Black Ice

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The next week passed like a feverish dream. After a few days in London, settling in with the theatrical company while Mycroft arranged the final details of their transport, Sherlock had boarded a train at Charing Cross Station with the rest of them. If it had been Waterloo then he might have been more nervous, remembering the chase in the tunnels beneath, but Charing Cross was a smaller place with no bad associations for him. The train had taken them through the familiar English countryside down to Dover, where they had transferred on to a boat that took them across the English Channel to France. At Dunkerque they had boarded another train, and in three days they would be in Moscow. Three days to cross Europe! Incredible!

The accommodation was fairly basic. The seats were barely padded, and there were no beds. Instead, the troupe pretty much just slept where they sat, stretched out where possible across the seats.

The musicians, to whom Sherlock had not been introduced, sat together and seemed to sleep or play draughts on small folding tables all the time. Only Mycroft and Mr Kyte had their own separate berths, as befitting their status as General Manager and Actor-Manager of Kyte’s Theatrical Company. They spent most of their time alone.

Sherlock spent much of the time glued to the window, watching the land flash past. Names that he’d only ever seen in atlases were suddenly coming to life in front of him: countries such as Belgium and Prussia; towns and cities including Brussels, Koln, Berlin, Warsaw and Minsk…

He was staring out of the window, watching wide swathes of fir trees slip past, when Mrs Loran sat down beside him.

‘You seem lonely,’ she said. ‘I thought you might fancy a chat.’

‘I’m fine. I’m just… fascinated by the way some things change as we travel, like languages and food, and yet other things, like plants and animals, stay more or less the same. There’s always birds and cats, for instance.’

‘And sausages,’ she pointed out. ‘I don’t believe there’s a country in the world that doesn’t have sausages.’ She gazed at him sympathetically for a while. ‘Your mentor, Mr Sigerson, doesn’t seem to have had much time for you on this journey,’ she said eventually.

‘He’s been busy,’ Sherlock replied, feeling that he ought to defend Mycroft.

‘Nevertheless, I would have thought that, having taken you under his wing, he would have been keen to look after you, not leave you on your own.’ She cocked her head to one side. ‘He doesn’t seem very interested in your welfare.’

‘He’s got a lot of things to think about.’ Feeling sensitive, Sherlock tried to change the subject. ‘Have you been acting for long?’

She gazed past him, out of the window. ‘Oh, sometimes I feel as if I have been acting all of my life,’ she murmured.

The landscape changed as they moved further and further west. The little bit of France that Sherlock had seen, and the broad swathe of Belgium that they had travelled through, were a mixture of dark green forests and light green fields. But as they travelled through Prussia and into Russia itself the land became more and more waterlogged and the temperature plummeted until the smaller ponds were frozen and there was snow on the ground. The people seemed shorter and darker, or perhaps the low cloud that sat perpetually over the land was having an effect on his senses.

At one point, Sherlock walked along the carriage corridor to see how Mycroft was doing. His brother was sitting in his compartment, propped up by pillows, looking decidedly unwell. He was surrounded by open books, and appeared to be making notes in a small notebook. He looked up as Sherlock knocked and pushed the door open.

‘Yes?’

‘I wanted to see if you were all right.’

‘No, I am not. The infernal rattling of this train is upsetting my digestive system. I am attempting to distract myself with books, but they are of limited help.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Just leave me alone to suffer in peace,’ Mycroft snapped. ‘I do not feel up to conversation at the moment.’

Sherlock backed out and closed the door. He stood for a few moments outside his brother’s compartment, unsure what to do. He couldn’t remember feeling as lonely and as useless as this since the first time he’d walked into his aunt and uncle’s house in Farnham.

He turned to walk away, but something caught his eye. It was just outside the door to Mr Kyte’s compartment, lying by the door frame: a small brown object about the size and shape of his thumb with a thin piece of cord or string attached. He bent to pick it up. As his fingers and thumb closed on it, and it gave slightly under the pressure, he realized with a shock that it was a mouse. A dead mouse. The thing that he had thought was a piece of string dangling from it was its tail.

A dead mouse? He supposed that trains must have mice, just like houses. He looked around for somewhere to put it, but the door to My Kyte’s compartment opened a crack, and the burly, red-bearded man stared out at Sherlock through the gap. ‘Yes?’ he wheezed. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing,’ Sherlock said. ‘I was just… visiting Mr Sigerson.’ He slipped the dead mouse into his pocket. For some reason he didn’t quite understand, he didn’t want to mention it to Mr Kyte.

