by Paul Cornell
Speake didn’t think he’d worked with Gullister, but said he wouldn’t necessarily remember. Flamstead just raised an eyebrow: as if. Ross confirmed that, as far as IMDb knew, Cassell’s was the only connection. Quill asked if the name Dean Michael meant anything to them. It didn’t. Ross, saying it was a matter of form, asked for alibis from all three actors for the times of the previous murders. Speake protested, saying he didn’t know he’d need his bloody lawyer present, thank you very much, chums, but Flamstead calmed him down.
‘You had to ask, didn’t you, Inspector?’ said Flamstead, actually giving Quill a wink. ‘In the old country, things are still done in the proper way and in the proper order.’
After a lot of humming and hawing, Speake agreed to check his diary. Lindt and Cassell had to compare theirs on their tablets. ‘You had that thing,’ said Cassell, ‘with that girl, on that night.’
‘She is not “a girl”.’
‘Hah! What do you mean she’s not? She’s very nice.’
Lindt’s smile grew more forced every second. He finally declared they’d worked out where Cassell was on every occasion and showed Ross the diary entries. There were a number of people in every case who could confirm where she was every time.
Flamstead’s schedule, on the other hand, had a few holes in it. ‘You like walking, collecting your thoughts, don’t you?’ said his PA. Which included the first and second murders, and he claimed to have been asleep in his hotel at the time of the Holmes killing. Ross hadn’t identified the victim in that case, of course, just that there was another incident the details of which hadn’t been released to the media. That news made all the actors and Lindt nod seriously in a way Quill had only seen during charity telethons.
None of them could have been on the river for the death of Gullister. Speake turned out to have been in the same pub for all of the killings, which he only haltingly admitted. The faces of Lindt and the other two actors betrayed only polite interest.
None of them had even heard of Stoke d’Abernon, and checks with Cassell and Speake’s companies confirmed that none of the productions planned to go there. All those involved agreed to send lists of recent threatening messages on social media. ‘Good luck wading through mine,’ said Cassell.
‘I was just wondering, while we’re here,’ said Ross, and Quill noted that her tone was nowhere near as casual as her words, ‘if we could get a look at the set.’
Ross was glad to get the access she’d been after so easily. She and Quill followed the actors, Flamstead’s gorgeous PA and Cassell’s producer into the enormous open space of the warehouse-turned-studio. A scene was being prepared in Holmes’s study. Ross and Quill were able to step past the cameras and the assistant director, who was watching as a prop person checked every detail of the wall behind Holmes’s desk against a photo. ‘It’s not like in the Holmes Museum,’ she said.
‘Because,’ said Flamstead, coming to stand beside her, ‘they so precisely depict what Holmes’s study would actually be like.’
His tone of voice seemed to tend towards irony. She found herself reacting to him. He was a very pretty bloke. He moved in real life like he did on screen, such expressive hands. His presence made her sad, though. Her feeling horny without happiness, without a smile, that was a bit grim. If she was with anyone now, what would that be like? Mechanical, functional. There would be no love without happiness. Unless she could get it back.
She made herself concentrate on what she’d come here for. She’d wanted to get a look at the production team, to find out if any of them had anything about them that drew Sighted attention. Beyond that, though, the deductive part of her wanted to get immersed in Sherlock Holmes, to be able to walk in his (or her) shoes, to add that perspective to the ops board. She was now playing against someone extraordinary, and she needed data. ‘So,’ she said, ‘tell me about your Holmes.’
Flamstead looked pleased by the question. ‘As with all Sherlocks, he’s a mess of emotions and loves human companionship.’
The gorgeous PA literally stuck her head into the conversation. ‘By which Gilbert means the opposite, of course.’
‘My network still worries about that,’ said Cassell, ‘six seasons in. They want Gregory House, but nice.’
‘They do not—!’ Lindt stopped himself, and just held up a hand, excusing himself.
