Young Sherlock: Night Break

by Andrew Lane

  Dedicated to Richard Boardman, Marshall Lewy, Matthew Faulk, Mark Skeet, Simon Winstone and Georgina Gordon-Smith for helping me move my career to the next level.

  Grateful acknowledgements to Kevin Reilly for the excellent and invaluable advice on period sword-fighting. I haven’t yet taken Kevin up on his offer of lessons, but I fully intend to.

  ‘If you truly wish to find someone you have known and who travels, there are two points on the globe you have but to sit and wait; sooner or later your man will come there: the docks of London and Port Said.’

  Rudyard Kipling

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Books by Andrew Lane

  PROLOGUE

  Sherlock Holmes wiped a sleeve across his forehead. He looked at the sleeve as he brought it down. It was dark and damp with sweat.

  The sun was high in the sky, almost blinding him, and the heat was like a heavy weight hammering down on his head, even through the scarf he had tied over it. Within seconds his forehead was already soaked with perspiration. It trickled lines of warmth down his cheeks and his neck into his collar, which was sopping wet.

  The Suez Canal reached from the horizon on Sherlock’s left to the horizon on his right – a deep groove in the sand, a man-made waterway so large that it might have been made by a sword-slash inflicted by the gods. Sparkling blue water filled it from bank to bank. Green bushes and reeds lined its edges. It was so wide that he couldn’t have thrown a stone to the far bank, and so deep that ships could be sunk in it and other ships would still be able to pass over their submerged wrecks.

  Of course, if he didn’t stop the sabotage that was just about to occur: then there would be so many wrecked ships in the canal that they would be piled up above the water’s surface, and the canal would be impassable for years to come. The problem was that he really didn’t know how he was going to do that.

  ‘Sherlock,’ a voice said. ‘I’m sorry it had to be this way.’

  He turned around. Rufus Stone was standing a few feet away. The breeze blew his black hair back from his face. The sun shone on his single gold tooth. His expression was . . . regretful. Even sad.

  And he was holding a sword.

  Sherlock felt his strength, his confidence, draining away. How had it come to this? he wondered. How had he ended up in the disabling heat of a foreign country, about to fight one of his best friends?

  He raised his own sword in readiness of the fight to come . . .

  CHAPTER ONE

  The early afternoon sunlight shone through Charles Dodgson’s window. Motes of dust drifted through it, dancing around each other as the currents of air shifted around. Outside, students walked around the quadrangle of the Oxford college where he taught. Their voices drifted through the window along with the sunlight, and just as rarefied.

  ‘So,’ Dodgson said from his armchair, which was turned so that Sherlock could see his profile. He was leaning back, staring at the ceiling. ‘Have you th-th-thought about that sequence of n-n-numbers that I gave you a while ago? As I recall, it was 1, 5, 12, 22, 35, 51 and 70. Can you t-t-tell me what logic links them, and creates the sequence?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sherlock said, ‘I worked out what the sequence was. Eventually.’

  ‘Please – enlighten me.’

  ‘It’s difficult to describe, but it’s all to do with pentagrams.’

  ‘P-p-perhaps you could draw the solution for me.’ Dodgson indicated a blackboard on an easel that stood over by the fireplace.

  Sherlock got up, walked to the blackboard and picked up a piece of chalk, trying to imagine in his mind the diagram that it had taken him months to work out. Quickly and neatly he sketched out a series of dots on the board and joined them with lines.

  ‘The first point is the “1”, of course,’ he explained. ‘The smallest pentagram has five points, giving us the next “5”. The next largest pentagram has ten points, three of which are shared with the first pentagram, but if you add in the two points from the first pentagram which aren’t shared, then you get the “12”. The third pentagram has fifteen points, of which five are shared with the first and second pentagram, but if you add in the seven points from the first two pentagrams which aren’t shared, then you get the “22”. And so on.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Dodgson said, clapping his thin hands together. ‘And what d-d-does this tell you?’

  ‘It tells me that working this out took an awfully long time.’

