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The white front of his shirt was now completely maroon with drying blood. A tear had been made around the level of his heart: the point where the blade had penetrated, Sherlock thought grimly.

But who had wielded the blade?

He leaned closer. There was something about that tear that had caught his attention, but he wasn’t sure what it was.

‘Spotted something?’ Crowe asked.

Sherlock hesitated. ‘I was just trying to remember what the knife looked like – the one in Mycroft’s hand.’

‘Got to confess, I never got a clear look at it,’ Crowe admitted.

‘I did,’ Sherlock said. ‘It was thin, like a letter opener, but the tear in this shirt is quite big. Bigger than the knife that I remember seeing.’

‘Interestin’,’ Crowe mused. ‘I took a quick look at the wound as well. That’s quite a size. Suggested to me that the knife had a broad blade, but if you’re sayin’ the knife that was taken away had a narrow blade… well, that’s another anomaly that needs explainin’.’

‘Could the man have struggled?’ Sherlock asked. ‘Could that have caused the blade to tear a larger hole in his shirt and… and his skin?’

‘Possible.’ Crowe thought for a moment. ‘That’s the kind of thing we might need to conduct an experiment to verify.’

‘What?’ Sherlock exclaimed. ‘You mean stab someone else, and hope they struggle?’

Crowe laughed. ‘No, I mean we get a slaughtered pig from somewhere, dress it in a shirt, an’ then one of us stabs it with a paperknife while the other one wiggles it about a bit. See if we can replicate the tear and the wound on this poor guy. Guessin’ only takes us so far – we need evidence more than anythin’.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘Go an’ see if you can find that footman – Brinnell. Bring him back here. I’ve got some questions I want to put to him.’

Sherlock made his way out to the club room. The occupants glanced up at him with irritation as he passed – they’d seen the police, and they obviously knew that something out of the ordinary was happening, but they seemed determined to pretend that everything was as calm as usual within the club’s precincts. Sherlock tried to make himself as small and as quiet as possible. He had to admit, as he wound his way through the plush green armchairs, he couldn’t work out what it was his brother saw in this club. It was the most boring place he’d ever been in – murder excepted, and he presumed that the Diogenes Club was not in the habit of playing host to murder.

He found Brinnell in the hall. The footman was looking worried. Sherlock was about to ask him to come back to the Strangers Room when Brinnell raised a finger to his lips and shushed him. Sherlock pointed at Brinnell, then back towards the Strangers Room. Brinnell nodded. He walked past Sherlock, past the stairs to a door that probably led back to the servants’ area. Within a few moments he was back with another liveried footman, this one older and balder. Leaving the man in the hall presumably to stand guard and prevent strangers from wandering in and making a noise, Brinnell followed Sherlock back through the club room.

Crowe was standing exactly where Sherlock had left him.

‘Appreciate you makin’ time to talk to us,’ he said to the footman as Sherlock closed the door. ‘I understand you’ve got a lot on right now, what with the murder and all.’

‘It’s a shocking thing,’ Brinnell said. ‘Shocking it is.’ He glanced over at the corpse. ‘And it’s us that’s got to clear it up, as well.’

‘You escorted the gentleman here to the Strangers Room, didn’t you?’

‘I did, sir. That I did.’

‘How did he approach you?’

Brinnell thought for a moment. ‘He came in through the front door, just like you gentlemen did. He handed me a card. On the back of the card he’d written the name of Mister Holmes, and another few words that I didn’t rightly recognize.’

‘What were those words?’

Brinnell frowned, struggling to remember. ‘I think it was the name of another club,’ he said, ‘but I can’t say I remember which one it was. I thought for a moment the gentleman had come to the wrong place, until I saw Mr Holmes’s name written on the back.’

Another club. For some reason the man’s words grabbed Sherlock’s attention. Another club… He filed the thought away until he could consider it in more detail.

‘So he obviously knew the workings of the Diogenes Club,’ Crowe pointed out. ‘He knew enough not to speak.’

‘I suppose he did, sir. I suppose so.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘I put the card on a tray and took it to Mister Holmes. He was waiting in here already. He looked irritable, like he wasn’t expecting this man, but someone else. Irritable, that’s how he looked. I think he was about to send the bloke away, but he turned the card over and read what was on the back. He seemed to change his mind and he said: “Bring the fellow in, Brinnell.”’ So I came back, fetched the bloke and brought him through.’

‘How long was that before we turned up?’

The footman thought for a moment. Couldn’t have been no longer than five minutes,’ he said eventually. ‘Or maybe ten.’

‘Any noise or disturbance?’

‘Not a thing, sir.’

Crowe nodded. And what did you think of this visitor, then? What was your opinion?’

Brinnell grimaced. ‘Not my place to say, sir,’ he muttered.

Crowe held his hand up. A bright half-crown flashed between his fingers. ‘I value your opinion,’ he said. ‘Nobody else will know – just us.’

Brinnell considered for a moment. ‘No need for that,’ he said finally. ‘I like Mister Holmes. He’s always been good to me. Been good to me, he has. If you’re trying to help him, then that’s all right with me.’

‘Good man,’ Crowe said. The half-crown vanished in his large hand.

‘I thought the bloke who came visiting was a little overdressed for his station in life, if you know what I mean,’ he said.

‘Ah know exactly what you mean, and ah ’ppreciate your honesty.’

‘Was the man carrying anything?’ Sherlock asked suddenly.

Amyus Crowe nodded. ‘Good question,’ he rumbled.

Brinnell frowned, trying to remember. ‘I believe he did have a small case. I recall trying to take it off him to put in the cloakroom, but he clutched it to him as if it were valuable. I presumed he needed it for the meeting with Mister Holmes.’

‘Very instructive,’ Crowe said.

The door burst back open, and one of the constables who had been there before entered. ‘Sergeant Coleman wants you to come down to Scotland Yard and give a statement,’ he said.

‘Glad to,’ Crowe replied. ‘I’d be interested to see how his investigation is gettin’ on.’

‘Investigation?’ the constable repeated, smiling. ‘No need of that. Got our man bang to rights, we did.’

The constable ushered them out of the Strangers Room and through the club room. As they left, Brinnell looked as if he wanted to say something, but instead he marched across and handed Sherlock a scrap of paper. When he looked at it Sherlock saw the words: Orville Jenkinson, Solicitor and an address. This must be the solicitor that Mycroft had mentioned – the one retained by the Diogenes Club. He smiled at Brinnell, and nodded his thanks.

Out in the open air, as the constable struck out along the pavement, Sherlock turned to Amyus Crowe and asked the question that had been burning in his brain for the past hour. ‘Mister Crowe – if we can’t prove my brother innocent, what happens?’

‘There’s a trial,’ Crowe said grimly, ‘an’ then, if he’s found guilty, ah’m afraid they hang him by the neck until he is dead.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Bow Street Police Station and Magistrates’ Court was a monolithic building of white stone set on a corner just off Covent Garden. As they approached, Sherlock let his gaze wander over the building, committing its details to memory. He had the strangest feeling that this building was going to become important to him, although he hoped it wasn’t because it was the building in which his brother would be sentenced to hang.