Young Sherlock Holmes 6: Knife Edge

by Andrew Lane

  After a few minutes the servants took the soup bowls away and replaced them with plates piled high with slices of venison. Steaming dishes of vegetables were brought to the table, and the guests filled their plates.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sherlock said eventually, after several mouthfuls of the tender venison. ‘I only believe what I can see with my own eyes.’

  ‘You can’t see the wind,’ she pointed out, ‘or the heat of the sun.’

  He sighed. ‘No, but I can see their effects.’

  ‘And you can see the effect of the Dark Beast. It scared me. It scares the local townspeople and the fishermen as well.’

  ‘I’m not going to win this argument, am I?’

  ‘No,’ she said with finality. ‘You’re not.’

  Sherlock knew that pursuing the conversation would be pointless, but he couldn’t help himself. He was just about to say something else when a ringing noise from the head of the table cut through the sound of conversation. Quintillan was rapping his wine glass with his knife.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said in his rich, dark voice. ‘Thank you so much for being here this evening. Given the shape of the table there are only two places that I can directly interact with –’ he nodded at Mycroft Holmes and Count Shuvalov – ‘but please believe that this does not indicate any preferential treatment. The seating arrangements will be changed at each meal. I will have had the pleasure of talking directly to all of you by the time we have concluded our business.’ He paused, and looked around at all the people seated at the table. ‘I can also only apologize for the absence of our American friend. I am assured he will be here tomorrow. Nevertheless, I have no intention of delaying matters waiting for him to arrive. We are on schedule, and we will remain on schedule. If he misses tonight’s events then it is unfortunate, but he, not you, will be the one disadvantaged.’

  Herr Holtzbrinck and von Webenau nodded their appreciation.

  ‘I am sure you will have noticed,’ Quintillan went on, ‘that Mr Albano is not present at dinner tonight. When he knows that he has to communicate with the astral plane, he does not partake of any refreshment. He finds that it interferes with his ability to communicate with the spirits of the dead. Mr Albano is currently in his rooms, preparing for tonight’s séance – relaxing, meditating and summoning his mental powers. The intention of this séance tonight is to give you some indication of the scope and scale of Mr Albano’s abilities. I would urge you to pay careful attention to what happens, but not to try to interfere. The spirits are sometimes agitated and excess noise or confusion can make them angry. Please, for your own sakes, stay calm and quiet whilst the séance is taking place.

  ‘I will not be asking any of you to make any financial commitments tonight,’ Quintillan went on. ‘I merely want you to observe, and to reflect on what you have seen. Tomorrow we will start the negotiations.’

  ‘He really believes all this?’ Sherlock asked Niamh as the guests returned to eating.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, he does.’

  ‘Dessert will be served shortly,’ Quintillan continued a while later. ‘When you have finished it I suggest we repair to the reception room for the séance. After that, I recommend cigars and brandy.’

  Sherlock couldn’t wait to see what would happen at the séance. Fortunately, everyone else at the table had the same feeling as him. Conversation died as people rushed to finish dinner.

  When everyone had finished, Mrs Silman appeared, behind Sir Shadrach Quintillan’s bath chair. She grasped the handles, pulled him backwards and manoeuvred him away from the table.

  ‘Please,’ he said, ‘everyone – follow me.’

  Mycroft Holmes, Count Shuvalov, von Webenau and Herr Holtzbrinck all got up and followed. Shuvalov made a gesture to his manservant, dismissing him.

  Sherlock glanced at Niamh. ‘Are you coming?’ he asked.

  ‘I wasn’t specifically invited,’ she admitted, ‘but I’d love to see what happens.’

  Sherlock escorted Niamh in the wake of the other dinner guests. They walked across the castle hall and through an archway into a room that was dark, lit only by candlelight. Thick velvet drapes blocked out any illumination from the windows. A table had been set up in the centre of the room, smaller than the dinner table, and circular. It was not covered by a cloth, and around the edge were inscribed the letters of the alphabet, along with the numbers 1 to 10 and the words ‘Yes’ and ‘No’. Six seats were arranged around the edge of the table, with a gap for Quintillan’s bath chair.

