Red Leech

Chapter Seven

The docks at Southampton were a bustling mass of men, women and children dressed in their Sunday best clothes. Some of them were streaming like ants up the gangplanks leading from the dockside up to the decks of ships, some of them were coming down the gangplanks from other ships and gazing around, wide-eyed at the sight of a new country, while the rest were either saying goodbye to friends and relatives or greeting newcomers with open arms. And in and around them wove uniformed porters wheeling piles of luggage precariously piled on to trolleys and dock workers in rough clothes and bandannas moving goods on to and from wooden pallets. Above it all towered the wooden cranes that were taking net-covered pallets from the dockside up to the decks of the ships or from the decks down to the dockside, as well as the cliff-like wooden or iron sides of the ships and the masts and funnels that rose like a mathematical forest all around.

And everywhere Sherlock looked he could see evidence of a hundred crimes being committed: pockets being picked, fixed card games being played, netted bales of goods being cut open so that small items could be removed, children being separated from their parents for heaven knew what reason, and newcomers paying in advance for transportation to boarding houses and hotels that didn’t exist or were nothing like the florid descriptions that were being given.

It was humanity at its best and at its worst.

The past twenty-four hours had been possibly the most hectic in Sherlock’s life. Following the conference in Amyus Crowe’s cottage, and the unexpected decision that they would be going to America — a decision that Sherlock still couldn’t quite believe had been made — he and Mycroft had returned to Holmes Manor, diverting to Farnham to send a carefully worded telegram to the Post Office at Southampton Docks persuading Ives and Berle that Gilfillan had succeeded in stopping them. Once at Holmes Manor, Mycroft had gone into the library to talk with Sherrinford Holmes while Sherlock had headed up to his bedroom to pack his meagre possessions into the battered trunk that had once belonged to his father. Sherlock had slept badly, disturbed partly by his memories of the fight with Gilfillan and the stinging of his wounds but partly also at the excitement of being on the verge of leaving the country — for America! Breakfast was a strained affair, with neither Sherrinford nor Aunt Anna sure of what to say to him and with Mrs Eglantine smiling coldly from behind them. And then Sherlock had climbed into a carriage with Mycroft, watching as his trunk was hauled up and strapped to the back, and then they had set off for the long drive to Southampton.

On the way, Sherlock had found himself thinking about, of all things, the coded message that Amyus Crowe had found on Gilfillan’s unconscious body. He’d never really thought about codes before, but there was something about the rigorous way they were put together, and the logical processes that could be used to deconstruct them, that appealed to his orderly mind. He found himself imagining all kinds of codes, from simple reorderings like the one they had experienced yesterday, through more complicated substitutions where symbols replaced letters, to even more intricate arrangements in which the substitution changed according to a different code, so that the first time “a appeared it would be replaced with one thing, and the next time with something else, and so on, all driven by an underlying algorithm. In that case, a simple frequency analysis of the kind that Amyus Crowe had outlined would be useless. How could that kind of code be cracked, he wondered. The world of codes and ciphers would require some further research.

Eventually they arrived at Southampton. Amyus and Virginia Crowe were already waiting for them — Crowe with a discreet bandage wound around his forehead, nearly hidden by the brim of his hat. Sherlock guessed they had ridden down and then arranged for their horses to be stabled while they were gone.

“I have your tickets and travel documents,” Mycroft said, handing a sheaf of paper across to Amyus Crowe. “You are booked on the SS Scotia. That’s her over there. She belongs to the Cunard Line — a fine British ship. The tickets are First Class, of course. I would not expect you to endure the rigours of steerage — not with your daughter and my brother in your charge.”

Sherlock followed Mycroft’s gesturing hand, and saw a huge ship that appeared to be fully as long as a rugby field. A massive paddle wheel was set halfway along the side of the vessel — presumably there was a similar one on the other side. As well as the paddle wheels, it also had two masts with sails that were, at the moment, furled. Sherlock assumed that the paddle wheels were driven by steam engines inside the massive hull — two funnels emerging from the deck were probably there to carry the steam away — and that the sails would be used when there was wind to fill them while the steam-driven paddle wheels would drive the ship when the wind dropped.

