Young Sherlock Holmes: Fire Storm (30 page)

‘Things can happen,’ Crowe said, equally quietly. ‘Perhaps this Sir Benedict Ventham attacked her, and she had to protect herself.’

‘She wrote to me.’ Macfarlane wasn’t blinking. He was staring straight at Crowe, daring the big American to continue finding reasons why his sister might be guilty. ‘She swore to me on the Bible that she didn’t do
anything
that might have resulted in his death, and that she mourned his death like she mourned the death of our own dear father. I believe her.’

‘In that case,’ Sherlock said loudly, ‘
I
have a business proposition for
you
.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Macfarlane stared at Crowe for a long moment, as if he hadn’t heard Sherlock speak, then swivelled his head until he was looking directly at him. ‘Go on, laddie. Astound me.’

‘If we can clear your sister’s name, show that she’s innocent – you let us go. You don’t give us to Bryce Scobell.’

Sherlock could hear a murmur of disbelief run around the room.

Crowe had also turned to look at Sherlock. In contrast to Macfarlane’s calm, almost serene expression, he was frowning as if he was wondering what Sherlock was up to. Sherlock had to admit that he wasn’t sure himself.

‘Let me get this right,’ Macfarlane said slowly. ‘You want to . . . what?
Investigate
the murder? Look for things the police might have missed? And you seriously think you can collect enough evidence to convince the police that young Aggie is blameless in this crime?’

Sherlock shrugged. ‘What have you got to lose? If we fail to prove her innocent, then you give us to Bryce Scobell and collect your blood money. If we succeed, and she’s released, then you get your sister back. Either way, you win.’

Macfarlane smiled, as if amused at Sherlock’s confidence. ‘You’re a little young to be a copper, lad.’

Sherlock’s mind flashed back to the time, some months before, when his brother Mycroft had been accused of murder. The police hadn’t been interested in investigating the crime: they had a suspect right in front of them, and enough evidence to convict. It was Sherlock who’d had to find the real killer.

‘The police see what they want to see,’ he said bitterly. ‘They see what’s
easiest
for them. I don’t get distracted by the obvious. I can see things they can’t.’

Macfarlane stared at him without speaking. His expression was a strange mixture of dismissive scorn and faint hope. There was something in Sherlock’s voice that was working on him.

‘I believe you can, at that,’ he said eventually, ‘but I’m going to need more than that before I let you loose to investigate. This might just be a way of getting you somewhere you can make a run for it.’

‘Not when you’ve still got my friends captive,’ Sherlock pointed out. He glanced around, desperately looking for something – anything! – which he could use to persuade Macfarlane that he could do what he said.

‘You said some of your men work at the docks?’ he asked.

Macfarlane nodded.

‘What if I could tell you which of your men work on the docks and which don’t. Would that convince you?’

‘Just by looking at them? Not asking them any questions?’ Macfarlane shook his head. ‘I can’t see how you’d be able to tell.’

‘Line up twenty of your men,’ Sherlock said. ‘Don’t even tell me how many of them work at the docks. I’ll work it out.’

‘Let’s make it more difficult,’ Macfarlane said. ‘You can’t look at their hands either, just in case you were hoping for rope burns or the like.’

Sherlock shrugged. ‘If that makes you happier.’

Macfarlane moved away from Amyus Crowe as if he had forgotten that the big American was even there. He pointed at various people in the crowd. ‘You, you and you – over there, against the wall. Dougie, you too. And you, Fergus . . . Hands behind your backs, all of you.’

While Macfarlane was selecting his twenty men, Rufus Stone gestured to Sherlock. ‘Are you sure about this, Sherlock? Can you do it?’

‘I think so,’ Sherlock replied. ‘I’m not sure there’s an alternative. We need to find some leverage to get him to release us. If you’ve got a better idea . . . ?’

Rufus shrugged. ‘Not off the top of my head.’

‘All right,’ Macfarlane announced. ‘Let’s see your party trick.’

