by Andrew Lane
Crowe turned to Sherlock. ‘Extortion,’ he said simply. ‘Innocent struggling shopkeepers paying money to stop this man from sending his thugs in to destroy their stock, beat them up and set fire to their premises. It’s an ugly way to make a living.’
Macfarlane shrugged. ‘It’s nature, red in tooth and claw,’ he said. ‘Every animal has something that it’s scared of, something that can kill and eat it. It’s no different here in Edinburgh. The locals avoid paying their taxes to the Government whenever they get a chance. The shopkeepers sell beer and bread to the locals, but they water down the beer and adulterate their bread with sawdust to save some flour. I come along and take my own cut from the shopkeepers. It’s the chain of life, my friend.’ He smiled. ‘They call us the Black Reavers,’ he said proudly. ‘And we’re known and feared from here to Glasgow!’
The name was familiar to Sherlock from the Edinburgh newspaper reports. The Black Reavers were the criminal gang that was feared so much. ‘So who are you scared of?’ he asked boldly. ‘Who takes their cut from you?’
Macfarlane moved his shaggy bearded head to look at Sherlock. ‘I’m at the top of the food chain in these parts, laddie,’ he said grimly. ‘There isn’t anyone I’m scared of.’ He glanced back at Crowe. ‘And give me my due – I don’t get involved in prostitution, or blackmail, or kidnapping, or anything like that. Nothing that affects bairns, by the by. I leave that to the lower classes of criminal. I have my standards.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe a little pickpocketing or breaking and entering every now and then. Or some of the men who work down at the docks get a little careless with the occasional crate, it smashes on the dock and some stuff gets scooped up and taken away. I don’t organize the crimes, or carry them out, but I do take a cut from the pickpockets and thieves for the privilege of being able to operate on my territory.’
‘A criminal with morals,’ Crowe mocked. ‘How touchin’.’
‘A criminal with a practical attitude,’ Macfarlane rejoined. ‘The police get more exercised over kidnapping, blackmail and murder than they do over theft and extortion. I try not to attract their attention.’
‘So there is someone higher up the food chain than you,’ Sherlock pointed out.
Macfarlane scowled. ‘Even the bear avoids disturbing the wasp’s nest,’ he snapped.
Interesting, Sherlock thought. The man was touchy on that point.
He looked around at Macfarlane’s court of bullies, thugs, pickpockets and thieves. And of course the skull-faced ‘corpses’ scattered among them. ‘But what’s the point of pretending you have dead people under your command?’ he continued. ‘I mean, it’s very well done, very convincing, but I don’t understand what it’s for.’
‘I rule through fear, laddie,’ Macfarlane replied simply. ‘People pay me extortion money because they fear what will happen to them if they don’t. I’ve found that they fear me more if they think I have powers they don’t understand. Sometimes they try to stand up to my men – try to get them to back down, or try to pay them off – but how can they threaten or bribe a corpse? If they think I can control the dead they will live in mortal fear of me, and they’ll keep paying.’ He laughed. ‘There’s some that don’t call us the Black Reavers any more – they call us the Black Revivers, on account of the fact that we revive the dead!’
‘But they’re just people dressed and made up to look like corpses,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘Don’t people realize?’
‘People believe what they want to believe. Edinburgh is a dark place. People here want to believe that the dead can walk. What with Burke and Hare, the buried parts of the city and all the ghost stories associated with the castle, my work was half done for me already.’
‘Fascinatin’ though this is,’ Crowe said, ‘ah don’t quite see what we have to do with your fine little business setup. We’re not thieves, we’re not pickpockets an’ we’re not shopkeepers. What exactly are we doin’ here?’
