Stone Cold

by Andrew Lane

  The next one was three days away, but it depended totally on the weather.

  At various times as he worked Mrs McCrery, or her scullery maid, or one of the boys who stoked fires for her, or one of the other students in the house, would pass by the doorway, glance in and either frown or smile, but there must have been something about the expression on Sherlock’s face that stopped them from coming in and questioning him. Twice a tray of tea and scones appeared on a side table, although he had no idea how they had got there.

  The next two days passed with agonizing slowness. Sherlock went to one more tutorial session with Charles Dodgson, at which they went through Euclidian geometry, attempting to derive it all from first principles. Sherlock felt stretched and exhausted by the session, but also exhilarated. Dodgson, he felt, was training his mind the way that a sports coach would train an athlete’s body.

  At the end of the tutorial, Dodgson suddenly said, ‘Oh, I nearly forgot – would you wish to see some photographic images of your brother? I found them just the other day, and thought you might like sight of them.’

  ‘That would be – fascinating,’ Sherlock said, meaning it.

  Dodgson went across his room to a bureau, from which he took a cardboard box. He placed the box on a table and took the lid off. Sherlock joined him, and saw that inside the box was a pile of pieces of stiff paper. On the top piece was an image in black and white of Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft, sitting at a table beneath a large, overhanging plant. He was staring pensively off to one side – probably wondering what his next meal would be, Sherlock thought uncharitably. Judging by the relative thinness of his face, the length of his hair and the way his waistcoat buttons were not straining against the cotton, the picture might have been five or six years old.

  Sherlock smiled, despite himself. This was like a window on to the past. This was his brother – not an artist’s interpretation, prettied up to please the subject, but the way Mycroft had actually been on a particular day at a particular time. Even the fact that it was just black and white didn’t worry Sherlock – Mycroft only ever dressed in black or pinstripe material, his hair was black and his face was pale, so the image looked exactly like him.

  ‘That,’ he said softly, ‘is quite amazing.’

  ‘He is looking at a plate of biscuits,’ Dodgson said. ‘I told him that he had to sit there for fifteen minutes without moving while I took the portrait. In fact the process only took eight minutes, but I was so enjoying seeing him pining for the biscuits that I just left him there to suffer.’ He pulled the paper image out and placed it to one side. Beneath it was another image. This one had been taken outside, in a garden. It showed Mycroft standing with a group of other people – a large man with broad shoulders and a bowler hat, a pretty woman in a frilled dress, a boy who looked to have been about nine years old, and an older man with white hair brushed straight back off his forehead.

  ‘This is your brother again, with some friends,’ Dodgson said. ‘I forget now who they were.’

  ‘Mycroft had friends?’ Sherlock said, amazed.

  ‘Yes,’ Dodgson replied quietly. ‘I was one of them.’

  Sherlock left Dodgson’s rooms still amazed by this newfangled process of photography, and fascinated by what effects it might have on society.

  He read the local newspaper every day, hoping desperately that there would be no reports of any more robberies at the mortuary. If there were, it meant that his entire theory was wrong. He also kept his ears open as he was going around the town, but nobody mentioned anything to do with robberies. Lots of discussion of other matters of interest, but nothing about bizarre or macabre thefts.

  On the morning of the third day, Sherlock awoke and glanced immediately out of the window. It was cloudy, which was what he wanted, but it didn’t look like rain, which was also what he wanted. So far, so good.

  He went through the day in an agony of expectation. Eventually, as night was approaching, he met up with Matty just outside the hospital gates. Matty was wearing dark clothes as instructed. Sherlock himself had dressed in the darkest trousers and jacket he had. He only had white shirts, so he had a dark scarf wound around his neck and tucked inside the jacket, hiding the whiteness. He even had gloves.

  ‘Ready?’ Matty asked in a hushed voice.

  ‘As I’ll ever be. I hope I’m right.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Matty said. ‘You always are.’ He glanced around. ‘So what’s the plan. If we see somethin’, do we interfere, or do we run off an’ call the peelers?’

  ‘Neither of those things,’ Sherlock said firmly. ‘If we see anything, then we just observe from a distance, and follow. I want to know where the thief goes and what he does with these body parts. If he’s arrested here, then he might clam up and I’ll never know.’

  ‘So this is basically a huge exercise to satisfy your curiosity then.’

  Sherlock considered for a moment. ‘I suppose it is,’ he admitted. ‘Do you think I ought to call the police?’

  Matty shrugged. ‘I dunno. I’m just followin’ you.’

  The gates to the hospital were locked, and there were only a few scattered gas lamps shining from inside the big building. Sherlock and Matty headed around the outside wall, which was set apart from the trees and bushes surrounding the estate by a ten-foot gap. The wall was ten feet high – and if that wasn’t difficult enough to climb under normal circumstances, the top was set with broken glass bottles to deter intruders. Sherlock assumed that the hospital had been someone’s home until it was converted, which would explain the security measures. People didn’t usually break into hospitals: they were usually more keen to get out.