His logical mind chased the thought down. If the paddle wheels were driven by steam engines then the steam engines had to be driven by burning coal, which meant that the ship must have reserves of coal stored on board, on the basis that there was no way to take on more coal in the middle of the Atlantic. That meant extra weight, which meant extra coal would be needed just to move the coal around. But how did you work out how much coal was needed for the voyage when for every extra ton of coal you added you had to add some more just to move that ton around, and knowing that as that ton was used up then the amount you needed to move it around got less and less? There was a complex mathematical calculation there, just out of reach, which reminded him strangely of the example Amyus Crowe had given him some weeks ago of the way the numbers of foxes and rabbits varied over time. Was everything in the world driven ultimately by equations?

“Grateful as I am for your help, Mr Holmes,” Amyus Crowe said, strangely diffident, “I’m not a rich man. We have not talked about the question of financial recompense.”

“No need.” Mycroft waved a hand, obviously embarrassed at this discussion of money. “The British Government has paid for these tickets. At some stage in the next week or so I will have a conversation with your Ambassador, and suggest that he helps defray the cost, on the basis that we are assisting your nation with your own internal politics, but for the moment rest assured that you will not be left destitute upon your arrival in New York. I presume you have access to funds there?”

Amyus Crowe nodded. “Grateful, nevertheless, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock glanced to Amyus Crowe’s side, where Virginia stood. She was looking nervous, and her face was bloodless, white.

Are you all right?” Sherlock asked, moving over to her while his brother and her father continued to talk.

She nodded. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said.

“I thought you’d be pleased about returning home?”

She glanced at him with an expression that could have cut through glass. “Which part of “I don’t want to talk about it” did you not understand?”

Sherlock raised a placating hand and backed away, the way one probably would with a wild animal. Virginia, he told himself, and not for the first time, was probably the most complicated person he’d ever met.

“What news of the Great Eastern?” Crowe was asking Mycroft.

“As the coded message indicated, she left this morning from a pier near here, bound for New York. I have checked the passenger manifest, but can find no names which mean anything to us. One passenger failed to turn up — I can only presume that was the unfortunate Mr Gilfillan, who even now resides in the care of the Farnham police. I will have him transferred to the Metropolitan Police later today. It will make it easier for any investigation to take place.”

“Don’t be too harsh on the man,” Crowe said lightly. “Remember, he ain’t been convicted of anything yet.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but did not respond. Instead he turned to Sherlock. He put one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and with the other hand pointed towards the SS Scotia. “Launched six years ago, built and operated by the Cunard Line, here in England,” he explained. “She is three hundred and seventy-nine feet long and weighs three thousand nine hundred tons. Her captain’s name is Judkins, and he is Cunard’s most trusted operative. She carries three hundred passengers, as well as cargo, and burns one hundred and sixty-four tons of coal a day. She can make the trip from Southampton to New York in eight days and a handful of hours. Imagine that — one week and you will be in the Americas. In the days of the pioneers, first settling that majestic country, the trip would have taken months.”

“Have you ever been to America, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.

A shudder ran through his brother’s large frame. “Southampton is foreign territory as far as I am concerned,” he said. America might just as well be the Arctic’

Mycroft turned back to Crowe. “Your luggage will already be on its way to your cabins,” he said. “I have, after some thought, reserved three berths in two cabins. One is for you and Sherlock to share. The other is for Virginia, but I understand she will be sharing with another female traveller. I have not been able to ascertain the name of this traveller, as the decision apparently rests with the ship’s purser, but you can be assured that any woman travelling First Class will be of gentle breeding.”

“I’m sure Virginia can manage,” Crowe said. He seemed awkward.

“One other thing,” Mycroft went on. “I have taken the precaution of reserving seats for the three of you at the first dinner. I am told, by people who know these things, that the seats you get at the first dinner determine your social position for the rest of the voyage. The best seats are those nearest the Captain, nearest the doors in case of seasickness and furthest from the engines. I know the journey is only eight days, but you may as well be as comfortable as possible during that time.” He shuddered again. “I cannot say I envy you. These days, the journey from my lodgings to my office and my office to my Club is enough to exhaust me. I cannot conceive of any force which could move me from that routine.”

