Young Sherlock Holmes: Black Ice

by Andrew Lane

  Sherlock frowned. Seven possible theories? He couldn’t even think of one.

  ‘The man who visited you had a case,’ Crowe pointed out.

  ‘I remember it.’

  ‘The inside was padded. Two objects had been stored inside. At least one of them was damp – or at least it left traces of a liquid behind.’

  Mycroft frowned. ‘Did this liquid smell of anything in particular? Was it sticky to the touch?’

  Crowe shook his head. ‘Felt an’ smelt just like water.’

  ‘And was there a pool of liquid anywhere in the room?’

  ‘There was. Sherlock found it.’

  ‘Instructive.’ Mycroft nodded. ‘That narrows the solution to one possibility.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Crowe said, nodding, ‘but the evidence has vanished.’

  Sherlock felt his fists clench. ‘What on earth are you both talking about? What solution?’

  The two men looked at each other. Mycroft gestured to Crowe to explain.

  ‘Let’s agree that there was no way for another man to be in the room,’ Crowe started. ‘There were no windows, no places to hide, and we would have seen anyone when your brother opened the door.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Sherlock said.

  ‘And your brother didn’t kill the dead man.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Therefore he killed himself.’

  Sherlock felt as if the ground had suddenly dropped out from underneath him. ‘He what?’

  ‘He killed himself. Two men in a room, one is murdered, and we know that the other one didn’t kill him. Ergo, he killed himself

  ‘But . . .’ Sherlock’s voice failed him for a moment. ‘But Mycroft was holding the knife.’

  ‘He was holding a knife,’ Crowe corrected. ‘The victim entered the room with a case containing two objects. One of them was the knife that we found your brother holding. There was no blood on the knife because it was not the knife that killed the dead man.’

  ‘But there was no other knife!’ Sherlock protested.

  ‘But,’ Mycroft interrupted, ‘there was a damp patch in the case and a damp patch on the carpet.’

  Crowe glanced at Mycroft, who shrugged.

  ‘I apologize,’ Mycroft added. ‘I couldn’t resist joining in.’ He glanced back at Sherlock. ‘Tell me, did the damp patch on the carpet feel cold at all?’

  ‘It did,’ Sherlock recalled, and then he realized. ‘Ice? he exclaimed. ‘The knife was made of ice?’

  ‘Indubitably,’ Crowe said. ‘The second object in the case was a knife made of ice. The padding prevented it from melting, although some water did soak into the satin. The case had probably been kept cold before being used, to ensure that the knife did not melt.’

  ‘The visitor incapacitated me,’ Mycroft said grimly. ‘How, we will leave for a moment. After rendering me insensible, he placed the real knife in my hand. He then sat down and stabbed himself with the ice knife. With his last ounce of strength he pulled the ice knife from his chest and threw it to the floor, where it melted in the warmth of the room.’

  ‘There was a risk that he would have died too quickly to pull the knife out,’ Crowe pointed out, ‘but in that case the residual warmth of his cooling corpse would have melted it anyway.’

  ‘But why use two knives?’ Sherlock protested. ‘Why not just stab himself with the real knife and leave it in the wound?’

  Crowe glanced sympathetically at Mycroft. ‘Whoever arranged this little charade wanted to leave your brother with no room for manoeuvre. If he had been found in a room with a dead body which had a knife in its chest, he might have been able to claim that he’d found it there and was about to call for help. But if he was found with a knife in his hand, and no knife in the wound, he would not have been able to think of a convincing explanation.’

  ‘A neat touch,’ Mycroft admitted. ‘I am quite in awe of whoever created this scenario.’

  ‘Then why did the man kill himself?’ Sherlock asked, exasperated. ‘What were his reasons?’

  ‘There,’ Crowe said, ‘we can only speculate, but remember that I thought the man looked ill. He was thin and pale, an’ he’d been seeing a doctor. Let us suppose that he was poor an’ he was dyin’ of something like consumption, or a cancer. Let us suppose that someone currently unknown to us approached him an’ offered him a deal. This unknown person would pay his family a large sum of money if the man would anticipate his own death by a few weeks, kill himself in service of this unknown man. This dyin’ fellow agrees, an’ is kitted out with a decent suit, a case containin’ a real knife an’ an ice knife, an’ instructions as to what to do.’

