by Andrew Lane
‘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 changea
ble.
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.
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.