‘If you’re bored,’ Kyte breathed, ‘go and talk to the boys. You’ll need to work with them on the backdrops and the props. Get to know them.’

He closed the door in Sherlock’s face.

Actually, after three days in London, learning how to raise backdrops and move props on stage, Sherlock had got to know the four younger members of the company pretty well. To pass the time on the train, Sherlock finally gave in to their requests to join them in a game of cards. Within the space of a day they had taught him the rules of whist, backgammon and baccarat, and with his mathematically oriented mind – not to mention the retentive memory that seemed to be the genetic heritage of the Holmes family – Sherlock soon caught on to the subtleties of the games.

He became fascinated with the way that the twins handled the cards. They manipulated the pack like expert gamblers, shuffling easily and dealing the cards smoothly and with precision. Eventually, inevitably, he asked them how they did it, and so they showed him, beginning with the various different types of shuffle – the Overhand, the Hindu, the Weave, the Table Riffle and Hand Riffle and the Strip. It was, they told him, all a matter of dexterity and practice. That was what Rufus Stone had said about playing the violin, of course, and so when the games had finished he borrowed the pack and spent the next few hours trying, over and over again, to master the different techniques for shuffling the cards. With his thin fingers and his sheer tenacity, he soon got the hang of it, and for the rest of the games he was shuffling and dealing almost as well as Henry and Pauly.

By the third day, staring out of the window had lost its attractions. Sherlock found himself more and more watching the actors and actresses – Mr Malvin, Mr Furness, Miss Dimmock and Mrs Loran. He tried to use the skills that Amyus Crowe had taught him to determine something about their histories and their characters, but he found himself foxed. Just as he thought he had nailed down a particular deduction about one of them, something came along and changed it. Perhaps it was something to do with their acting training – perhaps what he was seeing was different characters coming out in them without their knowing.

At one point, as the train was clattering across a particularly marshy and boring landscape, Sherlock noticed that Mr Furness – the older, fatter actor with the veined skin and the cauliflower-like nose – had a box on his lap and was sorting through the contents. They seemed to be jars of various sort. He noticed Sherlock watching, and gestured him over.

‘Theatrical make-up,’ he said. His breath smelt of gin. ‘You’ve seen it before, surely?’

‘Not close up,’ Sherlock confessed. ‘I’m usually backstage.’

‘This kit’s been with me for years,’ Furness confided. ‘I’ve got face paints made out of beeswax and mutton fat with zinc, lead, lampblack, cochineal, ultramarine, ochre or Prussian blue added to give ’em their colour. Then there’s the other stuff: burnt cork and lampblack for the eyelids and eyelashes, burnt paper for making shadows, spirit gum for fastening wigs down, or crepe hair for moustaches and beards. Use them properly and you can change the shape of your whole face, at least as seen from a distance.’

Seeing Sherlock’s disbelieving look, he continued: ‘See, if you highlight the protruding bones of the face, like the nose and the cheekbones, with a lighter colour, your features become exaggerated. If you put some dark shadowing in the bits that dip in, it adds depth. Changing the highlights and shadows, you can make sagging jowls, forehead wrinkles, eye pouches and prominent veins. And when all else fails…’ He produced a metal tin from the box. ‘Nose putty!’

‘Nose putty?’ Sherlock asked in disbelief.

‘Changes the shape of your nose, your chin – any bit that doesn’t move much. Nose putty doesn’t flex, see, so if you put it on your cheeks then it’ll crack, but you wouldn’t believe how much a different shaped nose and chin can change your appearance. Your best friend wouldn’t recognize you!’

Eventually, after Sherlock had lost track of the hours and the days, and the journey had become a timeless haze, the train pulled into Moscow Kursk Station.

A tall man in a black frock coat, black fur-trimmed overcoat and black top hat stood just the other side of the ticket barrier. He wore a small, trimmed beard and moustache. His skin was pale, like porcelain. He seemed to be watching for someone, and as soon as he caught sight of the party he smiled and raised a hand.

Mr Kyte was first through the barrier. He extended a hand, but the man stepped forward and embraced him warmly. Mycroft, who was just behind Mr Kyte, stepped backwards quickly.

