Young Sherlock Holmes: Knife Edge (6 page)

‘And what do you make of this . . . auction?’ Mycroft asked Holtzbrinck.

‘The process itself is sound,’ the German answered, ‘but the question we must all be asking ourselves is: are we bidding on a genuine article, or on a fake?’

‘Indeed,’ Mycroft agreed. ‘But how can we tell? We are being asked to commit a large amount
of money on trust.’

‘I believe that demonstrations of Herr Albano’s mystical abilities have been arranged for later. Whether or not they constitute sufficient proof is another question.’

‘And the other representatives? Have you met them?’

Holtzbrinck nodded: a precise little snap of the head. ‘The Austro-Hungarian representative is a Louis-Adolphe von Webenau. He is very proper, very
upright. A statistician, I believe. The
Russian representative is a Count Pyotr Andreyevich Shuvalov. Given the chaos in France at the moment, with the establishment of their Third Republic, there is no French representative.’

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Sherlock opened his mouth to say ‘Don’t you know Count Shuvalov?’ but Mycroft’s right hand, hidden from Holtzbrinck behind his trouser leg,
flapped to attract Sherlock’s attention. It seemed that Mycroft didn’t want Holtzbrinck to know that he and the Russian representative were acquainted.

‘Forgive us,’ Mycroft said smoothly, ‘but I am beginning to feel slightly faint with hunger. If I do not fill a plate immediately then I cannot say what the consequences will
be.’

‘I would never stand between an Englishman and a table
of food,’ Holtzbrinck said. He bowed slightly. ‘Later, perhaps?’

‘Indeed.’ Mycroft led the way over to the loaded table. ‘I presume you recognized the name of Count Shuvalov?’ he said quietly.

‘Wasn’t he the man we met in Moscow? The man that the Paradol Chamber wanted to assassinate and frame you for it?’

‘The very same. I felt it might be advantageous to hide our acquaintance with
Count Shuvalov from Herr Holtzbrinck. Thank you for following my lead.’ Mycroft picked up a plate and
moved along the table, examining each dish with interest.

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’ Mycroft asked. He took a fork from the table and began to load his plate with slices of cold meat, chunks of marinated fish and arrangements of vegetables in various
sauces.

‘Why didn’t you want Herr Holtzbrinck
to know that you and Count Shuvalov are friends?’

‘There are several reasons,’ he replied, spearing some cheese with his fork and adding it to his plate. ‘Partly it is because Herr Holtzbrinck would immediately suspect that we
and the Russians were conspiring together against Germany, the Austro-Hungarian Empire and America, even though we are not, and he might react unpredictably. Partly,
of course, it is because my
acquaintance with Count Shuvalov might well
give
us the opportunity to arrange a conspiracy against Germany, the Austro-Hungarian Empire and America, and I do not want Herr Holtzbrinck to
work that out before it actually happens. Mostly, however, it is because I do not know whether Count Shuvalov wishes to acknowledge our friendship in this forum or not. I need
to talk to him alone
first, in order to find out to what he wishes us to admit.’

‘Is your whole life like this?’ Sherlock asked.

‘Like what?’

‘Double- and triple-guessing the actions not only of everyone around you, but also of yourself?’

Mycroft considered for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘Yes, I believe it is. It is called “international diplomacy”.’

Sherlock laughed
quietly. ‘I don’t think I could do the job that you do, Mycroft. My thoughts are very direct:
A
always leads to
B
in my world. Your thoughts twist
and turn in all directions, apparently depending on the time of day, the ambient temperature and the wind direction.’

Mycroft turned and gazed sympathetically at Sherlock. ‘And that,’ he said quietly, ‘is why I envy you. My mind is already affected
by what I do. I can never unwind those twists
and turns.
Your
mind, by contrast, is so much simpler – and therefore so much happier.’

‘I thought,’ Sherlock said, before the conversation got too personal, ‘that Count Shuvalov never went out in public because of the fear of assassination. I thought he travelled
with bodyguards at all times.’