Crowe smiled. “You may be surprised, Mr Holmes, at what disturbs us from our orbits. It may be the simplest thing. I suspect you too may discover the joys of foreign travel.”

“God forfend,” Mycroft said.

And then it was time to go. Sherlock stuck out his hand. Mycroft did the same. They shook, soberly, like gentlemen meeting in the street.

“Be safe,” Mycroft said, “and do what Mr Crowe tells you. Your presence on this trip is important — we may not know how important for some time, but I remind you that only you can identify these rogue Americans. At the very least, they are criminals and political refugees who should be taken into custody and tried for their crimes. At most, there is some plot afoot that needs to be scotched, lest the fragile political situation in America be affected for the worse. And, for heaven’s sake, enjoy yourself. It’s not that many children of your age who get the chance to travel abroad.”

He reached into a pocket, and withdrew a small book. Handing it to Sherlock, he said: “You will need something to pass the time. This is a copy of The Republic, by the Greek philosopher Plato. It takes the form of a dramatized set of dialogues between Plato’s mentor Socrates and various other Athenians and foreigners in which they discuss the meaning of justice, and examine whether or not the just man is happier than the unjust man. Plato also uses the dialogues to propose a society ruled by philosopher-kings, as well as discussing the roles of the philosopher and the poet in society. The Republic is one of the most influential works of philosophy and political theory, and I commend its study to you.”

“Is it translated?” Sherlock asked dubiously.

“Of course not,” Mycroft said, taken aback. “I know how fast you read. If it was translated, you would finish it in an afternoon. If you have to translate as you are going along then I have some confidence that the majority of the voyage will have passed by before you have completed it. Besides which, translations are always at the mercy of the skill of the translator. If you want to read and understand something properly that is in a foreign language, you need to learn that language.” He hesitated. “Knowing your love of the grotesque and the criminal, I would point out that although Plato succumbed to old age, his mentor Socrates died when he was forced to drink poison by the Greek authorities. I do not know if that will help you in reading the book, but knowing your penchant for the melodramatic I give the knowledge to you as a gift to do with as you wish.”

“I’ll see you again,” Sherlock said, feeling an unaccustomed choking sensation in his throat. He didn’t know if he meant it as a statement of fact or a question, but Mycroft looked away for a moment, his eyes glistening.

“Sherlock,” he said, “I will never have children — I am too accustomed to my own ways, and too intolerant of change to set up in a household of others — but if I ever had a son I could love him no more than I love you. Take care of yourself. Take great care.”

And then, in a rush, they boarded, up a long gangplank that led up from the dock to the deck. At the top their tickets were checked, and they were escorted down wooden stairs and along windowless corridors inside the ship to their rooms — going first to Virginia’s room, where her companion had not yet arrived but where Virginia’s luggage was waiting — and then to the room that Sherlock and Amyus Crowe were to share. The rooms were small and panelled in wood — about nine feet across, with two bunk beds on one side and a comfortable sofa across from them. Each end of the cabin had a washbasin and a mirror. Above the sofa a round window let in light and air, but Sherlock noticed with some trepidation that it could be shut and screwed tight. Was that in case of storms? And if so, how often did storms occur? And how would they get proper ventilation if the storm lasted for more than a few hours?

Amyus Crowe investigated the bunk beds. “Best if I take the bottom and you take the top,” he growled. “If I fall out in rough seas, I’d prefer to have less far to fall. An’ remember — I’m a deal heavier than you.”

Remembering what he’d thought about the window, and possible storms, Sherlock noticed that both bunks had a wooden lip running along the side of the mattress and extending above it, presumably to stop people rolling over in their sleep and falling out on to the floor, but he could imagine that if the waves were rough enough then people could just be rattled back and forth in their bunks like marbles in a biscuit tin.