  ‘Yes, but what use are these p-p-pentagonal numbers? What do they t-t-tell us about the world? What significance do they have?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Sherlock said honestly.

  ‘Quite right. Pentagonal numbers have no significance that I know about – unlike Fibonacci’s N-n-numbers, which seem to crop up in all kinds of circumstances. Perhaps we will discover a use for them, or a m-m-meaning, and perhaps not. Only time will tell. The great mathematician Leonhard Euler did do some very int-t-teresting theoretical work with them, of course, and published his results in a p-p-paper in 1783. He showed that the infinite product (1−x)(1−x2) (1−x3) . . . expands into an infinite s-s-series with the exponents being the pentagonal numbers. What do you think of that, then?’

  ‘I can’t really take it in,’ Sherlock said evenly.

  Dodgson didn’t spot the sarcasm, or if he did, then he chose to ignore it.

  The tutorial went on for another hour, ranging over many areas of mathematics, and by the time Sherlock left he felt that his head was buzzing. It took a long walk in the cold but bright afternoon air to calm him down.

  When he got to Mrs McCrery’s’s boarding house, where he was staying while in Oxford, he found Matty outside, sitting on the wall. A black-painted cab was parked in the road. Its driver sat reading a newspaper on top, while its horse stood calmly with its eyes closed, relishing the rest.

  ‘You got a visitor,’ Matty observed, jerking his thumb at the cab.

  ‘I can see that,’ Sherlock said. He walked up to stand beside the wheel closest to the kerb and stared in through the window. Nothing had been left inside, but the cushions had been dented by the weight of the passenger’s body – and it looked like it had been a considerable weight.

  ‘My brother,’ he observed, amazed. ‘Mycroft is here.’

  ‘That was clever. Does ’e have a particular aftershave he uses?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Sherlock decided not to tell Matty that he had recognized his brother by the size and shape of his buttocks. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘’E’s inside now, ’avin’ a cup of tea wiv the old lady.’

  ‘But Mycroft hates travelling.’

  ‘Russia,’ Matty observed, holding up a thumb, then, ‘Ireland,’ as his forefinger joined it . . .

  ‘I take the point,’ Sherlock said, ‘but what I meant was, he only travels if there is an overriding reason. Mycroft does not make social visits.’

  ‘’E does where you’re concerned. ’E takes a lot of trouble to make sure you’re okay.’ He sniffed, and wiped a sleeve across his nose. ‘Wish I ’ad a bruvver.’

  ‘You’ve got me,’ Sherlock observed. He gazed at the boarding house. ‘I know I ought to go in and find out what Mycroft is doing here, but experience tells me th
at he only ever turns up when there’s trouble or when my life is about to change. Either way, it tends to be bad.’

  ‘You can’t put off bad news by stickin’ your fingers in your ears an’ pretendin’ you can’t hear it,’ Matty said, jumping down from the wall. ‘If life’s taught me anythin’, it’s that. Best to get it over an’ done wiv quickly. Like rippin’ a bandage off a scab.’

  Sherlock nodded slowly. ‘That’s good advice.’

  ‘Hey, what else is a bruvver for?’ Matty punched his arm. ‘Come an’ tell me about it when you get a chance.’

  Sherlock grabbed his sleeve. ‘What makes you think you’re avoiding this? If there’s bad news, I want you there with me.’

  ‘Why?’ Matty asked.

  ‘Because that’s what brothers do, as well.’

  The two of them walked up the steps and through the door of Mrs McCrery’s house together.

  Sherlock immediately heard his brother’s voice from inside the front room. He stood in the doorway, Matty beside him, and coughed.

  Mycroft’s voice broke off in mid-sentence, and Mrs McCrery appeared in the doorway. ‘Ah, young Mr Holmes. Your brother Mycroft is here. We were just reminiscing about his time at Oxford.’

  ‘I’ve heard the stories,’ Sherlock replied.

  ‘I’ll be making another pot of tea. I’d offer you a cake, but your brother’s appetite is as good as it ever was and they’re all gone. I’ll see if I can find some biscuits for you and young Matthew here – I know this young scallywag gets so hungry he could eat a horse!’