The bearded man spoke to Mr Kyte and Mycroft for a few moments, then turned to the rest of the party. ‘My name is Morodov,’ he said in accented French; ‘Piotr Ilyich Morodov. It is my pleasure and my duty to represent Prince Yusupov, who is sponsoring your visit to this our motherland, our beloved homeland. Please be assured that not one detail has been left unchecked to ensure that your visit is enjoyable as well as artistically productive. Now, please follow me. I will take you to the Slavyansky Bazaar Hotel, where I have secured rooms for you.’

He snapped his fingers and porters, dressed in crudely stitched and badly fitting green serge uniforms, leaped to take the various bags and suitcases that the party had brought with them. He led the way outside, where several carriages were drawn up waiting for them.

The weather was cold and the ground was snowy, but instead of the brown slush that built up in England when it snowed and carts and carriages mixed the snow up with mud and straw, this snow was white and deep. It crunched under their feet as the party left the station and found the three carriages that would take them to their hotel.

Along with the rest of the party, Sherlock stared in amazement at the various means of transport that thronged the street outside the station. He was used to the flat farm carts of Farnham and the hansom cabs and broughams of London, but these were something completely different. They were more like the gymnasium equipment he’d used at Deepdene School for Boys than anything a person would willingly ride in: long, narrow planks on which passengers sat astride, as if they were on a horse instead of being pulled by one, with sides that sloped outward to a footboard, the whole thing set on four sprung wheels with a driver sitting at the front of the line of passengers. They looked uncomfortable for men, and entirely unsuitable for women in their dresses.

The group watched as the porters loaded their bags and suitcases on to the backs of the carriages, then climbed aboard. The journey through the streets of Moscow was short, but Sherlock was fascinated by the impressiveness and the age of the buildings. Everything seemed to be built on a larger scale than in England – a scale that dwarfed the locals, who scurried around in the shadow of the buildings, hunched up against the cold, like mice running along skirting boards. And the colours! He was used to buildings that were the colour of the stone, or brick, or wood that they had been constructed from, but here in Moscow every second building seemed to have been painted. Some were pink, some blue, some green, and a lot of them were yellow for reasons that escaped Sherlock. Maybe Russia had a surplus of yellow paint.

When they had arrived at the hotel, and Piotr Ilyich Morodov had signed them all in, said his goodbyes and left, Mycroft and Mr Kyte gathered the troupe together in the lounge.

‘I have prepared itinerary sheets,’ Mycroft announced, ‘which detail the events that will be taking place over the next few days.’ He raised the back of his hand to his lips and coughed. ‘I will hand these sheets out in a moment, but let me summarize the details for you. Firstly, we are here in Moscow at the invitation of Prince Yusupov. The Prince is a well-known patron of the arts, and has long nurtured a desire to see a British theatrical company act on stage. The Prince has put at our disposal for the next three days the Maly Theatre. The Theatre is undoubtedly the foremost theatre in Moscow, which means that by definition it is the foremost theatre in Russia.’

‘What is the seating capacity?’ Mr Malvin, the leading actor, asked. He projected his voice as if he were already on stage. ‘I am a respected actor. I do not appear in front of a mere handful of people.’

‘The primary stage has a capacity of nine hundred and fifty people; the secondary stage a capacity of seven hundred and fifty.’

‘And which stage are we on?’ Miss Aiofe Dimmock, the leading lady interrupted.

‘We are performing on the secondary stage,’ Mycroft replied smoothly ‘but only because the stage area itself is smaller and more suited to our rather more intimate performances.’

Mr Kyte stepped forward. ‘I would not wish to have your delicate and nuanced acting to be swamped in a vast auditorium,’ he explained.

Miss Dimmock nodded, and stepped back demurely. ‘Very thoughtful,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

‘I will need to examine the auditorium in advance,’ Malvin said loudly. ‘It would be impossible for me to act on a stage on which I have never trod before. I will need to assess the acoustics and determine for myself how to project my voice to the most far-flung corners so that everyone might hear.’

‘Of course. Let me come to that in a moment.’ Mycroft paused, gazing at the company members. ‘We are engaged, as you know, for three performances, spread over three separate nights. For the first night, Prince Yusupov has sent out invitations to the creme de la creme of Russian society. This, I am assured, is the social event of the season.’

‘Will the Tsar be there?’ Mrs Loran piped up from beside Sherlock. ‘Oh, I do hope he is!’ She glanced at Sherlock, and said conspiratorially, ‘When I was a little girl all I ever wanted was to marry a prince. It’s too late now, but I can still dream.’

