By the third day, staring out of the window had lost its attractions. Sherlock found himself more and more watching the actors and actresses – Mr Malvin, Mr Furness, Miss Dimmock and Mrs Loran. He tried to use the skills that Amyus Crowe had taught him to determine something about their histories and their characters, but he found himself foxed. Just as he thought he had nailed down a particular deduction about one of them, something came along and changed it. Perhaps it was something to do with their acting training – perhaps what he was seeing was different characters coming out in them without their knowing.
At one point, as the train was clattering across a particularly marshy and boring landscape, Sherlock noticed that Mr Furness – the older, fatter actor with the veined skin and the cauliflower-like nose – had a box on his lap and was sorting through the contents. They seemed to be jars of various sort. He noticed Sherlock watching, and gestured him over.
‘Theatrical make-up,’ he said. His breath smelt of gin. ‘You’ve seen it before, surely?’
‘Not close up,’ Sherlock confessed. ‘I’m usually backstage.’
‘This kit’s been with me for years,’ Furness confided. ‘I’ve got face paints made out of beeswax and mutton fat with zinc, lead, lampblack, cochineal, ultramarine, ochre or Prussian blue added to give ’em their colour. Then there’s the other stuff: burnt cork and lampblack for the eyelids and eyelashes, burnt paper for making shadows, spirit gum for fastening wigs down, or crepe hair for moustaches and beards. Use them properly and you can change the shape of your whole face, at least as seen from a distance.’
Seeing Sherlock’s disbelieving look, he continued: ‘See, if you highlight the protruding bones of the face, like the nose and the cheekbones, with a lighter colour, your features become exaggerated. If you put some dark shadowing in the bits that dip in, it adds depth. Changing the highlights and shadows, you can make sagging jowls, forehead wrinkles, eye pouches and prominent veins. And when all else fails…’ He produced a metal tin from the box. ‘Nose putty!’
‘Nose putty?’ Sherlock asked in disbelief.
‘Changes the shape of your nose, your chin – any bit that doesn’t move much. Nose putty doesn’t flex, see, so if you put it on your cheeks then it’ll crack, but you wouldn’t believe how much a different shaped nose and chin can change your appearance. Your best friend wouldn’t recognize you!’
Eventually, after Sherlock had lost track of the hours and the days, and the journey had become a timeless haze, the train pulled into Moscow Kursk Station.
A tall man in a black frock coat, black fur-trimmed overcoat and black top hat stood just the other side of the ticket barrier. He wore a small, trimmed beard and moustache. His skin was pale, like porcelain. He seemed to be watching for someone, and as soon as he caught sight of the party he smiled and raised a hand.
Mr Kyte was first through the barrier. He extended a hand, but the man stepped forward and embraced him warmly. Mycroft, who was just behind Mr Kyte, stepped backwards quickly.
The bearded man spoke to Mr Kyte and Mycroft for a few moments, then turned to the rest of the party. ‘My name is Morodov,’ he said in accented French; ‘Piotr Ilyich Morodov. It is my pleasure and my duty to represent Prince Yusupov, who is sponsoring your visit to this our motherland, our beloved homeland. Please be assured that not one detail has been left unchecked to ensure that your visit is enjoyable as well as artistically productive. Now, please follow me. I will take you to the Slavyansky Bazaar Hotel, where I have secured rooms for you.’
He snapped his fingers and porters, dressed in crudely stitched and badly fitting green serge uniforms, leaped to take the various bags and suitcases that the party had brought with them. He led the way outside, where several carriages were drawn up waiting for them.
The weather was cold and the ground was snowy, but instead of the brown slush that built up in England when it snowed and carts and carriages mixed the snow up with mud and straw, this snow was white and deep. It crunched under their feet as the party left the station and found the three carriages that would take them to their hotel.
Along with the rest of the party, Sherlock stared in amazement at the various means of transport that thronged the street outside the station. He was used to the flat farm carts of Farnham and the hansom cabs and broughams of London, but these were something completely different. They were more like the gymnasium equipment he’d used at Deepdene School for Boys than anything a person would willingly ride in: long, narrow planks on which passengers sat astride, as if they were on a horse instead of being pulled by one, with sides that sloped outward to a footboard, the whole thing set on four sprung wheels with a driver sitting at the front of the line of passengers. They looked uncomfortable for men, and entirely unsuitable for women in their dresses.
The group watched as the porters loaded their bags and suitcases on to the backs of the carriages, then climbed aboard. The journey through the streets of Moscow was short, but Sherlock was fascinated by the impressiveness and the age of the buildings. Everything seemed to be built on a larger scale than in England – a scale that dwarfed the locals, who scurried around in the shadow of the buildings, hunched up against the cold, like mice running along skirting boards. And the colours! He was used to buildings that were the colour of the stone, or brick, or wood that they had been constructed from, but here in Moscow every second building seemed to have been painted. Some were pink, some blue, some green, and a lot of them were yellow for reasons that escaped Sherlock. Maybe Russia had a surplus of yellow paint.
When they had arrived at the hotel, and Piotr Ilyich Morodov had signed them all in, said his goodbyes and left, Mycroft and Mr Kyte gathered the troupe together in the lounge.
‘I have prepared itinerary sheets,’ Mycroft announced, ‘which detail the events that will be taking place over the next few days.’ He raised the back of his hand to his lips and coughed. ‘I will hand these sheets out in a moment, but let me summarize the details for you. Firstly, we are here in Moscow at the invitation of Prince Yusupov. The Prince is a well-known patron of the arts, and has long nurtured a desire to see a British theatrical company act on stage. The Prince has put at our disposal for the next three days the Maly Theatre. The Theatre is undoubtedly the foremost theatre in Moscow, which means that by definition it is the foremost theatre in Russia.’
‘What is the seating capacity?’ Mr Malvin, the leading actor, asked. He projected his voice as if he were already on stage. ‘I am a respected actor. I do not appear in front of a mere handful of people.’
‘The primary stage has a capacity of nine hundred and fifty people; the secondary stage a capacity of seven hundred and fifty.’
‘And which stage are we on?’ Miss Aiofe Dimmock, the leading lady interrupted.
‘We are performing on the secondary stage,’ Mycroft replied smoothly ‘but only because the stage area itself is smaller and more suited to our rather more intimate performances.’
Mr Kyte stepped forward. ‘I would not wish to have your delicate and nuanced acting to be swamped in a vast auditorium,’ he explained.