Black Ice ysh-3

by Andrew Lane

  Sherlock slipped the glass vial into his pocket and crossed to stand beside Crowe. The man was thin, and tiny thread veins were noticeable in his cheeks. His head was thrown back, and he was staring at the ceiling with bulging and bloodshot eyes. His skin was white, but Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was naturally like that or if it was a result of his recent death.

  The white front of his shirt was now completely maroon with drying blood. A tear had been made around the level of his heart: the point where the blade had penetrated, Sherlock thought grimly.

  But who had wielded the blade?

  He leaned closer. There was something about that tear that had caught his attention, but he wasn’t sure what it was.

  ‘Spotted something?’ Crowe asked.

  Sherlock hesitated. ‘I was just trying to remember what the knife looked like – the one in Mycroft’s hand.’

  ‘Got to confess, I never got a clear look at it,’ Crowe admitted.

  ‘I did,’ Sherlock said. ‘It was thin, like a letter opener, but the tear in this shirt is quite big. Bigger than the knife that I remember seeing.’

  ‘Interestin’,’ Crowe mused. ‘I took a quick look at the wound as well. That’s quite a size. Suggested to me that the knife had a broad blade, but if you’re sayin’ the knife that was taken away had a narrow blade… well, that’s another anomaly that needs explainin’.’

  ‘Could the man have struggled?’ Sherlock asked. ‘Could that have caused the blade to tear a larger hole in his shirt and… and his skin?’

  ‘Possible.’ Crowe thought for a moment. ‘That’s the kind of thing we might need to conduct an experiment to verify.’

  ‘What?’ Sherlock exclaimed. ‘You mean stab someone else, and hope they struggle?’

  Crowe laughed. ‘No, I mean we get a slaughtered pig from somewhere, dress it in a shirt, an’ then one of us stabs it with a paperknife while the other one wiggles it about a bit. See if we can replicate the tear and the wound on this poor guy. Guessin’ only takes us so far – we need evidence more than anythin’.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘Go an’ see if you can find that footman – Brinnell. Bring him back here. I’ve got some questions I want to put to him.’

  Sherlock made his way out to the club room. The occupants glanced up at him with irritation as he passed – they’d seen the police, and they obviously knew that something out of the ordinary was happening, but they seemed determined to pretend that everything was as calm as usual within the club’s precincts. Sherlock tried to make himself as small and as quiet as possible. He had to admit, as he wound his way through the plush green armchairs, he couldn’t work out what it was his brother saw in this club. It was the most boring place he’d ever been in – murder excepted, and he presumed that the Diogenes Club was not in the habit of playing host to murder.

  He found Brinnell in the hall. The footman was looking worried. Sherlock was about to ask him to come back to the Strangers Room when Brinnell raised a finger to his lips and shushed him. Sherlock pointed at Brinnell, then back towards the Strangers Room. Brinnell nodded. He walked past Sherlock, past the stairs to a door that probably led back to the servants’ area. Within a few moments he was back with another liveried footman, this one older and balder. Leaving the man in the hall presumably to stand guard and prevent strangers from wandering in and making a noise, Brinnell followed Sherlock back through the club room.

  Crowe was standing exactly where Sherlock had left him.

  ‘Appreciate you makin’ time to talk to us,’ he said to the footman as Sherlock closed the door. ‘I understand you’ve got a lot on right now, what with the murder and all.’

  ‘It’s a shocking thing,’ Brinnell said. ‘Shocking it is.’ He glanced over at the corpse. ‘And it’s us that’s got to clear it up, as well.’

  ‘You escorted the gentleman here to the Strangers Room, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did, sir. That I did.’

  ‘How did he approach you?’

  Brinnell thought for a moment. ‘He came in through the front door, just like you gentlemen did. He handed me a card. On the back of the card he’d written the name of Mister Holmes, and another few words that I didn’t rightly recognize.’

  ‘What were those words?’

  Brinnell frowned, struggling to remember. ‘I think it was the name of another club,’ he said, ‘but I can’t say I remember which one it was. I thought for a moment the gentleman had come to the wrong place, until I saw Mr Holmes’s name written on the back.’

  Another club. For some reason the man’s words grabbed Sherlock’s attention. Another club… He filed the thought away until he could consider it in more detail.

  ‘So he obviously knew the workings of the Diogenes Club,’ Crowe pointed out. ‘He knew enough not to speak.’

  ‘I suppose he did, sir. I suppose so.’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘I put the card on a tray and took it to Mister Holmes. He was waiting in here already. He looked irritable, like he wasn’t expecting this man, but someone else. Irritable, that’s how he looked. I think he was about to send the bloke away, but he turned the card over and read what was on the back. He seemed to change his mind and he said: “Bring the fellow in, Brinnell.”’ So I came back, fetched the bloke and brought him through.’

  ‘How long was that before we turned up?’

  The footman thought for a moment. Couldn’t have been no longer than five minutes,’ he said eventually. ‘Or maybe ten.’

  ‘Any noise or disturbance?’

  ‘Not a thing, sir.’

  Crowe nodded. And what did you think of this visitor, then? What was your opinion?’