  ‘Which does raise the question,’ Mycroft interrupted, ‘as to how he rendered me temporarily insensible so that he could place the knife into my hand.’

  ‘What do you remember?’ Crowe asked.

  Mycroft closed his eyes to recall. ‘The man came in, and put his case on the table. He was coughing. I asked whether there was anything I could do to help. He said no, and added that he had some medicine that would help him breathe more easily. He reached into his jacket and took out a small bottle. The top was oddly shaped, more like a button than a cap. He asked me to give him a hand. I walked over to him, and . . . nothing. The next thing I remember is hearing you knocking on the door.’ He paused, then went on, ‘And a smell. I remember a smell. Heavy, and very bitter.’

  ‘Ah venture,’ Crowe said, ‘that the medicine bottle was actually a pump spray of an alcoholic tincture of opium. He sprayed it in your face, rendering you insensible for a few moments. Your loss of memory would be consistent with being drugged in this way. This gave him enough time to set the scene.’

  An alcoholic tincture of opium, otherwise known as laudanum – the same thing that Baron Maupertuis had drugged Sherlock with in order to take him from England to France. Sherlock still remembered the deep unconsciousness, the dreams and the loss of memory that accompanied his drugging. And the strange, almost pleasant, feeling of lassitude. He shook the memories away. This was no time to reminisce.

  Crowe continued: ‘If found, by the police or the pathologist, it would be assumed that he carried it around for his own purposes. Perhaps even to dull the pain of the disease that was killing him.’

  ‘What happened to it?’ Mycroft asked.

  ‘Sherlock took it.’ Crowe shrugged. ‘Better that than the police losing it.’

  Mycroft nodded. He thought for a moment. A spray that can render people momentarily insensible. How very interesting. I can think of several official and semi-official uses for that.’

  ‘All right.’ Sherlock paused, trying to arrange his thoughts. ‘We know how it might have been done. We have a theory that fits all the facts. The question is: why? Why was it done?’

  Mycroft shrugged. As to that, I am engaged with several difficult negotiations with foreign governments. Perhaps one of them wishes to get me out of the way for a while so that they can gain some advantage. Alternatively, work I have been engaged in previously has several times led to treaties being signed with one country rather than another. Perhaps those other countries have taken exception to my actions, and have decided to extract some form of revenge.’ A thought occurred to him. A serious thought, judging by the expression on his face. ‘Except

  ‘Except what?’ Crowe asked.

  Instead of answering, Mycroft reached inside his jacket. ‘I still have the card the dead man gave to Brinnell. There was something written on it. Something that made me interested in seeing him.’

  He pulled a slip of cardboard from his inside pocket. ‘John Robertshaw,’ he read, ‘along with an address in Chelsea – Glassblowers’ Road. Probably false, just created to add veracity to the card.’

  ‘But worth checking anyway,’ Crowe pointed out.

  ‘Indeed. I would not want to let a clue get away from us because we dismissed it from our minds.’ He turned the card over. ‘My name, handwritten, so that Brinnell would know who he wanted to see. And three word
s.’

  He glanced up. His eyes met Sherlock’s.

  ‘The Paradol Chamber,’ he said grimly.

  Shocked, Sherlock’s mind flashed back to the time he had spent in the clutches of Baron Maupertuis. The Baron had mentioned the Paradol Chamber. He hadn’t said what it was, but he had referred to it as if he worked for it, or reported to it. As if it was something important, and secret.

  ‘I remember now,’ Mycroft continued. ‘I saw the words, and I remembered what you had said about hearing Baron Maupertuis use the same phrase. I had Brinnell bring the man in so that I could question him. But this card was the bait in a trap.’

  ‘And you took it,’ Crowe observed mildly.

  ‘In my own defence,’ Mycroft protested, ‘I was on familiar territory, and not expecting an attack.’