  Ambrose Albano was standing by one of the windows. He was wearing evening dress and white gloves that clashed with his black clothing. His false left eye seemed to glow in the candlelight. He stood facing away from the doorway, and did not acknowledge the arrival of the guests.

  ‘Please,’ Quintillan said, ‘take your seats.’

  The four international representatives sat down, while Silman moved Quintillan’s bath chair into the gap. This left two empty seats. One was obviously reserved for Ambrose Albano; the other for the mystery American.

  Mycroft waved at Sherlock. ‘Seat yourself!’ he called.

  Sherlock glanced at Quintillan, who looked around at the other representatives. ‘Does anybody have any objections?’ he asked. The Russian, Austrian and German shook their heads. Quintillan nodded at Sherlock. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘feel free to join us.’

  Sherlock turned to Niamh. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But duty calls.’

  ‘I’ll watch from the sidelines,’ she said.

  Silman moved to the doorway and pulled a set of drapes across the gap. With the light from the hall cut off, the room was much darker. Sherlock sat down at the table.

  Ambrose Albano walked across to join the others at the table. As he sat down, Sherlock noticed how, in the shadows, his false eye looked like a black hole in his face.

  From his pocket, Albano produced a wooden plaque about the size of his hand. It was rounded at the back, and pointed at the front.

  ‘This,’ he said solemnly, ‘will allow the spirits to communicate with us. If they have messages to send, then they will move this wooden plaque to the letters and numbers around the edge of the table, spelling them out. In order that you don’t think I am manipulating this plaque, we will all have our hands on it. I will not be able to move it myself without you all knowing, but the spirits will allow it to move regardless of my hand, or your hands. But first . . .’

  Theatrically, he raised his gloved hands into the air. With his left hand he pushed his right sleeve up, almost to the elbow, and repeated the same gesture with his right hand and left sleeve.

  ‘As the magicians say,’ he proclaimed, ‘I have nothing up my sleeves but my arms. There are no tricks here – only genuine communications from the dead.’

  Sherlock glanced across the table at Mycroft. His brother looked at him soberly. Watch carefully, he seemed to be saying. Take nothing for granted.

  Albano seemed to catch something of the communication between the two brothers. He glanced from Mycroft to Sherlock and back. ‘And in case any amongst you believe that I have secreted objects beneath the table which I will later use as props: please, go ahead and check.’ He stared at Sherlock. ‘Be so kind as to look beneath the table, young man.’

  Sherlock glanced at his brother, who nodded in agreement. Sherlock ducked beneath the table. The underneath was bare wood, with no props or tricks attached there. Sherlock reached up and touched it, rapping it gently with his knuckles. There was no hollowness, no indication of any hidden areas.

  Returning to his seat, Sherlock said, ‘I can confirm that there is nothing beneath the table that shouldn’t be there.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Albano raised a hand and clicked his fingers. Silman, the butler, approached him, holding an object the size of a large, thin book. Albano took it from her and handed it to Sherlock. ‘Please, tell us what this object is, young man.’

  Sherlock looked at it. ‘It’s a slate – like the kind they use in schools. You can write messag
es on it in chalk.’

  ‘And is there any chalk?’

  Sherlock turned the slate over and gazed at the back. ‘I can’t see any chalk.’

  ‘Good. Is there anything else you can tell us about the slate?’

  ‘It’s framed in wood, and it has a wooden back.’ Sherlock tried to prise the wooden back off, and failed. ‘It seems to be very robust – I can’t pull it apart.’

  ‘Please – pass it around the table. Let everyone check it.’ He smiled thinly. ‘After all, as far as the other representatives are aware, you may be my secret assistant.’

  Sherlock passed the slate to Mycroft, who glanced at it and handed it straight on to von Webenau. From him it went to Count Shuvalov, to Quintillan and then to Herr Holtzbrinck. The German representative handed it back to Ambrose Albano, who held it in both hands. ‘Then let us start,’ he proclaimed. ‘Later I will demonstrate the power that makes me different from other psychics – the ability to specifically call on particular named spirits to communicate with – but for now I will merely see which spirits are closest and wish to communicate.’ He closed his eyes and threw his head back. ‘I call upon the great spirits of the astral plane! I call across the Great Divide that separates the living from the departed. Is there anybody there? Is there a spirit willing to converse with us? Is there a spirit willing to act as interlocutor for the Other Side?’

