by Andrew Lane
‘There’s always a chance,’ Sherlock said with as much bravado as he could muster.
‘Two ways to escape,’ Marky pointed out, ‘both of them covered. Unless you can magically walk through walls or disappear through the floor, you ain’t got a hope of escaping.’
‘I do if –’ Sherlock caught himself before he said Matty’s name – ‘if my friend escaped before Nicholson got to the window. He’ll have gone straight to the police. They’ll be here in a few minutes.’
Marky shook his head scornfully. ‘The local peelers don’t dare make a move against the boss. He knows too much about them.’
‘But how’s he going to prove it?’ Sherlock asked. ‘All his blackmail material has just been destroyed.’
Marky frowned, thinking.
‘Once the police know that all the letters and documents Harkness was holding over their heads have vanished into the tanning vats, they’ll know he can’t blackmail them any more. What will they do then?’ Noticing Marky’s perturbed expression, he pressed on more urgently. ‘Firstly they’ll want to come out here and make sure it’s true, and secondly they’ll pay Harkness back for everything he’s done to them. Once he’s lost his power, he’s just like any farmer or brewer in Farnham – with the exception that they hate him. He’ll be lucky if he makes it to the cells in one piece.’
Sherlock could tell from the way Marky’s shoulders slumped that his points had hit home.
‘How’s he going to pay you?’ he asked. ‘All the material he’s been using to blackmail people has gone, one of his tanning vats is contaminated and another one is leaking. One of his businesses is finished and the other one is in trouble. If I were you, I’d be looking for other employment.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Unless he’s got something on you as well, but if that’s the case then the proof’s in the vat along with everything else. All Josh Harkness has is word of mouth, but that’s not going to get him very far. Nobody’s going to believe a story with no proof.’
‘You’re a smart kid,’ Marky acknowledged. He nodded thoughtfully. ‘You’re right – Harkness is finished. If the police don’t get him, then some of the landowners around here who he’s been blackmailing will soon take the law into their own hands. He’ll end up as compost on someone’s fields before long.’ He relaxed, letting the pole drop. ‘If anything happens – if I get caught – you’ll put in a good word for me. Tell the peelers I let you go.’ He nodded once, decisively. ‘Time for a career change,’ he said, and then he turned and vanished through the doorway.
Sherlock couldn’t believe what had happened. He’d been expecting to have to fight his way out. He’d been talking in order to distract Marky, to give himself time to catch his breath and work out a plan of attack, but he seemed to have actually talked himself out of trouble.
He gazed at the window. It was tempting, but the other man – Nicholson – was probably underneath by now, and after what had happened earlier Sherlock didn’t think that the man would be amenable to argument.
Reluctantly he headed for the door back into the tannery.
He looked around, alert for Josh Harkness’s presence, but he couldn’t see the blackmailer. The only sign that he’d been there was the pile of damp, stained paper and cardboard boxes that slumped beside the nearest vat in a puddle of brown liquid. The smell was worse than it had been earlier – probably because Harkness had been stirring the stuff in the vats around while he was trying to rescue his blackmail material. One look at the papers and Sherlock knew they were useless for anything. What little printed material was still visible through the stains was smearing into incoherence.
He headed around the wooden walkway towards where the main door had to be, hoping that Harkness had already left.
He was wrong.
The blackmailer stepped out from behind one of the vats. His hair was sticking up wildly, and his eyes were so wide they were nearly popping out of his head. He held a knife in each hand. The light reflected off the wickedly sharp curve of the blades.
‘Flensing knives,’ he said casually, although his expression was anything but casual. ‘Used for cutting the skin off cow carcasses. Very sharp. Very sharp indeed. As you are about to find out.’
‘There’s no benefit in killing me,’ Sherlock pointed out calmly, despite the sudden rapid thudding of his heart.
‘No benefit at all,’ Harkness agreed, ‘apart from the fact that it’ll let me sleep a little better tonight. You’ve ruined me. You’ve stolen the food from my mouth and taken the roof from over my head.’