  ‘Don’t say that when ’Arold’s around,’ Matty muttered. ‘’E takes that kind of thing personally.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sherlock said. As Mrs McCrery bustled away, he stepped into the room.

  Mycroft had wedged himself into a comfortable armchair near the window. Sherlock suspected that he might need to use a rope and the services of the horse outside to pull him out, when the time came.

  ‘Ah, Sherlock,’ Mycroft said. ‘It gladdens my heart to see you again. And young Master Arnatt, of course, there by your side like an ever-visible shadow.’

  ‘’Allo, Mister ’Olmes,’ Matty said brightly.

  Mycroft’s large head moved so that he was staring back at Sherlock again. ‘Sherlock, I need to tell you something, and it is not the kind of thing one talks about in front of relative strangers.’

  ‘Matty is like family now,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘I want him here.’

  ‘Very well. Rather than beat around the bush, I will get straight to the point. I am sorry to have to tell you that our mother has died.’

  The words seemed to hang in the air like the echo of some vast bell. Sherlock tried to take a breath, but somehow he couldn’t get the air into his lungs. Even the light in the room appeared to change, as if a cloud had drifted across the face of the sun, casting the house in shadow.

  ‘Died,’ he repeated. ‘Mother is dead?’

  ‘Indeed. I realize that this comes as a shock to you, as it did to me, but –’

  ‘Mother has died?’

  Mycroft sighed. ‘Yes, Sherlock, that is correct. Take a moment, if you need it, to come to terms with the information.’

  In his head, it was as if Sherlock was turning over a selection of different feelings, trying each one to see if it fitted. Surprise? Grief? Anger? Acceptance? He wasn’t sure how he should be feeling right at that moment. His fingers were tingling strangely, and he had the impression that he was swaying slightly. He couldn’t feel his feet. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. There were no words to come out: his mind was empty.

  ‘Matthew,’ Mycroft said urgently. ‘Help Sherlock to a chair.’

  He felt Matty’s hands on his shoulders, guiding him sideways. Moments later he found that he was sitting down, although he had no recollection of doing so.

  ‘How?’ he asked finally. ‘When?’

  ‘As to “how”: you know that she has been ill for some time. The disease called consumption, which is better known to the population at large as tuberculosis. It is a disease which attacks the lungs. There are various treatments, including rest and visits to sanatoriums in places with cold pure air, such as the Alps in France and Switzerland, but generally the results of these treatments are not positive. The disease finally weakened her system to the point where she did not have the strength to carry on the fight. She became weaker and weaker, and then she slipped away.’ His voice was quiet, and Sherlock could hear within it all the same emotions that he was struggling with. ‘As to “when”: I received notification this morning that she had died during the night. I immediately took a cab to Paddington, a train to Oxford and a cab here. I did not want there to be any delay in you finding out.’

  ‘What happens now?’ Sherlock asked quietly. The various emotions that he had been feeling just moments before seemed to have drained away, leaving an emotional landscape like a beach from which the tide had withdrawn: bare, desolate, and littered with old memories like items of driftwood and sea-smoothed pebbles.

  ‘We need to go home.’ Mycroft paused for a moment. ‘There will be a funeral, and there will be medical expenses to sort out.’

  Sherlock nodded. ‘I understand. When do we go?’

  ‘Immediately.’ Mycroft put his hands on the arms of the chair and pushed downward. Nothing happened apart from the sound of the wood of the armchair creaking. ‘I suggest,’ he went on, resting for a moment before trying again, ‘that you go and pack for the journey. Assume that you will be gone for a week or so.’ He pushed again with his hands on the arms of the chair, but still his body didn’t move. ‘And while you are doing that,’ he said, settling down again, ‘I would appreciate it if you, young Master Arnatt, could go outside and bring the driver of my cab in here. I may need his assistance.’

