Young Sherlock Holmes: Fire Storm

by Andrew Lane

  ‘Even if the secrets they’re keeping might get them put into jail if they were known about?’ Matty asked shrewdly.

  ‘Even so,’ Sherlock said. ‘If a crime has been committed, then there’s a process for that. It gets reported. The police investigate. Evidence gets collected. If there’s enough evidence then people get arrested. Josh Harkness isn’t punishing criminals because he thinks of himself as some unofficial part of the police force – he’s preying on people’s guilty consciences to make money.’

  Matty grimaced. ‘It’s still evidence,’ he said. ‘And I think you’ve got a rosy view of the police. Like I told you earlier – the police around here are either taking money themselves or they’re doing their own little petty thefts on the side. Give a criminal a uniform and he’s still a criminal.’

  Sherlock thought back to the time, some months before, when his brother Mycroft had been accused of murder. The police hadn’t seemed too interested in collecting evidence then, he had to admit, but even so, the principle was sound.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I admit the system isn’t ideal. I don’t even know what an ideal system would look like. Maybe the police need to be paid more. Maybe people need to be checked out and tested before they’re allowed to join the police. Maybe they need more training. Maybe they need consultants to help them out when they’re investigating difficult crimes. I don’t know. I just know that people like Josh Harkness aren’t the answer. He’s doing nothing to stop crimes – in fact, from his point of view, the more crimes the better.’

  ‘I ain’t going to convince you to give this up, am I?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you’re going to do it whether I help or not.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I suppose I’d better help out, if only to keep you alive. My life would be a lot more boring if you weren’t around.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sherlock said.

  ‘I’m not saying that’s a good thing or a bad thing,’ Matty responded. ‘I’m just saying, is all.’ He sighed. ‘All right – what’s the plan?’

  ‘We take all of these boxes and dump their contents in the vats outside.’

  Matty shrugged. ‘Somehow I knew it would mean getting closer to those vats. You know those workers aren’t going to let us come back once, let alone twice?’

  ‘Then we’ll have to distract them.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘I’m still working on that.’ He thought for a moment. ‘It’s got to be something that will attract them all to one side of the building.’

  ‘Fire?’ Matty suggested.

  ‘Too dangerous.’

  ‘What if I let myself be seen, and they chase after me?’

  ‘That leaves me having to shift twenty-six boxes by myself.’

  ‘Oh.’ Matty’s expression brightened. ‘What if we wait until it’s dark, then we come back, break in and destroy them for good in peace: undisturbed, like?’

  Sherlock shook his head. ‘This place is so important that Harkness will have it guarded at night. We were only able to sneak in now because it’s daylight, and there’s a lot of activity in the tannery. At night, in the quiet, any guard will hear us or spot us straight away, so that rules out hiding here until the sun goes down. No, it’s got to be now.’ He thought for a moment, ‘I suppose,’ he said slowly, ‘we could pull up some floorboards. This room is built up above ground level. Maybe we could hide the boxes beneath the floorboards. Harkness wouldn’t know what had happened to them.’ He frowned, thinking through the obvious problems. ‘No, we couldn’t lever the floorboards up without leaving splinters and marks. Harkness would guess straight away what we’d done.’

  ‘Well, I’m stumped,’ Matty said. ‘Let’s just call it a day, shall we?’

  ‘Let’s not. There has to be a solution.’ He let his mind go blank, hoping that the various pieces of the puzzle that were whirling around his head would settle down into some meaningful pattern. Gradually they did. ‘Right – here’s what we’ll do. You’re going to sneak around the vats to the far side and make a hole in one of them.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Have you got a knife?’

  Matty reached into a pocket and took one out. The blade was folded into the handle. ‘I got this.’

  ‘Use it to carve out a hole in the wooden slats that make up the side of the furthest vat, or put it between two of the slats and prise them apart. Do it without being seen.’

  ‘All right. Assuming I’m not seen, what happens then?’

  ‘The stuff inside the vat starts leaking out. When they spot it, they’ll call everyone over to help seal the hole and mop up the stuff on the floor.’