‘I’ve saved a whole lot of people from ruin and despair,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘It seems like a fair bargain to me.’
‘Nobody asked you.’ Harkness shifted position. ‘Half an hour ago I was a man contented with his lot. Now I’m destitute. I’ll have to start all over again.’
‘If the people around here let you.’ Sherlock walked casually down the few steps that led to the central part of the room. He was too exposed on the walkway. ‘When they find out your power over them has gone, some of them will come looking for you. Best thing you can do is run.’
‘You’re right,’ Harkness nodded. ‘But I’m going to take as much of your skin with me as I can cut off, and when I find a place to settle I’m going to have it tanned and made into a waistcoat so that people will be able to look at me and know what happens if you cross Josh Harkness.’
Before Sherlock could say anything in response Harkness drew his right hand back over his shoulder and jerked it suddenly forward, throwing one of the flensing knives at Sherlock’s head. The knife seemed to spin lazily in the air. Sherlock ducked, and the blade embedded itself in the wood of the nearest vat.
Harkness hefted the remaining knife, tossing it from left hand to right. ‘You can’t run forever, son. But by all means try. It’ll make things sweeter for me.’
Sherlock turned and tried to prise the knife out of the vat, but it was stuck fast. A sudden intuition made him jerk his head to one side, just as the second knife whistled past his face. This one hit the vat handle-first, bounced and clattered to the floor. Sherlock bent to pick it up, but Harkness was rushing towards him, arms outstretched, and Sherlock converted the duck to a spring and a forward roll to take him out of Harkness’s way.
The blackmailer scooped one knife off the floor and pulled the other one from the vat with extraordinary strength. He turned to face Sherlock. ‘The longer you fight,’ he snarled, ‘the better that waistcoat will look on me.’
‘Dream on,’ Sherlock said. ‘The only new clothes you’re going to get are a prison uniform.’ He reached to one side, to the ladder that Harkness had used to get up to the rim of the vat. Grabbing it by the rungs at the top end, he swung it around until the other end pointed at Harkness. The man’s eyes widened even further. He pulled his right hand back again, preparing to throw a knife, but Sherlock rushed at him, hitting him in the chest with the bottom rung, pushing him backwards. Caught by surprise, Harkness staggered backwards, arms flailing. Before he could catch his footing and push back, his right heel caught in the slushy papers and cardboard that he had pulled from the vat. His foot skidded, and he fell. His head hit the wooden floor with a solid crack. His eyes rolled up in his head.
Before Harkness could recover, Sherlock threw the ladder to one side and dropped on to the man’s chest, his knees pinning the man’s arms to the floor. He scooped the knives from Harkness’s nerveless hands and held them up, poised, with the blades pointing at Harkness’s face. Harkness was horrified. Before he could struggle free, Sherlock brought the knives flashing down, one on either side of the man’s neck. The knives embedded themselves into the wood, pinning the material of his jacket to the floor.
Sherlock climbed to his feet and stared down at the man. ‘This is where the police will find you,’ he said. ‘Remember that sometimes the rabbits fight back.’
He turned and ran towards the door.
CHAPTER FIVE
After leaving the police station, where he
had given the police an edited version of what had happened, Sherlock stood breathing the fresh air. It was like diving into a sparkling river when you were covered in mud. He could feel the horrible smells of the tannery being flushed from his lungs. He knew the air outside wasn’t particularly fresh, but compared to the stench inside the tannery it was as pure as could be.
He had a feeling that his clothes had become impregnated with the smell, and he decided that he needed to change as soon as possible.
He found Matty standing beneath the window of the tannery. His friend breathed a visible sigh of relief when he saw Sherlock.
‘Wasn’t sure what had happened to you,’ he said. ‘I thought Harkness might have got you.’ He frowned. ‘What happened to Harkness? You didn’t . . . kill him, did you?’
Sherlock shook his head wearily. ‘We had a little talk,’ he said. ‘I left him there and told the police where to find him.’
