Knife Edge

CHAPTER SIX

Ignoring Silman and Niamh, Sherlock raced back towards the castle. The idea that his brother had been injured filled him with horror. He had only just got back to the British Isles, only just met up with his brother again. For anything to happen to Mycroft now would be unimaginable. He had always been a fixed, solid presence in Sherlock’s life. He had to stay that way!

He raced across the moat and through the high arch into the open central area of the castle, heart pounding and breath rasping in his throat. The entrance to the keep was off to his left, and he pelted towards it and up the ramp without slowing.

In the hall, servants were gathered around the entrance to a room that Sherlock hadn’t been in before. Guessing that was where Mycroft was, he pushed past them.

The room was a reception room, with comfortable chairs, chaises longues and sofas scattered around. Mycroft was sitting in one of the chairs, his large frame spilling over the arms of the chair and threatening to snap the thin legs. He was as white as the ectoplasm that Ambrose Albano had manifested the night before. It looked for a moment as though he had an enormous wound on his forehead, until Sherlock realized that the blood was a stain that had soaked through a bandage wrapped around Mycroft’s head. His skin was so white that the bandage was almost invisible.

Sir Shadrach was beside Mycroft, still in his bath chair. In Silman’s absence, one of the foot-servants was stationed behind the chair, ready to push it if needed. Count Shuvalov was standing in a similar manner behind Mycroft’s chair with his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft himself had his eyes closed and a hand raised to his forehead. Sensing Sherlock’s approach, he opened his eyes and waved his sausage-like fingers. ‘Ah, Sherlock,’ he said, voice weak. ‘I apologize for disturbing your pre-prandial constitutional.’

‘What happened?’ Sherlock asked urgently.

‘I was alone in the library. Sir Shadrach had very kindly given me his permission to conduct some research — I gather that you had the same idea earlier, and I am sorry that I missed you. As it turned out, someone did not miss me. I was struck down from behind. I am informed that the object in question was a candelabra, although I confess that I did not notice at the time. Fortunately, one of the servants entered to see whether I required a cup of tea, and found me on the floor.’

‘Did you shut the door when you went into the library?’ Sherlock asked.

‘I did, yes.’

‘And when the servant entered the library, was the door also shut?’

Sir Shadrach glanced away from Mycroft and towards one of the female servants. She curtsied briefly and said, ‘Yes, sir, it was.’

‘The library door leads directly out into the hall,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘Anyone going in or coming out would be liable to be seen by someone — unless there’s another way in or out.’ He was thinking, as he had earlier, about secret passages.

‘I am not aware,’ Quintillan said stiffly, ‘of any other ways in or out of the library, save the windows, which were and still are firmly closed.’ He grimaced. ‘On the other hand, there were people going through the hall all the time, and none of them saw anyone going into or out of the library between the time your brother entered and the time he was discovered unconscious.’

‘How do you feel?’ Sherlock asked, kneeling by his brother’s side.

‘I have the kind of headache I normally get the day after drinking a bottle of particularly old and crusty port, and my stomach is informing me urgently that luncheon is completely out of the question.’ He smiled weakly. ‘On the other hand I am alive, and that is always advantageous.’

‘We have called for a doctor,’ Sir Shadrach said. ‘We need to check for concussion, obviously, as well as signs of skull fracture.’

‘The important questions,’ Count Shuvalov said in his thick Russian accent from behind Mycroft’s chair, ‘are why the attack was carried out, and by whom.’

‘The “why” is obvious,’ Quintillan pointed out. ‘Someone wanted to stop the British Government from taking part in the auction for Mr Albano’s services. This kind of action is despicable and deplorable, and I will not put up with it in Cloon Ard Castle.’

‘You seem to imply,’ Count Shuvalov said calmly, ‘that either I, von Webenau or Herr Holtzbrinck are responsible. For the sake of form, I deny any involvement, although I am sure that the other two gentlemen will do the same.’

