Young Sherlock Holmes: Knife Edge (16 page)

Sherlock realized with some surprise that the wall had a gradual curve to it. It had to be a planned thing – but why? What was the purpose?

The bricks of the tunnel were
held together with mortar, Sherlock noticed, but there was a gap between the bricks and the dark grey stone. Through that gap he thought he could detect a faint
breeze, and the smell of the sea. He bent down and checked the junction between the flagstones of the floor and the wall, and found something odd. The flagstones had actually been
cut
to
fit around the curve of the wall, and there
was a gap there too.

He looked up at the junction of the wall and the roof. The same thing was true there: the bricks had been cut to follow the curve of the wall, as if the wall went up further than the tunnel. And
down further as well.

There was no moss on the wall. That struck Sherlock as being particularly odd. The walls and the arched ceiling were both marred by occasional blotches
of the green stuff, but the dark stone
wall was completely clear. Maybe it was something to do with the stone itself, he mused. Perhaps that type of moss didn’t like growing on that type of stone.

He stood there for a few moments, hands on hips, frustrated at the fact that he couldn’t go any further. Eventually and reluctantly he turned to leave, but as he did so he put out a hand
and
rested it on the wall.

It was vibrating.

The sensation was very faint, but clear enough that he stopped and placed both hands against the stone. There was definitely a vibration there, but he had no idea of where it was coming
from.

More frustrated than ever, he turned to walk back to the castle.

It took thirty minutes for him to get back to where the stairs led up, towards the
castle, passing all the tempting side tunnels on the way but always aware of which direction he was going in.
He glanced into the doorway where he had found the shoes earlier. They were still there, which somehow surprised him. Given the strange things that were happening in this castle, he had almost been
convinced that they would have vanished.

When he got to the stairs he glanced up
into the darkness, towards the closed door at the top, but shook his head. There was still another branch of the underground corridor to explore, and he
knew that it would keep gnawing at his mind if he didn’t complete his investigations now. He walked on, the centre of his glowing bubble of candlelight.

For the first few minutes the corridor to the left of the stairs was the mirror image
of the corridor off to the right. He wondered if he was going to waste the next hour replicating the last
one, including finding himself way outside the castle walls and being confronted by a curved wall of dark stone. Instead, just when he wasn’t expecting it, the corridor abruptly turned right,
and ended in another archway sealed by a wooden door. This door was bigger than the previous ones.
Sherlock tried it, and to his surprise it opened.

The room he found himself staring into was large, with an arched stone ceiling. The only illumination was the lantern that he carried. It was another storage room, but there was no mistaking
what was being stored in it. The room was filled, floor to ceiling, with racks containing bottles of wine. Sherlock could tell that most of the bottles
had been there for a long time – dusty
cobwebs covered everything, looking strangely like the ectoplasm that Ambrose Albano had produced during the séance of the night before.

The thing that struck Sherlock the most, however, wasn’t the bottles, or the racks, or the cobwebs. It was the black fungus.

This wasn’t the green moss that he had seen in the tunnel earlier. This was something
much darker and much more alive. This stuff wasn’t just clinging to the edge of existence: this
stuff was actively
exploding
with life. It filled the corners of the wine cellar in the same way that seaweed covered rocks on the beach, or that snow would pile up in the winter. It crept
up the wine racks and covered the lower bottles like a dark and evil tide. It hung from the ceiling in black
curtains and drapes. Everywhere that Sherlock looked, he could see it. It seemed to
glisten slightly in the light from the candle, as if it were wet. He imagined that, if he touched it, the fungus would squish beneath his fingers, leaking some strange and potentially toxic black
fluid, but he had no intention of testing that out.

Eventually, realizing that it was almost time for dinner,
he left the wine cellar and headed for the stairs that led up to the hall.

He was about to move towards Mycroft’s room to see how he was when he heard voices outside the open front door. He glanced over, and noticed Count Shuvalov and his military manservant
standing there. They were arguing – or, rather, Shuvalov was speaking quickly and angrily and his manservant was attempting to interrupt.
Eventually Shuvalov jerked his head dismissively, and
stalked off. The manservant watched him go with an expression of dismay on his usually impassive face.