‘Alas, the Tsar is detained by affairs of state.’ Mycroft spread his hands in apology. ‘But rest assured that the audience will consist of a panoply of titled heads – Princes and Princesses, Counts and Countesses, Barons and Baronesses, Dukes and Duchesses. The Russian aristocracy is extensive, and most of them will be present on that first night, as will the British Ambassador to the Court of the Tsar and his good lady.’

‘Oh, how marvellous!’ Mrs Loran exclaimed, clapping her hands together. She leaned towards Sherlock. ‘Perhaps one of them might take pity on a middle-aged lady and make an honest woman of me,’ she whispered. He smiled back. He suspected that Mrs Loran would be more than a match for any Russian nobleman.

Mycroft turned his attention to the rest of the company. ‘On each of the three nights you will, I understand, be performing a selection of scenes from the great British playwrights – William Shakespeare, of course, Ben Jonson, Christopher Marlowe and John Webster. Mr Kyte -’ he turned to the big man who stood behind him, ‘I understand that you will be introducing the scenes and placing them in context for the audience.’

‘That is my intent,’ Mr Kyte rumbled. ‘I will be speaking in French, although the performances will be in English.’

‘Excellent.’ Mycroft turned to the younger members of the company – the dark haired Rhydian, the pale Judah and the twins Henry and Pauly. ‘In terms of scenery and props, I am assured that the theatre has a number of backdrops that can be used to represent everything from the battlements of Elsinore Castle to the Forest of Arden, along with a large amount of furniture and other things that might prove useful. I suggest that first thing in the morning we all go to the theatre, and while the actors are performing whatever vocal exercises they need in order to check the acoustical properties of the auditorium, you lads sort through everything with the aid of Mr Kyte. Work out what you want to use, and the regular staff at the theatre will get it all set up for you in the afternoon and familiarize you with the means of raising and lowering the backdrops.’

‘It’s all ropes,’ Henry said. ‘In the end, it’s all just ropes and pulling.’

‘Tomorrow afternoon, while the theatre staff are organizing the backdrops, there will I understand be a full rehearsal in which everyone will take part.’ He switched his gaze to the tall, moustached Mr Eves and the gaggle of musicians who stood behind him. Rufus Stone was there as well. He appeared to have bonded quite happily with the other musicians. ‘That rehearsal will include the various musical numbers which are a part of the performance, and so all musicians will be required to attend.’

Mr Eves nodded, ‘We will, ah, be there. Worry not.’

Mycroft nodded. ‘I am sure you will.’ He let his gaze roam around the members of the company. ‘On the second night the audience will consist of the artistic, rather than the titled, Moscow community. On the third night, tickets have gone on sale to the general population of Moscow. I think we can safely assume that you will be performing in front of a representative selection of the upper middle class of this fair city.’ He paused, and clasped his hands in front of his rather prominent stomach. ‘Remember that you are artistic ambassadors for your country’ He clapped his hands. ‘Now, to dinner, and then to bed. We meet for breakfast tomorrow at eight o’clock, and then to the theatre!’

The various members of the company headed for the hotel restaurant. The matronly Mrs Loran paused beside Sherlock and reached out to ruffle his hair. ‘Do you want to join me in the hotel lounge after dinner, Scott?’ she asked. ‘I was hoping you could help me with my lines by reading the other parts in the script.’

Sherlock’s initial reaction was to say yes. He was growing to like Mrs Loran more and more. Before he answered, he glanced over at Mycroft. His brother had obviously heard Mrs Loran’s question, and he shook his head briefly.

‘I wish I could,’ he said, ‘but I need to go to bed early and get a good night’s sleep.’

‘Perhaps tomorrow, after breakfast, then,’ she said, smiling, and walked off.

Mycroft beckoned to Sherlock and Rufus Stone to join him.

‘I apologize for spoiling your evening,’ he said to Sherlock, ‘but the more time we spend socializing with these people the more likely it is that we will let something slip, and they will realize that we are not what we seem. Our best course of action is to be polite but reserved.’ His glance moved to Stone, and then back to Sherlock. ‘The journey has been tiring,’ he said quietly, ‘and I see no reason to exert ourselves this evening. Get some rest. Tomorrow, when the remainder of the company head for the theatre, Sherlock will accompany me to the apartment of my agent here in Moscow. I wish to establish what exactly has happened to him.’ He glanced at Stone. ‘You, I am afraid, should go to the theatre with the rest of them. As principal violinist, your absence would be noted.’

