by Andrew Lane
Sherlock closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the cobbled road.
Hands grabbed Sherlock and pulled him away. He thought for a moment that it was Mr Kyte, but other hands unwound the metal and leather thong of the knout from his neck. Turning his head, he saw that he was surrounded by soldiers in blue and grey uniforms. One soldier was holding him while another was freeing him from the knout. A third soldier was taking hold of Wormersley, whose face was almost unrecognizably swollen beneath the blood. A fourth soldier was pulling Rufus Stone from around the other side of the carriage. Stone was bleeding from a gash in his arm, a cut that went all the way through the material of his jacket to the flesh beneath.
There was no sign of Mr Kyte.
The next few minutes were a blur. Sherlock and Rufus Stone were bundled into the grim Lubyanka Square building and half-pushed, half-dragged along dark corridors and up flights of stairs. Sherlock lost track of where they were in the building. Eventually they were taken past uniformed guards and into a series of linked offices.
In the last office, two men were standing waiting for them.
One was also in military uniform, but it was much more ornate than the ones the soldiers were wearing, and he had a cloak thrown over it. He was in his forties, his hair grey and close-cropped, and his moustache curled up at the ends. The other was in his twenties, wearing a black suit and a striped waistcoat.
‘Ah, Sherlock,’ Mycroft said calmly. ‘This is His Excellency Count Pyotr Andreyevich Shuvalov. Count Shuvalov, allow me to present my brother, Sherlock.’
Shuvalov stared at Sherlock. Finally he glanced back at Mycroft.
‘Yes,’ he said in excellent English. ‘I presume he must take after your father’s side of the family.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The dining room at the Diogenes Club was as silent as a tomb, which was why Mycroft had arranged for their meal to be served in the Strangers Room. At least there the four of them could have a reasonable conversation.
Mycroft was at the head of the table, with Sherlock to his left and Amyus Crowe to his right. Rufus Stone was seated opposite Mycroft.
Looking around, Sherlock found it difficult to remember that this was the very room where the whole adventure had started. He checked the carpet for bloodstains, remembering the unfortunate man who had been so desperate for his family to have a little money that he had killed himself on the instructions of the Paradol Chamber, just to provoke Mycroft into going to Russia. Either it had been expertly cleaned or the entire carpet had been replaced.
Mycroft and Crowe were discussing what the American government were going to do with Alaska now that they had finally paid for it. Sherlock turned his attention back to his dinner. Silent black-clad waiters delivered bowls of soup to the table.
Crowe stared dubiously at the creamy reddish liquid. ‘This surely ain’t fit for human consumption?’ he asked. ‘It looks like somethin’ made up out of cow’s blood an’ milk.’
‘It’s borscht,’ Mycroft replied. ‘Russian beetroot soup with smetana, or sour cream, stirred in. I thought that we should share a little memento of our adventures with you. Our chef has been very cooperative. Unusually adventurous, in fact. I wasn’t sure that he could even attempt anything other than Brown Windsor soup, but he was eager for a challenge.’
‘Talking of challenges,’ Stone said, ‘is there any news of Mr Kyte?’ His hand crept up to rest on his right arm, where a dressing concealed a nasty cut. There was an edge to his words that suggested to Sherlock that he felt he had unfinished business with the burly red-headed man.
Mycroft shook his large head sorrowfully. ‘Not a word. He seems to have gone to ground. I presume the Paradol Chamber are looking after him somewhere – assuming they have a forgiving nature, of course.’
‘What about the rest of Kyte’s Theatrical Company?’ Sherlock asked.
‘As with Mr Kyte, they are missing, presumed hiding.’ His face was grave. ‘To have been that close to the Paradol Chamber – to have been that close to Mrs Loran, who I now believe is one of their most important members – and not to have realized . . . it galls me, Sherlock. My mind was affected by the accusation of murder and my subsequent, although short, incarceration. I should have realized there was something odd about that entire company. I should have realized that we were being set up from the start.’
‘And Wormersley?’