Sherlock headed upstairs, towards Mycroft’s room. There was a different servant standing guard outside the door. She looked at him, recognized him, and nodded.

‘Sir.’

He nodded back, and entered the room.

Mycroft was awake,
and reading. He glanced at Sherlock. ‘Ah, good evening. I see you have been outside and also underground. I must have been asleep for longer than I thought.’

Sherlock smiled. There was no keeping of secrets from his brother, but there was also no point in asking how his brother knew the things that he knew. Unlike Amyus Crowe, he rarely gave lessons.
‘Ambrose Albano is a fake,’ he said,
‘the coach crash was arranged in advance, and there are tunnels leading away from the castle in various directions, probably built by
smugglers.’

‘Very concise. Be so kind as to explain the evidence for your first and second statements.’

Sherlock explained about searching Albano’s room, and about finding the sawn-through axle. He wondered whether he should tell Mycroft about the stories
of the Dark Beast, and the dark
shape that he had seen moving around, but decided not to. There were all kinds of explanations for that, and none of them affected the job that Mycroft and he were there to do, as far as he
knew.

‘Albano will reappear tonight,’ Mycroft concluded. ‘It will set the scene perfectly for the second séance.’

‘That was my conclusion as well.’ Sherlock hesitated.
‘Do you feel well enough to join us for dinner and for the séance?’

Mycroft shook his head. ‘The doctor has advised me to stay in bed for the next twenty-four hours, at least. There is, fortunately, no sign of concussion, but my system has been weakened
and needs to recover. Sir Shadrach has very kindly agreed to provide my dinner on a tray.’ He paused momentarily. ‘Actually, a series of
trays. Probably a trolley carrying numerous
trays. He did indicate that he wished me to participate in the séance, and suggested that I use one of his spare bath chairs, but I worry that the strain of getting out of bed would be too
much at the moment. I keep falling asleep at the most inopportune moments. No, Sherlock, I fear that you will have to take my place both at dinner and at the séance.’

‘You
fear
?’ Sherlock repeated.

‘An unfortunate choice of words. I have complete confidence in you.’ He gazed at Sherlock for a long moment. ‘I have spoken with Mr Crowe, and I understand that his daughter is
here as well. Have you spoken to her?’

Sherlock shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

‘Then be gentle. She will be as confused and uncertain as you are.’

‘That,’ Sherlock said, ‘I
seriously doubt. Did you know, by the way, that he was going to be the American representative?’

‘I suspected so, but I had no actual evidence, so I said nothing to you. It does, however, make sense from the point of view of the US Government.’ He turned his attention back to
the book in his lap. ‘Report back to me after the evening’s events. I am agog to discover what will happen.’

Sherlock nodded, and left.

A gong sounded for dinner just as he was descending the stairs. He headed for the dining room.

Most of the other guests were already assembled, with the exception of Amyus and Virginia Crowe, and of course the missing Ambrose Albano. Sherlock took his place at the table, nodding at Count
Shuvalov, Herr Holtzbrinck, von Webenau, Sir Shadrach Quintillan and Niamh
Quintillan. Candelabras set along the table served to illuminate the room. The curtains were open, and through the windows
Sherlock could see a dark and stormy sky. Rain splattered intermittently against the glass, sounding like thrown gravel.

The servants were just preparing to serve the soup when Amyus Crowe and his daughter entered the room. He was wearing his usual white suit, while
Virginia was almost unrecognizable to Sherlock
in a pale violet gown that perfectly matched her eyes. Her hair was up, and she looked so much older and more assured than Sherlock remembered. She looked like a lady now, not a girl. He wondered
bitterly if he looked like a man to her, rather than a boy – now that it was too late.

She glanced at him and smiled nervously.

‘Many apologies
for my slight delay,’ Crowe boomed, holding the chair out so that Virginia could sit down. ‘Sir Shadrach, you have a daughter too, an’ a beautiful one.
You must know, therefore, just how long it takes them to get ready for a simple evening meal.’

‘Daughters are jewels beyond price,’ Quintillan said, ‘and so we must give them every opportunity to display themselves in the right setting.’

He smiled at his daughter. Niamh smiled at her father, then her gaze sought out Sherlock, and she shared the smile with him. Virginia glanced at Niamh too, and Sherlock thought he caught a
flicker of emotion on her face, although he was unsure exactly which emotion it was. Perhaps several.