  Every now and then they passed a particularly old and large tree whose branches overhung the wall. Matty looked at Sherlock each time, but Sherlock shook his head. He wanted to get closer to where the mortuary was located in the grounds, and he was also looking for something special.

  Up ahead, Matty seemed to be listening for something. Sherlock listened as well, but apart from the sound of night birds waking up, and the occasional screaming of a fox, there was nothing.

  ‘What are you listening for?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘Guard dogs,’ Matty said over his shoulder. ‘Can’t hear any barkin’, but I thought I might hear ’em breathin’ as they paced us along the inside of the wall.’

  ‘There aren’t any guard dogs.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘It’s a hospital, not a bank. Why would there be guard dogs? And besides, there’s always the possibility that someone confused on painkilling drugs might get out of bed late one night and go wandering around outside. The last thing the hospital directors would want was for a patient to get ripped to pieces by a guard dog.’

  ‘All right then,’ Matty said dubiously, but he still appeared to be listening as they walked.

  In the end, Sherlock found the thing he was looking for just as the sun was dipping beneath the horizon. Not too far away from where he estimated the mortuary was, there was a place where the roots of an unusually large tree had undermined the wall, buckling the bricks upward. Some of the bricks had fallen out, leaving a hole, and the roots themselves had spaces between them, washed out by rain perhaps, which would allow a person to crawl through. Based on the fact that there were clear marks of spadework, Sherlock assumed that the thief had come through this way as well.

  He glanced around nervously. He had planned their expedition so that they would get to the mortuary before the thief, but that was based on an assumption that the thief would operate late at night. If he was going to conduct this theft at sunset, then he might already be there. That meant he might be watching Sherlock and Matty at that very moment.

  Sherlock shivered.

  ‘Cold?’ Matty asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Cold feet?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘Let’s go then.’

  Matty dropped to his knees and then squirmed his way through the gap. His booted feet wa
ved for a moment in the dark space, and then he was gone. Sherlock counted to ten, looked around again, and followed.

  The short tunnel under the wall was damp and smelt of mould, earth and some animal that Sherlock assumed was either a fox or a badger. The thought triggered another one in his mind – what if Matty, crawling ahead of him, suddenly came across a badger coming the other way? Badgers were notoriously fierce, with sharp teeth and even sharper claws. Matty wouldn’t stand a chance!

  Sherlock speeded up, knowing that it wouldn’t affect Matty’s speed but unable to help himself.

  In the end he felt a clean breeze on his face moments before he emerged from the earth inside the hospital grounds. Matty was standing a few feet away, brushing himself off. ‘That was fun,’ he said, smiling. ‘We should do it again sometime.’

  Sherlock decided not to mention badgers. Best not to worry his friend too much.

  Together they sprinted across the hospital grounds, going from bush to bush, tree to tree, until the red-brick mortuary was ahead of them. Sherlock caught Matty’s shoulder, holding him back.

  ‘We goin’ to watch from ’ere?’ Matty hissed.

  ‘No. If the thief comes through the same place in the wall we did, then he’s going to come right past here. We need to move around so that we can see the approach and the building as well.

  Sherlock circled the mortuary, Matty in tow, until he found a large holly bush that the two of them could lie beneath. From there they had a clear line of sight straight ahead to the door of the mortuary and left to the direction Sherlock thought the thief would come from. If the thief came from a different direction, such as behind them, then the bush would still provide cover.

  The sun was gone by now, and the stars were beginning to twinkle in the sky. Faint wisps of cloud drifted across the darkness. There was, fortunately, still no sign of rain. The conditions were perfect.

  And that’s where they stayed for the next three hours. Time passed slowly, like treacle trickling from a tin. Sherlock felt himself begin to doze a couple of times, and had to jerk himself awake. Once he heard Matty snoring, and nudged the boy in the ribs with his elbow to wake him up. He didn’t mind if Matty caught some sleep, but making a noise like a pig eating its swill was too much. It might alert the thief.

  Sherlock had taken some scones from Mrs McCrery’s kitchen before coming out and hidden them inside his jacket. When he got hungry enough he pulled them out and passed a couple to Matty. Unfortunately he didn’t have any water. He should have got a hip flask from somewhere, he realized, and filled it up before setting off. Next time he was in this situation, he would prepare better.

  After that realization, he couldn’t stop thinking about how dry his mouth was.

  At some time during their vigil, a fox trotted across the lawn around the mortuary. It paused, head held high, and sniffed the air, then it moved on. Later a family of badgers – two adults and five cubs – crossed the area in a line. They didn’t react to any smells or sounds – they just kept on moving, fearless.

  The moon appeared from above the trees. It was three-quarters full – just the right size for the theft to take place on that day of the week, on that day of the month, in those weather conditions.

  Matty’s hand closed over Sherlock’s and squeezed. Sherlock glanced sideways to see that his friend was staring off to one side. He followed the boy’s gaze and noticed a black-clad shape moving through the bushes. Whoever it was, they were crouching down and moving slowly, checking in all directions to see if they were observed.

