Black Ice

CHAPTER TEN

The old man’s hand closed on Sherlock’s shoulder. ‘There is a door at the back,’ he whispered. ‘It leads into an alley. Go, with my blessing.’

‘Maybe ’e’s in the back,’ the first voice said.

Sherlock nodded a quick ‘thanks’ as the old man shuffled forward to the edge of the shelving. ‘You are looking for books, maybe? On boxing, judging by the look of your ears. Or maybe some gloves to protect those knuckles of yours?’

‘We’re lookin’ for a boy who came in ’ere,’ the deeper, rougher voice said.

‘Boys I do not allow in the shop,’ the old man replied. ‘They steal. Thieves they are, all of them.’

‘But I saw one come in…’

The voices faded away as Sherlock moved through the cramped storage area behind the shop and found a door that led out into a rubbish-strewn alleyway running perpendicular to the road on the other side. He glanced both ways. There was nobody about. He sprinted, as quickly as he could, back towards the Charing Cross Road, with his heart pounding in his chest and the violin case banging against his legs as he went.

Well, that answered at least one question. Whoever it was who had framed Mycroft was still interested in them.

Sticking to the crowds, and always aware of the people around him, Sherlock made his way through London to the Sarbonnier Hotel. When he got there, lungs burning with the effort of running so hard, he found Mycroft in conversation with a big man who appeared all the bigger thanks to the bulky coat he wore. His shoulders, Sherlock thought, were so wide that they made him look like a sideboard. His abundant red hair didn’t end with his scalp: it continued down in flourishing sideburns, an extravagant moustache and a vast, spade-shaped beard.

‘Ah, this is Mister Kyte,’ Mycroft said, interrupting their conversation. ‘He is the Actor-Manager of Kyte’s Theatrical Company. Mister Kyte, this is my… protege… Scott Eckersley’ He stared warningly at Sherlock, but Sherlock had already picked up the fact that he, and – presumably – Mycroft, were using false names.

‘Pleased to meet you, sir,’ Sherlock said, shaking the man’s hand. The backs of Mr Kyte’s hands were covered with reddish-brown hairs, and the palms prickled against Sherlock’s, as if hairs were growing there as well.

‘And you, sonny, and you.’ Mr Kyte’s voice was a deep wheeze. ‘Mr Sigerson here tells me that you’re a dab hand with ropes and scenery.’

‘I am that, sir,’ Sherlock said brightly. Inside, he was wondering what the man was talking about. He stared at Mr Kyte’s face. There was something strange about it: Sherlock could see a series of small cuts around his eyes, nose and cheeks. How had they got there?

‘Good stuff. Good stuff indeed. Well, come on down to the theatre later and meet the cast and crew.’ He turned to Mycroft – or Mr Sigerson, as Sherlock now had to think of him. ‘Thank you again for joining our motley team. I’m sure it’ll be an adventure to tell the grandchildren about!’

‘Indeed,’ Mycroft said. ‘It is not likely that I will end up with grandchildren, but I shall make copious notes just in case.’

Mr Kyte left, and Sherlock turned to Mycroft. ‘Mister Sigerson? The son of Siger? Couldn’t you have come up with a better name than that?’

‘I was thinking on my feet,’ Mycroft said. ‘Not the most comfortable position for me to be in.’ He gazed at the violin case under Sherlock’s arm. ‘What is that?’

‘It’s… a violin. In a case.’

‘Yes, I can see that. The question was rhetorical. You have covered rhetoric during your Greek lessons at school, haven’t you? The question it was meant to spark in your mind was: why have you gone and bought a violin when you should have been buying warm clothing, as I told you?’

Sherlock thought quickly. ‘There were two men looking for me,’ he said. ‘I went into a shop. They followed me in. I had to get out through the back of the shop. I bought the violin on impulse, because-’

‘Because you needed something to change your profile, to make yourself look different,’ Mycroft said. Sherlock could tell from his voice that he was dubious about Sherlock’s story. ‘This is a worrying development: it means that they are still looking for you, and by extension Mr Crowe and me as well. This makes it even more imperative that we leave London, indeed the country, as soon as is practicable.’

As Mycroft spoke, Sherlock started to feel uneasy. He hadn’t actually lied to Mycroft, but he had moved around the sequence in which events happened in order to make it look as though he had a reason for buying the violin other than the fact that he had fallen in love with the instrument.

