Young Sherlock Holmes: Fire Storm (16 page)

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 – the chance that they might have also been there at the same time as Amyus and Virginia Crowe was slim – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 embarrassment 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 – 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 – 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 associated with the south of England to a more rugged, overgrown look. Even the cows began to look different – shaggy 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 Balthassar.

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. Ships had libraries, games rooms, restaurants and the whole entertaining routine of shipboard 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 prickling of the neck or shivers 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 actor–manager of a theatre company in Whitechapel but had turned out to be an agent of the Paradol Chamber, and part of a plot to assassinate 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 – it
was
Mr Kyte.

Kyte stared Sherlock in the eye for a long moment. He didn’t smile, or nod, or acknowledge in any way that he had been seen. After a few seconds he slowly drew back, into the shadow cast by a structure in the centre of the platform – a storage area of some kind. Sherlock’s heart was racing, and the air seemed to catch on an obstruction in his chest every time he tried to take a breath.

He had to tell Rufus Stone! He had to tell Mycroft! He didn’t know whether Mr Kyte’s presence indicated that the Paradol Chamber were involved in Amyus Crowe’s disappearance, whether they were following Sherlock because they blamed him for upsetting their plans or whether the whole thing was a complete coincidence, but the fact was that Mr Kyte was
there
, watching him, watching
them
, and that meant that things had changed. The situation was not the same as it had been just ten minutes earlier.

A blast from a steam whistle jerked Sherlock’s thoughts back on track. The train was about to go. He started to get up out of his seat, aware that neither Rufus Stone nor Matty had returned, but just then the door to the compartment slid back and Matty entered. He was holding a pork pie in one hand.