston, Liverpool Street and the other major stations. They didn't have time to do that.

'You look pensive,' Rufus Stone said, clapping him on the shoulder.

'Just thinking through a problem,' Sherlock replied. 'I was wondering whether it was worth asking after Mr Crowe, but I think it would just be confusing.'

Stone nodded in agreement. 'Even if he bought a ticket here, it wouldn't have been for Edinburgh. He would have disguised his trail the same way he would have done leaving Farnham.' He looked around. 'We've got a while before the train, and my stomach is thinking my throat has been cut while it wasn't looking. Let's grab some food before we board the train a my treat.'

Stone was as good as his word. He found a chestnut seller on the fringes of the waiting crowd and bought three bags of hot nuts. He and Sherlock had to blow on them before they were cool enough to eat, but Matty seemed to have a throat lined with brick. He just swallowed them straight down, one after the other, smiling all the time.

After they had eaten their fill, Stone led Sherlock and Matty across the concourse towards the platforms. He showed their tickets to the guard, and they boarded the train. It was, in all respects that Sherlock could see, identical to the one that had taken them from Farnham to Waterloo.

'It's going to be a long journey,' Stone said, settling down in a small compartment. 'Make yourselves comfortable. Get some sleep, if you can. There's two things a man should grab whenever he can a sleep and food. You never know when your next chance will come along.' He glanced at Sherlock. 'If I'd have thought, I'd have brought along a violin. We could have continued our lessons.'

'In that case,' Matty muttered, just loud enough to hear, 'I would have taken a different train.'

Rufus glared at him. 'I suppose,' he said, 'your musical tastes run just as far as a tin whistle and a rattle, and no further.'

'Don't knock tin whistles.' Matty shook his head. 'There's plenty of good tunes come out of a tin whistle. That and a rattle is enough to dance to, and dancing's what music's all about.' He glanced truculently at Stone. 'Ain't it?'

Stone just shook his head in mock sadness and kept quiet.

'Actually,' Sherlock said, 'I wanted to talk a bit more about the theatre a about make-up and disguises, and things like that.'

Stone nodded. 'I can happily do that. I love reminiscing about the times I've trodden the boards myself, carrying a spear in the back of someone else's big scene, or played in the orchestra pit while the actors were on stage showing their craft.' He raised a quizzical eyebrow. 'You seem to have a strong liking for the art and craft of acting. What's brought this on, may I ask?'

Sherlock shrugged, uneasy at talking about his own hopes and likings. 'I suppose I just find it interesting,' he said. Stone kept looking at him expectantly, and to break the silence Sherlock added testily, 'If you really have to know, it goes back to Moscow, and that cafe we were in. I was sitting there with seven or eight people with whom I'd spent the past three days, and I didn't recognize them. Not one of them.' He felt his cheeks burning with a sudden rush of emotion that seemed to be a curdled mixture of embarra.s.sment and anger. He hadn't realized until he'd said the words how much that incident had bothered him. 'I'm meant to be a good observer,' he continued. 'Amyus Crowe always says that I've got a talent for picking up on small details, and yet they fooled me. They fooled me!'

'They were better than you,' Stone said calmly. 'There's no shame in that. I'm not the best violinist in the world. I never will be the best violinist in the world. But I'm good, and I'm getting better.'

'I want to be the best,' Sherlock said quietly. 'I want to be the best violinist, and the best animal tracker, and the best at disguising myself. If I can't be the best, then what's the point of even trying?'

'You're going to find life very disappointing, my friend.' Stone shook his head. 'Very disappointing indeed.'

There was a tense silence in the carriage for a while, and then Rufus Stone, seemingly apologetic, broke it by telling Sherlock stories of his time working in the theatre, and of particular actors who could inhabit a part so well that they seemed to submerge their own personality in the performance. 'The thing is,' Stone said, 'that if you don't believe that you are an old man, or a woman, or a tramp, then how can you expect anyone else to believe you? Looking the part is just the surface; being the part is the true disguise.'

'But how do I do that?' Sherlock asked.

'If you're pretending to be sad, try and remember something in your life that made you cry. If you're meant to be happy, remember something that made you laugh. If you're meant to be a beggar, then remember being hungry and dirty and tired a if you can.' He smiled slyly. 'If you're pretending to be in love, remember the face of someone you care for. That way your face and your body will naturally fall into the right shapes, without your having to exaggerate for effect. Oh, and always trade on people's inattention.'