‘Well, I suppose we can always burn the violin for warmth, should the need arise,’ Mycroft continued. ‘How much did it cost you?’ He raised a hand. ‘No, don’t tell me. I would rather remain happily in ignorance. Go and put that… thing… in your room, and then join me for lunch.’

‘But you only just finished breakfast.’

‘Sherlock, if I want to be scolded then I will return to my lodgings and talk to my landlady.’

Sherlock scooted upstairs to the room that Amyus Crowe had booked for him and left his new violin on the bed. As he came out, he noticed that the door to the room next to his, the room Crowe had booked for himself, was open. He looked inside, expecting to see Crowe, but a maid was making up the bed. Crowe’s bag had gone.

‘Excuse me – what happened to the man who rented this room?’

‘He’s checked out, sir,’ the maid said, turning round and curtseying.

‘Checked out?’

‘Yes, sir – unexpected, like.’

‘Oh. Thanks.’

He rushed downstairs to tell Mycroft, but Crowe was standing in the hotel lobby with his coat on and his bag at his feet.

‘Ah, Sherlock, ah was hopin’ ah’d see you.’

‘You’re leaving?

‘There ain’t anythin’ for me to do here. Your brother is takin’ you off my hands. Ah should get back an’ look after Ginny.’

‘But…’ Sherlock trailed off, knowing that Crowe was right.

‘Exactly Ain’t no point fightin’ against the facts. Ah ain’t needed on this trip. That’s all right – ah’m a grown man. Ah can take it.’

‘I wish you were coming.’

Crowe’s face was grim. ‘So do ah. There’s somethin’ awry ’bout this whole business. Ah think your brother’s normally infallible mind has been affected by gettin’ locked up like a common criminal, an’ by the fact that things are gettin’ close to home. Ah can’t help feelin.’ that he’s made a miscalculation somewhere, but ah can’t quite put my finger on it. Ah do believe that this little expedition to Russia is a mistake, but ah can’t convince him to call it off". We had an exchange of words about it earlier. He’s set on goin’. Ah think the disappearance of his man in Moscow has discomfited him more than he will admit.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s never easy, losin’ one of your team. It’s happened to me, more than once. Even so, ah don’t see why he needs to drag you along with him.’

‘Give my… my regards to Virginia.’

‘Ah will, right enough.’ Crowe stuck out his hand. Sherlock shook it solemnly, his fingers vanishing inside Crowe’s massive fist. ‘Take care, an’ take care of Mycroft. He’s goin’ to be out of his element.’

A hotel porter rushed over to take Crowe’s bag, but he waved the man away. ‘When ah’m too old to pick a bag up, that’s when ah’ll ask for help,’ he said. He picked the bag up and threw it over his shoulder. ‘Come and visit us when you get back. Tell us everythin’ that happened.’

‘I will.’

Sherlock watched as Crowe walked out of the hotel door without glancing back. He felt as if a chunk of himself had just been carved away. He felt vulnerable, alone.

Eventually he walked through into the restaurant, where Mycroft was sitting at a table with a whole turbot on his plate. He was meticulously filleting the fish with his knife and fork.

‘If I were the Good Lord,’ he said conversationally as Sherlock sat disconsolately at the table, ‘I would have ensured that fish that were edible were also easy to eat. It seems like a failure in design that something that tastes so good creates such difficulty in removing the bones. Either we are meant to eat it or we are not; there should be no middle ground.’ He glanced up. ‘Has Mr Crowe left?’

‘Yes, he has.’

‘Good.’ Mycroft lifted a slice of fish on his knife and carefully transferred it to his fork. ‘He disapproves of my plan to take you to Russia.’

‘He said you argued.’

‘We did. He was very forceful in his opinions. He is very protective of you, you know.’

‘We’ve been through a lot together, over the past year or so.’

‘Indeed.’ Mycroft popped the fragment of fish into his mouth and chewed for a moment with his eyes closed. ‘Beautifully cooked. The black butter sauce is exquisite. I shall have to remember this place. It is not so far from my office that I could not take my luncheon here on a regular basis.’

‘Mycroft, are you sure we should travel to Russia in disguise?’

‘I have considered the matter thoroughly, and I see no other option.’ He checked his watch. ‘The third member of our expedition should be joining us in a moment. I sent him a telegram earlier.’ He glanced briefly at Sherlock. ‘There is something I should warn you about. I said that this man was one of my agents, and that he was a violinist.’