  Sherlock glanced around at the faces of the others. They held a range of expressions, from rapt attention to mild disbelief. The latter expression was, of course, on his brother’s face.

  Sherlock looked over at the doorway, where Silman stood. Behind her, he could just make out Niamh’s face in the darkness of the hall. She smiled at him.

  ‘I can feel someone approaching,’ Albano said.

  Von Webenau looked around anxiously.

  ‘On the astral plane,’ Quintillan whispered. Von Webenau settled back in his chair, relieved.

  Ambrose convulsively half rose out of his chair, as if he had been electrocuted, then slumped back into a seated position. His eyes were still closed. His gloved hands, which were still holding the slate, fell to his lap. ‘Identify yourself!’ he called in a strained voice.

  There was silence for a few moments, during which Sherlock waited for some kind of response – a voice perhaps, or some movement of the wooden plaque towards the edge of the table, but the eventual form of the reply took Sherlock by surprise. Albano brought his hands out from below the table, still holding the slate, but it wasn’t blank any more. There was a message scrawled on it in chalk.

  Albano held the slate up and turned it around so that everyone else could see it. ‘Please,’ he said in a strained voice, ‘someone, read the message out.’

  ‘My name is Invictus,’ Herr Holtzbrinck quoted. ‘I have been selected to be your guide for this night.’

  ‘Amazing!’ von Webenau murmured.

  Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, whose gaze shifted from Sherlock to the table and back. Intuiting his intent, Sherlock ducked his head beneath the level of the tabletop, looking for some evidence that he had missed. Maybe Ambrose had a piece of chalk under there, held between his knees, or some chalk had been attached to the underneath of the table so that Albano could have written the message himself? But there was nothing. Albano’s trousers were black, and there would have been some evidence of chalk dust. Sherlock straightened up and shook his head briefly. Mycroft nodded, a scowl on his face. It was obvious to Sherlock that he didn’t know how the trick had been accomplished either. If it was a trick.

  ‘Are you willing to act as our guide, seeking out those spirits of the dead who have messages for friends or relatives who are still living?’ Albano called. Eyes tightly shut, he moved his head around as if looking for something. His hands, Sherlock noticed, were in his lap again, still holding the slate.

  The silence in the room was heavy with expectation. After a moment or two Albano’s head twitched. He brought the slate out again and held it up. It was covered with scrawled chalk marks, but they were different from last time.

  ‘I stand ready to assist,’ Herr Holtzbrinck read out, ‘but the others do not have the power to write, as I do. They will use the plaque.’ The final words were written in smaller letters, and squeezed together, as if the spirit named Invictus had suddenly realized that it was running out of space. Somehow Sherlock found the idea of a spirit making a misjudgement like that rather comical.

  Albano held the slate up in his right hand. Silman moved forward to take it from him. He reached out to place his fingertips on the wooden plaque which had been sitting on the table all that time. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘all of you, place your fingertips alongside mine.’

  The six others around the table all leaned forward and did as Albano had asked. It felt to Sherlock as if the plaque were trembling slightly. He looked around to see if anyone’s hand was obviously shaking, but he couldn’t see any unusual movements.

  ‘Is there anybody there?’ Albano asked.

  Nothing happened for a long moment, long enough that Sherlock thought that nothing was going to happen, and then the plaque suddenly shot across the table towards the word ‘Yes’, dragging their hands with it. Count Shuvalov sucked his breath in, while von Webenau’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

  ‘Do you have a message for someone here?’

  The plaque slowly drifted back to the centre of the table, and then jerked back towards the ‘Yes’.

  ‘Who is the message for?’

  Again, the plaque drifted back towards the centre of the table, and then jerked back towards the rim again, but this time, instead of heading for the ‘Yes’, it went off at an angle, towards the alphabet of letters that ran around the edge of the table. Laboriously, the plaque pointed to the ‘H’, the ‘E’, the ‘R’ . . .