Matty shrugged. ‘It won’t make any difference. When the big fish in the pond gets caught,’ he said, ‘the next biggest one takes over. That’s the way things go.’
‘I know,’ Sherlock said, ‘but I can’t do anything about that. Not right now. At least we’ve got Harkness out of the way, and destroyed his blackmail material. That’ll make a lot of people happy.’ He frowned, looking at the way Matty was casually standing in the middle of the alley. ‘What happened to that man who got sent out – Nicholson?’
‘The bloke with the beer belly? He came out and just stood here. Didn’t look happy. Looked like he’d tear someone’s head off as soon as talk to them, in fact.’
‘Where were you?’
Matty indicated a pile of crates on the other side of the alley. ‘When I heard him coming I hid there. He wasn’t exactly keeping quiet. There was curse words he used that I’d never heard before.’
‘So what happened?’
‘He stood there for a few minutes, then his friend came out.’
‘Marky,’ Sherlock confirmed.
‘Yeah, him. He grabbed the other bloke by the arm and said something to him. Next thing I knew they were both heading off down the alley.’
Sherlock nodded. ‘I managed to persuade Marky that, with Harkness’s blackmail material gone, the town was going to become a very unfriendly place for them to be. I think they’ve decided to try their fortunes elsewhere.’
‘Where to now?’
‘Let’s go home,’ Sherlock said.
‘I ain’t got a home, apart from the narrowboat.’
‘I meant Holmes Manor.’
Matty shook his head forcefully. ‘I don’t like that housekeeper,’ he said, ‘and she don’t like me. If you don’t mind, I’d rather stay here.’
‘I think,’ Sherlock said, ‘that you’ll find Mrs Eglantine’s influence over the Holmes household will diminish rapidly within the next hour or so. I’m sure you’ll find yourself welcome at the manor from now on.’ He glanced critically at his friend. ‘Well, if you dust yourself off and comb your hair, you will.’
With Matty perched behind him on Philadelphia’s back, Sherlock cantered along the familiar roads towards Holmes Manor.
‘Do you think I could get something to eat when we get there?’ Matty called over Sherlock’s shoulder.
‘I think that can be arranged,’ Sherlock called back.
It took about half an hour to get to the manor house, and when they turned in through the main gate and headed up along the drive to the house Sherlock could feel Matty tensing behind him. Bypassing the front door, he trotted around to the stables and left the horse in the care of one of the grooms.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’m eager to see this matter closed.’
He entered through the main door, Matty behind him. The shadowy hallway seemed empty, but he knew that appearances were deceptive.
‘Mrs Eglantine!’ he called.
A part of the shadows detached itself and stepped forward. The temperature in the hall seemed to drop by ten degrees. ‘Young Master Holmes,’ said a voice in a tone so cold that icicles could have formed. ‘As you seem so determined to use this house as a hotel, coming and going when you please, perhaps you ought to be paying for the privilege of staying here.’
‘I would expect the quality of the housekeeping staff in a hotel to be considerably better than here,’ he rejoined.
The expression on Mrs Eglantine’s face didn’t change, but Sherlock felt the atmosphere in the hallway become even colder.
‘Make your quips, child,’ she hissed. ‘Enjoy them while you can. Your time in this house is limited.’
‘If you are expecting your friend Josh Harkness to do something about me, you are going to be disappointed. Mr Harkness is in custody, and won’t be getting out in a hurry.’
‘You are lying,’ she said through clenched teeth, but Sherlock could tell that she was suddenly on the defensive.
‘I never lie,’ he said simply. ‘I leave that to people like you.’ He paused for a moment, working out his next move. ‘Please tell my aunt and uncle that I wish to talk to them in the dining room.’
‘Tell them yourself,’ she said. Her voice could have cut glass.
‘You are the servant here, not me. Pass on my request. Do it now. Please be so good as to ask Cook for a plate of sandwiches and a jug of lemonade as well. My friend and I are hungry and thirsty.’
The housekeeper stared at him with an expression on her face that indicated that she was re-evaluating him, and didn’t like what she was discovering. She turned and disappeared into the shadows.