‘Now, there I do have an answer. For understandable reasons, Count Shuvalov would not release him to us. He languishes in the cells at Lubyanka Square. Ironic, considering the fact that we went all the way to Moscow because that’s where I thought he was to begin with.’ He sighed. ‘He changed. He was not the man I thought he was. But then, I suppose that travelling the world does that to you, which is why I fully intend to do as little travelling as humanly possible for the rest of my life.’
‘Ah’m surprised Shuvalov believed you so readily,’ Crowe rumbled, still staring dubiously into the bowl. He stirred the soup experimentally with his spoon.
‘That’s another irony,’ Mycroft said. ‘I knew Shuvalov considerably less well than I knew Wormersley, and yet in the end it was that relationship which survived on trust and the other that failed. Shuvalov and I understand each other. We think alike. When he was informed that I had been arrested, he immediately called for me to be brought to him. We drank tea, and we talked in a very civilized manner. He apologized for any harsh behaviour his men had exhibited, and I apologized for arriving in his country without proper notification. That is the way international relations ought to be conducted: politely and with refreshments, not using trained falcons as instruments of assassination.’
‘An’ he believed the whole crazy story?’
‘Once Sherlock told his story, it was obvious that the evidence backed it up. People had seen the falcon, with its metal claws, fly into the carriage, and they’d seen both the fight between Sherlock and Wormersley and the fight between Mr Stone and Mr Kyte. And Shuvalov had already received reports of my arrest here in London for murder. He has his own agents in London, of course, as I have – or had – in Russia.’ He paused, thoughtfully. Although his agents probably don’t work secretly for the Paradol Chamber, which is a point to him in our ongoing game.’
‘Game?’ Sherlock queried.
‘The continual strategic struggle between Russia and Great Britain for control of Central Asia – Afghanistan and India. We call it the Great Game.’
‘Father is in India,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘He’s fighting out there. It’s hardly a game, Mycroft.’
Mycroft had the grace to look abashed. ‘You’re right, dear boy. It is not a game, let alone a great one. Sitting here in London, in a comfortable armchair, it is possible to lose track of that. Perhaps if my time in Russia has taught me one thing, it is that the pieces that we so blithely move on the chessboard are real people, with real feelings. That is a lesson I will remember.’ He smiled tentatively. ‘But you have reminded me that I still owe you sight of Father’s letter, which he sent from India, and which you travelled up from Farnham to see. I have it with me. I will let you read it later.’
Amyus Crowe cleared his throat. ‘So what’s the plan now?’ he asked, obviously seeking to change the subject to something lighter. ‘Where do we go from here? For myself, ah’m plannin’ to spend some time with my daughter.’
‘I intend going back to my lodgings and my job,’ Mycroft said.
‘I suppose I’m heading back to Holmes Manor, to my aunt and uncle, and to the wonderful Mrs Eglantine,’ Sherlock said morosely. He looked over at Rufus Stone. For a moment his thoughts turned to Farnham, and to the black-clad woman who had been watching him, and who had vanished in an alleyway. At the time he’d assumed it was Mrs Eglantine, but now he wasn’t sure. Maybe it had been Miss Aiofe Dimmock checking on Mycroft’s brother before the Paradol Chamber swung their complicated plan into action. Or maybe it had been Mrs Eglantine. Sherlock decided there and then that when he returned to Holmes
Manor he was going to get to the bottom of that particular mystery, and find out the true nature of the hold she had over his family.
‘What about you, Mr Stone?’ Mycroft asked, breaking into Sherlock’s train of thought.
Stone smiled and glanced at Sherlock. A gold tooth towards the back of his mouth twinkled in the candlelight. ‘I understand that you have a fine violin,’ he said. ‘I was hoping you would give me the pleasure of hearing you play it. Twice a week, for an hour a time. Do Tuesdays and Thursdays suit you?’
‘Perfectly,’ said Sherlock.