“Not sure about these mattresses,” Crowe said disparagingly, testing their thinness. To Sherlock they looked thicker than his mattress back at Holmes Manor, but he discreetly said nothing.

With the knowledge that their luggage was safely aboard, they returned to the main deck to watch the preparations for departure. The gangplank was being pulled up as they arrived, and the crowds on the dock-side were clustering around, waving to the people on the ship. A part of Sherlock wanted to scan the crowd for Mycroft’s moon-like face, but another part of him knew that Mycroft would already have gone. Sherlock’s brother was not a sentimental man, and he hated goodbyes.

Sherlock’s hand crept down to the jacket pocket where he had stowed the copy of Plato’s Republic that Mycroft had given him. It had been an unexpected gift, and Sherlock intended to read the whole book — even if it was in Greek.

The ship’s engines, deep within its belly, were running up to speed now, and Sherlock could not only hear their rumbling but feel it through the wood of the deck as well. He had a sudden, horrible realization that the noise of the steam engines would be their constant companion for the next eight days. How would he sleep? How would he be able to hear anything anyone said to him? The only consolation was that he would probably get used to it, but at the moment he couldn’t see how that would be possible.

The ropes attaching the SS Scotia to the dockside were being released now from the bollards they were tied to, fluttering down to the side of the ship like ribbons even though they were hawsers as thick as Sherlock’s fist. The enormous paddle wheels started to turn, churning the water beneath them and gradually levering the ship forward. A steam whistle sounded, and at the signal the crowd on the dock let out a huge cheer, as if nobody had ever seen such a sight before. Caps and hats and bonnets were flung into the air, and the passengers gathered on the ship’s deck responded in kind.

A sudden shaft of guilt and sadness penetrated Sherlock’s heart. He wanted Matty to be there with them. He wanted Matty to be safe. His mind kept sidling around to images of what might be happening to his friend, and he kept having to force it away. Ives and Berle had no reason to hurt Matty. He was their insurance policy.

The question was, did Ives and Berle think as logically as Sherlock?

Looking around to distract himself, Sherlock noticed a man nearby. He was standing by himself, holding what appeared to be a violin case, but instead of gazing at the crowd he was looking in the other direction, out to sea. He was thin, with black hair longer than was usual in a man, and his jacket and trousers appeared to be of corduroy. Sherlock guessed him to be in his thirties. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, and Sherlock noticed that his fingers were long and thin. He suddenly looked sideways at Sherlock, and he smiled, touching his forehead in a casual salute. His eyes, Sherlock noticed, were green, and the wideness of his smile revealed a gold tooth set far back in his mouth.

“The start of an adventure,” he called. His voice held a slight Irish brogue.

“Eight days at sea with nothing to do but walk around and read books,” Sherlock called, emboldened by the excitement of their departure into talking to a complete stranger. “Not much of an adventure.”

“Ah, but think of the miles and miles of water that will lie beneath us as we travel. Think of the wrecks of other ships that litter the bottom of the sea, and the strange creatures that swim there, in and out of the portholes and around the bones of drowned sailors. Adventure is all around, if you know where to look.” He raised the case that he carried. And if all else fails, I can take some time to practise my music on deck, beneath the stars, and serenade the mermaids.”

“Mermaids?” Sherlock asked sceptically. “More likely to be dolphins, or some other kind of marine life.”

“A man can dream,” the stranger said. He nodded genially at Sherlock, tipped his cap and moved away through the crowd. Sherlock kept track of his long black hair for a while, but eventually lost him in the press of people.

“If you want to wander off and explore,” Amyus Crowe said from behind him, “you go ahead. We’re gonna be on this ship for a week or more, an’ I have no intention of shepherding you all that time. As long as you don’t fall overboard, there ain’t nowhere you can go. I’m gonna go back to Ginnie’s cabin an’ introduce myself to her companion, make sure the woman’s not a drunk or a lunatic or both. We’ll meet up in our cabin, by an’ by, an’ then we’ll see what’s happening for dinner.”