‘Come on,’ he said to Matty. ‘Let’s get ready.’
He led the way across the hall to the dining room. It struck him that he could have chosen to have the confrontation in the reception room, where guests were entertained, but he wanted to do this somewhere more formal, less comfortable.
The table in the centre of the dining room was bare apart from two candlesticks and a bowl of fruit. Matty helped himself to a pear while Sherlock sat in a chair on the far side, with the light of the windows behind him. Matty followed him around the table and stood behind him eating the pear.
Sherlock tried to quiet his breathing. He knew what he wanted to achieve over the next few minutes, but he knew that he was dealing with people, not chess pieces, and people sometimes did what you least expected them to do. What if Mrs Eglantine had more influence over his uncle and aunt than just her possession of some incriminating material? Perhaps they would defend Mrs Eglantine, despite what had already gone on in the house. Perhaps the three of them would join forces against him.
The door opened and Sherrinford Holmes entered, with Aunt Anna close behind him.
‘It is unusual for a man who is master in his own house to be summoned by his ward,’ he said mildly.
‘I apologize if Mrs Eglantine gave the impression that I was summoning you,’ Sherlock replied quietly. ‘I merely wanted to talk to you both about something serious.’
‘Is this related to what happened in the library earlier today?’ Sherrinford Holmes asked. ‘If so, I distinctly remember saying that we would speak no more about it.’
‘This concerns a man named Josh Harkness,’ Sherlock said, ‘and his influence on this family.’ He felt that he should ask his aunt and uncle to sit down, but that would have been rude. It was their house and their dining room: he didn’t want to be seen as being arrogant.
Before Sherrinford could reply, Mrs Eglantine entered the dining room. Two maids followed her; one carried a plate of sandwiches while the other held a tray with a jug and four glasses. They put them on the table.
‘Please,’ Sherlock said to Mrs Eglantine as the maids left, ‘stay for a few moments. This concerns you as much as it concerns my aunt and uncle.’
She opened her mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again. She seemed edgy, uncertain. Even scared.
‘You haven’t introduced me to your friend,’ Sherrinford said. He pulled out a seat at the dining table for his wife. She sat, and he followed
.
‘This is Matthew Arnatt,’ Sherlock said. ‘He lives in Farnham.’
‘A gypsy,’ Mrs Eglantine said. ‘Of no worth.’
‘I told you before,’ Matty said from behind Sherlock, ‘I ain’t no ’Gyptian.’
Sherrinford Holmes tapped the table briefly. ‘Even if you were,’ he said, ‘not only are the Egyptians a noble and ancient race who are often mentioned in the Bible, but you are also named for one of Jesus Christ’s disciples and the author of one of the four Gospels. You are welcome in my house, Matthew.’
‘Cheers,’ Matty said.
‘Are you hungry?’ Sherlock’s aunt asked. ‘Perhaps you would like a sandwich and a glass of lemonade.’
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ the boy said, and reached over Sherlock’s shoulder to grab a couple of sandwiches.
‘So,’ Sherrinford Holmes said, ‘what is so important that you have convened a family conference, and what does this have to do with the man you mentioned – a man whose name I cannot bring my lips to form.’
Sherlock took a deep breath. ‘Josh Harkness is a blackmailer,’ he said. ‘He collects facts about people – facts that they would rather did not become public – and he threatens to expose them if they don’t pay him money on a regular basis.’
‘Are you implying,’ Sherrinford said, a quiet note of warning in his voice, ‘that this criminal has somehow discovered a secret about this family? I am a respected biblical scholar, and my wife is a pillar of the local community. What secrets could we possibly have that would attract the attention of a villain of this calibre?’
Sherlock shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter what he may or may not have discovered. The important thing is that all of his files – his entire collection of documents and letters – have been destroyed.’
Mrs Eglantine gasped, and brought a hand up to her mouth.
‘Are you sure?’ Sherrinford Holmes asked, leaning forward. ‘ “But the tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison.” James, chapter three, verse eight.’