‘Yes?’

‘What I did not say was that you already know him.’

Sherlock heard the words, but he didn’t understand them. ‘I know him? But I don’t know any of your agents. I’ve never met any of them – except perhaps Mr Crowe, but I don’t think he counts as one of your agents.’

‘He certainly does not.’ Mycroft’s expression was of a man who was preparing himself to convey bad news. ‘Sherlock,’ he said, as he lifted his gaze to look past his brother, ‘I believe you are acquainted with Rufus Stone.’

Eight words. Eight simple words that seemed to drop like stones into the deep well of Sherlock’s mind. He could feel the ripples bouncing around his mind long after Mycroft had finished speaking. He turned his head so that he could see what Mycroft was looking at, but the logical, analytical part of his mind already knew. The other part – the emotional part that still belonged to a fourteen-year-old boy – was hoping that it wasn’t true, that whoever was standing behind him was a complete stranger.

But it wasn’t, and that emotional fourteen-year-old part of his mind shrivelled up just a little bit more than it already had.

Rufus Stone was standing behind him. Rufus Stone, with his unkempt brown hair and his stubble-flecked chin and his green velvet jacket. He wore a gold ring in his ear. He looked uncomfortable, as if he desperately wanted to be somewhere – anywhere – else. Sherlock certainly did.

‘Sit down,’ Mycroft said. ‘You are making the place look untidy. Don’t mind the waiters; I don’t think they get many Gypsy violinists in here. The experience will do them good.’

‘Hello, Sherlock,’ Stone said as he sat down.

‘You work for my brother?’ Sherlock asked. ‘Why didn’t you ever tell me?’

‘Because I told him not to,’ Mycroft replied. ‘When we decided that you and Amyus Crowe were to travel to America a few months ago, I was worried that Mr Crowe would find himself dragged off on side-business, or suddenly discover that he loved his homeland so much that he couldn’t return to England. I arranged for Mr Stone to get a ticket on the same ship, to keep an eye on you. In New York he was to shadow you and keep you safe.’ He snorted. ‘That, of course, did not turn out as well as I had anticipated, thanks to your actions in following young Matthew Arnatt’s captors on to a train bound for who-knows-where.’

‘You work for my brother!’ Sherlock repeated. The thought was like an obstacle in the centre of his mind that was too big to climb over.

‘I need hardly add,’ Mycroft continued, ‘that teaching you the violin was not in his instructions.’

‘No, that was my choice,’ Stone said. ‘And my pleasure.’

‘But what do you do for Mycroft?’ Sherlock asked.

Rufus Stone shrugged. ‘Mostly I travel, free as a bird and just as poor. I can move unchecked and unhindered through a lot of the Central European countries. Nobody bothers an itinerant violinist like me. I pick up rumours, and I hear things in conversations in taverns and the like, and I report them back to Mr Holmes here.’

‘One can often judge more about the state of a nation’s economy by what the farmers are saying over a glass of ale than one can by reading the newspapers,’ Mycroft said. ‘I have a large number of people, all over the world, whose only task is to reap big bushels of what the general public are saying, winnow it down and send me the resulting kernels of truth.’

‘And moving to Farnham?’ Sherlock’s hands were shaking, and he had to hold them together beneath the table to stop anyone else from seeing. He felt betrayed. ‘Whose idea was that?’

Stone looked across at Mycroft. When Sherlock’s brother remained silent, Stone said: ‘When I came back to England, Mr Holmes asked me to stay in the country for a while, see what I could learn about the state of the nation. I suggested that I should start in Hampshire.’ He paused, awkwardly. ‘I wanted to see how your violin playing was coming along.’

‘I bought a new violin,’ Sherlock said. His voice sounded small, even to him.

‘I’d like to see it.’

Mycroft coughed. ‘Mr Stone will be accompanying us to Russia. He has travelled in that country before, and of course we need a violin player in order to complete the theatrical company roster.’ He paused for a moment, and then continued in a softer voice, ‘Sherlock, believe me, I would never have done this for any reason other than for your own good, and I would not have let you find out that I had done it if it had not been entirely necessary.’

‘That doesn’t make it all right,’ Sherlock said. He stood up. ‘I’m going out.’

‘Be at the King’s Theatre in Whitechapel at four o’clock this afternoon,’ Mycroft instructed him. ‘We are to meet our travelling companions.’

