Young Sherlock Holmes: Fire Storm (15 page)

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.

Finishing 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 flashing 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 – 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 nobody could tell unless they were within a few inches of you. The book also talked about changing posture – the way you stood – 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 – 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 nobody 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 – 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 – 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 glass 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 assumed 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 – just in case it was a trap or a trick of some kind – 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 – 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 impassive. ‘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 hell 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 – 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 passing 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 pass 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 shell.’

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 – something that hasn’t happened for a while now – 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 prone 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 – apart from the River Tyne, of course – and although the people you meet will speak English – of a sort – 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 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 passed 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 – Sherlock, Matty and Rufus Stone – 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 muffled 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 large space filled with people waiting on the concourse and pigeons roosting in the cast-iron girders that held up the glass roof – 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.