Young Sherlock Holmes 6: Knife Edge

by Andrew Lane

  ‘An’ do you know who?’ Crowe asked.

  ‘I originally suspected that the attacker had gained access to the library from a secret passage,’ Sherlock said, ignoring the question. ‘However, I now suspect there was a much more prosaic explanation. I believe that the attacker was hiding behind the curtains in the library.’ He glanced around at the group. ‘You are all intelligent men, and the attack was clumsy – badly thought out and badly managed.’ He turned suddenly, and pointed at Count Shuvalov. ‘Count – why did you dismiss your manservant earlier?’

  Shuvalov stared at Sherlock for a long moment. ‘He was incompetent. He did not meet my standards. I sent him back home, in disgrace.’

  ‘You mean he attacked my brother without being ordered to, therefore risking an international incident? He acted independently of you, thinking he was helping you, and so he had to go.’

  Shuvalov shrugged. ‘You may believe what you wish,’ he said, ‘but believe this – I would never order an attack so clumsy, especially against a man for whom I have much friendship. There are other, better ways to ensure that the Russian Empire succeeds in this auction for the psychic’s services –’ he gazed at Quintillan – ‘if the psychic’s powers are real. I think our friend here has convincingly demonstrated that they are not, and I thank him for it.’

  Quintillan stared at Crowe and Sherlock, and then scanned his gaze across the other delegates.

  ‘I realize how this looks,’ he said slowly. ‘I understand that you think you have been duped – that you believe Mr Albano and I are conspiring to get you to pay us money for something that does not exist. But it does exist. I assure you, Mr Albano’s powers are real.’

  ‘Then why the tricks?’ Sherlock asked.

  Quintillan raised a hand to his forehead. ‘It is . . . embarrassing to explain.’ He gestured to Ambrose Albano. ‘Would you mind?’

  Albano stepped forward. ‘I confess,’ he said, ‘that there have been tricks, but they were intended not to fool you, but to protect me. My powers are –’ he shrugged – ‘fragile. They come and they go. When Sir Shadrach arranged this demonstration I was physically in good health. I was able to demonstrate my powers at will, whenever I was called upon to do so.’ He sighed. ‘But in the intervening time I have suffered a fever. I was confined to bed for several weeks. The doctors feared for my health. I was on the verge of death. I recovered, thanks to the care of my good friend Sir Shadrach, but while my strength has returned, my ability to summon spirits and to cross to the Other Side has not. Not perfectly, anyway. I can sometimes receive messages from the other side, but not reliably. I begged Sir Shadrach to call off the demonstration and the auction, but he said that it had taken so long to arrange that we could not cancel now. He also pointed out that if I were to fail at some or all of the demonstration, then you would go back and tell your respective governments that I had no powers, that I was a fraud and a fake, and not a very good one either. So, yes, we cheated. We concocted a series of magical illusions that gave the impression of a successful séance. I am truly sorry for that.’ He held his hands out, seeking forgiveness. ‘We let panic persuade us into a foolish course of action.’

  ‘So your case,’ von Webenau said, ‘is that you do have psychic powers, but that you cannot actively control them. You do not know when and if they will work.’

  ‘That is exactly the case,’ Albano said. ‘What I can add is that my powers have been gradually coming back to me, and that I fully expect, within a month, to be back at my full psychic strength.’

  ‘And we should take your word for that?’ Crowe said heavily.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Quintillan answered quickly. ‘We understand that this explanation, whilst every word is true, may not be very convincing, and so I would suggest two things. Firstly, given that Mr Albano’s powers are returning by degrees, we arrange a final demonstration that cannot be faked. Everything can be inspected beforehand for evidence of trickery, and that inspection will leave you convinced that the only answer is that psychic powers are involved. Secondly, you will be convinced by the fact that the auction is conducted on the basis that we are proposing Mr Albano as a partial psychic, not a complete psychic, and that the money bid by you on behalf of your governments reflects this.’ He looked from person to person. ‘Is this acceptable, gentlemen?’