‘That was true, when he was in charge of the
Third Section – the Russian secret police. His role changed while you were in China. People come into and slip out of favour with the
Tsar all the time in Russia – it is an occupational hazard. Count Shuvalov’s fortunes are on the wane – he is no longer the second most important man in Russia, and therefore is
no longer of interest to the Paradol Chamber, or anyone else. I am sure he sleeps
a lot more soundly in his bed now. I am, however, glad to find out that he is still proving of use to the Tsar.
This may not be the most important diplomatic mission he could be on, but it has the potential to
become
important.’ He looked at Sherlock. ‘Are you not intending to
eat?’

‘I’ll save myself for dinner.’

‘As you wish.’

A man with white hair and fluffy white mutton-chop
whiskers entered the room. His clothes were very formal. He glanced from Mycroft to Sherlock and then to Herr Holtzbrinck.

‘Von Webenau,’ Mycroft said smoothly, moving towards the man before Herr Holtzbrinck could. ‘I have heard so much about you. My name is Mycroft Holmes . . .’

Abandoned, Sherlock glanced at the food, but he was still not hungry. He thought briefly about engaging the
German representative in conversation, but he was worried that he might accidentally
say something of which Mycroft would disapprove, so he moved instead over to the doorway and out into the hall. There was nobody around, and he crossed over to the strange contraption of wooden
pillars, wooden beams and rope. The ascending room was still up on the third floor, where Quintillan had left it.

Sherlock peered between the wooden beams, into the area that the ascending room would occupy when it returned to ground level. There was a hole in the floor, about five feet deep, and looking up
at the underside of the ascending room Sherlock could see that as well as the thickness of the base there were various metal protuberances that would need to be accommodated so that the floor of
the room would be level with the floor of the hall. The base of the hole looked as if it was made out of a sheet of wood, and Sherlock thought he could see hinges on one side. Maybe there was
machinery beneath it.

Raising his gaze and looking around the wooden scaffolding, Sherlock noticed two slabs of metal, one on either side of the shaft. Ropes from them led upward, past the ascending
room, into the
roof. Thinking about it for a moment, Sherlock realized that they were counterweights for the weight of the room. Pulling the weight of the ascending room up three floors would take a lot of work,
and would leave the room in a potentially dangerous situation, but if there was a similar weight on the other end of the rope then the two weights would balance each other, reducing
the amount of
work that needed to be done and increasing the safety of the whole thing. It was, he decided, quite clever, although he wasn’t sure that he would ever want to travel in it.

A lever was set into a slot on one of the pillars. Sherlock assumed that if he pulled it then the ascending room would return to the ground. He wondered whether he ought to try it out.

‘Scared?’ a voice
said.

He turned. Behind him stood a girl of about his own age. Judging by the darkness of her skin, she was probably related to Sir Shadrach Quintillan. His daughter, perhaps? Her eyes were brown and
filled with a lively curiosity; her hair was black and curly.

‘Fear is a natural reaction when confronted with something unknown or unexplained that might have the power to kill or injure
you,’ he said. His voice sounded like he was lecturing,
and internally he cursed. ‘In this case,’ he went on, still sounding to himself like he was reciting a lesson, ‘it’s just a simple system of counterbalanced weights.
There’s nothing to be scared of. It’s just simple mechanics.’

‘Try saying that when you’re in the ascending room, going upward, looking down on a hard stone floor that’s
getting further and further away by the second, and you hear the
rope holding the room up creak.’

‘Yes,’ he said drily, ‘I can imagine that would cause a little flutter of the heart.’

‘Are you one of the representatives?’

He nodded. ‘Well, I’m with one of the representatives, which probably means that, for all practical purposes, I get counted as a representative as well.’

‘From
England?’

‘Yes.’ He stared at her for a long moment. ‘And you’re Sir Shadrach Quintillan’s daughter.’

‘You seem very sure of that.’ She put her head to one side, gazing at him speculatively. ‘You’re just guessing, aren’t you?’

‘I never guess. Your confidence indicates that you live here, rather than being a visitor, like the representatives, or a servant. The colour of your skin and
the underlying bone structure
of your face are similar to those of Sir Shadrach, while your age suggests that you’re either his daughter or his niece, rather than his sister or his wife. If you were his niece then that
would suggest the existence of a brother or sister who haven’t been mentioned yet by anyone, so it’s simpler to assume that you are his daughter.’

‘Like I said: a guess.’