‘You might need me,’ Stone said, ‘if there’s trouble.’

‘If there’s trouble, I suspect that nothing will help,’ Mycroft said soberly. ‘We are in a foreign country in which the free expression of any thought that runs counter to the Tsar’s is ruthlessly suppressed by both his official and his secret police forces. But we do what we must.’

‘Then why take Sherlock?’ Stone pressed. ‘If it’s that dangerous, he should come to the theatre with me.’

Mycroft shook his large head. ‘I accept the logic of your thoughts, but I may need Sherlock’s sharp eyes, sharp wits and athletic skills. It may be necessary to gain access to the apartment through a window, in which case I am entirely unsuited to the task. Once inside, he may spot some clue that I miss. At the very least, he can keep watch for the police while I am inside. And if something happens to me, he may be able to return and warn you.’

Stone nodded reluctantly. ‘Very well. If that’s all…?’ Receiving Mycroft’s nod, he walked away, towards the restaurant.

Mycroft gazed critically at Sherlock. ‘There is something on your mind, I perceive.’

Sherlock shrugged. ‘It’s not important.’

‘It is important. You are displeased with me because I did not tell you that I was employing Rufus Stone, and you are displeased with Rufus Stone because he did not tell you that he was working for me. You believe that you have been let down by both of us – that you cannot trust us.’

Sherlock steadfastly looked away, refusing to meet Mycroft’s eyes.

‘Sherlock, like it or not, I have a responsibility to look after you. Setting Rufus Stone to watch over you when I could not was a part of that.’

‘I thought…’ Sherlock started, surprising himself, ‘I thought he was my friend’

‘People can be several things at once,’ Mycroft cautioned. ‘I am your brother, but I am also an official of the British Government. Amyus Crowe is a bounty hunter, but he is also your tutor. Mr Stone is a violinist, and he is also an occasional agent of mine. That does not, by the way, preclude him from being your friend as well.’ He placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and squeezed gently. ‘If it comes as any consolation, on his return from America Mr Stone told me that he had come to regard you with something approaching brotherly affection. He enjoyed your company. He asked me if I considered this a problem. I told him that I did not. I would rather he was looking out for your welfare because he wanted to, than because I had told him to.’

Something that had been wound up tightly inside Sherlock’s chest for several days seemed to loosen slightly. Not completely, but slightly.

‘Now,’ Mycroft said, ‘let us sample the delights of Russian gastronomy. I am led to believe that Russian chefs are almost as good as French ones.’

They walked into the restaurant, which had a high, arched ceiling. Its walls were lined with paintings showing soldiers in brightly coloured uniforms – blue, green and red – riding horses and slashing at each other with sabres.

Mycroft noticed the direction of Sherlock’s gaze. ‘Ah, the Crimean War,’ he said. ‘Fought with Britain, France and Turkey on one side and Russia on the other. A curious and rather pointless conflict. And here we are, barely a dozen years later, having dinner in the capital city of our enemies. Diplomacy makes strange bedfellows.’ He paused, and a shudder ran through his large body. ‘Sherlock, I think this will be the last time I leave England. It may well be the last time that I leave London. Travel may broaden the mind, but so do newspapers and books of reference, and they can be experienced from the comfort of an armchair and in the presence of a bottle of fine brandy. I shall, in future, allow things to come to me, rather than me going to them.’

‘You must badly want to know what happened to your agent, for you to be here,’ Sherlock said quietly.

The maitre d’hotel looked up from his book of reservations as they approached. ‘A table for you, gentlemen?’ he asked in perfect French.

‘If you please,’ Mycroft replied. As the maitre d’ led them across the restaurant, Mycroft said quietly: ‘His name is Wormersley: Robert Wormersley We were at Oxford together. We shared digs, and we would talk long into the night about our hopes and dreams for the future. When we left Oxford we went our separate ways: while I went into the Foreign Office, he travelled the world adventuring and writing well thought out pieces of travel journalism, but we would still write letters to each other. Eventually our orbits intersected again, and he became my most trusted agent abroad.’ He paused. ‘We were friends, Sherlock. We were the best of friends. Acquaintances are ten a penny, but one does not get the chance to make friends like that very often in one’s life. When they come along, they should be cherished. That is why I need to be here. I owe it to him.’

‘I understand,’ Sherlock said as they sat down. ‘Or, at least, I think I do.’

