Young Sherlock Holmes: Black Ice

by Andrew Lane

  Sherlock’s head was filled with the faces of the theatrical company – Mr Kyte, Mr Malvin, Miss Dimmock, Mrs Loran, not to mention the conductor, Mr Eves and his musicians. And what about the stagehands – Pauly, Henry, Judah and Rhydian? Were they all part of the charade? Were they all acting, even the ones who weren’t actors? The scale of this undertaking was fantastic!

  Looking at it now, it was all so obvious. This secret organization was counting on Mycroft being confused after his arrest in London and grabbing the first good opportunity to get to Moscow that came along. But Sherlock had been there as well, and so was Amyus Crowe, and so the organization had to get the two of them out of the way. That explained the attack in the museum. The organization was reacting quickly to unexpected events, which was why their plans had seemed so difficult to understand.

  He was breathing fast now, feeling the excitement of knowing he was right flooding through his body and tingling every nerve.

  It was all designed, every bit of it, to get Mycroft alone with Count Pyotr Andreyevich Shuvalov, the head of the Third Section, in Shuvalov’s office. It all led to that moment. But why? Thinking back over everything that had happened, the answer was blindingly obvious to Sherlock. They wanted to kill Count Shuvalov, and they wanted Mycroft to be blamed. That was their modus operandi – they framed people for things they didn’t do. They framed Mycroft for a murder, and then they framed Sherlock for pickpocketing.

  Sherlock’s gaze came up to meet Wormersley’s. ‘And you are part of it, aren’t you?’ The words came suddenly to his lips, but he knew them to be true. His mind, a split second behind, had all the proof laid out.

  Wormersley gazed admiringly at Sherlock. ‘You really are your brother’s brother. Bravo!’

  Silence fell across the cafe. It was as if all the other customers paused for a moment in their conversations or their eating and drinking, letting the moment run on.

  Wormersley nodded. His thin lips twisted into a smile. ‘Of course I am part of it. I’m not surprised that you realized, not surprised at all, given who your brother is, but I am interested to know what it was that gave me away.’

  ‘Two things,’ Sherlock replied. He tried to keep his voice calm. ‘There’s your beard, of course. You said you’ve been on the run for a week or more, going from bad hotel to bad hotel, but your beard and moustache are neatly trimmed. I would have thought you’d have more important things on your mind than personal grooming.’

  Wormersley ran a hand across his chin. ‘A good point. I can never resist the urge to look my best. And the other thing?’

  ‘Your apartment. It was supposed to have been searched, but the wreckage was too organized.’ This, Sherlock realized, was what his mind had kept trying to direct his attention to when it was thinking about fragments of smashed figurines. ‘If someone had really gone through the apartment pulling everything to bits then the fragments would be scattered randomly, but all the smaller broken ornaments were on top of the smashed furniture. Someone went through the apartment methodically, breaking the bigger stuff first, then the smaller stuff. That’s not a search – that’s setting a scene.’

  Wormsley nodded. ‘I will remember that for next time. Excellent observational skills, Mr Holmes. Excellent indeed.’

  Sherlock looked around. ‘We’re in public, you know? You can hardly drag me out of here, kicking and screaming, without anyone reacting.’

  ‘Oh, I think you underestimate the Russian ability to look away and not get involved.’ He laughed abruptly. ‘But just in case you wish to give it a try . . .’

  He looked around the tiny cafe, and suddenly snapped his fingers.

  Everyone in the cafe turned to look at him. There was no surprise on their faces. There was the look that soldiers give their commanding officer: patience while awaiting orders.

  Sherlock stared at the two women across by the far wall. One was young, with brown hair pulled back beneath a headscarf, while the other was middle-aged and wore a fur hat. Miss Dimmock and Mrs Loran? He couldn’t tell, not for sure, not until the younger woman smiled at him and suddenly he could see the fine line of her jaw beneath her make-up.

  The men – could they be Mr Malvin, Mr Furness, Mr Eves and the various musicians whose names Sherlock had never caught? The pit orchestra conductor, if it was him, had shaved his moustache off – or, more likely, removed his false moustache – but one of the men was tall enough to be him.