HISTORICAL NOTES
The museum in which Sherlock is attacked by a bird of prey is based on my memories of the Passmore Edwards Museum in Stratford, East London. I remember being taken there on school trips back in the early 1970s, and my overriding impression is of the sheer number of stuffed animals scattered around the old Victorian hallways (that, and the very musty smell). I’ve since discovered that John Passmore Edwards (1823–1911) was a British journalist and newspaper owner whose bequests resulted in the construction of 70 major buildings (primarily hospitals, libraries, schools, convalescence homes and art galleries) as well as 11 drinking fountains and 32 marble busts. A true Victorian philanthropist.
The Necropolis Railway really did exist. Only the Victorians could have thought of having a railway specifically for the dead. To be fair, if the Egyptians had known about railways they probably would have thought of it too, but only the Victorians would have charged different ticket prices for First, Second and Third Class travel for the coffins. I first came across mention of the Necropolis Railway in a book about the things that are hidden beneath London’s streets, and have since chased up more details in other similar books. The important ones are:
London Under London: A Subterranean Guide
by Richard Trench and Ellis Hillman
(John Murray, 1993)
Underground London: Travels Beneath the City Streets
by Stephen Smith
(Abacus, 2005)
Necropolis: London and Its Dead
by Catharine Arnold
(Pocket Books, 2005)
The King’s Theatre in Whitechapel is based to a large extent on the Theatre Royal, Stratford. When I was at school, I used to do a fair amount of amateur dramatics, and some of the shows we did were put on at the Theatre Royal. It was built in 1888, and I spent a lot of time wandering around the backstage areas soaking up the atmosphere.
Sherlock and Mycroft’s sojourn in Russia was, surprisingly, very difficult to research. The majority of history books on the country concentrate on the Russian revolution (1917), the years of the Soviet Union (principally concentrating on Lenin, Trotsky and Stalin), and the time since the Soviet Union fell apart. The mid-nineteenth century is a bit of a blank. Eventually I decided to come at it sideways, through the Crimean War (1853–56), but I did discover late in the day a book which took quotes from Russian writers of around the right time and wove them into a kind of descriptive document. For the record, the books were:
A Brief History of the Crimean War
by Alexander Troubetzkoy
(Robinson, 2006)
Literary Russia: A Guide
by Anna Benn, Rosamund Bartlett
(Gerald Duckworth & Co, 2007)
I do admit, with some shame, that Wikipedia provided quite a lot of background detail on the Tsar, his secret police, and the Alaska land deal. Late in the day I discovered some issues of the London Illustrated News online, dating from the 1850s. A couple of these had reports from a journalist who had travelled to Moscow, and I shamelessly borrowed some of his descriptions of the city and its inhabitants.
Count Pyotr Andreyevich Shuvalov was a real person, and he really was in charge of the Third Section, which was actually the Tsar’s secret police force. Shuvalov did spend some time in France, which is where he would have met Mycroft Holmes. Prince Yusupov was also a real person, and a well-known patron of the arts.
And on a non-historical note, I can echo Sherlock’s thoughts in the last chapter and reveal that the next book – which will probably be entitled Fire Storm – will tell (among other things) of how Sherlock finally confronts the unpleasant Mrs Eglantine.
Until then . . .
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Andrew Lane is the author of over twenty previous books. Some are original novels set in the same universes as the BBC TV programmes Doctor Who, Torchwood and Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased), some are contemporary novels written under a pseudonym, and some are non-fiction books about specific film and TV characters (notably James Bond, and Wallace & Gromit). He has also written for the Radio Times and its US equivalent, TV Guide. Andrew lives in Dorset with his wife, his son and a vast collection of Sherlock Holmes books, the purchase of which over the past twenty years is now a justifiably tax-deductible expense.
Also by Andrew Lane
Young Sherlock Holmes: Death Cloud
Young Sherlock Holmes: Red Leech
Look out for
Young Sherlock Holmes: Fire Storm
First published 2011 by Macmillan Children's Books
This electronic edition published 2011 by Macmillan Children's Books
a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
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ISBN 978-1-4472-0511-1 EPUB
Copyright © Andrew Lane 2011
The right of Andrew Lane to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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