‘Ah,’ Macfarlane said. ‘That’s an interesting question. Word reached my ears that someone new to the area was looking for a party of people. They were looking for a big man with white hair and a funny way of speaking who was travelling with a girl with red hair who was dressed like a boy. In fact, the word that reached my ears suggested that the girl might even be disguised as a boy, but that she could be recognized by the unusual colour of her eyes.’ He gestured towards Crowe and Virginia. ‘And here you are – a big man with white hair and a funny way of speaking and a girl with eyes the colour of gorse in flower. Once I was told you’d been seen in the area of Cramond I decided to take a look at you myself. I wanted to see what was so valuable about you.’
‘Valuable?’ Crowe said. His face was grim. He seemed to know where the elliptical conversation was heading, and Sherlock had a good idea as well.
‘Oh, didn’t I mention? There was talk of a reward offered for the man and the girl I described. Alive, of course. Five hundred pounds was spoken. That’s a significant sum in these parts. There was no reward for them dead. In fact, there was a specific threat made of retribution if they were killed by accident.’ He smiled at Crowe. ‘I don’t know who you are or who you annoyed, but someone is very keen to get their hands on you. Not that it matters, but do you want to tell me why they want you so badly?’
Crowe locked gazes with Macfarlane. ‘Everythin’ is scared of somethin’,’ he rumbled.
Macfarlane nodded. ‘Bold words,’ he said. ‘But you’re here, and you don’t seem too frightening to me. I’ve sent a message to the man who was offering a reward for your capture. He’ll be here soon. Then we’ll see what we see.’
‘What about the boys?’ Crowe asked, jerking his head towards Sherlock and Matty. ‘You said you never hurt bairns. They got caught up in this by accident. Ah’d be obliged if you could see your way clear to lettin’ ’em go. There’s no reward for them, an’ you have mah word as a gentleman that ah’ll be less trouble to you if you let them go.’
Macfarlane considered for a moment. ‘It’s true that I’m not a man who countenances violence to bairns,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘I won’t go!’ Sherlock blurted out.
Crowe rounded on him. ‘You will if ah say so, son,’ he hissed. ‘You don’t know what Bryce Scobell is capable of.’
‘But—’
Crowe raised his hand. ‘No more discussion. Better two of us stay to confront Scobell than all four of us. Ah’d feel easier in mah heart if ah knew that you and young Matthew were safe.’ He turned to Macfarlane. ‘Well? Do we have a deal?’
Macfarlane stared at Crowe for a while. ‘On the one hand, you’re right – there’s no specific reward offered for the two laddies. On the other hand, they’re resourceful, and I think that, despite what you say, you might be more inclined to cooperate if I keep them here. So, no, there is no deal. I hold all the cards at the moment, and there’s no reason for me to give any of them up in a hurry.’
Something was still tugging in the depths of Sherlock’s mind about the name ‘Macfarlane’. He tried to give it space to come through, to make itself more obvious. Something he’d heard recently? No, something he’d seen.
‘That murder case!’ he said suddenly as the memory broke through to the surface of his thoughts. ‘The one where Sir Benedict Ventham was killed.’ He tried to bring the images of the newspapers into focus in his mind – the one he’d read on the train from Farnham to London, and the one he’d read in the park at the head of Prince’s Street. ‘The woman who was arrested – her name was Macfarlane, and the newspaper said she was connected to the Black Reavers.’
A hush seemed to settle over the room. Macfarlane’s face turned thunderous. ‘Mah wee sister,’ he growled. ‘To have that happen to her! She’s not even guilty! She wouldn’t hurt a fly!’
‘She’s related to a criminal gang leader,’ Crowe growled. ‘Ah presume the police just took one look at her family tree an’ threw her into jail.’
Macfarlane stood and walked forward, stepping off the dais and com
ing right up to Crowe. The two men stood face to face, nose to nose. They were both the same height, and had the same impressive build and the same mane of hair. The only differences between them were that Gahan Macfarlane’s hair was black instead of white.
‘She isn’t guilty of any crime,’ he said quietly, his words dropping into the expectant quiet of the room like stones into a still pool of water. ‘She always hated the line of business that I’d gone into. She’s a God-fearing lass, and nothing could ever change that.’
‘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.
