Rebel Fire (13 page)

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 encountered 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 pitch. 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 help 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 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 that 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 might 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 that 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 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 onto 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 dockside were clustering around, waving to the people on the ship. A part of Sherlock wanted to scan the crowd for Mycroft's moonlike 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.