‘Calm yourselves, gentlemen,’ Mycroft said faintly, waving a hand again. ‘There is another possibility. The attack may have been arranged as a means of making Mr Albano’s services seem worth killing for, and therefore driving the price up.’

‘That,’ Quintillan said ominously, ‘would suggest that either I or Mr Albano might be responsible. I completely—’

‘I merely intended to show,’ Mycroft interrupted, ‘that there are a number of alternative explanations which could point towards anyone in this castle. Even young Sherlock there has had occasional reason in the past to want to hurt me, although he has kindly refrained so far. No accusations are being made, and I would suggest that no offence is taken — if only because I am not sure that my headache would stand an argument breaking out right now. Besides, that might constitute an international incident, and I have been given strict instructions to avoid those at all costs.’

Quintillan nodded. ‘Of course. Wise words. You should rest, Mr Holmes. Would you like to be taken to your room to lie down until the doctor arrives?’

‘In a moment.’ Mycroft caught Sherlock’s eye. ‘I would like to remain here for a while, just until I get my strength back, then my brother can help me to my room. Perhaps a pot of tea could be arranged?’

‘Of course.’ Quintillan gestured to the foot-servant, who began to manoeuvre his bath chair towards the door. ‘If there is anything else you need, please don’t hesitate to call.’

‘A plate of biscuits?’ Mycroft said hopefully as Quintillan left.

Count Shuvalov patted him on the shoulder. ‘Old friend,’ he said, ‘you have my word that—’

‘Say no more,’ Mycroft said, halting the Russian. ‘Knowing you as I do, I am sure that if you had wanted me dead, I would now be dead, and in a considerably more inventive way than being struck down with a candelabra. We will talk more later, when I am feeling better.’

Shuvalov nodded to Sherlock, and left. Sherlock crossed to the door and closed it. There were still servants clustered in the hall outside. He glimpsed Niamh, just entering the hall, but he didn’t have the time to explain to her what had happened.

‘How are you really feeling?’ he asked as he turned back towards his brother.

‘Slightly better than the impression I am giving, but not much.’ He reached to his forehead gingerly. ‘All these years in government service, and I have managed to escape direct attack until now. I cannot recommend it. Still, on the bright side, I suppose it gives me a better insight into the perils that my agents face.’ He frowned. ‘I suppose.’

‘Do you remember anything else apart from what you said just now?’

‘Nothing. There is a period of blankness from just before I was struck down to the point where I was discovered.’

‘And do you have any idea why you were struck down?’

‘No more than was said earlier. It was either to reduce the field of bidders or to force the price up. The problem is, that doesn’t allow us to exclude any suspects.’

‘All right.’ Sherlock crouched in front of his brother. ‘What do we do now?’

‘Several things. Firstly, I will be relying on you to keep involved in the séances. We must be sure that there is trickery involved. If you cannot prove trickery, then you must bid on behalf of the British Government. In the unlikely event that this talk of psychic phenomena is true then we cannot allow the Russians, the Germans or the Austro-Hungarians to control it.’

‘Or the Americans, if they ever turn up.’

‘The Americans always turn up late,’ Mycroft said. ‘It is a national trait.’

‘Can I ask a question?’

‘Have I ever been able to stop you?’

‘Ambrose Albano isn’t the only psychic in the world. Even if the British Government were to lose the auction for his services, surely they could just engage the services of another psychic?’

‘A good point,’ Mycroft conceded, ‘and one that had occurred to me already. The issue is that Mr Albano claims to be able to target particular spirits, to somehow pick them out of the psychic mass and bring them to the earthly plane to communicate. All other psychics, to my belief, say that they have no control over which spirits appear — sometimes it might be a loved one, and sometimes it might be Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.’

‘All right — I stay involved with the séances, and I keep investigating behind the scenes, as I have done already. What else?’

‘I need you to send a telegram for me.’

‘From where?’

‘There will be a telegraph office in the town. I will give you an address to which you should send the message. I am afraid that the message itself will be in code. I realize that you will feel an almost irresistible urge to break the code, but believe me when I tell you that it depends on a code book kept by the man to whom I am sending the message. You will be wasting several precious hours of your life if you try.’