  Crowe shook his large head. ‘It is not acceptable. We have a name for people like you in America. We call you “flim-flam men”. You are confidence tricksters, nothing more, and this is just a rather pathetic attempt to stop us from leaving.’

  ‘The British Government agrees with the American Government,’ Sherlock said, feeling a thrill run through him as he said the words. He liked the idea that he was speaking directly on behalf of the British Government, and he was sure that his brother would have said the same thing, albeit probably with a lot more words.

  ‘I understand,’ Quintillan said sadly. ‘And I thank you, gentlemen, for your honesty.’ He turned to face von Webenau, Holtzbrinck and Shuvalov. ‘And what about you, gentlemen? What is your answer?’

  Von Webenau and Holtzbrinck looked at Count Shuvalov, as if he was the leader of their little group. He nodded once, gravely. Von Webenau turned back to Quintillan. ‘We will see your final demonstration,’ he said.

  ‘But we are sceptical,’ Holtzbrinck added, ‘and we will be looking at you with critical eyes. You will need to provide a demonstration that is completely convincing to us. If you can do that then the auction can go ahead.’

  ‘With a reduced number of bidders,’ von Webenau said. He glanced at Sherlock and Amyus Crowe and shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, but if you are out then you are out. You cannot come back in if the demonstration is convincing.’

  ‘Suits me,’ Crowe rumbled.

  Sherlock nodded. ‘Agreed.’

  ‘With one proviso,’ Count Shuvalov said. He spoke quietly, but he spoke so rarely that everyone listened. ‘This young man has a good mind, and has exposed trickery that might have fooled some of the more credulous amongst us.’ He smiled. ‘And I count myself amongst that number. I insist that he be allowed to watch the final demonstration, and to look for any evidence of trickery. I also insist that Mr Crowe be present as well, on the basis that the more eyes watching this demonstration, the better. They do not take part in the auction, if there is an auction, but they watch everything.’

  Quintillan looked at Albano, who nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ Quintillan said, ‘your conditions are acceptable.’

  ‘And I,’ Sherlock said boldly, ‘insist that the demonstration is held tomorrow, in daylight, not at night. Daylight is a great exposer of hoaxes and trickery.’

  ‘Again,’ Quintillan said, ‘your condition is acceptable.’ It seemed to Sherlock, however, that he didn’t seem particularly happy about it.

  ‘Now I need to rest,’ Albano said, ‘in order to conserve my energy for the demonstration. I propose that it occurs after lunch.’

  ‘We will reconvene tomorrow, after lunch,’ Quintillan said. ‘Until then, gentlemen, you must amuse yourselves.’

  He gestured to Silman, who had been standing behind him all the while, so stationary that everyone had forgotten she was there, and she wheeled him out. Ambrose Albano followed.

  ‘Very clever,’ Crowe said, approaching Sherlock. ‘He’s managed to turn defeat into a qualified victory. Those fools –’ he gestured to where von Webenau, Holtzbrinck and Shuvalov were clustered together, talking in low voices – ‘want this thing to be true, and so they’re willin’ to let this pair of tricksters have another bite of the cherry.’

  ‘At least we won’t be wasting British or American money,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘And we get to watch, and to see exactly how the trick is done.’

  ‘Ah suspect that this trick will be the granddaddy of all tricks,’ Crowe warned. ‘We’ll need to watch carefully.’ He seemed to notice some expression in Sherlock’s face. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘I was just thinking,�
� Sherlock said, ‘that Sir Shadrach’s daughter isn’t going to be best pleased with me.’

  Crowe nodded. ‘That’s the problem with the truth, son. It don’t please a lot of people, because it upsets the neat little applecart of their world. Don’t mean that you should avoid the truth, though. You should never do that. You just need to be aware that you’ll have fewer friends because of it, but also that the ones who stay will be better friends.’ He turned towards Shuvalov, von Webenau and Holtzbrinck. ‘Ah suggest we get a good night’s sleep. Let’s think on what has happened tonight, an’ talk it over tomorrow mornin’. Are we in agreement?’

  The three other men nodded.

  ‘What about Mr Holmes?’ Count Shuvalov asked. ‘Will he be in agreement with this plan?’