  ‘Herr Holtzbrinck,’ Sherlock murmured, but if the spirit heard, then it ignored him, and kept on spelling out the name until it got to the final ‘K’.

  Holtzbrinck glanced around the table. ‘My apologies,’ he murmured. ‘I had no idea . . .’

  ‘Who are you?’ Ambrose asked. ‘Identify yourself.’

  The plaque shuddered, and then set off again around the table. Within thirty seconds it had spelled out F-R-I-T-Z.

  ‘Does this name mean anything to you?’ Ambrose asked, looking at Holtzbrinck.

  ‘Fritz was my brother,’ the German representative said. His voice sounded tremulous, as if he were in the grip of some strong emotion.

  ‘And has he passed across the Great Divide?’

  Holtzbrinck nodded, once. ‘It was a boating accident, five years ago. He drowned.’

  Albano turned his attention back to the air above the table. ‘What is your message, Fritz Holtzbrinck?’

  The plaque moved again, from letter to letter. Sherlock found himself jerked across the table as the plaque tried to reach letters that were opposite him, and he could see the others pulled in similar directions when the plaque moved his way. He tried to spot if anyone was deliberately pushing the plaque – Albano, or any of the others – but it was impossible to tell. It did feel to him, however, as if the plaque were moving of its own accord.

  I am happy here, the message read. Do not mourn for me. Helga must stop grieving and make a new life for herself.

  ‘Helga was Fritz’s wife,’ Holtzbrinck said quietly. He seemed to be suppressing some heavy emotion. ‘They had only been married for two months when he died. She was, and still is . . . how do you say it? . . . distraught.’ He turned his face towards the empty air in the centre of the table. ‘Are you in heaven, Fritz?’ he asked. ‘Or are you in hell?’ There was a pleading expression on his face.

  Sherlock glanced at Mycroft. He could tell what his brother was thinking – The German is getting sucked in to the theatricality of the occasion!

  The plaque spelled out a new message. There is no heaven and there is no hell. There is only the life beyond the veil.

  ‘Very cryptic,’ Mycroft mouthed to Sherlock. Tur
ning to face Albano, he said more loudly, ‘The message is in English, I notice. Is that usual for German spirits?’

  ‘The language of the spirit plane is universal,’ Albano said smoothly. ‘When we hold the séance in English, the messages appear in English.’ He turned back to Holtzbrinck before Mycroft could ask another question. ‘Do you have any final message for your brother?’ he asked.

  The plaque moved again. Sherlock tried to guess what the message was from the initial letters, but it took him a while to work out that the spirit – if it was a spirit – was spelling out: Believe in the life beyond life. Believe that we all move on to a better place. Do not mourn for us, but celebrate our lives.

  Herr Holtzbrinck was breathing heavily by the time the message was complete. His eyes glistened with unshed tears. ‘Do not go,’ he murmured. ‘Please!’

  ‘It is too late,’ Ambrose announced. ‘The spirit of your brother has returned to the formless void, whence all things come and to where all things go.’ He paused. ‘Another spirit approaches. Invictus tells me so.’

  Sherlock glanced at the plaque, waiting for it to move, but it stayed where it was. Instead, Ambrose threw his head back and, staring at the ceiling, pronounced: ‘I can feel a spirit moving within me! This is a powerful spirit. It wishes to manifest itself in this room – to become visible to us!’

  Sherlock and the others seated around the table looked around, expecting to see some ghostly form moving through the room, but instead Ambrose convulsed in his chair again. He brought his arms around his body, clutching himself, and coughed once, twice. His hands came up to his head, open and grasping at the air, then they moved to cup his mouth, and he coughed into them as if trying to expel something from his lungs.

  To Sherlock’s astonishment, something white and misty began to emerge from Ambrose’s mouth. It was as if he were breathing out some vaporous substance into the centre of the room, but instead of dissipating, the substance retained its form, expanding above the table until it began to look like a shroud concealing a face. Albano’s hands waved in the air, as if trying to contain the substance, to stop it from spreading. If he concentrated, Sherlock could almost see features inside the dark centre – the features of a beautiful young woman, looking like a portrait done in oils.