Lightning flashed outside the window, and a sudden gust of wind rattled the glass. Moments later
a peal of thunder echoed through the castle’s halls and corridors.

‘A fine night for communicating with the dead,’ Herr Holtzbrinck said. ‘A shame the séance has been postponed. I presume that there is no news of Herr Albano’s
whereabouts?’

Quintillan opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything another flash of lightning, bigger this time, illuminated the room in stark
black and white. The following gust of wind was
so strong that it sent the dining-room windows crashing open, letting rain spill into the room and blowing the candles in the candelabras out. Darkness engulfed everything.

‘Do not panic,’ Quintillan’s voice rang out. ‘The servants will relight the candles in a—’

The candles suddenly came back to life by themselves. Their flames seemed
twice as tall, twice as bright as before.

And in their light everyone could see the thin figure of Ambrose Albano standing at the end of the table, arms spread wide.

‘I have returned!’ he exclaimed.

Silence fell around the table. Everyone was thunderstruck – everyone apart from Sherlock, who had been expecting this, and probably Amyus Crowe as well.

‘Good Lord!’ Quintillan exclaimed. ‘Ambrose, my dear fellow! What happened? Where have you been?’

Very convincing, Sherlock thought, considering the fact that you are almost certainly part of the conspiracy.

Albano
collapsed theatrically into an empty chair. He gestured to a servant. ‘Wine!’ he said in his thin, reedy voice. ‘I need wine! I have neither eaten nor drunk since I was
taken.’

‘
Who
took you?’ Herr Holtzbrinck asked, but Albano just waved an arm. ‘I meant when I was taken
from
my kidnappers to the Other Side.’

The servant poured a large glass of wine and placed it in front of Albano.
He downed it in one go.

‘Tell us everything,’ Quintillan urged. ‘Leave nothing out.’

‘You remember that I had said I was leaving, following the attack on the British representative,’ Albano said. ‘I was, perhaps, being overly melodramatic, but I fully intended
at the time to walk all the way down to Galway and find my way back to a large town where I could vanish for a while. You all
saw the carriage that drove into the grounds of the castle, and the two
masked men who leaped out and grabbed me.’ He glanced sideways at Amyus Crowe. ‘Except you,’ he said. ‘I do not believe that you were there.’

‘Amyus Crowe, representing the US Government.’ Crowe thrust his large hand out towards Albano. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.’

Albano gazed at the hand with palpable
unease, as if Crowe were holding a fish out towards him. Eventually Crowe withdrew the hand.

‘They threw me bodily into the carriage,’ Albano continued, ‘which then clattered away so fast that I thought my teeth would fall out! There was another man in the carriage,
one who hadn’t got out with the other two. Along with the driver, that made four men.’

Crowe glanced over at Sherlock meaningfully.
Sherlock knew what he was thinking. Why was Albano making such a thing about the number of men who kidnapped him, unless it was somehow
important?

‘This other man in the carriage put his foot on my chest, and said: “You, psychic. You will provide
us
with your services now, and you will provide them for free. We will
not bid for them like common folk. You will put us in contact with the
dead, or you yourself will die!”’

‘Did he have an accent?’ Count Shuvalov asked, leaning forward earnestly.

‘He did,’ Albano said, ‘but I cannot place it.’

Shuvalov leaned back again, disappointed.

‘I was terrified, of course,’ Albano continued. He glanced around the table, making eye contact with everyone sitting there. ‘I knew that I had fallen into the clutches of a
group
of bloodthirsty bandits who would exploit my abilities without cease.’ He made a fist of his right hand and banged it on the table. ‘And that was when I decided to contact my
spirit guides and ask for help!’

‘Of course,’ von Webenau murmured.

‘I sent out waves of mental energy on the astral plane, through my psychic crystal.’ He reached up and tapped the false eye. It made a clicking
sound. ‘And they responded.
Feeling my distress and my terror, they came for me and took me up out of this world and into theirs. My body vanished from the carriage. I can only imagine the looks on the faces of the three men
inside. After that . . .’ He paused dramatically. ‘I cannot speak of what happened here on earth.’