Sherlock walked away without answering. Behind him, he could hear Mycroft saying: ‘No, let him go. He will come to understand, in time, that what I did was entirely logical and for his own protection.’

He walked out of the hotel and into the street. It was beginning to rain, and he felt the cold prickle of raindrops on his face, but he didn’t seem to care. Everything around him was grey and uninteresting. Meaningless.

He turned left and started to walk, not really caring where he was going. He clamped down hard on his thoughts, not letting any consideration of his brother, or Rufus Stone, or the trip to America that now turned out to be largely fiction, to get started. He just walked; walked and observed. Like some kind of mobile calculating machine, he took in the facts around him and let his mind join them together. The man wearing the red-spotted neckerchief over in that doorway – he had caught an illness, probably in India, and would be dead within a week, judging by the state of his skin. The watch that the gentleman in the top hat was consulting was not his own: he had most likely stolen it from someone, and the theft had only occurred in the past few days. The beggar on the corner in the trolley with the wheels, the one who was wearing a sign round his neck claiming that his legs were paralysed, actually walked several miles a day, judging by the recent wear to his shoes. All of this Sherlock deduced from the things he observed, and none of it mattered to him. None of it mattered at all.

He lost track of time as he walked, but when he checked his watch and found that it was nearly four o’clock, he realized that he was already near Whitechapel. His mind had steered him in the right direction without him realizing.

The theatre was tucked away in a side street off a main thoroughfare. Its frontage was red brick and white portico columns; four steps led up to the main doors. Sherlock trudged up them and through into the lobby. There was nobody present – the shutters were closed over the ticket booth – but Sherlock could almost sense the essence of the crowds that presumably crossed the foyer on a regular basis: a trace of cigarette smoke, eau de toilette and perfume that had been absorbed by the ornate plaster of the walls and ceiling.

Stairs led up on either side of the lobby presumably to the circle seats, but on the far side was a pair of doors which he presumed led directly to the stalls. A door to one side of the ticket booth probably led to the backstage areas: the dressing rooms, the green room and the stage itself.

Sherlock stood for a moment, breathing in the aromas of the theatre, listening to the sighs and groans as the building flexed, letting his gaze skip across the old posters which were framed behind glass on the walls. There was something almost alive about this place. He’d been in a lot of buildings which were public spaces, but this was the only one he’d ever known which felt as if it had absorbed something good from the people who had passed through its doors. Deepdene School for Boys had reeked of desperation, and the Diogenes Club felt prickly and irritable, but the King’s Theatre felt like a home he’d never been in before.

He walked to the main doors into the auditorium and pushed them open.

The space inside was smaller than he had expected. Rows of seats curved away to either side of him and sloped away in front, all of them covered in tired green velvet. The underside of the circle seating loomed like a low, dark cloud above him. It was supported by iron columns that had been wrought into artistic shapes and painted brown and red and green, like slender trees with leaves and flowers on them. Curtain-backed boxes were attached to the walls on either side, containing small numbers of secluded seats for anyone who had the money to pay for them. That was the way the tickets were arranged, Sherlock knew: the stalls were the cheapest, the circle seats the next most expensive and the boxes most expensive of all, although ‘expense’ was probably a relative term as far as this isolated little theatre went. Aisles cut through the stalls seating, leading down towards the stage.

On the stage was a group of people, including his brother. Mycroft was resplendent in overcoat, top hat and cane. For a moment, gazing at him, Sherlock could see him as a person, not as his brother. He had a natural authority to him; he radiated importance and power.

Rufus Stone was standing just behind and to one side of Mycroft. The red-haired, bear-like man Sherlock had seen earlier – Mr Kyte – was standing next to Mycroft, still wearing his massive coat, and on his other side was a group of people that Sherlock presumed to be actors and backstage staff. The actors were, in the main, wearing costumes of a bygone age: ornate velvet dresses for the women, lace shirts and puffed breeches for the men.

‘Ah, Scott,’ Mycroft said. His voice boomed through the auditorium. ‘Come and join us.’

Sherlock made his way down one of the aisles. The way to the stage was blocked by a fenced-off area that Sherlock supposed would contain a small orchestra for musical productions. He glanced left and right. Five steps led up from the floor of the stalls to the stage on either side. Arbitrarily, he chose to go to the right.