Sherlock wandered up towards the front of the ship — the bows, as sailors called them. He passed the bridge on the way — the raised area where the Captain stood, immaculate in his uniform and peaked cap, along with the helmsman who steered the vessel via a huge wheel, the same size and construction as the wheel of a cart, as far as Sherlock could tell. Behind them was a small cabin, shielded from the wind and the rain, but the majority of the bridge was actually open deck. Set to one side was a strange metal object on a pole, something like an alarm clock with extra-long hands which could be moved around the face, but instead of being marked with hours and minutes the face of the device had words on — “Ahead”, “Full Steam”, “Stop” and “Slow”. It only took a few seconds before Sherlock worked out that it must be a communications device, allowing the Captain to give his orders to the engine room, far below the deck. The hands, as they were moved to cover particular words, probably rang different bells down in the engine room which the stokers would then respond to.

Further ahead, just before the bows, was a roofed-over enclosure, like a long barn. It even smelt like a barn. Sherlock took a look inside, through one of the openings that lined its walls, and was surprised to see animals inside, all penned together in a small space. It had been built up in three storeys, with cows, pigs and sheep clustered on the bottom, ducks and geese in the middle and chickens on top. Each animal was protesting against the vibration and the cold sea wind which whipped across the ship. Presumably they would provide eggs and milk, and even meat as their numbers were gradually whittled down. By the end of the voyage, the barn, like the coal-storage area, would probably be almost empty. Sherlock hadn’t expected there to be live animals on board, but he supposed it made sense. Fresh food could not be expected to keep for the period of the voyage, especially if storms or mechanical breakdown delayed them. Presumably, somewhere else on the ship, vegetables and fruit were either being stored or, perhaps, even grown, and somewhere else would be barrels filled with fresh water. And presumably several hundred bottles of wine, champagne, port, brandy and whisky for the First Class passengers.

Something flickered at the edges of his vision. He turned his head quickly. A dark figure faded back into the shadow of a lifeboat. Sherlock took a couple of steps forward, but the figure had vanished. He shook his head. It was probably just one of the passengers.

Moving further forward, Sherlock watched for a while as the coast slipped away on their right-hand side. The ship would undoubtedly hug the coast as it headed west, around Cornwall, and then strike out across to the coast of Ireland. Once past there, it would head out into open waters across the three thousand or so miles of ocean that lay between that coast and the harbour at New York for which they were bound.

He was surprised how stable the ship felt. There was barely any swaying from side to side. Perhaps things would be different out in the Atlantic, but the ship’s size and weight seemed to protect it against the relatively small waves here along the English coast. Sherlock couldn’t help remembering the small boat in which he and Matty had sailed from Baron Maupertuis’s offshore Napoleonic fort to the coast near Portsmouth. That journey had been grim, and he had no intention of experiencing anything like that again.

He suddenly felt very lonely. England, and everything that meant to him — his home, his family, even his school — was slowly falling away, and all that was ahead of him were surprises — a new world, a new set of people and customs. And danger. He didn’t know what the men who were keeping John Wilkes Booth captive wanted, but they obviously had a plan, and it was one that they were willing to kill to keep secret. And here he was, just a boy, getting involved with intrigues beyond the limits of his world.

And Matty. What about Matty? Sherlock doubted that he was as comfortable as the three of them looked likely to be, here on the SS Scotia. Matty was probably tied up, or at least confined to a cabin somewhere. Maybe his captors had come to a deal with him — since they were all aboard a ship and he couldn’t escape, if he promised not to cause trouble they would let him roam free — but Matty could be stubborn, and he might have refused.

That was assuming he was still alive. Amyus Crowe and Mycroft had both deduced that he was, but Sherlock was acutely aware that deductions were just projections into a sea of fantasy based on a few known facts. If the facts were wrong, or if the projection wasn’t done in the right direction, then the final destination would be wildly inaccurate. And Matty might be dead. The Americans might have decided not to have the burden of a live captive throughout the journey, and just slit Matty’s throat and dumped him by the side of the road back in England. The message might just have been a hoax, a wild attempt to stop Amyus Crowe from interfering, but with nothing to back it up.