  ‘Ah’ll go an’ brief him now.’ Crowe glanced across at Sherlock. ‘Ah’m sure he’ll be interested to know what his brother has accomplished this evenin’. Ah’m sure he’ll also be relieved to know who it was who clocked him from behind.’ He gazed levelly at Shuvalov. ‘It was your man, wasn’t it?’

  Shuvalov made an ambiguous gesture. ‘Let us say that it will certainly not be happening again. Mr Holmes is not in danger any more.’

  Crowe looked at Sherlock. ‘You comin’, Sherlock, or am Ah doin’ this alone?’

  Sherlock thought for a moment. He knew that his brother would want to go exhaustively over everything that had happened, but he wasn’t sure he had the energy for that. Not at that moment, anyway. ‘You brief him,’ he said. ‘You were an independent witness, anyway, so he’ll put more faith in what you say. I can answer any questions he has tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Crowe said, nodding. ‘In that case, goodnight, gentlemen, an’ sleep well.’

  ‘I, for one, feel the need of a stiff brandy,’ von Webenau said. ‘Will anybody join me?’

  Holtzbrinck and Shuvalov nodded their agreement. Crowe and Sherlock left the other three men there and shared the ascending room up to the floor where their rooms were located.

  ‘Ah meant it,’ Crowe said as they left the ascending room. ‘You did good work there, an’ you saved me from doin’ somethin’ Ah might’ve regretted later. Ah thank you for that.’

  Sherlock smiled, and said nothing.

  It seemed to Sherlock that he fell asleep somewhere between taking his shoes off and removing his shirt. He awoke the next morning still half dressed, and lying diagonally across his bed. The events of the night before seemed like a bizarre dream.

  When he got down to breakfast the other foreign representatives were already there. Mycroft was also there, dressed and with his head still swathed in a bandage. He was looking better: there was colour in his cheeks. He glanced over as Sherlock entered the room and nodded gravely, then went back to his discussions.

  Sherlock stacked up a plate with food from the sideboard, sat down, and stared at it. A foot-servant filled a cup with coffee, but he didn’t feel in the mood for anything. The events of the night before had left him elated and exhausted, and now he felt like a candle that had burned too brightly and too long, and which had been blown out to leave only a trail of smoke.

  A movement at the doorway attracted his attention. Niamh Quintillan entered, saw him, and stopped dead. She glared at him with venom in her eyes.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You’ve spoken to your father.’

  She just kept staring at him for a painfully long moment, and then she turned and headed out of the dining room again.

  ‘Not hungry, I guess,’ Sherlock murmured to himself.

  He had just forced himself to eat some toast and marmalade when Virginia entered the room. She saw her father, and smiled, and then saw Sherlock. The smile faded, replaced with an expression he couldn’t read. It wasn’t the anger that had been on Niamh’s face. This was more like . . . embarrassment? Fear? He wasn’t sure.

  Virginia, like Niamh before her, turned and left without sitting down.

  ‘You got a way with women, son,’ Amyus Crowe called from the other end of the table.

  ‘Yes, but it looks like the wrong way,’ Sherlock rejoined.

  When he had finished his toast and coffee, the meeting at the other end of the table was still going on. He wondered whether or not to join in, but Mycroft looked up, met his gaze and shook his head. Instead, Sherlock walked out into the hall. He stood there for a moment, irresolute, wondering whether he should go back to his room and just lie down for a while, waiting for the adults to decide what to do next. Eventually he wandered down into the hall of the castle, and then out into the open space outside the keep.

  Virginia was standing there, in the fresh air, staring up at the sky. She was talking with Niamh Quintillan. The two of them seemed to be getting on surprisingly well. The weather was cloudy, but dry, and the clouds weren’t the grey that he associated with coming rain.

  Sherlock watched from the doorway, not wanting to interrupt them. Eventually Niamh smiled, nodded, and walked away. Sherlock waited for a few moments, then approached Virginia.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  ‘Hi,’ she said softly.

  ‘You were talking with Niamh,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you two had much in common.’