  ‘So they’re all distracted for a while. That’s when we take the boxes out and throw them in the nearest vat?’

  ‘That’s right. Except that we need to find a faster way of doing it. You remember when we came in, we saw a wooden chute leaning up against the wall?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Matty said dubiously.

  ‘That’s probably what they use to get the cow hides into the vats. I can’t imagine they hoist them up on their shoulders and throw them in one by one – that would be hard, and very messy. I think they just slide them down the chute. While they’re distracted, I’ll get the chute and run it down from here to the nearest vat. We can slide the boxes down.’

  ‘It’s a plan,’ Matty said. ‘Not sure it’s a good one, but I can’t think of anything better.’

  ‘Right – let’s go.’

  Sherlock moved to the door and opened it a crack. The eye-watering, nose-grating sewer smell of the tannery intensified. Gazing out, he noticed that the room was still deserted, although he could hear voices. Whatever Josh Harkness was doing with his workers, it was taking time.

  He turned his head to see Matty. ‘All right – go!’ he hissed.

  Matty squeezed past him and through the door. Moving quietly, he made his way along the raised wooden flooring to a set of steps that led down into the central area of the room, past another of the wooden chutes. He slipped across the room, moving from vat to vat, using each as cover, until he vanished from Sherlock’s view.

  The next few minutes were nerve-racking. Sherlock waited, hardly able to breathe, not knowing whether Matty was actually making a hole in the furthest vat. Maybe he was desperately trying to carve his way through wood that was too hard for his blade? Maybe he had been caught by Harkness or one of his men?

  A movement off to one side attracted his attention. One of the men with the long hooked poles was coming around the side of a vat. He stopped and started to roll a cigarette one-handed. Sherlock’s gaze flicked across to where he’d seen Matty vanish, but the boy wasn’t visible. The worker didn’t look as if an intruder had just been discovered, so Sherlock had to assume that he was still safe.

  Just as he was about to look away, he saw a head peeping out from behind one of the vats. It was Matty. From his position, Matty couldn’t see the man with the hooked pole, but if he moved forward a few feet he would be in the man’s line of sight. Sherlock desperately willed Matty to look his way, but his friend seemed to be nerving himself up to run back to the steps.

  Sherlock was preparing himself to make some noise that would attract Matty’s attention when the boy looked up at him. Sherlock gestured to him to stay where he was. Matty shook his head. Sherlock nodded towards the place where the worker was standing and made a walking movement with his fingers. Matty nodded in understanding.

  Sherlock stared over at the worker again. He had lit his cigarette and was strolling forward, hooked pole held over his shoulder like a rifle. Another few steps and, if he looked to his left, he would see Matty.

  Sherlock didn’t know what to do. If he attracted the man’s attention away from Matty, then he would expose himself, but he couldn’t let Matty be discovered.

  Someone shouted from the other side of the vats. It sounded as if it might have been the worker who had argued with Josh Harkness. ‘We got a leak!’ he shouted. �
��You know the drill! Marky – get some sheets to mop up the stuff. Nicholson – you and me need to caulk that hole with some hemp quick and then nail a patch across it!’

  The man with the pole ran to help. Sherlock beckoned Matty, who raced across to the steps. Sherlock ran to join him.

  ‘You start hauling the boxes out,’ he said. ‘I’ll get the chute.’

  Matty disappeared back into the storeroom and Sherlock quickly moved to where the wooden chute was leaning up against the railings. It was heavier than it looked, and it took all his strength to manhandle it back to the storeroom and then from the railing to the edge of the nearest vat.

  By the time Sherlock was ready Matty had stacked four boxes. While he went back for more, Sherlock took the boxes one at a time and pushed them down the chute. The angle wasn’t steep enough to allow the boxes to slide by themselves, but Sherlock found that he could use the second box to push the first, and then the third box to push the other two. In less than a minute he had all four boxes on the chute, and he was straining against the last one, trying to get all four to move.