‘Of course you do. You went all the way to New York to rescue young Matthew Arnatt. Now,’ he said, taking the menu from the maitre d’, ‘what do you wish to eat this evening? I understand the seafood in this city is particularly fine.’

The meal was excellent – good enough to please even Mycroft – and Sherlock’s brother allowed him to have a glass of wine with the meal. They talked of inconsequentialities – the different types of grape that could be used to make wine, the way brandy, sherry and port were made either by distilling or by fortifying wine, and the fact that sparkling wine was first made by Benedictine monks in the sixteenth century.

Sherlock sensed his feelings towards his brother easing as the meal went on. He still felt angry that Mycroft – and Rufus Stone – had gone behind his back, but he realized that part of that anger was directed against himself for not working it out.

He resolved to learn a lesson, though: never take anything on face value ever again.

At the end of the meal, while Mycroft was relaxing with a glass of brandy and a cigar, Sherlock said, ‘I’m going to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Mycroft nodded. ‘Sleep well. Tomorrow will be a difficult day.’ He frowned. ‘I have a feeling I am missing something obvious. It is not a comfortable feeling. If I was back in London, safe in the Diogenes Club, I am certain I would work it out in an instant, but here, with all these distractions…?’ He sighed. ‘Perhaps a good night’s sleep in a comfortable bed will help. Goodnight, Sherlock.’

Sherlock’s room was small, and on an upper floor, but it didn’t matter. It was more comfortable than his room back at Holmes Manor, and he was asleep within moments of undressing. If he dreamed at all then he did not remember what his dreams were.

The next morning was bright and crisp. Snow still lay on the ground, but the sun shone from a clear blue sky. Sherlock washed and dressed and then headed down to the same restaurant where he and Mycroft had eaten dinner.

Mycroft was sitting with Mr Kyte. He nodded at Sherlock as he entered the restaurant, then went back to his conversation.

Sherlock looked around. Mr Malvin and Miss Dimmock were eating together, while Mrs Loran was sitting by herself. She caught Sherlock’s eye and smiled at him. He smiled back. He liked her: she seemed to be treating Sherlock more and more like a surrogate son. He wondered about the missing and unmentioned Mr Loran. Had he died, or run off with another woman, or was he waiting at home for her?

The four stagehands – Rhydian, Judah, Pauly and Henry – were sharing a table and bickering. The musicians were scattered across three different tables, segregated by instruments: strings on one, brass on another and woodwind on a third. The conductor, Mr Eves, was sitting alone.

Despite the fact that he was in the string section, Rufus Stone was also sitting by himself. He waved as Sherlock caught sight of him, and indicated the spare chair at his table. For a long moment Sherlock debated whether to find a table by himself, but in the end he walked across and joined Stone.

‘Sleep well?’ Stone asked.

‘Not too badly,’ Sherlock replied.

‘The hotel is very impressive. Speaking as a man who is more used to hay as his quilt and the night sky as his ceiling, the bed was far too comfortable for my liking. When I woke up I found I was marooned in the centre of a mattress that was so soft it would have given a marshmallow a run for its money. It took me five minutes of exertion to struggle to the edge. I swear that if I’d slept for a half hour longer I would have sunk without trace.’

Sherlock didn’t reply.

There was silence for a few moments, then Stone continued quietly: ‘You said back in England that you had bought yourself a violin.’

‘Yes, I did.’ Sherlock felt as if he should add something, but he couldn’t think what to say.

‘I presume that your purchase of such an instrument indicates that you still wish to wrestle the muse of music to the ground?’

Sherlock shrugged.

‘Sherlock,’ Stone said, ‘I understand your feelings. I wish things were otherwise. Life being the way it is, bad things happen more often than good. The trick is to see the sunshine behind the dark clouds.’ He paused. ‘Sherlock, if you believe only one thing that I say, believe this: I enjoy your company, and if your brother were to tell me tomorrow that my services are no longer required then I would still wish to continue to teach you.’

Sherlock felt an unaccustomed tightness in his throat. He looked away, then back at Stone. ‘I’d like that,’ he said hesitantly.

‘Of course,’ Stone said, ‘that will have to wait until this particular mission is over. If I am not careful, playing down to the level of these fiddlers and blowers will seriously compromise my skills.’ He looked around, then lowered his voice. ‘I have a bad feeling about all this,’ he said. ‘I can’t quite work out why, but something is wrong here. Something is very wrong.’ He glanced at Sherlock. ‘Be careful this morning. Be very careful.’