  ‘She has horses. Well, Connemara ponies, they’re called. She said she’ll take me riding later, if I want.’

  Sherlock couldn’t think of anything to say in response. The silence between them grew to almost unbearable proportions. In order to break it, Sherlock said: ‘Do you want to take a walk outside?’

  ‘Is there anything to see?’

  ‘There’s a beach.’

  Virginia nodded. ‘All right. Let’s walk.’

  Sherlock led the way out of the castle, across the moat and off towards where he remembered the cliffs as being. He remembered that Niamh had told him about a way down to the beach, and it only took a few minutes of searching to find the steep path down the side of the cliffs. The two of them made their way down, sometimes using the steps that had been crudely carved into the cliff face and sometimes just scrambling down the mud and the rock. A wooden banister ran down most of the path, giving them a handhold in case they slipped, but sometimes it just wasn’t there – swept away by landslides or weathered and broken by storms, Sherlock guessed. There wasn’t any chance of talking while they were descending – the exertion took all of their energy and all of their concentration.

  Far below them, but getting closer, Sherlock could see grey-green waves topped with white foam crashing against the sand and pebbles of the boulder-strewn beach. Seagulls soared around them, eyeing them with beady menace and uttering raucous cries. Sherlock hoped that the two of them didn’t go anywhere near any seagull nests. He suspected that those cruelly hooked bills could cause a lot of damage if the seagulls wanted to defend their eggs.

  Eventually the descent levelled out, and they half ran, half fell the last few feet to the beach. They were both covered with scratches and mud. Looking back up the side of the cliff, Sherlock wondered how they would ever be able to get back. If they couldn’t climb then they would have to wander along the beach until they found an easier route up. Or starved.

  He scanned the cliff for signs that the tide might come all the way in and drown them if they didn’t find a way off the beach in time. There was no line of seaweed on the cliff face marking the high tide point. Turning and looking at the beach, he noticed that it sloped down noticeably, and there was a line of seaweed about ten feet away from the cliff face. The pebbles on one side of the seaweed line were damp, and the ones on the other side, closer to where Sherlock and Virginia stood, were largely dry. That would be the high-tide point, he decided.

  The cliff face was pockmarked with dark holes – some just a few feet across, but some large enough to drive a horse and carriage into. These must be the caves he had heard about – the ones used by smugglers in the past. He realized with a thrill that some of them must connect up with the cellars and tunnels beneath the castle, which meant that they did h
ave another way off the beach if they needed it. The problem was that he had no idea which caves led to the tunnels and which ones just ended blindly. He would have to try and work out a way of telling which was which.

  He stared at the cliff face for a while, trying to imagine it not as it appeared – a solid mass of rock – but as something honeycombed with tunnels that wound around each other and headed up towards the top of the cliff.

  He turned, to find Virginia staring out at the sea.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘In Albuquerque, the only sand we had was desert sand. I still can’t get used to the idea of sand and water together.’

  ‘Oh.’ He wasn’t sure what else to say.

  ‘Come on then,’ she said, turning and heading off along the beach. ‘If we’re going to walk, let’s walk.’

  ‘Your father said you’re going back to America,’ he said after a few minutes, more to break the silence than for any other reason.

  ‘He says we have to go to Washington DC,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘It freezes in the winter and it boils in the summer, but that’s where Pinkertons have offered him a post, liaising with the Federal Government. That’s kind of what he’s doing right now – the new job. They really want him back.’

  ‘Oh.’ He paused, framing the next few words carefully. ‘You’re old enough that you could stay here, in England, you know. I’m sure he’d let you. He might not like it, but Mr Crowe knows that you know your own mind.’

  ‘Travis wants to go back to America as well,’ she said.

  ‘Ah. Travis.’

  Virginia stopped and stared out to sea. Sherlock stopped behind her. Without knowing what he was going to do, he reached out and touched her shoulder, pulling her around to face him.

  Her cheeks were wet with tears. Her violet eyes brimmed with them. As he watched, more spilt out and ran down her face.

  He stepped forward and took her in his arms. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his chest.