‘
Are
you his daughter?’

She gazed at him, smiling. ‘Yes,’ she conceded eventually, ‘I’m his daughter. My name is Niamh. It’s spelled N-i-a-m-h but pronounced “Neeve”. Niamh
Quintillan.’

‘As I said: his daughter.’

‘Just because you’re right doesn’t make it any less of a guess.’

‘So, if he’s a “Sir” and you’re his daughter, does that make you a Lady? Or will it, in time?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m certainly no lady. It’s a non-hereditary title. That means it dies with father when he dies. I’m just a commoner, and always will be.’

Sherlock smiled, despite himself. ‘Believe me, there’s nothing common about you.’

She mock-curtsied. ‘You’re very charming.’

‘I have to be: I’m talking to a knight of the realm’s daughter. So how did your father come to
be
a
“Sir” in the first place? The title must have been
appointed by Queen Victoria.’

‘That’s what happened. We’re from Barbuda. My father—’

‘Barbuda?’ Sherlock interrupted. He’d never heard of the place before.

‘It’s an island in the Caribbean, near Antigua. It’s part of the British Empire. Can I go on?’

‘Please.’

‘The local people were treated as slaves until forty years ago.
When he was freed, my father joined the Royal Navy. I don’t know if he was the first former slave to join, but he was
certainly in the minority. He served on a ship called HMS
Euryalus.
Queen Victoria’s second son, Prince Alfred, also served on the ship. There was some kind of accident while they
were at sea, and my father saved Prince Alfred’s life. In recognition, and out of gratitude, the
Prince persuaded Queen Victoria to give my father a knighthood.’ Her face clouded over,
and she looked away from Sherlock. ‘That’s how my father came to be crippled. His back was broken in the accident. He decided he wanted to settle here in Ireland, near the country that
he loved but not part of it, in a place where he could see the sea. He was gifted this castle by Prince Alfred.’

‘And
your mother?’ Sherlock asked gently. He suspected that he already knew the answer.

‘Oh, she died.’ Niamh’s voice was very calm, very controlled. ‘Consumption. The climate here didn’t suit her. She never wanted to leave Barbuda in the first place.
She had dreams that something bad was going to happen if she left, and she was right.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you.’ She looked at him again,
and Sherlock could see the unshed tears in her eyes. ‘What about you? Do you have family?’

Sherlock indicated the doorway to the dining room. ‘My brother is in there at the moment, filling in time between lunch and dinner by eating. Our father is in India with the British Army.
Our mother is . . . ill.’ He looked away from Niamh, and then back again. ‘Nobody is saying what she is ill with,
but I think it’s consumption as well. Pulmonary
tuberculosis.’

‘Then
I’m
sorry.’ She shrugged. ‘It takes its time. It’s a waiting disease.’

There was something Sherlock wanted to ask but he wasn’t sure if he should. Sometimes, he had noticed, direct questions could cause people to become offended, or upset.

Niamh noticed that he was struggling to stop himself from saying something.
‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘You’re obviously bursting to ask a question.’

‘Your father’s interest in spiritualism – is it anything to do with the death of your mother?’

‘I think so. At least, he never showed much interest in the afterlife when she was alive.’ She caught herself. ‘We’re a Christian family, obviously, but heaven is
something you don’t think too much about. It’s just a word
you hear in sermons, or read in the Bible. But after mother died, father became . . . obsessed with the idea that he might be
able to communicate with her again. He visited a lot of different psychics and mediums, but he wasn’t convinced by any of them. Then he met Mr Albano . . .’

‘So Mr Albano managed to establish communication between your father and the spirit of your mother?’

‘So
he said. So my father said.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m not so sure. I’ve taken part in séances, but the messages that Mr Albano conveys from my mother are all
so . . . generic. “It’s nice here, on the spirit plane.” “I miss you both and I’m watching over you.” That kind of thing.’

‘That’s one of the things that makes me hope that spiritualism isn’t true,’ Sherlock admitted. ‘The possibility that,
if it is, we’re always being watched by
hundreds of dead people. Everything we do is being observed.
Everything
.’

‘I think,’ she said, ‘that the spirits aren’t meant to concern themselves much with earthly things once they pass on.’