Twenty men were arranged along the wall, all with their hands behind their backs. They ranged from one of Sherlock’s age to a handful in their sixties. They all had dirt ingrained in their necks and in the backs of their ears, and crude blue tattoos on their forearms. Some had long hair down to their shoulders, some had ponytails and some just had stubble covering their scalps.

Sherlock went up to one end of the line. Instead of walking along and looking at their faces and their clothes, which he suspected Macfarlane was expecting him to do, he crouched down and examined the first man’s shoes as closely as he could. He could hears titters of laughter from the crowd of thugs and thieves, but he ignored them. On hands and knees he scuttled along the line, checking shoes and boots and the turn-ups of trousers.

When he got to the end of the line, he straightened up. The men in the line were all craning their necks, looking at him with fascination and, in some cases, suspicion, while the rest of the crowd were talking among themselves and pointing at Sherlock.

‘Right,’ he said. He walked back along the line, pointing to five of the twenty men. ‘You, you, you, you and . . . yes, you. Step forward.’ He glanced across at Macfarlane, who was watching him with fascination. ‘These five all work on the docks on a regular basis. The other fifteen don’t.’

‘You’re right. You’re absolutely right.’ He gestured to the men to return to the crowd. ‘How did you know?’

‘They work near salt water,’ Sherlock said, ‘and that’s what gives them away. They must get splashed with the water from the docks on a regular basis. I’ve noticed it before. Seawater does two things. When it soaks into shoe leather and dries out it leaves white marks behind, where the salt has been deposited in the leather itself. Also, when drops of water collect in the turn-ups of trousers and then evaporate, they leave crystals of salt behind. These five men either have white marks in their shoe leather or salt crystals in their turn-ups, or both.’

‘I’m suitably impressed,’ Macfarlane admitted. ‘You seem to have your wits about you, which is more than I can say for the coppers investigating the murder of which my sister is accused. All right then – I’ll take you up on your offer. Have to tell you, though, that you haven’t got long. It’s –’ he checked his watch – ‘nine o’clock now, give or take. A meeting’s been arranged with the men who want your American friends here for two o’clock this afternoon. You’ve got five hours, no more and no less.’

Sherlock glanced at Amyus Crowe, then at Virginia’s white face, then at Matty. Matty gave him a smile and a thumbs-up.

‘If that’s all I’ve got, then that’s how long it will take,’ he said grimly, hoping he could live up to the boast.

Macfarlane gestured to one of his men. ‘Dunlow, you know the lie of the land. Get a carriage out front right away. You and Brough go with the kid. Take him to the big house first. If he tries to make a run for it, go and find him. Whatever happens, get him back here for two o’clock. Understand?’

The men nodded.

‘The butler at Sir Benedict Ventham’s house is a . . . client of mine,’ Macfarlane told Sherlock. ‘Tell him you’re working for me and he’ll let you in to look around, although I can’t think what you’ll find now.’

‘Neither can I,’ Sherlock murmured. He went to leave with Macfarlane’s man, Brough, but turned back to smile at Virginia. ‘I’ll come back for you,’ he said.

‘I know you will,’ she replied.

Brough was a thin man in his thirties with a scattering of freckles across a bald head. His lips were twisted in a sneer, as if he could smell something unpleasant. He accompanied Sherlock back through the rooms he’d been carried through before. Whatever was in the pit was snuffling around behind the fence on the far side as they passed, but in the next room the two men were still fighting, trading blows slowly while standing close together, not moving anything apart from their arms. They looked exhausted, and their faces were swollen and covered with blood. The dog fight had ended, and the crowd who had been gathered around it were dispersing. Money was still changing hands.

They headed towards the door to the outside, emerging into a weak, watery sunlight that was filtering through rain-heavy clouds. Sherlock turned around to look at the building they had left. Based on the flagstones, the tapestries, the animal heads and the flaming torches, he was expecting an old manor house at the very least, perhaps even a castle, but he was amazed to see that it was just a large and anonymous wooden warehouse set among other warehouses. The area looked deserted. It was probably located somewhere near the docks where those men worked. From the outside the building looked like somewhere that sacks of grain would be stored, not the central base for a criminal gang. More disguise, he supposed. Anything could be made to look like anything else, if you took enough trouble over it.