‘I understand.’

‘Now, please pass me a sheet of paper and a pen. I will compose the message.’

Sherlock hunted around until he found paper and envelopes, along with an inkwell and a pen, in a drawer. He took them to Mycroft, along with a book to rest on as he wrote. Mycroft quickly set to work writing a string of letters in groups of four on the paper. Sherlock watched him as he wrote, but could see no rhyme or reason to the clusters of letters. They appeared to be random.

Eventually Mycroft — who was looking visibly exhausted — wrote an address at the bottom of the paper. It was somewhere in London, but not somewhere that Sherlock was familiar with. Mycroft folded the sheet, slipped it into the envelope, sealed the envelope and handed it to Sherlock. ‘Please take this to the telegraph office in town, and get them to send it. The cost will be minor.’ He patted his pockets. ‘I believe I have some change…’

‘I can cover it, Mycroft. Don’t worry.’

‘I appreciate that, Sherlock. Thank you for being here. I could not have hoped for a more trustworthy or competent assistant in this time of need.’

Sherlock held the envelope up. ‘In that case, why are you requesting help from outside?’

Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. ‘Sherlock, you cannot have decoded the message. It is impossible.’

‘You are right,’ Sherlock said, partly in triumph and partly in sadness. ‘I did not decode the message, but your reaction has confirmed a meaning that I only guessed at.’

‘Very clever.’ Mycroft relaxed back into his chair. ‘Your mind is so sharp, Sherlock, that you will end up cutting yourself one day.’ He took a breath. ‘Now — I am tiring rapidly. If you will assist me, I will attempt to make my way to bed. Have the doctor sent up when he arrives — and my tea and biscuits.’

Mention of the doctor reminded Sherlock of something important that he had forgotten. ‘One of the servants was found dead outside in the castle grounds,’ he said suddenly.

Mycroft gazed at him with interest. ‘Who found the body?’

‘I did.’

‘Yes, of course you did.’ Mycroft paused, wincing at a sudden pain in his head. ‘Were there any suspicious circumstances?’

‘I couldn’t see any cause of death. It looked like she just —’ he shrugged — ‘fell down and died. Maybe a heart attack.’

‘Stranger things have happened,’ Mycroft mused, ‘but the timing is certainly odd.’

‘Oh, and she wasn’t wearing any shoes.’

‘Interesting.’ Mycroft winced again. ‘But I cannot think about this properly now. I need to lie down. Could you help me to my room, please?’

After he had done so, Sherlock walked down the square spirals of the stone staircase. He half expected Niamh Quintillan to be waiting for him when he got to the bottom, but the hall was empty. He weighed the envelope in his hand. Mycroft had wanted it to be sent immediately. He supposed he should head down to the town to send it. He could ask a servant from the castle to take it for him, but he knew that Mycroft was expecting him to take it himself, to make sure that it got sent. It was quite a distance down to the town: he could ask Sir Shadrach Quintillan for a carriage, but he felt awkward doing that. The walk would do him good.

Strolling out of the castle he was pleased to discover that the low cloud was blowing inland, leaving blue sky behind, and the splattering of rain had ceased. The weather here certainly was changeable.

He set out on the reverse of the route that the carriage had taken the previous afternoon, taking him and Mycroft from Galway to the castle. The path was mainly downhill, of course — the castle was on top of the cliffs, and the town was at sea level. The walk was pleasant, with the sun shining down from an increasingly blue sky and the smell of wet grass accompanying him, but he was painfully aware that the walk back would be uphill all the way. Perhaps he could hitch a ride.

It took him nearly two hours to get from Salthill to the centre of Galway. Part of him wished that Niamh had been with him, to while away the time with questions and guessing games, but another part realized how annoying that would become. There was something bewitching about Niamh, but only in short doses.