‘Charmingly eccentric,’ said Speake, as if he was the one who’d been asked. ‘He can only do romance by rote, like Holmes does all socializing. He’s somewhere on the Asperger’s spectrum, but he knows how to use emotions; he has mental lists of things he can do to get a result from other people. That’s the heart of how I portray the character. Nothing like me. That’s what they call acting, mate. Actually, if the Internet is anything to go by, the autism thing really excites a section of my audience. The section living in their mother’s basements, I mean. Isn’t that a dreadful Yank expression? But so true.’
‘He’s much more at home in disguise,’ said Lindt, having regained the power of speech. ‘He can be all these other people with different lives absolutely perfectly.’
‘He?’ said Cassell.
‘I am talking about—’ And Lindt had to force himself, once again, not to continue.
‘Well, that’s so not the case with Shy,’ said Cassell. ‘So I don’t know which Holmes he’d rather be working on.’ Lindt just shook his head, keeping his smile fixed. ‘She loves her life; she’s at home in her own skin. Her big problem is trying not to keep intervening in dear Watson’s love life.’
‘Some sort of Watson is about the only thing our three versions have in common,’ said Speake. ‘She’s just started shagging her Watson . . .’
‘In the show.’
‘They know that,’ said Lindt.
‘. . . because “will they? won’t they?” has become “yes, they do” – immediate gratification, thank you – and as for us two Sherlocks, we’re both shagging—’
‘Irene Adler?’ said Flamstead. ‘I deny everything. Goodness, dear old Irene Adler, such an underused character in the modern media.’
‘She’s not used very well,’ said Cassell, pointedly.
Flamstead grinned as if this was the most charming thing he’d ever heard. Speake just shrugged.
Flamstead looked back to Ross. She wasn’t just imagining this, was she? He was checking her out. She was pretty sure she didn’t have anything to compare to the sort of Hollywood stars he must hang about with. Not even to his PA.
Ross found herself needing to look away, to Cassell. ‘Are all of you still into this, or do you feel the urge to play Sherlock kind of . . . dying away?’
Flamstead moved deliberately back into her eyeline. ‘Far from it. I have a very straightforward relationship with the viewing public. I adore them.’ The other two were busy loudly indicating that they still loved playing the part. It sounded like they, at least, meant it, to whatever degree they usually meant things. Lindt was looking at Cassell with something approaching relief.
‘You’re all much darker than the Conan Doyle, aren’t you? Even your movies . . .’
‘Conan Doyle got damn dark,’ said Speake.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Cassell. ‘I look at those movies of yours and think, Kids can get in to see that? But I think that about everything in modern cinema.’
‘You’re just saying things that are true,’ sighed Speake, ‘as if they’re important.’
‘You have to give the audience what they want,’ said Flamstead. ‘And these days, what the audience most wants is gritty realism that says something about their lives, inhabited by people like themselves.’
‘Sure they do,’ said Speake.
Ross also felt that, once again, the twinkle in Flamstead’s eye said he was saying the opposite of what he meant. She didn’t quite know what she was working towards. There was something in Flamstead’s expression that seemed to be leading her on, in more ways than one. ‘How does deduction work for a modern Holmes? In Victorian London, maybe it was true t
hat there were tight social rules, so you could tell what someone’s job was by, I don’t know, an ink mark on their hand, but these days that might just mean the suspect had an ink fetish.’
‘You still can sum people up by a collection of facts about them. That’s what predictive marketing does. That’s what every quiz on Facebook does,’ said Cassell. ‘Oh God, are you saying we’re getting it wrong?’ She gestured to Lindt. ‘Listen to her – this is a detective!’
‘We have detectives—’ began Lindt.
‘Don’t you think,’ said Flamstead, interrupting, ‘that character is more important than clues?’
‘A lot of Holmes’s deductive methods still hold up,’ said Speake, as if personally affronted by that idea they might be getting it wrong. ‘As Conan Doyle said, “When you have eliminated the impossible . . .”’
Ross sighed. ‘Let me stop you right there.’
‘“. . . whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” What’s wrong with that?’
She didn’t want to say that for her unit, eliminating the impossible was the tricky bit. ‘After you’ve eliminated the impossible, there are still loads of possible things left, and some of them won’t be true, so what does that even mean?’