  The first box was teetering over the vat now. Sherlock took a step back and then ran forward, hitting the last box in the same way he’d tackled players on the rugby field at Deepdene School. The box jerked forward, transmitting its force down the line to the first one, which tumbled into the vat.

  Too soon for congratulations. As Matty kept delivering the boxes, Sherlock kept stacking them on to the chute and ramming them forward. Box after box tumbled into the vat. Sherlock could see them floating in the poisonous, noxious mixture before it filled them up and they sank. Hopefully into oblivion.

  On the other side of the vats he could hear raised voices and the sound of hammering.

  The work fell into a repetitive routine. Pick up box. Put box on chute. Push box as hard as possible. Pick up another box. His muscles ached with the strain.

  Eventually he became aware that Matty was standing beside him, helping push the boxes. ‘Last ones,’ Matty said. He looked exhausted. Dust coated his hair and his face.

  ‘What the . . . ?’ a voice shouted.

  Sherlock looked down into the centre of the room. Josh Harkness was staring up at the two boys. His face was a mask of outraged disbelief.

  ‘Quick,’ Sherlock said. ‘Let’s get the last boxes in there!’

  ‘I saved the lightest for last,’ Matty said. ‘You can probably throw them.’

  He was right. Sherlock picked up the box marked Y and, balancing himself like a shot-putter, launched it towards the vat.

  ‘Oi!’ Harkness yelled. ‘Stop that!’

  The box hit the edge, and for a moment Sherlock thought it was going to topple backwards, but fortunately its momentum carried it forward and over.

  ‘Get them!’ Harkness yelled. Two of the workers Sherlock had seen earlier ran from the far side of the room. They hesitated slightly when they saw the boys, but the vicious anger in Harkness’s face propelled them forward. They swung their hooked poles forward like lances.

  Sherlock grabbed Matty’s shoulder and pulled him along the raised platform, towards the room where they had entered. Behind them he heard the clattering of feet on the wooden stairs.

  Matty got to the door first. He turned to say something to Sherlock. Before he could, Sherlock pushed him backwards and ducked. A pole sliced the air above his head, and a sharp-edged hook embedded itself in the door frame.

  ‘Get out!’ Sherlock yelled. ‘Quickly!’

  Matty scooted backwards into the room on hands and feet. Sherlock swung around to confront the man who had attacked him. He was tugging at the pole, trying to free it from the door frame. His friend was about ten feet behind him, approaching with violence in his eyes. Harkness had grabbed a ladder from somewhere and was climbing up the side of the vat into which the boxes had been dumped, obviously hoping that he could rescue something from the mess that Sherlock had made of his raw blackmail material.

  Sherlock offered up a rapid prayer that he would fall in, before quickly following Matty inside the storeroom. He slammed the door shut, knowing that it would only buy them a few seconds.

  Matty was already over by the window. He turned, saw Sherlock and made a step with his hands: palms up and fingers interlaced. ‘You get up,’ he said. ‘Pull me after you.’

  The door behind Sherlock shuddered as something slammed into it.

  Sherlock took three steps across the room, bent, grabbed Matty’s legs and hoisted him up to the window. ‘Get out!’ he said. ‘I’ll follow.’

  Matty looked as if he wanted to argue, but he was already half out into the street. Sensibly he struggled forward rather than backwards.

  The door burst open. One man was framed in the doorway, with the other man visible behind him.

  ‘You little whelp!’ the first man snarled. He stepped forward, pole upraised.

  Sherlock grabbed another pole from the bundle that had been stacked against the wall. He stood, pole held diagonally across his body, feet planted apart, knowing that it was going to come down to a fight. It sometimes seemed to him that he could use all the logic in the world and things would often still come down to a fight.

  The man was average height, with a paunch, but the battered nature of his ears, and the bend in his nose, suggested to Sherlock that he had a history of boxing – probably illegally, in rings set up in fields, rather than using Queensberry Rules. He stepped forward, holding his pole diagonally as well, but the other way. He smiled.

  ‘I’ll be Little John,’ he said, ‘and you can be Robin Hood.’