  Brinnell grimaced. ‘Not my place to say, sir,’ he muttered.

  Crowe held his hand up. A bright half-crown flashed between his fingers. ‘I value your opinion,’ he said. ‘Nobody else will know – just us.’

  Brinnell considered for a moment. ‘No need for that,’ he said finally. ‘I like Mister Holmes. He’s always been good to me. Been good to me, he has. If you’re trying to help him, then that’s all right with me.’

  ‘Good man,’ Crowe said. The half-crown vanished in his large hand.

  ‘I thought the bloke who came visiting was a little overdressed for his station in life, if you know what I mean,’ he said.

  ‘Ah know exactly what you mean, and ah ’ppreciate your honesty.’

  ‘Was the man carrying anything?’ Sherlock asked suddenly.

  Amyus Crowe nodded. ‘Good question,’ he rumbled.

  Brinnell frowned, trying to remember. ‘I believe he did have a small case. I recall trying to take it off him to put in the cloakroom, but he clutched it to him as if it were valuable. I presumed he needed it for the meeting with Mister Holmes.’

  ‘Very instructive,’ Crowe said.

  The door burst back open, and one of the constables who had been there before entered. ‘Sergeant Coleman wants you to come down to Scotland Yard and give a statement,’ he said.

  ‘Glad to,’ Crowe replied. ‘I’d be interested to see how his investigation is gettin’ on.’

  ‘Investigation?’ the constable repeated, smiling. ‘No need of that. Got our man bang to rights, we did.’

  The constable ushered them out of the Strangers Room and through the club room. As they left, Brinnell looked as if he wanted to say something, but instead he marched across and handed Sherlock a scrap of paper. When he looked at it Sherlock saw the words: Orville Jenkinson, Solicitor and an address. This must be the solicitor that Mycroft had mentioned – the one retained by the Diogenes Club. He smiled at Brinnell, and nodded his thanks.

  Out in the open air, as the constable struck out along the pavement, Sherlock turned to Amyus Crowe and asked the question that had been burning in his brain for the past hour. ‘Mister Crowe – if we can’t prove my brother innocent, what happens?’

  ‘There’s a trial,’ Crowe said grimly, ‘an’ then, if he’s found guilty, ah’m afraid they hang him by th
e neck until he is dead.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Bow Street Police Station and Magistrates’ Court was a monolithic building of white stone set on a corner just off Covent Garden. As they approached, Sherlock let his gaze wander over the building, committing its details to memory. He had the strangest feeling that this building was going to become important to him, although he hoped it wasn’t because it was the building in which his brother would be sentenced to hang.

  The walls were ridged with jutting rows of stone, while the roof was set with crenellations which made it look more like a medieval castle than a place of law enforcement. Looking at those stones, Sherlock smiled. If Matty Arnatt was here, he could have scooted up them like a ladder to the roof.

  The doors on the corner were set at street level, with no steps leading up to them. White lamps hung outside. Amyus Crowe frowned up at the lamps, and turned to the constable.

  Are you sure you’ve brought us to the right place?’ he asked. Ah was led to believe that all police stations in this country had blue lamps outside, not white.’

  ‘That was the rule,’ the constable confided. ‘Happened about seven years ago, but Her Majesty the Queen objected about the blue lamps they put on this building. Apparently the Prince Regent died in a blue room, God bless his soul, and ever since then she couldn’t stand the sight of the colour. She used to come to the Opera House just down the road quite a bit, and driving past the blue lamps gave her a funny turn every time. So she asked for them to be replaced. Well, I say “asked” but I think she more or less told the Commissioner of Police to replace them, or she would replace him.’

  ‘Interestin’,’ Crowe rumbled, ‘that a woman has so much power in a country that denies its women the vote an’ the opportunity to own property.’

  The constable led them inside, past the large desk in the front hall and into the depths of the building. Uniformed and suited men scurried past, each on some important piece of business. He took them down a corridor, round a corner and up a set of stairs, then gestured towards a room that had a table with three seats set around it: two on one side and one on the other. The walls were brick, painted a depressing shade of green.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘The sergeant will be along in a moment. Don’t leave the room.’

  As he left, Crowe dropped heavily into a chair. It creaked beneath his weight. ‘May as well make yourself comfortable,’ he said. ‘We could be here for a while. He’ll probably leave us to stew, hope we get uncomfortable and more willing to answer his questions.’ He snorted. ‘’Course, if ah were him ah would have separated us and questioned us individually.’

  ‘Why?’ Sherlock asked, sitting next to Crowe.

  ‘If he questions us separately then he can check to see if we give the same answers to his questions. If we don’t, he knows that there’s areas where we might be lyin’. If he questions us together then you can hear my answers an’ change your story accordingly, an’ vice versa.’

  He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, reaching up to pull his hat forward to block out the light.

  Sherlock glanced around, but there was nothing in the room that was of any interest. It was deliberately bare of decoration and ornamentation.

  He found his thoughts turning to Mycroft. His brother might be nearby at the moment, but wherever he was it was probably even less comfortable than the room where Sherlock and Amyus Crowe were being kept.

  After about a quarter of an hour the door was flung open and the sergeant they had met before, Coleman, bustled in. He was carrying a notebook and a pencil.