Speake frowned, then looked around, as if there might be another gorgeous PA handy who could take her off his hands. Ross knew she wasn’t being fair. She didn’t know what she was working towards here. She looked back to Flamstead, who gave her that secret smile. Even if he was trying to encourage her in some way, him fancying her, or trying to impress her, or whatever it was didn’t help with anything.
‘Question,’ said Quill. ‘Same thing I asked the wife. Tell me the first thing that comes into your head. Who killed Sherlock Holmes?’
Flamstead looked around for a moment, found his target and pointed. ‘He did.’
Ross and Quill turned to see a pleasant-looking middle-aged actor in a tailcoat approaching. ‘Who’s this?’ asked Quill.
The man extended a hand, a wry smile on his face. ‘Professor Moriarty,’ he said.
This Alexander Moriarty, it turned out, was a Victorian investment banker, part of some sort of global conspiracy, played by an actor called Patrick White. Something in the back of Quill’s brain was itching. He listened to the actor saying that originally in the stories, Conan Doyle had given the name James to Moriarty’s brother, but then had forgotten that detail and given it later to Moriarty himself. So their version had it that that had been part of a complicated scheme of multiple identities on the professor’s part. ‘My Moriarty loves leading Holmes astray,’ White said, ‘planting clues, leaving little hints.’
‘Mine too,’ said Cassell. ‘He’s a serial killer, so he’s an intellectual and leaves puzzles, of course.’
‘And also mine,’ said Speake, ‘though in my case, the clues and puzzles are all a bit more fun. Despite,’ he added, seeing Cassell’s raised eyebrow, ‘all the horrible murders.’
‘Unlike the original Moriarty,’ said Ross, ‘who tried to leave no clues at all.’
Cassell, hearing once again an expert opinion, threw another accusing look to Lindt, one that made him spread his hands in final, utter disbelief.
Quill suddenly realized that he knew what had been troubling him. His heart started beating so quickly he had to turn away, to try to control his breathing. It was so big he didn’t want to say it out loud. Ross finished her tour of the facility and took him aside to tell him what he already knew, that there was nothing particularly of the Sight here. He nodded, eager to get moving. He shook his head when she asked him what was wrong. This wasn’t something he could share with her, not yet.
He shook the hands of all the Holmeses and the producer and the PA and that blessed Moriarty, and when they got out of the warehouse and onto the street, told Ross to go home, said he’d be fine, realized she hadn’t asked, had to stifle a laugh and headed for the Tube station. He looked back and saw her staring after him, concerned. Understandable. He went on his way for a few moments, then stopped, letting the Southwark early evening commuter crowds pass around him. Then he looked quickly over his shoulder. Yes. Someone had ducked back round that corner just as he’d looked. ‘Onto you, sunshine,’ muttered Quill, and, at a more careful pace, headed once more for the Tube.
He surfaced at Bond Street and walked up the well-heeled streets of apartments and offices until he got to Manchester Square, where he took a right. Google Maps took him to the corner of Welbeck Street and Bentinck Street. It was dark now, with lights on in some of the apartments, the air filled with the noise of cars and the occasional burst of music from them. He stayed on the corner, almost willing it to happen, a ghost van with two horses to roar down Welbeck Street and off down Bentinck, to escape into the night via Marylebone Lane. He waited some more. Nothing. It started to rain. Quill finally, grudgingly, turned right and headed down Welbeck Street, then turned a couple more corners and found Vere Street.
He stood between a Pret a Manger and a Debenhams, both lit and warm. Here he was hoping to be attacked, for a brick to fall from a high roof, aimed at his head. Again, he waited. Again, nothing. He closed his eyes. Perhaps the alternative to what he was feeling was to go to a pub, to let go and really fucking enjoy himself, to lose himself in doing all the things he enjoyed so that when death did finally come, and Hell with it, at least he could say he’d lived fully first. Wouldn’t that involve sex too? He couldn’t think about that away from Sarah. He didn’t want to go to Hell and deserve it. If he got pissed, he ran the risk of telling her the truth when he got home. He realized he was thinking about his own situation again. Nothing had happened. Damn it. He’d been so sure. He started to move in the general direction of Bond Street.