  The man with the blotchy, potato-like face winked at Sherlock. He reached up and pulled at his puffy skin. Bits of it came away, like putty, and he peeled them off until his real face was revealed beneath: his red-veined cheeks and cauliflower-like nose. It was Mr Furness. ‘That’s a relief,’ he said. ‘Itches like hell! Theatrical putty, remember?’

  Now that he was looking at their faces, he could see that the four children were actually Judah, Pauly, Henry and Rhydian, all bundled up against the cold, with dirt rubbed into their faces, false teeth in front of their own, pads in their cheeks to push them out and subtle make-up altering the lines of their faces. Pauly nodded at Sherlock; Henry just shrugged nonchalantly, as if this was an everyday occurrence.

  Although he had worked out most of what was going on in a massive rush of deduction, Sherlock hadn’t anticipated this.

  ‘So what happens now?’ he asked.

  ‘Now,’ Wormersley said, ‘we just sit here, drink our tea and eat our pastries. The owner of the cafe won’t disturb us: he is being paid enough to keep out of the way. We stay here until Count Pyotr Andreyevich Shuvalov is dead and your brother has been arrested for the murder.’

  ‘But what does that accomplish?’ Sherlock asked. ‘Why go to such lengths to get Mycroft here in Moscow, and in the right place? Why not just kill Count Shuvalov yourself?’

  Wormersley shrugged. ‘You have no idea how well – protected he is. He is never seen out in public, and when he travels he is always accompanied by bodyguards who have been with him for twenty years or more. They are fanatically loyal. When he travels he sends out several carriages in different directions, any of which might contain him. He is an important man, second only to the Tsar. No, believe me, we have tried. Many times. The only solution was to create a situation where we knew he would be alone in a place and at a time we knew about.’

  ‘But what’s he ever done to you?’

  ‘He knows about us. He knows, and he disapproves. He wants to stop us.’

  ‘And who are you?’

  ‘We are the Paradol Chamber,’ a voice said behind Sherlock.

  The words sent a chill of fear through Sherlock.

  He turned his head. Mrs Loran, the woman who had always been so kind to him, had crossed from her table to theirs. She was still smiling her sympathetic smile, bundled up in clothes that made her look like a Russian grandmother, but there was a hard glint in her eyes that Sherlock had not noticed before.

  ‘What is the Paradol Chamber?’ Sherlock’s voice was unsteady with fear and disappointment that, once again, an adult he liked and trusted had let him down.

  ‘An organization,’ she said. A club. A group of like – minded individuals. A state of mind. Perhaps even a nation without territory. All of these things and more. We are the people who see the way the world is going and who have decided that we don’t like it. We are the people who have decided to change the course of history.’

  ‘So the whole thing about the sale of Alaska to America, and the possibility that the Americans might default on the payments and the Spanish might step in and buy it? That was all false?’

  She laughed. ‘No, it was all true. True, but largely irrelevant. Bait in a trap. The best lies are the ones that are mostly true. We just took advantage of a real political situation and set it up as bait for your brother. That, and the disappearance of Mr Wormersley here.’

  ‘And what about Mycroft? Why him?’

  ‘He was a convenient choice – a man who, although young, has become identified as being at the heart of the British Government.
It will be difficult for your Prime Minister to claim that Mycroft Holmes was some kind of hot-headed idealist. I can’t imagine anyone further from hot-headedness or idealism than Mycroft Holmes. No, when Mycroft is identified as Count Shuvalov’s assassin then every government of the world will know that Great Britain has committed an act of state-sanctioned political murder. Britain will be a pariah nation. Nobody will listen to you any more. Your influence over world affairs will fade away.’

  ‘And that’s important to you? As important as getting rid of Count Shuvalov?’

  ‘We are the Paradol Chamber,’ Mrs Loran said simply. ‘When we do something, there is never just one reason. Each action that we take serves many different ends. It’s neater that way.’

  Sherlock gazed critically back at Wormersley. ‘But why you? What dragged you into this whole thing?’