When he got up on the stage, he was surprised to see that it sloped slightly. It was about a foot lower at the front than it was at the back. He supposed that tilting the stage in that way gave the audience a better view of what was going on, especially the people in the cheap seats, some of whom would actually be looking up at the actors. The edge of the stage was lined with gas lamps behind reflectors and there was a trapdoor in the centre.

He crossed the stage to where Mycroft was standing, watched by everyone else.

‘I have already introduced Rufus Stone, who will be playing violin in the pit,’ Mycroft said grandly. Allow me, then, to introduce my protege, Master Scott Eckersley. With the kind permission of Mister Kyte, Scott will be joining the company as general factotum.’ He turned to Sherlock. ‘Scott, allow me to introduce you to the cast and crew’ He indicated a tall man with long blond hair brushed back from a wide brow. He was in costume. ‘This is Mr Thomas Malvin. He is the company’s leading man.’

Malvin nodded at Sherlock, barely even looking at him.

‘And this,’ Mycroft continued, nodding towards a beautiful pale woman with green eyes and raven-black hair who smiled at Sherlock, ‘is Miss Aiofe Dimmock She plays the romantic female leads opposite Mr Malvin.’

Sherlock smiled back. Aiofe must have been at least ten years older than him, but there was something about her smile and her green eyes that made his heart skip a beat.

Tearing his eyes away from Aiofe Dimmock, Sherlock followed Mycroft’s waving hand. ‘Mr William Furness and Mrs Diane Loran provide invaluable supporting roles to the two main actors,’ he said.

William Furness was a portly man with a fringe of dyed black hair running around the back of his scalp, from ear to ear. His nose was swollen and knobbly, and his cheeks had the red-veined appearance of the heavy drinker. Presumably the veins would be covered by make-up when he was actually giving a performance, but there wasn’t much that could disguise that cauliflowerlike nose apart from distance. He raised two fingers to his forehead in mock-salute. Mrs Loran was a matronly woman with her hair tied up into a bun. She looked as if she would be more at home in a kitchen than on stage. She smiled warmly at Sherlock. If he had been closer he suspected she might have given him a hug.

‘Along with Mr Kyte,’ Mycroft said, ‘who often appears on stage with Mr Malvin and Miss Dimmock as well as running the company, these four are the main performers. The others you see here serve to fill in crowd scenes and come on in minor parts when they are not shifting scenery backstage. From left to right we have Rhydian, Judah, Pauly and Henry.’

Sherlock nodded to the four boys of about his own age who were standing behind the main actors. Rhydian was thin and dark, with a pointed chin and heavy eyebrows. Judah was also thin, but his hair was so pale and fine that it was almost white, seeming to float around his head, and his eyes had a pinkish look to them. Pauly and Henry were twins: both muscular, both brown – eyed. The only difference between them was that Pauly (Sherlock assumed it was Pauly, as he was the one nearest to Mycroft) had lost the little finger of his left hand in an accident at some stage.

Someone coughed in the wings. Looking into the shadows, Sherlock could just about make out a tall man whose mouth was overhung by a thick black moustache. He seemed almost to be leaning backwards, hands in his pockets, as he stared at the people on stage. His eyes glinted in the darkness.

‘Ah yes, I almost forgot,’ Mycroft said. ‘Although the rest of the pit orchestra will be joining us later, this is Mr Eves. He is the conductor and musical arranger.’

‘Mr Eves,’ Sherlock acknowledged.

‘Master… Eckersley,’ the conductor acknowledged. His voice was dry, laconic. ‘A pleasure to meet you, I am sure.’

‘Mr Kyte, ladies, gentlemen,’ Mycroft – or, rather, Mr Sigerson, as Sherlock supposed he should be known from now on – proclaimed, ‘thank you for taking us into your company, into your confidence and, I hope, into your hearts. Mr Kyte has seen my references, and knows that I can be trusted to serve you responsibly, as I have served other theatrical companies in the past. I undertake for my part to serve you as General Manager to the best of my abilities, and to take you ever onward and ever upward. To that end, the first order of business is to ensure that the incipient trip to Moscow goes without incident. My aim is to ensure that all business affairs are concluded swiftly and painlessly, so that you may concentrate on your artistic endeavours. Put your trust in me, and I will not let you down.’

A smattering of applause followed these words.

‘And with that,’ Mr Kyte rumbled, ‘I suggest we get back to rehearsals. Five minutes, everybody, and then I want everyone on stage. Remember – we leave for Moscow in three days!’