Dunlow was already waiting outside. He was older than Brough, shorter and wider, but he gave the impression that his bulk was largely muscle rather than fat. The two men led Sherlock to a black carriage.

Half an hour later they drew up outside a building made of grey stone and with a long roof of black slate tiles. The windows were barred. A carving in the stone above the door read
Edinburgh and Lothian Police
.

‘This is where the boss’s sister is being kept,’ Dunlow said. His voice sounded like stones grinding together. He looked uncomfortable at being so close to a police station. ‘Let me go in and see if they’ll let you talk to her.’

‘Is that likely?’ Sherlock asked. ‘I mean, I’m not a relative or anything, and even if you claim I
am
, they’ll know as soon as I open my mouth that I’m not Scottish.’

‘There’s a fine trade goes on in these parts in letting citizens with spare change observe criminals in their cells,’ Dunham replied darkly. ‘The middle classes like to see the poor in police custody – it lets them sleep more securely in their beds. I’ll slip the sergeant a shilling and tell him that you’re the son of a visiting English lord. He’ll be happy to let you have ten minutes alone with her, no questions asked.’ He saw Sherlock’s shocked expression and snorted. ‘What, you think the police are any better than the criminals? The only difference is that they have uniforms and we don’t.’

He walked off into the police station and came out five minutes later.

‘There’s a constable on the desk who’ll take you to the cells,’ he said. ‘Be out in quarter of an hour, otherwise they’ll want another shilling.’

Dubiously, Sherlock entered the police station. It smelled musty, unpleasant. A uniformed constable was indeed waiting just inside the door. He had mutton chop whiskers and a bushy moustache. ‘This way,’ he said gruffly, without making eye contact. ‘Fifteen minutes to look at her and talk to her. No funny business, you hear?’

‘No funny business,’ Sherlock agreed, without knowing quite what he was agreeing to.

The cells were down a set of stone steps that had been worn into curves by generations of feet. They reminded Sherlock uncomfortably of the time he had visited Mycroft in a police station in London. He hoped that this visit would have as successful an outcome as that one.

The constable stopped in front of a door and unlocked it with a large key from a hoop on his belt. He pushed the door open and gestured Sherlock in. ‘Fifteen minutes,’ he warned. ‘She spends most of her time crying, so I don’t think she’ll do anything stupid, like attack you, but you can’t tell with this sort. If she makes a move towards you, bang on the door. I’ll be just out here, waiting.’

Sherlock entered. The door closed behind him, and he heard the key turn in the lock. He was alone with a potential murderer.

The potential murderer was lying on a metal bed that seemed to be attached to the wall by hinges and chains. She looked up at him. She was about thirty-five years old, with hair like straw and blue eyes. There was something about the shape of her face that reminded Sherlock of her brother, although she was smaller and more delicate. Her face was dirty, and streaked with tears, and her clothes were crumpled, as if she had slept in them – which she probably had.

‘I don’t need a priest,’ she said. Her voice was weak, but firm. ‘I am not yet ready to make my peace with God.’

‘I’m not a priest,’ Sherlock said. ‘Your brother sent me.’

‘Gahan?’ She pushed herself upright. There was panic in her eyes. ‘He mustn’t get involved. He
mustn’t
.’ She glanced towards the door, as if the constable might be listening outside. ‘If the police think he has anything to do with this, they will chase him to the ends of the Earth and never rest until they catch him!’

‘Don’t worry,’ he reassured her. ‘He’s not involved. I asked him if I could come to see you. I want to find out what happened.’

‘What happened?’ She looked away, eyes filling up with tears. ‘Sir Benedict is dead, and the police think I did it, sir. That’s what happened.’

‘And did you?’

She looked back at him, shocked. ‘I couldn’t kill Sir Benedict! I’d worked for him for twenty years. Sir, he was like a father to me!’