  Wormersley glanced up at Mrs Loran as if seeking her permission to speak. She nodded.

  ‘I’ve travelled a great deal,’ Wormersley said, ‘and everywhere I have been I have seen people abusing each other, enslaving each other and hurting each other, all in the name of politics or religion.’ The distant expression on Wormersley’s face suggested that he was remembering other times and other places. ‘The world is descending into chaos. Somebody needs to step forward and take charge.’ He smiled, and the smile was dreamy and dangerous at the same time. ‘Imagine it, Sherlock – a world government! Not since the time of Alexander the Great has that been possible, and the world is much bigger now! I doubt that it will happen in my lifetime, but I can help make it possible – working for the Paradol Chamber.’

  ‘More prosaically,’ Mrs Loran said, ‘Wormersley was in prison in Japan. The Japanese don’t like outsiders. He would have been tortured and executed. We got a message to him, telling him that we would get him out if he would work for us.’

  Sherlock frowned. ‘But there’s one thing I don’t understand. Mycroft and Count Shuvalov will end up in Shuvalov’s office, alone. What happens then? How does Shuvalov die, and how does Mycroft get blamed? You can’t pull the ice knife trick again, surely? The count isn’t going to stab himself

  ‘The ice knife was a useful trick, and a good rehearsal for some future assassination, but you’re right – we can’t use it again here. No, we have a different, plan, a better one.’

  ‘What is it?’ Sherlock asked.

  ‘We’ll leave that as a surprise, shall we?’ she said.

  Sherlock shook his head. ‘Are all your plans this complicated? I know Mycroft got here, and was arrested, and is probably on the verge of being questioned by Count Shuvalov, but any number of things could have gone wrong at any stage. Mycroft might not have been released by the police, or he might have decided not to come, or he might have decided to make it an official visit under his own name, or Shuvalov might have decided to let someone else question Mycroft, or he might have questioned Mycroft in a cell – any of the links in the chain might have broken. The chances of this all coming right were astronomically low.’

  ‘Don’t think of it as a chain,’ Wormersley explained. ‘Think of it more as – oh, I don’t know – a fishing net. Each knot is a decision, but there are many ways of getting from one side of the net to the other. For instance, if Mycroft hadn’t been released by the police then we would have found legal advice for him, paid for by a well-known benefactor. We would have dropped clues – clues that would lead the police to evidence that would help to clear Mycroft’s name, although not too easily. We were surprised when you and the big American got involved, but it saved us some trouble.’ He shrugged. Although we had to try and get both of you out of the way at the museum, and then adjust our travel plans when it was clear that Mycroft wouldn’t travel without you. If Mycroft hadn’t taken the bait and headed to Moscow then we would have raised the stakes. Perhaps I would have sent him a personal message begging for help. One way or another – and many ways were planned – Mycroft would have come to Moscow, and once he was in Moscow we could slip word to the Third Section and have him picked up. Genius, they say, is an infinite capacity for detail, and the Paradol Chamber does have a number of certified geniuses working to further its aims. And so, inevitably, it all comes down to a single point, at three o’clock this afternoon, when Shuvalov will have Mycroft Holmes bought to his office, and will die.’

  ‘But how do you know it will happen at three o’clock?’ Sherlock asked helplessly. He considered himself intelligent, but he was in awe of the incredible patience and planning that the Paradol Chamber displayed.

  ‘We have access to his diary,’ Mrs Loran said quietly. ‘A minor secretary who has been bribed. He never sees Shuvalov, never gets close enough to assassinate him, but he knows Shuvalov’s movements. Shuvalov has a half-hour slot between three and three thirty this afternoon. Before that he is at a briefing in the Kremlin; after that he has an audience with the Tsar. If it happens today, it happens at three o’clock. If not today, then we know where the gaps in his schedule are for the rest of the week.’

  ‘And what happens to me?’

  Wormersley looked at Mrs Loran again.

  ‘Oh, you know too much,’ she said quietly. ‘That’s why Wormersley intercepted you at the hotel and bought you here – we needed to determine what you knew and what you might work out from that. The answer was that you know too much, and you are as clever as your brother. Baron Maupertuis told us, but we had to check. We can’t let you live. You’ll be taken out into the Russian countryside and disposed of. The bears and the wolves will clear up the traces for us.’

