Black Ice
Andrew Lane
CHAPTER ONE
Sunlight sparkled on the surface of the water, sending daggers of light flashing towards Sherlock’s eyes. He blinked repeatedly, and tried to keep his eyelids half-closed to minimize the glare.
The tiny rowing boat rocked gently in the middle of the lake. Around it, just past the shoreline, the grassy ground rose in all directions, covered in a smattering of bushes and trees. It was as if it were located in the middle of a green bowl, with the cloudless blue of the sky forming a lid across the top.
Sherlock was sitting in the bows of the boat, facing backwards. Amyus Crowe was sitting in the stern, his weight causing his end of the boat to sink lower into the water and Sherlock’s to rise higher out of it. Crowe held a split-cane fishing rod out over the lake’s surface. A thin line connected the tip of the rod with a small clump of feathers which floated on the surface of the water: a lure that, to a hungry fish, might look like a fly.
Between them, in the bottom of the rowing boat, sat an empty wicker basket.
‘Why did you only bring one rod?’ Sherlock asked, disgruntled.
‘This ain’t a day’s fishin’,’ Crowe replied genially, eyes fixed on the floating lure, ‘much as it may look like it. No, this is a lesson in life skills.’
‘I should have guessed,’ Sherlock muttered.
‘Although it’s also a way to get some dinner for me an’ Virginia tonight,’ Crowe conceded. ‘Ah always, if possible, try to arrange that what ah do serves several purposes.’
‘So I just sit here?’ Sherlock said. ‘Watching you fish for your dinner?’
‘That’s about the size of it.’ Crowe smiled.
‘And is it going to take long?’
‘Well, that depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On whether ah’m a good fisherman or not.’
‘And what makes you a good fisherman?’ Sherlock asked, knowing that he was playing into Crowe’s hands but unable to stop himself.
Instead of answering Crowe wound the bone-handled brass reel at his end of the rod, expertly pulling the line in. The feathered lure jumped out of the water and hung suspended in the air, glittering droplets of water falling from it and striking the lake. He jerked the rod back. The line flew above his head, the lure blurring as it moved. He whipped the rod forward again, and the lure made a figure-of-eight shape against the blue sky as it flew over his head and hit the surface of the lake in a different location, making a small splash. He watched, smiling slightly as it drifted.
‘Any good fisherman knows,’ Crowe said, ‘that fish react differently dependin’ on the temperature and the time of year. Early mornin’ in spring, for instance, fish won’t bite at all. The water is cold and it don’t heat up much, because the sun is low and its rays bounce off the water, so the fish are sluggish. Their blood, bein’ cold and influenced by the surrounding environment, is flowing slowly. Wait ’til late mornin’ or early afternoon an’ things start to change. The fish will bite intermittently because the sun is shinin’ on the water, warmin’ it up and makin’ them more lively. Of course, the wind will push the warmer surface water and the little midges an’ stuff they feed on around, an’ as a fisherman you got to follow that movement. No point in fishin’ where the water is still cold or where there ain’t any food. An’ all that can change dependin’ on the time of year.’
‘Should I be taking notes?’ Sherlock asked.
‘You’ve got a head on your shoulders – use it. Memorize the facts.’ He snorted, and continued: ‘In winter, to take an example, the water’s cold, maybe even iced up, an’ the fish ain’t movin’ too fast. They’re livin’ off the reserves they built up in the autumn, by an’ large. No good fishin’ in the wintertime. Now – what have you learned so far?’
‘All right.’ Sherlock quickly went over the facts in his mind. ‘In spring your best bet is early morning or late afternoon, and in winter you are better off heading for the market and buying something from the costermonger.’
Crowe laughed. A good summary of the facts, but think about what’s behind the facts. What’s the rule that explains the facts?’
Sherlock considered for a moment. ‘The important thing is the temperature of the water, and the thing that drives the temperature of the water is how hot the sun is and whether it’s shining straight down on the water or at an angle. Think about where the sun is, work out where the water is warm but not hot, and that’s where you’ll find the fish.’
‘Quite right.’
The lure jerked slightly, and Crowe leaned forward, washed-out blue eyes unblinking beneath bushy grey eyebrows.
‘Each fish has a different temperature which it prefers,’ he continued quietly. ‘A good fisherman will combine his knowledge of the fish’s preferred water temperature with his knowledge of the time of year, time of day and lake turnover conditions to work out which fish will be in a particular part of a lake at a particular time of the year.’
‘This is all very interesting,’ Sherlock said cautiously, ‘but I’m not likely to take up fishing as a hobby. It seems to consist of a whole lot of sitting around waiting for something to happen. If I’m going to sit around for a long period of time, I’d rather have a good book in my hands than a fishing rod.’
‘The point ah’m tryin’ to make,’ Crowe responded patiently, ‘in my own countrified, homespun way is that, if you’re tryin’ to catch somethin’, you need to go about it in a structured way. You need to know about the habits of your prey and you need to know how those habits change dependin’ on the local environment and circumstances. The lesson applies equally well to men as it does to fish. Men have their preferences, their preferred locations, at different times of day, and those preferences might be different if the sun’s shinin’ compared with when it’s rainin’, or if they’re hungry compared with when they’re full. You got to get to know your prey so you can anticipate where they will be. Then you can use a lure – just like this pretty collection of feathers ah tied together with cotton – somethin’ they can’t resist takin’ a bite at.’
‘I understand the lesson,’ Sherlock said. ‘Can we go back now?’
‘Not yet. Ah still ain’t got my dinner.’ Crowe’s gaze was moving around the surface of the lake, looking for something. ‘Once you know your prey and his habits, you got to look for the signs of his presence. He ain’t just goin’ to pop up an’ announce himself. No, he’s goin’ to skulk around, bein’ careful, and you gotta look for the subtle signs that he’s there.’ His eyes fixed on a patch of water some twelve feet away from the boat. ‘For instance, look over there,’ he said, nodding his head. ‘What do you see?’
Sherlock stared. ‘Water?’
‘What else?’
He narrowed his eyes against the glare, trying to see whatever it was that Crowe had seen. For a moment, a small area of water seemed to dip slightly, like a wave in reverse. Just for a moment, though, and then it returned to normal. And once he knew what he was looking for, Sherlock saw more dips, more sudden and momentary occasions when the surface of the lake seemed to flex slightly.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s called “suckin’”,’ Crowe replied. ‘It happens when the fish – trout, in this case – hang nose-up just below the surface of the water, waitin’ for insect nymphs to float by. Once they see one, they take a gulp of water, suckin’ the nymph down with it. All you see on the surface is that little dip as the water is pulled down and the nymph is sucked below. And that, my friend, tells us where a trout is located.’
He tugged on his fishing rod so that the lure drifted across the surface of the lake, pulled by the line, until it passed through the area where Sherlock had seen the trout sucking nymphs down. Nothing happened for a moment, and then the lure suddenly jerked below the surface of the lake. Crowe hauled on the rod, simultaneously winding the reel in as fast as he could. The water exploded upward in silvery droplets, in the centre of which writhed a fish. Its mouth was caught up in the hook which had been hidden inside the lure and its scales were mottled in brown. Crowe flicked his rod expertly upward and the fish virtually flew into the boat, where it flapped frantically. Holding on to the rod with one hand so that it didn’t fall into the water, Crowe reached behind him with the other and pulled a wooden club from beneath his seat. One quick blow and the fish was still.