  ‘And yet it came.’ Crowe waved a large hand. ‘No matter. We must move on. Ah will secure a solicitor for you. Sherlock, do you still have the name and address of the solicitor given to you by the footman at the Diogenes?’

  Sherlock nodded, and passed across the slip of paper which he had kept in his shirt pocket.

  ‘And you, Sherlock,’ Crowe continued, ‘will investigate this calling card.’ Crowe handed over the card that Mycroft had retrieved from his jacket. Sherlock turned it over, and read the ominous words The Paradol Chamber with a shiver.

  ‘How do I do that?’ Sherlock asked.

  ‘Smell the card,’ Crowe instructed.

  Sherlock raised it to his nose. There was a slight but noticeably sharp odour. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Printer’s ink,’ Crowe replied. ‘The card has been freshly made, probably as a one-off, just to get the man into the club. No respectable club would admit a man without a card, after all. He wouldn’t have any cards himself, given his station in life, and his mysterious employer would hardly have given him one of his own. No, it was made recently, which means it was made locally’ He turned to Sherlock’s brother. ‘Mister Holmes, how many printers are located in the vicinity?’

  Mycroft thought for a moment. ‘I can think of four, all of them in the Chancery Lane area. I will give you the addresses.’ He took a scrap of paper and a pen from his pocket and began to write.

  ‘Check each of the printers,’ Crowe instructed Sherlock. ‘See if they recognize the card. See what they can tell you about the man who had it printed.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘And meet me back, oh, outside the Sarbonnier Hotel in two hours. You remember where that is?’

  ‘The place we stayed the last time we came to London? Yes, I remember.’

  ‘Good.’

  The door swung open as Crowe was speaking. ‘Time’s up,’ the constable said. You gentlemen have to go.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mycroft,’ Crowe said. ‘We will get you out of here.’

  ‘I just hope that happens before dinner time,’ Mycoft replied with a wan smile. ‘I have missed luncheon, but I am not sure that the food here will be up to my usual standards.’

  He extended a hand to Sherlock. ‘Try not to think of me like this,’ he said.

  ‘Here, or in the club, or anywhere else,’ Sherlock said, taking Mycroft’s hand, you are my brother. You take care of me. Now it’s my turn to take care of you – if I can.’

  ‘You can,’ Mycroft said. ‘And you will. I know that once you set your mind to something, it gets done. That is a trait we both inherit from our father.’

  The constable coughed, and Sherlock reluctantly followed Amyus Crowe from the cell.

  The clanging of the door behind him made him flinch. He hated to think what the sound did to Mycroft.

  ‘Where now?’ he asked as they emerged into the fresh air of Covent Garden.

  ‘You to Chancery Lane, which is in that direction.’ Crowe waved a hand vaguely. ‘Me to –’ he checked the card, ‘Glassblowers’ Road, Chelsea. We will meet later.’

  He turned and strode off without a backwards glance, leaving Sherlock to stare after him uneasily. He was alone in London – again. He couldn’t help remembering what had happened last time.

  Eventually he turned away and started to walk in the direction Crowe had indicated. He passed taverns and shops, market stalls and people standing on street corners with trays of goods. And people – all kinds of people, from toffs in fine clothes to urchins in rags. London was indeed a melting pot for all humanity.

  He was about to ask someone the way to Chancery Lane when he noticed a sign on the side of a road he was passing. He turned in. It was a more salubrious area than the one he’d passed through: judging by the brass plates on the buildings it was comprised mainly of firms of solicitors, augmented by the occasional doctor’s practice.

  After five minutes or so he came across the first printer’s shop. The location made sense to him now: the solicitors and barristers in the area would no doubt have need of a lot of printing services. Nervously he pushed the door open.

  The smell inside was an intensified version of what he had smelt on the card: dry musty and sharp. What he hadn’t counted on was the noise. The clatter of several printing presses in the back of the shop made it almost impossible to hear his own voice when he said: ‘Excuse me!’

  A man turned to look at Sherlock. He was in shirtsleeves, but he wore a bowler hat. His moustache was luxuriant, covering not only his mouth but most of his chin as well.

  ‘No jobs ’ere,’ he said. ‘Got all the printer’s devils I need. Shove off!’