  A shiver ran through Sherlock’s body. Gazing around, he couldn’t see any way out. He was surrounded by the agents of the Paradol Chamber. If he tried to run for it, they would be on him in seconds.

  And Mycroft? Poor Mycroft, about to be framed for a murder he wouldn’t have committed – again. Only this time there would be nobody to prove his innocence.

  It might lead to war – war between Russia and England. A diplomatic incident of this magnitude could shift the axis of history. But wasn’t that just what the Paradol Chamber wanted?

  ‘Take him away,’ Mrs Loran said over her shoulder to Mr Furness. ‘Make sure that his body is never discovered.’

  Mr Malvin came up behind Mrs Loran. He was holding a wooden box. Sherlock noticed that holes had been drilled in the top, but he couldn’t work out why.

  ‘This,’ she said to Wormersley, indicating the box with a wave of her hand, ‘is for you. Be careful with it. And remember – three o’clock, on the dot.’

  She turned to Sherlock. ‘Please understand, this is nothing personal. We have no animosity towards you, despite what happened with Baron Maupertuis. You are merely a stone in the road – a stone we need to remove before the cart of history goes past.’

  ‘Come on,’ Wormersley said, standing up. ‘Let’s get you to a place of extreme danger.’

  Glass shattered on the stone basement steps outside. Sherlock glanced up just as the patio area exploded into flames.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Within seconds the cafe had filled up with greasy black smoke. Wormersley cursed and tried to grab Sherlock’s shoulder, but Sherlock pulled away. His chair tipped over backwards, sending him toppling to the floor. Quickly he scrambled away on all fours, underneath a vacant table.

  The other patrons of the cafe – the members of the theatrical company he’d travelled with, ate with, trusted – sprang to their feet, shocked by the sudden fire. Tables and chairs crashed to the floor.

  ‘Get him!’ Mrs Loran shouted. ‘Get the boy!’

  Flames were licking up the wooden front of the cafe now. Glass shattered in the heat. A table in the front, near the door, caught fire.

  Something caught Sherlock’s arm and pulled him away, towards the back of the cafe. He tried to resist, but a voice with an Irish accent said: ‘If you only trust one person at one time in your life, lad, trust me now.’

  Rufus Stone!

  Sherlock let himself be dragged behind th
e counter by the back wall. One of Wormersley’s people – Sherlock thought it was Mr Malvin, but he couldn’t be sure – saw them and tried to get to them, but Stone pushed him to the floor.

  A small door was half-hidden behind the counter. Stone pulled Sherlock through and shoved the door shut after him.

  They were in a storeroom. Heavy bags of flour and crates of tea were piled around the walls. Stone started piling them against the door. Sherlock joined in, eyes stinging from the smoke.

  ‘How are they going to get out?’ he shouted.

  ‘Not my problem,’ Stone replied. He glanced across at Sherlock and, seeing the expression on his face, added: ‘They can use some of the tables at the back as shields, push their way through to the steps. If they’re quick they can get up to the road. People outside will be trying to put the fire out too. Don’t worry – we’re not condemning them to a fiery death, much as I might want to!’

  ‘How did you start the fire?’

  ‘Simple – there was a tea vendor with a cart just down the street. He was using spirits to heat the samovar.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The tea urn – it’s called a samovar. He had a bottle of spirits. I just borrowed them, splashed them around outside while they were concentrating on you, and threw a lighted scrap of paper down on top. Worked nicely, even if I say so myself

  Stone led Sherlock to the rear of the storeroom, where a set of stone steps led up into a small yard.

  ‘How did you find me?’ Sherlock asked.

  ‘I was heading for the hotel to talk to Mr Holmes. I saw him being arrested, then I saw your path being crossed by a tall, dark stranger. I was intrigued, so I followed you here. Strange how much you can pick up if you’re lurking outside an open window.’

  ‘You heard everything?’

  Stone’s face was grim. ‘I did.’