He passed the hotel where he and Mycroft had stayed and taken lunch. He knew that the telegraph office would have to be somewhere central and obvious, and he eventually found it at the end of the cobbled main street, near the harbour. Entering, he found the proprietor bent over a complicated mechanical contrivance consisting of various wires and magnets terminating in a simple lever which he was tapping in a regular manner. He was in shirtsleeves, with metal bands holding his cuffs away from his wrists, and he had a green celluloid eyeshade held above his eyes by an elastic band.

‘Can I help you, young master?’

‘I have a telegram to send to London.’

The man raised an eyebrow. ‘And have you the means of payment?’

‘I have.’ Sherlock handed the envelope to the man, along with a handful of change. ‘The message needs to be sent with some urgency.’

‘It’s odd,’ the man said, ‘how few people come in here and say “Don’t worry, it’s a trivial message and it can wait for a while”.’

Sherlock nodded. ‘Point taken. Nevertheless…’

‘It will be sent quickly. You have my word. What if there is a reply?’

‘Then I am up at the castle at Salthill.’

‘Cloon Ard Castle — as a guest of Sir Shadrach Quintillan?’ The man’s voice had taken on a deferential tone, but one tinged with caution. ‘You’re staying up there?’

‘I am. With my brother.’

The man nodded. ‘I will get a message up to you if there is a reply.’ He paused, obviously wanting to say something else. ‘Young master — may I ask… have you… seen anything up at the castle?’

Sherlock hesitated. He had seen lots of things. ‘Such as what?’

‘Well…’ The man hesitated again. ‘There are rumours that… that the Dark Beast has been seen again. Is it true?’

‘I haven’t seen it,’ Sherlock said. The words seemed true when they left his lips, but he suddenly remembered the black shape he had seen in the Cloon Ard Castle ballroom, hiding behind the curtains. Surely a monster looking like a lobster wouldn’t hide behind curtains? That would be… rather trivial.

‘But is it true that the Beast has taken a life?’ the man whispered, glancing around and surreptitiously crossing himself for protection.

Sherlock was amazed at how fast the news had found its way to the town. ‘Someone did die, but we think it was an accident,’ he said firmly. ‘There is no connection to the Dark Beast.’

‘But the dead girl, God rest her — she saw it, didn’t she? That’s why she’s dead!’

‘It was a heart attack,’ Sherlock said. ‘Or perhaps a seizure. There was nothing supernatural about the death.’

‘Very well,’ the man said, obviously disappointed. ‘But people talk.’

‘Indeed they do.’ Sherlock nodded his head. ‘Thank you.’

Before returning to the castle, he managed to find some lunch at a local shop. The walk had made him hungry, and he bought two pies and some fruit, and ate them as he strolled back.

He spent time looking at the landscape — the low hills, the fields, the hedges. Strangely different from the England countryside that he remembered from before he left.

As he got nearer the castle, he spotted something tall and thin rising above the trees. It was the tower he had seen from the roof earlier. The sight reminded him that he had intended to visit it, and he made a mental note to do so later.

It took him well over an hour to reach the twin pillars of stone that marked the entrance to the castle grounds. As he got there he thought he heard the clatter of distant wheels on stone, and the whinnying of horses.

Entering, he noticed a group of people standing just the other side of the castle moat. Sir Shadrach Quintillan was there, instantly recognizable in his bath chair, being pushed by Silman. Von Webenau was there as well, as was Herr Holtzbrinck, and Ambrose Albano, who was wearing a long coat and a hat, as if he were going out for a walk. The psychic was arguing with Quintillan — his arms were waving, and even at that distance Sherlock could hear him shouting in his thin, reedy voice, although he couldn’t make out the exact words. The Austro-Hungarian and German representatives seemed to be appealing to him to calm down — there were lots of flapping hand gestures from them, and quieter words that Sherlock couldn’t hear. After a few minutes, Albano made an abrupt dismissive gesture with his hand, turned around and strode away from the group, across the moat and towards Sherlock.

Sherlock kept walking along the gravel path that led to the moat and the castle. He and Albano would pass each other at the halfway point. Albano, however, was walking fast with his head down, staring at the gravel. He hadn’t seen Sherlock.