  Sherlock felt a warm flush of triumph run through him. He had been right! He had successfully predicted the theft!

  The figure emerged into the clear area around the mortuary and looked around one final time, pausing and sniffing the air a bit like the fox had done. It was a man, and he was wearing a long poacher’s coat – the kind with large pockets for hiding rabbits and grouse. He went up to the door. His body shielded what he was doing, but Sherlock thought that he was reaching into an inside pocket of his coat. The pocket seemed to be full of something – something that squirmed as the man’s hand closed on it. He brought his hand out, and both Matty and Sherlock gasped. There was a small figure, like a doll, crouched on his palm – and it moved!

  ‘That’s sorcery!’ Matty breathed.

  ‘No,’ Sherlock said, ‘that’s a monkey.’

  ‘I knew that,’ Matty said.

  It had, to be fair, taken Sherlock a couple of seconds to recognize that the thing was a monkey. He had seen creatures like it before, at fairgrounds, at circuses and in zoos. This one was small enough to be hidden in a man’s pocket, obviously, but intelligent enough that it could be trained. As the two of them watched, the monkey’s handler whispered something in its ear. Quick as a flash it jumped from his hand to a drainpipe that ran up the side of the building to the roof. Sherlock saw it silhouetted against the sky for a moment, then it was gone.

  The man looked around, checking to see if there was anyone there, and then slipped around the side of the building. Matty and Sherlock followed, keeping in the shadows and behind shrubbery as much as they could.

  They found the man by the back door. He was leaning against it, listening. After a few seconds, Sherlock heard a sliding sound as the bolts were pulled open by his little companion. He pushed against the door, and it opened. Within a second the man had slipped inside and vanished into the darkness.

  Sherlock considered for a few moments. Using a monkey to open the door was very clever, but Sherlock still wanted to know what was going on inside. Should the two of them wait, or should they move closer?

  The decision was obvious – he had to see. He had to know.

  He pulled Matty with him, out of the shelter of the holly bush and towards the mortuary. For a few moments he debated whether to go in through the back door, as the thief had done, but he decided that would be a mistake. He might meet the man as he was coming out, which would be a disaster. When they got to the wall, he gestured to Matty to stand with his back against the bricks and his hands clasped in front of him. Matty realized immediately what was going on and gave his friend a leg-up. Sherlock virtually flew on to the roof, and had to extend his hands to catch his weight as he fell forward. The air whooshed out of his lungs as he hit the stonework. He stayed still for a few moments, desperately hoping that the thief somewhere below hadn’t heard him. There was no sound; no movement. Eventually, when he thought it was safe, he moved on.

  The roof was sloped, and there were several skylights in it. Sherlock quickly crawled across to one of them and looked down. Fortunately the moon had risen higher in the night sky, and its silvery light shone down through the glass and into the room. It took a few moments for Sherlock to recognize it, but it was the room where he and Lukather had talked a few days before. The room was empty.

  Sherlock crawled across to the next skylight. The room below him now had two metal-topped tables, the size of beds, in its centre. They were set side by side. The edges of the tables were raised, and each one had a drain set towards one corner so that it could be washed down. Presumably this was where Lukather actually conducted his post-mortems. Again the room was empty, but there was an open door over to one side. Sherlock crawled in that direction, and found himself staring through a third skylight into a room that was empty apart from a series of large drawers set into one wall, stacked five across and four up. The drawers were large enough that there could be a body inside each one. On the outward face of each drawer there was a metal frame in which a small piece of card rested. There was writing on each card – presumably the name of the person whose body resided therein.

  The man was standing in the centre of the room.

  Sherlock couldn’t see his face – he was wearing a scarf wrapped around the lower half, obscuring his chin, mouth and nose. He was staring at the drawers. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. After glancing at it for a few moments, he strode across to one of the drawers and checked the wr
iting on the card that was attached to the front. He grunted, and moved to the next drawer. Again he looked at the piece of paper in his hand, checking the details. This must have been the right one, because he reached out with his right hand and opened the drawer.

  Sherlock caught his breath. This was fascinating – it hadn’t occurred to him before, but the thief was looking for particular bodies! He wasn’t just taking a part from a body at random – he was specifically targeting them! Did that mean he was specifically targeting the parts as well? And if so – why?

  While Sherlock was asking himself these questions, the thief was pulling the drawer fully open. The movement took a lot of effort, even though the drawer appeared to be sliding on greased runners. Eventually the drawer was completely open. Looking down on it from above, Sherlock could see a shape beneath a white sheet – presumably the dead body.

  The thief reached out a hand. For a moment, with a shiver, Sherlock thought he was going to pull the sheet completely off, but instead he just pulled it up a little, revealing the corpse’s feet. There was, Sherlock saw, a cardboard tag attached to the big toe of the left foot by a length of string. He supposed that was to make sure that the bodies didn’t get mixed up.

  Something moved beside Sherlock.

  He jerked away, suddenly thinking that it might be the monkey, but when he whirled his head around to look it was only Matty. He must have found his own way up.