Sherlock frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean that people usually see only what they expect to see. They don't look in detail at every person on the street.' He closed his eyes for a moment and ran a hand through his hair. 'How do I put this? It's like a theatrical backcloth. If you want the audience to believe that a play is set in China, you don't spend weeks painting a detailed backcloth showing a Chinese palace or a village so realistic that people think they're actually looking through a big window at the real thing a you sketch out some details, like a curved roof, or some bamboo, and let their minds fill in the rest. Minds are very good at deciding quickly what they're seeing out of the corner of their eye, based on a couple of things that snag their attention, and then taking a picture from their memory and putting that picture in place of the thing itself. If you want to look like a beggar, then what you don't want to do is to painstakingly recreate every detail of a beggar's clothes and hair and face. That will make you stand out. Concentrate on a couple of key things, and then blend into the background. Do you understand what I mean?'

'I think so.'

Stone gave some more examples, and they talked for a while, but the conversation trailed off into silence and Sherlock found himself gazing out of the compartment window. Towns came and went, fields flashed past, and gradually the landscape began to change from the neatness that Sherlock a.s.sociated with the south of England to a more rugged, overgrown look. Even the cows began to look different a s.h.a.ggy and brown, with horns that curved out in front of their heads, rather than black and white and short-haired. Once or twice they crossed bridges over large rivers, and Sherlock found himself remembering the wooden trestle bridge that he and Virginia and Matty had walked across when they were in America, escaping from Duke Baltha.s.sar.

Virginia. Even just thinking about her name sent a spasm through his heart. He couldn't deny that he felt something strong about her that he didn't feel for anyone else, but he couldn't characterize it. He didn't know what the feeling was, or what it meant, and its intensity scared him. He wasn't used to the idea of someone else being part of his life. He had always been a loner, at school and at home. He hated feeling dependent on someone, but that was the way he was feeling now. He couldn't imagine a life without Virginia in it, in some way.

The train stopped in Newcastle to take on fresh coal and water. The three of them took the opportunity to stretch their legs on the platform and buy some more food that they could eat from paper bags. This time it was apples wrapped in pastry and cooked until they were piping hot. Steam rose from them just like miniature versions of the steam rising from the train's engine.

After a while Sherlock headed back to the compartment, even though the train wouldn't be leaving for a few minutes. There was only so much walking up and down the platform that he could manage. The idea of exercise just for the sake of exercise had never appealed to him. He slumped in the upholstered seat, staring at the opposite wall. Train journeys, he decided, were excruciatingly boring. Sea journeys took longer, but there was more to look at, more to do. s.h.i.+ps had libraries, games rooms, restaurants and the whole entertaining routine of s.h.i.+pboard life. Trains had nothing.

Staring at the wall, counting off the minutes before they left Newcastle, he gradually became aware that he was being watched. It wasn't anything supernatural that led to that conclusion, no p.r.i.c.kling of the neck or s.h.i.+vers down the spine. It was something simpler, more prosaic: a pink and red patch at the edge of his vision that refused to move. A face. Two blue eyes aimed unblinkingly at Sherlock.

Without giving away the fact that he had noticed the watcher by moving his head suddenly, he tried to pick up whatever details he could, but the person's body was partially hidden behind a pile of crates on a trolley.

When he'd squeezed about as much information out of the scene as he could without making it obvious that he had spotted the watcher, he decided to look properly. With no warning he quickly glanced to his right. Straight into the eyes of a man he thought he recognized.

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat.

He was the image of Mr Kyte, a man who had been introduced to Sherlock as the actoramanager of a theatre company in Whitechapel but had turned out to be an agent of the Paradol Chamber, and part of a plot to a.s.sa.s.sinate a Russian prince who was a friend of Mycroft's. He was a big, bear-like man with a chest the size and shape of a barrel, a mane of red hair that flowed down over his collar and a bushy red beard that hid his throat and fell halfway down his chest like a waterfall of rust. The last time Sherlock had seen Mr Kyte, the man had been engaged in a desperate struggle with Rufus Stone in a carriage in a Moscow street. He had escaped, leaving Rufus bleeding, furious and swearing vengeance.

The skin around Mr Kyte's eyes and on his cheeks, Sherlock remembered, had been covered with hundreds of small scratches. They had looked strangely like shaving cuts, but in areas where hair did not normally grow. Despite the smeary window between them, Sherlock was close enough that he could see those cuts now. There was no doubt a it was Mr Kyte.