A commotion behind him, at the entrance to the castle grounds, made Sherlock turn. A black four-wheeled carriage pulled by two black horses had burst through the gap between the pillars. The driver — who had a scarf wrapped around his face — had skidded dangerously to make the turn. The carriage headed straight at Sherlock, who had to leap out of the way to avoid being hit. He rolled, trying to keep the vehicle in sight. He had a brief glimpse through a side window and inside the carriage, where three men were sitting: two facing forward and one facing back.

Albano had seen the carriage by now, or perhaps he had been alerted to shouts from the group by the moat. He stopped and stared at the black vehicle that was bearing down on him.

Just moments before Albano would have been mown down by the hoofs of the galloping horses and the wheels of the carriage, the driver snapped the reins to the left and flicked his whip at the horses’ heads. The carriage slewed around so that it was side-on to both Albano and Sherlock. The force carried it off the gravel path for a few feet before the driver regained control.

As he climbed to his feet Sherlock’s mind was racing, trying to explain the driver’s bizarre behaviour, but before he could come to any conclusions the doors on either side of the carriage were flung open and two men — also with their faces wrapped in scarves — jumped out. Sherlock just had time to see a third man, motionless inside the carriage, before the man on Sherlock’s side of the carriage ran around the back to join his companion, and together they jumped on Ambrose Albano and bore him to the ground. One of the men pulled a sack from his belt, and pulled it over Albano’s head. The other man struck Albano, rendering him either unconscious or stunned. Or possibly dead. All Sherlock knew was that the man wasn’t moving.

Sherlock’s stunned amazement at the sudden turn of events snapped, and he began to race towards the incident. ‘Hey!’ he called. ‘You! Stop! Let that man go!’

Von Webenau and Herr Holtzbrinck ran from the castle towards the carriage, but they weren’t as fast as Sherlock, and they were further away. It would take them longer to get there. Sherlock knew that he would have to manage the initial fight himself.

The two thugs with hidden faces pulled the insensible Albano towards the carriage. Picking him up, they threw him in, climbed in after him and pulled the doors closed. The driver, who had been waiting for that moment, whipped the edgy horses into life. They lunged against the straps, pulling the carriage away. The driver hauled on the reins and the horses responded, coming around and heading across the grass and towards the gravel path.

Straight for Sherlock again.

He just had time to leap out of the way once more before the carriage sped past in a blur of black. Sherlock gained a momentary impression of wild rolling eyes from the nearest horse, and then it and the carriage were past him and moving towards the gateway.

Sherlock got to his feet again, brushing himself off, and watched as the carriage rushed away from him. It was too late to catch it: the speed it was going, it would outdistance him easily.

Herr Holtzbrinck and von Webenau ran up to him, both breathing heavily.

‘Are you all right?’ the Austrian asked, gasping for air.

‘I’m fine,’ he replied. ‘What’s happening?’

‘What you can see,’ Herr Holtzbrinck said. ‘Herr Albano has been abducted. Kidnapped. Taken.’

‘But why?’

Von Webenau shrugged. ‘We have no idea.’

As the three of them stared after the departing carriage, something unexpected happened. It seemed to swerve sideways, leaning up on to two wheels and wobbling alarmingly. Somehow the driver managed to release the horses, or perhaps the sudden twisting of the carriage snapped the straps that connected them to it. Whatever the reason, the horses bolted away, trailing the leather straps and the reins behind them, and vanished out of the castle grounds and on to the road outside. The driver, now without a job and in imminent danger of his life, jumped off the carriage, falling to one side. He seemed unhurt, judging by the way he staggered to his feet and ran off.

The carriage wasn’t so lucky. Rolling at an angle, it smashed into the right-hand pillar with the sound of wood splintering. The front right-hand wheel collapsed, sending the carriage tilting forward. The two left-hand wheels came off their axles and spun away, flying over the top of the wall and vanishing beyond.

Sherlock, Herr Holtzbrinck and von Webenau shared a shocked look, then bolted towards the site of the crash as fast as they could.