  ‘This isn’t a kids’ game,’ Sherlock said.

  ‘Too right,’ the man said. He suddenly struck out with his pole, trying to smash Sherlock’s knee with the bottom end. Sherlock blocked with his own pole. The sudden shock as they clashed vibrated up his arm and made his teeth ache.

  The man nodded, acknowledging Sherlock’s unexpected manoeuvre. He lashed out again with the bottom end of his pole, but it was a feint. He reversed direction suddenly, bringing the top down towards Sherlock’s head. Sherlock raised his pole with both hands, preventing the man’s weapon from knocking him out and probably splitting his skull, but before the poles could touch the man had reversed his strike again, bringing his pole up towards Sherlock’s groin. Sherlock twisted to one side, but the pole struck his right hip. He fell to one knee just in time to see the pole scythe sideways an inch above his head.

  Desperately Sherlock climbed back to his feet, ignoring the spasms of pain that shot from his hip down towards his knee. The man was off balance, and Sherlock reached out with his pole and caught the back of the man’s shoe with the hook on the end. He pulled, and the man fell backwards, swearing. He hit the ground with a thud that sent a vibration through the wooden flooring.

  The second man stepped over his fallen comrade. He was more cautious, weaving his pole from side to side in an attempt to deceive Sherlock as to the direction the first strike would come from. He feinted once, twice, then drew the pole back and lashed out at Sherlock as if he was holding a spear rather than a quarterstaff. As Sherlock jerked backwards he realized that the sharp hook on the end could be just as lethal as a spear point.

  The man pulled his pole back again. Instead of attacking Sherlock he turned his head slightly and spoke to his companion. ‘Get up, you moron! Go outside – get that other kid if he’s still around, and stop this one getting out of the window if he’s not.’

  The man shook his head as he climbed to his feet. His expression was a mixture of sullen and furious. ‘I want this one, Marky. I really want this one. You saw what he did.’

  ‘I saw you fall over on your fat rump,’ Marky snarled. ‘Now get outside. This ain’t a time for bruised muscles and bruised feelings. The boss will want to talk to this one, and knowing you like I do, you’ll slit his throat for making you look stupid, and then the boss will take it out on both of us.’

  The man – presumably Nicholson, based on the names Sherlock had heard
earlier – backed away and turned towards the door to the outside. He cast a last, baleful glance at Sherlock before he left.

  ‘You don’t want to go through the window,’ Marky said, smiling at Sherlock. ‘If Nicholson catches you, then the chances are you’ll be dead before your feet touch the ground, despite what I told him. He don’t like being embarrassed. Really don’t like it at all.’

  ‘So what’s my alternative?’ Sherlock asked, keeping his eyes fixed on Marky’s eyes, looking for some indication that the man was about to strike with his hook-tipped pole.

  ‘The alternative is that you put that pole down and come with me. The boss wants to talk with you, is all. Just a little talk.’

  Sherlock shook his head. ‘Based on what I’ve done, I think I’ve got a better chance with your friend outside than with Josh Harkness. At least I’d die quickly.’

  Marky shrugged. ‘I see your point, I really do. It’s a conundrum, isn’t it? Go out of the window and you die straight away, but quickly. Come with me and you stay alive for a little longer, but your death is more painful and slower.’ He dropped his voice, trying to lull Sherlock into relaxing. ‘You know, kid, if I were you, I’d –’

  Without warning he lashed out with the pole, trying to get the hook past Sherlock’s shoulder so he could catch it in the flesh and muscle over Sherlock’s shoulder blade and pull him forward, but Sherlock had noticed the slight widening of his eyes that meant he was about to do something physical. It was one of the things Amyus Crowe had taught him – how to predict from small movements what people were going to do. ‘Body language’, he had called it. Sherlock swept his pole left and right across his body, intercepting Marky’s weapon as it flashed towards him and deflecting it sideways.

  ‘So that’s the way you want it then,’ Marky said, pulling back again. ‘A stand-off, right? Except that when the boss arrives it’ll be two against one, and you won’t stand a chance.’