There was a sudden shout that sounded more like a snarl and Quill’s eyes snapped open as he threw himself backwards, instinctively, and just had time to see a cyclist all in black racing away from him. Was that some sort of cosh in his hand? If it was, it must have missed Quill’s head by inches. The man turned the corner.
‘Hoi!’ Quill shouted, and sprinted after him, but by the time he’d got there, the cyclist had already vanished into the Oxford Street traffic. ‘Oh, I’ve got you now,’ said Quill, panting as he leaned on the corner. He felt himself shaking and willed it to stop. Finally, there was something he could do. Finally, he had something to hold on to.
THIRTEEN
Sefton spent the next two days in Stoke d’Abernon going door to door with Costain, getting a lot of nice conversations, but also sometimes suspicious encounters on the doorstep. Sometimes people failed to come to the door at all, when the twitching of the curtains clearly indicated there was someone at home. At one point, as they were leaving a particularly manicured close, a uniform showed up and enquired what they were doing there. Sefton hung back and watched Costain politely explain their mission here, which resulted in the lid saying, ‘Yeah, whatever. Let’s just keep it moving along, OK?’
Sefton nearly got out his warrant card and asked who this youth’s boss was, but then he noted Costain’s warning glance. They didn’t want the local nick gossiping about the big-time London undercovers in town, that obviously something tasty was going down. They moved on.
In the evenings, they worked the pubs. They met a lot of genuine and pleasant people. Their skill set was all about getting folk to open up. They heard a couple of anecdotes about friends of friends who’d played Sherlock Holmes, but nobody had played him themselves. In a small town like this, the numbers who had must be tiny, approaching zero. Sefton started to wonder if they were actually seeking a specific individual, a target their opponents might already have in mind.
Someone mentioned the nearby Yehudi Menuhin School of Music, and Sefton and Costain shared a sudden moment of excitement about making the connection between Holmes and the famous violinist, but a visit to the school the next day revealed that none of the current students had done anything like stand in for Holmes’s hands on television. The administrator got
scared of the warrant cards they showed and their refusal to reveal the purpose behind their questions and clearly started wondering if his school was harbouring the ‘Sherlock Holmes killer’. It took a long time to talk him down and make absolutely sure there were no potential victims on the premises. Despite the administrator’s promises of secrecy, that looked like gossip waiting to happen. Ross reported that the handful of messages left on the office answerphone hadn’t yet yielded anyone who actually lived in Stoke, just people from outside who’d been contacted by mates who’d read the leaflet.
They decided the next day would go more quickly if they split up. Sefton went to a small newsagent’s, which looked rather out of place on its leafy corner and which kept a pristine red postbox outside, and checked out that day’s local newspaper. If Ross couldn’t find anyone in this town who’d played Sherlock Holmes, then their opponents might also be struggling, and might have had to abandon the Internet for local measures such as small ads. Nothing in those today. There also wasn’t anything in the cards in the window of the shop.
It was while he was checking those that Sefton heard a voice calling to him and turned to see an old lady coming out of the shop, a newspaper under her arm. She had the look about her of someone who did good works, a satchel over her shoulder, a cardigan with lots of pockets and flat, sturdy shoes.
‘Excuse me, but you’re one of the two young men, aren’t you? Sherlock Holmes? Those?’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘Well, I hope you’re willing to believe something that sounds very strange.’
Sefton grinned. ‘Ma’am, you’ve come to the right people.’
The woman, who said she didn’t want to give her name, because ‘Enough people around here think I’m batty already’, led him to a square of parkland near a garden centre. ‘I always get up early,’ she said, ‘with the lark. One of the advantages of getting old. I take a walk if the weather’s all right. Still safe to do so round here. About a week ago – no, you’ll want me to be precise, won’t you, because you’re a policeman? Don’t look so shocked. I know people at the Yehudi. They’ve been talking about nothing else . . . Yes, it was last Wednesday, about six, just getting light, anyway. I was doing my usual circular walk, from my house to that newsagent, and as I came to the edge of the trees here, well, there he was. Sherlock Holmes, standing stock-still in the middle of the park. By the slides.’