  Still in a daze, Sherlock walked up the several flights of stairs to his room and quickly threw some clothes into a suitcase without checking what they were or whether they were suitable. Matty joined him after a few minutes and silently watched. He grabbed his violin case as well, before leaving the room. He and Matty headed downstairs together, and Sherlock found himself wondering as they did so whether he would ever see Mrs McCrery’s boarding house again, or any of the students there that had become friends. Perhaps, like Deepdene School for Boys and his Uncle Sherrinford’s house, this place was destined to become just another temporary stop on his journey through life.

  Mycroft was standing in the front room looking slightly flustered and brushing down the front of his jacket. The armchair looked like it had been in a fight, and not come out too well. Mycroft nodded when he saw Sherlock’s bag. ‘Good. We are ready to go then.’

  Sherlock turned and stuck out a hand to Matty. ‘I’ll be seeing you,’ he said, feeling a catch in his throat. ‘I don’t know where, and I don’t know when, but I will be seeing you again.’

  Matty stared at the hand as if he didn’t know what to do with it, but it was Mycroft who broke the uncomfortable silence. ‘Actually,’ he ventured, ‘I was wondering if young Master Arnatt would be free to accompany us. I think, Sherlock, that you will need a friend, and my time will be taken up with arranging the funeral and various family matters. I am unsure what state the family finances are in, and I need to assure myself that we are not already destitute. It would be good for you to have someone with whom you can talk.’

  Sherlock glanced at Matty, who was looking surprised. ‘Me? Come wiv you?’

  ‘If you are free.’

  ‘I’m always free,’ Matty said. ‘Yeah, I’ll come – if Sherlock wants me to.’ He gazed at Sherlock appealingly.

  ‘I do,’ Sherlock said. He turned to his brother. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Friends are important,’ Mycroft said quietly. ‘I have realized that through the simple expedient of not having any myself. Master Arnatt, do you need to make arrangements for the care of your horse?’

  ‘Nah – there’s people along the side of the canal who borrow ’Arold while I’m n
ot using him. They feed ’im, and look after ’im, and make sure ’e’s ’appy. They prob’ly won’t even notice that I’ve gone.’ His face fell. ‘An’ neither will ’Arold, which is a shame.’

  ‘What about clothes?’

  Matty stared at Mycroft, frowning.

  ‘Spare clothes,’ Mycroft explained.

  Matty just kept on staring at him.

  ‘Never mind.’ Mycroft sighed. ‘We can get clothes for you when we get to the house. At least we will be carrying fewer bags.’ He turned to Sherlock. ‘And as for your studies at Oxford University, such as they are,’ he went on, ‘I have taken the liberty of sending a note around to Charles Dodgson, giving him my regards and explaining the situation. He will be very understanding, I am sure.’

  The three of them walked out to the waiting cab, where the driver threw Sherlock’s case on top to join one that was already there.

  ‘You packed!’ Sherlock observed accusingly. ‘You said that you took a cab to Paddington Station the moment you heard, but you must have stopped off at your rooms to pack!’

  ‘Your usually sharp mind is letting you down,’ Mycroft replied. ‘I will put that down to the effects of shock. I did not lie to you – I keep a several bags packed with fresh clothes and toiletries in my office, in case I need to travel in a hurry.’

  ‘But you don’t like travelling,’ Matty observed.

  ‘That is irrelevant. Firms do not generally like or expect their premises to burn down, but they take out fire insurance nevertheless. I do not like travelling, but sometimes it is necessary to do so in a hurry. As it is now.’

  As the cab pulled away from the kerb, Sherlock looked back out of the window. Mrs McCrery was standing in the doorway of her house. She seemed to be waving, but Sherlock’s eyes were suddenly and unexpectedly filled with tears, and he couldn’t be sure.

  The journey to Oxford Station was short, but there was an hour’s wait for a train and so Mycroft bought them both tea and cakes in the tea shop there. It took a few minutes for the serving girl to bring them over, but when she had, Matty tucked in with gusto. Sherlock, by contrast, found that his appetite just wasn’t there. When Matty had finished his own cake, Sherlock pushed his wordlessly across to the boy.