  ‘Just some details to clear up,’ he said before he even sat down. ‘I don’t think this is a particularly difficult case. Quite clear to me.’

  Amyus Crowe removed his hat and raised an eyebrow. ‘You might be surprised,’ he said.

  ‘The facts seem undeniable,’ the sergeant said. ‘Stop me if I’m wrong, but the room was locked and there was only one way in and out – the door. Two men were inside. When the room was unlocked, one man was found to be dead and the other was holding a knife. Have I missed anything?’

  ‘No blood on the knife,’ Sherlock pointed out.

  ‘The blood was wiped off on the dead man’s shirt as the knife was pulled out.’

  ‘Have you checked the shirt for signs of wiping, or is that just an assumption?’ Crowe asked.

  ‘You can’t deny there’s blood on the shirt,’ the sergeant protested.

  ‘Pumped out of the wound, yes, but are there any signs that the blade was deliberately or accidentally wiped against the material? Wipin’ and pumpin’ leave very different traces.’

  ‘Irrelevant,’ Coleman snapped. ‘Blood is blood, and there was only one knife in the room. Now, what I need you gentlemen to tell me is what you were doing visiting the accused.’

  ‘He’s my brother,’ Sherlock said quietly. ‘Mister Crowe is a family friend. We were meeting Mycroft for lunch.’

  ‘Which tells me that the murder was not premeditated,’ Coleman said, pencilling a note in the notebook. ‘You don’t kill a man knowing you’ve got someone turning up for lunch any moment. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.’

  ‘For what motive?’ Crowe asked.

  The sergeant looked up from his notebook. ‘Business deal gone wrong, argument over a woman – could be a whole set of reasons. In the end, that’s just a detail. The important thing is that we’ve got a murder and a murderer. That’s all the magistrate will be interested in.’ He paused. ‘Now, if I could have your full names and addresses, I’ll make a note for the file.’

  Crowe gave the information, and Coleman dutifully wrote it down. Judging by the way he put his hands on the desk, ready to push himself to his feet, Sherlock realized that the interrogation was already at an end. He felt as if they were on a train, already hurtling down a preordained set of tracks, and there was no way to turn off and choose another direction.

  ‘Could we see Mycroft?’ he blurted. ‘Just for a few minutes?’

  Coleman looked dubious.

  ‘What harm could it do?’ Crowe asked gently. ‘They are brothers, after all. And maybe seeing young Sherlock here will make your prisoner more amenable. More likely to confess.’

  Sherlock glanced sideways at Crowe, shocked, but the big American winked at him with the eye that was facing away from Coleman.

  The policeman thought for a moment, obviously reluctant. ‘Oh, very well,’ he said eventually, with bad grace. ‘I don’t suppose it will do any harm.’

  He went to the door and opened it. A constable – the one who had escorted them from the Diogenes Club – was standing guard outside.

  ‘Take these two down to see the accused,’ Coleman said. ‘Give them ten minutes with him, then escort them to the front door.’ He turned back to Crowe and Sherlock. ‘I appreciate your time, gentlemen. An unfortunate business, of course, but please remember – if nobody committed any crimes then you wouldn’t need us, and I could go and join my father in the family haberdashery business.’

  Coleman bustled out, and the constable gestured to them to follow him. He led them back through the maze-like interior of the building, down several flights of stairs to a basement level where the walls were lined with unpainted brick and pools of water glittered blackly on the tiled floor. A row of closed metal doors extended along the length of the corridor. The constable led them to a door about a third of the way along, then took a key ring from his belt and used one of the keys to unlock it. He gestured them in. ‘Ten minutes, and not a second more. I’ll be out here if there’s any trouble.’

  Crowe gestured to Sherlock to go in first and followed him in.

  Mycroft was sitting upright on a bench that ran along one side of the room, hands neatly clasped on his lap. His eyes were closed, but he opened them and looked up as Sherlock entered. Light was provided by a narrow barred and glassed slit at the top of the far wall that presumably gave on to the road. The cell was so small the three men nearly filled it. There was now
here for Sherlock and Crowe to sit, so they stood.

  ‘Nice of you to visit,’ Mycroft said. ‘I apologize for my surroundings.’

  Crowe looked around. ‘Cosy,’ he said. ‘Ah had worse when ah first sailed from America to England.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mycroft pointed out, ‘but you had the chance to leave when the ship docked.’

  ‘A good point,’ Crowe conceded, ‘but at least you get this accommodation for free. Ah had to pay for mine.’

  ‘Will you two stop!’ Sherlock snapped. ‘This is serious.’

  Mycroft nodded. ‘I understand. I was merely trying to find some levity in the situation.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Sherlock asked.

  ‘My head is pounding, and I feel woozy. That may just be the stress of being hurried through the streets by a group of burly policemen.’ He shuddered. ‘I rarely travel more than a hundred yards away from the Diogenes Club. My office and my lodgings are both within that ambit.’ He glanced at Crowe. ‘Have you made any progress in establishing how the murder was committed? I have come up with seven separate theories, but I lack the evidence to distinguish between them.’

  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?’