Young Sherlock Holmes: Knife Edge (11 page)

Without touching the body, Sherlock made a visual examination. There was no
sign of blood, no obvious trauma. She looked as if she had suddenly fallen down and died on the spot.

Something was nagging at the back of his mind, and he quietened his thoughts to let it come forward. It had something to do with what he had first seen. He stepped back, and let his eyes move
over the body, from the top of the head to the soles of the feet, trying to work out exactly what
it was that was bothering him.

The feet! That was it! She wasn’t wearing shoes!

He heard Niamh returning from the castle, accompanied by others. He turned as they arrived. Silman was there, as were several of the house servants. They saw the girl on the ground and gasped,
blessing themselves.

Silman bent to check the girl’s pulse, as Sherlock had done. She straightened up, shaking
her head. ‘The poor girl. She must have had some kind of seizure, God rest her soul. I could
tell that there was something wrong this morning, at breakfast. Perhaps her heart was weak.’

‘Perhaps it was the sight of the Dark Beast that drove her mad and killed her,’ someone whispered. Silman turned to glare at them. ‘Fetch sheets. We’ll wrap her body up
and take her back to the castle.
Someone go for the priest. The doctor is already on his way on other business. He’ll need to examine her, and sign a certificate of death. If he finds traces
of disease then he might well quarantine the castle, which would be awkward for the master.’ She turned to Sherlock and Niamh. ‘Mistress, young master – I’m sorry you had to
see this. Thank you for alerting us. I will tell Sir Shadrach, and
we will make all the necessary arrangements. There is nothing else you can do here – I suggest you go on with whatever it
was you were doing when you found her.’

Niamh nodded. ‘Thank you, Silman,’ she said soberly. ‘Please let me know if there is anything that we can do.’ She paused. ‘Did she have family?’

‘Not in this area. I believe she had a mother and a brother down near Cork. I
will write to them.’ She sighed. ‘Such a tragedy, when young people die for no reason.’

Niamh was obviously still shocked. ‘I was only talking to her this morning,’ she said. ‘How can the Lord just . . . take people away like that? Do you understand it?’

‘What I don’t understand,’ Sherlock said thoughtfully, ‘is why she was outside in bare feet. She was wearing shoes this morning. Where
did they go?’

Silman suddenly made a wordless exclamation, and slapped her hands to her cheeks. ‘Forgive me, young master,’ she said, ‘but the shock of seeing poor Máire here made me
almost forget that I was already in the process of looking for you when the mistress ran in to find me.’

‘What did you want me for?’

‘It’s your brother, sir.’

Sherlock felt his heart shift suddenly.
He felt sick. ‘What’s happened to Mycroft?’ he asked, stepping forward.

Silman hesitated, apparently trying to frame her next sentence properly. ‘He’s been injured. It’s his head . . .’

Ignoring Silman and Niamh, Sherlock raced back towards the castle. The idea that his brother had been injured filled him with horror. He had only just got back to the British
Isles, only just met up with his brother again. For anything to happen to Mycroft now would be unimaginable. He had always been a fixed, solid presence in Sherlock’s life. He had to stay that
way!

He raced across the moat and through the high arch into the open central area of the castle, heart pounding and breath rasping in his throat. The entrance to the keep was off to his left, and he
pelted towards it and up the ramp without slowing.

In the hall, servants were gathered around the entrance to a room that Sherlock hadn’t been in before. Guessing that was where Mycroft was, he
pushed past them.

The room was a reception room, with comfortable chairs,
chaises longues
and sofas scattered around. Mycroft was sitting in one of the chairs, his large frame spilling over the arms of
the chair and threatening to snap the thin legs. He was as white as the ectoplasm that Ambrose Albano had manifested the night before. It looked for a moment as though he had an enormous wound
on
his forehead, until Sherlock realized that the blood was a stain that had soaked through a bandage wrapped around Mycroft’s head. His skin was so white that the bandage was almost
invisible.

Sir Shadrach was beside Mycroft, still in his bath chair. In Silman’s absence, one of the foot-servants was stationed behind the chair, ready to push it if needed. Count Shuvalov was
standing
in a similar manner behind Mycroft’s chair with his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft himself had his eyes closed and a hand raised to his forehead. Sensing Sherlock’s approach, he opened his eyes and waved his sausage-like fingers. ‘Ah, Sherlock,’ he
said, voice weak. ‘I apologize for disturbing your pre-prandial constitutional.’

‘What happened?’ Sherlock asked urgently.

‘I was
alone in the library. Sir Shadrach had very kindly given me his permission to conduct some research – I gather that you had the same idea earlier, and I am sorry that I missed
you. As it turned out, someone did not miss me. I was struck down from behind. I am informed that the object in question was a candelabra, although I confess that I did not notice at the time.
Fortunately, one of the servants
entered to see whether I required a cup of tea, and found me on the floor.’

‘Did you shut the door when you went into the library?’ Sherlock asked.

‘I did, yes.’

‘And when the servant entered the library, was the door also shut?’

Sir Shadrach glanced away from Mycroft and towards one of the female servants. She curtsied briefly and said, ‘Yes, sir, it was.’

‘The library door
leads directly out into the hall,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘Anyone going in or coming out would be liable to be seen by someone – unless there’s
another way in or out.’ He was thinking, as he had earlier, about secret passages.

‘I am not aware,’ Quintillan said stiffly, ‘of any other ways in or out of the library, save the windows, which were and still are firmly closed.’ He grimaced. ‘On
the other hand, there were people going through the hall all the time, and none of them saw anyone going into or out of the library between the time your brother entered and the time he was
discovered unconscious.’

‘How do you feel?’ Sherlock asked, kneeling by his brother’s side.

‘I have the kind of headache I normally get the day after drinking a bottle of particularly old and crusty
port, and my stomach is informing me urgently that luncheon is completely out of
the question.’ He smiled weakly. ‘On the other hand I am alive, and that is always advantageous.’

‘We have called for a doctor,’ Sir Shadrach said. ‘We need to check for concussion, obviously, as well as signs of skull fracture.’

‘The important questions,’ Count Shuvalov said in his thick Russian accent
from behind Mycroft’s chair, ‘are why the attack was carried out, and by whom.’

‘The “why” is obvious,’ Quintillan pointed out. ‘Someone wanted to stop the British Government from taking part in the auction for Mr Albano’s services. This
kind of action is despicable and deplorable, and I will not put up with it in Cloon Ard Castle.’

‘You seem to imply,’ Count Shuvalov said calmly, ‘that
either I, von Webenau or Herr Holtzbrinck are responsible. For the sake of form, I deny any involvement, although I am
sure that the other two gentlemen will do the same.’

‘Calm yourselves, gentlemen,’ Mycroft said faintly, waving a hand again. ‘There is another possibility. The attack may have been arranged as a means of making Mr Albano’s
services seem worth killing for, and therefore
driving the price up.’

‘That,’ Quintillan said ominously, ‘would suggest that either I or Mr Albano might be responsible. I completely—’

‘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.’