Morosely Sherlock wandered back along the rails that lined the deck. He had to ask directions of a steward at one point: a thin man with an immaculate uniform and a blond crew cut beneath his cap. Having found out where he was going, he walked past groups of excited travellers, past the two funnels and the two huge, trunk-like masts, past the long, low shape of the communal First Class saloon, with its windows looking out on to the deck, and back to the bows of the boat. The white wake of their passage trailed behind them like the tail of a comet. Sea birds followed them, diving into the wake for disturbed and disoriented fish.

At the back of the boat, a narrow stairway led down into the depths of the ship. Roughly dressed men hung around the top of the stairs smoking and casting glances forward at the better dressed passengers. Sherlock guessed these were the steerage passengers, crammed into unsanitary and cramped conditions below decks, sleeping in rough hammocks or on benches, but paying much less for their tickets. People looking to start a new life in America, rather than travellers on business or pleasure as the First and Second Class passengers mainly appeared to be.

He sensed a presence beside him. Before he turned, he knew that it was Virginia.

“How’s your cabin?” he asked.

“Better than I had on the way to England,” she replied. “Father will tell you that the food and the accommodation were better, but don’t let him fool you. We weren’t travelling steerage, but we weren’t First Class either, and just because it was an American ship instead of a British ship don’t automatically make it better.”

“What about your companion?”

“She’s an elderly widow heading out to join her son, who moved to New York five years ago. She’s got a maid in the servants’ area, an’ she’s planning to start readin’ the Bible now an’ finishin’ when we get to New York. Good luck to her, I say”

“Do you want to take a walk around the deck?” he asked nervously.

“Why not? Might as well make ourselves acquainted with the place. After all, we’re goin’ to be spending the next eight days here.”

They wandered forward along the other side of the ship to the one Sherlock had wandered back along. When they got to the First Class saloon, Sherlock gestured to Virginia to stop.

“I just want to take a look inside,” he said.

The door opened outward and was on a stiff spring, presumably to stop it being pulled open by the wind on a regular basis. Sherlock tugged it open and glanced inside. The room was empty apart from two white-clad stewards laying silver cutlery on the single long table which dominated the room. Fifty or so chairs were set around the table — matching, presumably, the number of First Class passengers. The stewards glanced up at him, nodded, and continued with their work.

The saloon was panelled in dark wood, with mirrors set around it to increase the illusion of depth. Where there weren’t mirrors there were artistic murals set into the wooden panels. Oil lamps hung from the panels on sturdy supports.

“So we all eat in here?” he said.

Virginia nodded. “All in together,” she replied. “It was the same on the boat we came out on.”

“Lords and ladies mixing with industrialists and theatrical impresarios,” he went on. “Very democratic. Nowhere for the hoi oligoi to escape from the hoi polloi.”

“No cabin service,” Virginia agreed. “People eat here or they don’t eat at all.”

One of the stewards began to set out place cards around the table. Sherlock wondered where Mycroft’s bribe had placed them. Now they were at sea, all bets were off. Despite the payment, they could be seated at the far end of the table, away from the Captain and the doors, and over the engines, and they wouldn’t be able to do anything about it apart from complain. Sherlock presumed they were at the mercy of the purser — a man who had already demonstrated that he could be bribed.

Sherlock stepped back and let the door swing shut. Something moved in the corner of his eye. He glanced sideways, towards where the First Class saloon ended in an alley running between it and the nearest funnel. A figure was just ducking back into the alley. He didn’t recognize it — sailor or passenger, he couldn’t be sure. The only thing he caught was the sun catching a flash of iridescent blue around the figure’s wrist as it withdrew into the shadows. A blue shirt cuff, maybe? He wasn’t sure.

He ran quickly down to the end of the saloon and glanced around the corner, but the alley was clear. A hatch halfway along led down into the depths of the ship. Whoever had been watching them was gone, but Sherlock knew that it wouldn’t be left at that. This was the second time he’d spotted someone watching him from the shadows. Someone on this ship was interested in them, and that could only mean one thing.

The Americans who had kidnapped Matty had someone on the ship.