‘How…’ Sherlock swallowed. ‘How much does it cost?’
‘Seventy shillings,’ the old man said promptly. ‘But as you appreciate a decent instrument, I will sell it for sixty-five.’
‘I can give you forty-five shillings,’ Sherlock said nervously knowing that he had three pounds and three shillings in his pocket. That was sixty-three shillings, but he wanted to make sure that he had some money left, just in case something unexpected happened.
The old man cocked his head to one side. ‘Did I mention the food and the firewood I need to buy for my family?’
‘You did. Forty-five shillings,’ Sherlock repeated firmly.
‘You are a boy whose heart has turned to stone. Fifty – seven, and no lower.’
‘Fifty,’ Sherlock said. He realized that he was breathing fast.
The old man sighed. ‘Maybe I leave the firewood for another day, and tonight we eat cold meat and cold soup. Fifty-five.’
‘Agreed.’
They shook hands solemnly, and Sherlock put the violin back in the case. He handed three one-guinea coins across. The old man handed back five shillings in change. You take care of her,’ he said, ‘and if you manage to find out anything more about her, come back and tell me. I would be interested.’
‘I will.’
The door to the shop opened, and a shadow fell across the floor. A section of shelving blocked the back of the shop from the front, so neither Sherlock nor the old man could see who had entered, but before the old man could call out Sherlock heard a voice say: ‘’E came in ’ere! I swear ’e did!’
‘You should’ve come straight in an’ nabbed ’im,’ another, deeper voice said, sounding like bricks grating together. ‘Not waited for me.’
‘What if I’d got the wrong one?’
‘Then some other family would be grieving tonight.’
CHAPTER TEN
The old man’s hand closed on Sherlock’s shoulder. ‘There is a door at the back,’ he whispered. ‘It leads into an alley. Go, with my blessing.’
‘Maybe ’e’s in the back,’ the first voice said.
Sherlock nodded a quick ‘thanks’ as the old man shuffled forward to the edge of the shelving. ‘You are looking for books, maybe? On boxing, judging by the look of your ears. Or maybe some gloves to protect those knuckles of yours?’
‘We’re lookin’ for a boy who came in ’ere,’ the deeper, rougher voice said.
‘Boys I do not allow in the shop,’ the old man replied. ‘They steal. Thieves they are, all of them.’
‘But I saw one come in…’
The voices faded away as Sherlock moved through the cramped storage area behind the shop and found a door that led out into a rubbish-strewn alleyway running perpendicular to the road on the other side. He glanced both ways. There was nobody about. He sprinted, as quickly as he could, back towards the Charing Cross Road, with his heart pounding in his chest and the violin case banging against his legs as he went.
Well, that answered at least one question. Whoever it was who had framed Mycroft was still interested in them.
Sticking to the crowds, and always aware of the people around him, Sherlock made his way through London to the Sarbonnier Hotel. When he got there, lungs burning with the effort of running so hard, he found Mycroft in conversation with a big man who appeared all the bigger thanks to the bulky coat he wore. His shoulders, Sherlock thought, were so wide that they made him look like a sideboard. His abundant red hair didn’t end with his scalp: it continued down in flourishing sideburns, an extravagant moustache and a vast, spade-shaped beard.
‘Ah, this is Mister Kyte,’ Mycroft said, interrupting their conversation. ‘He is the Actor-Manager of Kyte’s Theatrical Company. Mister Kyte, this is my… protege… Scott Eckersley’ He stared warningly at Sherlock, but Sherlock had already picked up the fact that he, and – presumably – Mycroft, were using false names.
‘Pleased to meet you, sir,’ Sherlock said, shaking the man’s hand. The backs of Mr Kyte’s hands were covered with reddish-brown hairs, and the palms prickled against Sherlock’s, as if hairs were growing there as well.
‘And you, sonny, and you.’ Mr Kyte’s voice was a deep wheeze. ‘Mr Sigerson here tells me that you’re a dab hand with ropes and scenery.’
‘I am that, sir,’ Sherlock said brightly. Inside, he was wondering what the man was talking about. He stared at Mr Kyte’s face. There was something strange about it: Sherlock could see a series of small cuts around his eyes, nose and cheeks. How had they got there?
‘Good stuff. Good stuff indeed. Well, come on down to the theatre later and meet the cast and crew.’ He turned to Mycroft – or Mr Sigerson, as Sherlock now had to think of him. ‘Thank you again for joining our motley team. I’m sure it’ll be an adventure to tell the grandchildren about!’
‘Indeed,’ Mycroft said. ‘It is not likely that I will end up with grandchildren, but I shall make copious notes just in case.’
Mr Kyte left, and Sherlock turned to Mycroft. ‘Mister Sigerson? The son of Siger? Couldn’t you have come up with a better name than that?’
‘I was thinking on my feet,’ Mycroft said. ‘Not the most comfortable position for me to be in.’ He gazed at the violin case under Sherlock’s arm. ‘What is that?’
‘It’s… a violin. In a case.’
‘Yes, I can see that. The question was rhetorical. You have covered rhetoric during your Greek lessons at school, haven’t you? The question it was meant to spark in your mind was: why have you gone and bought a violin when you should have been buying warm clothing, as I told you?’
Sherlock thought quickly. ‘There were two men looking for me,’ he said. ‘I went into a shop. They followed me in. I had to get out through the back of the shop. I bought the violin on impulse, because-’
‘Because you needed something to change your profile, to make yourself look different,’ Mycroft said. Sherlock could tell from his voice that he was dubious about Sherlock’s story. ‘This is a worrying development: it means that they are still looking for you, and by extension Mr Crowe and me as well. This makes it even more imperative that we leave London, indeed the country, as soon as is practicable.’
As Mycroft spoke, Sherlock started to feel uneasy. He hadn’t actually lied to Mycroft, but he had moved around the sequence in which events happened in order to make it look as though he had a reason for buying the violin other than the fact that he had fallen in love with the instrument.
‘Well, I suppose we can always burn the violin for warmth, should the need arise,’ Mycroft continued. ‘How much did it cost you?’ He raised a hand. ‘No, don’t tell me. I would rather remain happily in ignorance. Go and put that… thing… in your room, and then join me for lunch.’
‘But you only just finished breakfast.’
‘Sherlock, if I want to be scolded then I will return to my lodgings and talk to my landlady.’
Sherlock scooted upstairs to the room that Amyus Crowe had booked for him and left his new violin on the bed. As he came out, he noticed that the door to the room next to his, the room Crowe had booked for himself, was open. He looked inside, expecting to see Crowe, but a maid was making up the bed. Crowe’s bag had gone.
‘Excuse me – what happened to the man who rented this room?’
‘He’s checked out, sir,’ the maid said, turning round and curtseying.
‘Checked out?’
‘Yes, sir – unexpected, like.’
‘Oh. Thanks.’
He rushed downstairs to tell Mycroft, but Crowe was standing in the hotel lobby with his coat on and his bag at his feet.
‘Ah, Sherlock, ah was hopin’ ah’d see you.’
‘You’re leaving?
‘There ain’t anythin’ for me to do here. Your brother is takin’ you off my hands. Ah should get back an’ look after Ginny.’
‘But…’ Sherlock trailed off, knowing that Crowe was right.
‘Exactly Ain’t no point fightin’ against the facts. Ah ain’t needed on this trip. That’s all right – ah’m a grown man. Ah can take it.’
‘I wish you were coming.’