  ‘I need to ask a question,’ Sherlock said.

  The man stared suspiciously. ‘What?’

  Sherlock passed the calling card across. ‘Did you print this?’

  He examined it critically. ‘No. Now shove off.’

  Sherlock backed away as the man turned back to his work. If each of the printers was that rude then he’d be finished within a few minutes, and at a loss to know what to do until he had to meet up with Amyus Crowe again.

  The second printer was friendlier. This time Sherlock could see into the back of his shop, where metal drums covered in tiny metal letters were being rotated by boys younger than him, who were pushing all of their weight against great metal handles. The drums were pressed against long ribbons of paper that were pulled past them, leaving inked letters on the paper. The boys were covered in patches of ink as well, marking their skin in black and white.

  He asked the same question, profferred the same card, but despite the fact that the printer smiled and tried to be helpful, he hadn’t printed the card either.

  Sherlock struck gold with the third printer.

  This man was tall and thin, with whiskers that hung like ribbons down his gaunt cheeks. Looking at him, and remembering what Amyus Crowe had told him on the train about each man bearing the marks of his profession, Sherlock began to see the typical marks of a printer: the ink ingrained under the fingernails and in the creases in the fingers, the ridges along the fingertips left by years of prising metal type out of the printers, the long, straight cuts along the palms of the hands left by the ribbons of paper as the rollers whisked them past. All the marks were there for the person who wanted to see.

  ‘Oh yes,’ the man said, nodding. ‘I remember this. Odd request. Normally people want four, five hundred cards, cos they’re for leaving behind, right? I mean, you don’t show someone your card and then take it back, do you? But this cove just wanted the one. Handed me a scrap of paper with the details written on it.’ He shrugged. ‘So I set the machine up and just printed the one card. Told him he could have a hundred for just a shilling more, but he said no.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Actually, he didn’t say no – he went outside to talk to some other cove and then he came back and said no.’

  ‘This other man – can you describe him?’

  ‘Funny old thing,’ the printer said, ‘but I recognized him. He didn’t recognize me. Nobody recognizes the people who serve them.’

  ‘I do,’ Sherlock promised. ‘I will.’

  ‘Then you’re a better man tha
n the rest. No, I used to work in a printer’s down Drury Lane way, before I got this place. Used to do a lot of work for the theatres: programmes, playbills, posters – you know the kind of thing. This bloke – the one who was outside – used to come in sometimes. He was associated with one of the taverns along there. Worked as a bouncer – throwing out people who were too drunk or too poor to pay, or those who started fights. The Shaftesbury, I think it was. We used to print up menus and posters and suchlike for them.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’ Sherlock asked, holding his breath.

  The printer shrugged. ‘Small, like a whippet. Hair was long and stringy. Black beard. Wore a fuzzy coat. Asktrakhan, I think they call ’em. Don’t remember his name.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Sherlock said. ‘If I ever need a printer, I’ll remember you.’

  He left, triumphant. He checked his watch: still an hour and a half before he had to meet Amyus Crowe. Time enough to check out the Shaftesbury Tavern perhaps? That way, at least he could tell Crowe not only that he’d identified the man who had hired the dead man, but that he’d tracked him down as well.

  He asked a passing woman where Drury Lane was, and then headed off in that direction. It only took him ten minutes.

  Drury Lane was lined with theatres and taverns. Some of the theatres were obviously music halls, showing numerous variety acts like jugglers and singers and escape artists. Some were more high-class, offering performances of classic plays. A few were playing host to musical recitals, and Sherlock found himself nostalgic for his violin playing when he saw that a woman named Wilma Norman–Neruda (a female violinist!) was playing at one of the theatres.

  He found the Shaftesbury Tavern halfway down. It was next door to a theatre which was advertising a comic opera by F. C. Burnand and A. Sullivan called Cox and Box. It didn’t sound appealing.

  Sherlock sat on a doorstep outside a tavern across the road, and settled down to wait. He slumped sideways, and rested his head against the door frame, to make it look as if he was asleep, but he was watching out all the time for a small man with long stringy hair.