Before they could get there, three men climbed out of the wreckage, brushing shards of wood from their clothes. All three of them had black scarves wrapped around their faces — the two men who had abducted Ambrose Albano and the third man whom Sherlock had seen in the carriage. They saw von Webenau, Holtzbrinck and Sherlock bearing down on them, panicked, and ran away, through the gap between the pillars. Within moments they were out of sight.

Sherlock had a horrible feeling about what they were going to find when they got to the smashed remnants of the carriage. There was no sign of Ambrose Albano getting up unhurt. He must have been injured in the crash, if he wasn’t already dead.

The three of them got to the pile of black-painted wood that was all that remained of the carriage and started pulling at the wood, throwing the fragments over their shoulders in their attempts to uncover the psychic.

But he wasn’t there.

By the time they got down to the flattened grass and scattered gravel underneath where the carriage had been they had to admit that there was no sign of Ambrose Albano. The three of them straightened up and stared around them, looking for some piece of the wreckage large enough to hide his body, but there was nothing. They had moved every fragment of debris without finding him.

‘How many men did you see running away from the carriage after the crash?’ Sherlock asked. He deliberately didn’t name a number himself, as he wanted to hear what the other two men remembered without influencing them with his own memories.

‘The driver ran away first,’ Herr Holtzbrinck said, ‘followed by three men from inside the carriage. They were all wearing scarves across their faces.’

Von Webenau nodded. ‘Three men from inside the carriage, plus the driver.’

‘Apart from the driver, how many men were inside the carriage before Ambrose Albano was kidnapped?’ Sherlock went on. This was the key question. He had seen three — the two men who had taken Albano and the third man inside, but maybe he had been mistaken. Maybe there had only been two men.

‘Three,’ von Webenau said firmly. ‘Two men jumped out of the carriage to take Herr Albano, but I saw a third man inside. I saw him clearly. He never got out.’

Herr Holtzbrinck nodded an emphatic agreement. ‘Three men — one inside and two who got out.’

‘So where is Ambrose Albano? What has happened to him?’

‘Perhaps he was taken across to the Other Side,’ von Webenau said sombrely. ‘Perhaps he was rescued by his spirit friends.’

‘What was he doing outside in the first place?’

‘He said he was worried about the attack on your brother. He wanted to leave, straight away. Sir Shadrach was attempting to calm him down and get him to stay when—’

‘May Ah ask,’ a voice interrupted them, ‘what exactly is goin’ on here? Ah was nearly decapitated by a spinnin’ wheel, then two horses nearly ran me down, then four masked men ran past me. This ain’t exactly the kind of welcome Ah was expectin’.’

The voice — deep and accented — sent a shiver down Sherlock’s spine. He turned towards the road outside the gates. A cart had stopped there. Stepping down from the cart was an impressively large man in a white suit with a wide-brimmed white hat on his head. His face was tanned and creased like leather, and his eyes were a faded blue.

‘Mr Crowe,’ Sherlock said in a voice that he hardly recognized as his own, it was so full of amazement and joy. ‘I wasn’t expecting you here.’

‘Apparently not, otherwise Ah would have expected a calmer introduction.’ He walked towards Sherlock and stuck his hand out. Sherlock did the same, and they shook hands solemnly. ‘When Ah found out that Mycroft Holmes was goin’ to be here, I guessed there was a chance you might be turnin’ up. Glad to see Ah was right.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘You’re a clever man. You work it out.’

The bright light of sheer logic flooded Sherlock’s mind, revealing the obvious answer. ‘You are the American representative at the bidding for Mr Albano’s services,’ he said.

‘Exactly. Mah apologies for the late arrival, by the way.’ He indicated the cart behind him with his thumb. ‘We missed the ferry because mah daughter just had to go shoppin’.’

Sherlock stared over Amyus Crowe’s shoulder, at the cart that had brought him up from the town. For a moment all he could see was the driver, the horses, the cart and the luggage piled inside it and strapped down.

And then, from behind the driver, Virginia Crowe leaned forward and looked over at him, and his heart broke all over again.