Something that had been wound up tightly inside Sherlock’s chest for several days seemed to loosen slightly. Not completely, but slightly.
‘Now,’ Mycroft said, ‘let us sample the delights of Russian gastronomy. I am led to believe that Russian chefs are almost as good as French ones.’
They walked into the restaurant, which had a high, arched ceiling. Its walls were lined with paintings showing soldiers in brightly coloured uniforms – blue, green and red – riding horses and slashing at each other with sabres.
Mycroft noticed the direction of Sherlock’s gaze. ‘Ah, the Crimean War,’ he said. ‘Fought with Britain, France and Turkey on one side and Russia on the other. A curious and rather pointless conflict. And here we are, barely a dozen years later, having dinner in the capital city of our enemies. Diplomacy makes strange bedfellows.’ He paused, and a shudder ran through his large body. ‘Sherlock, I think this will be the last time I leave England. It may well be the last time that I leave London. Travel may broaden the mind, but so do newspapers and books of reference, and they can be experienced from the comfort of an armchair and in the presence of a bottle of fine brandy. I shall, in future, allow things to come to me, rather than me going to them.’
‘You must badly want to know what happened to your agent, for you to be here,’ Sherlock said quietly.
The maitre d’hotel looked up from his book of reservations as they approached. ‘A table for you, gentlemen?’ he asked in perfect French.
‘If you please,’ Mycroft replied. As the maitre d’ led them across the restaurant, Mycroft said quietly: ‘His name is Wormersley: Robert Wormersley We were at Oxford together. We shared digs, and we would talk long into the night about our hopes and dreams for the future. When we left Oxford we went our separate ways: while I went into the Foreign Office, he travelled the world adventuring and writing well thought out pieces of travel journalism, but we would still write letters to each other. Eventually our orbits intersected again, and he became my most trusted agent abroad.’ He paused. ‘We were friends, Sherlock. We were the best of friends. Acquaintances are ten a penny, but one does not get the chance to make friends like that very often in one’s life. When they come along, they should be cherished. That is why I need to be here. I owe it to him.’
‘I understand,’ Sherlock said as they sat down. ‘Or, at least, I think I do.’
‘Of course you do. You went all the way to New York to rescue young Matthew Arnatt. Now,’ he said, taking the menu from the maitre d’, ‘what do you wish to eat this evening? I understand the seafood in this city is particularly fine.’
The meal was excellent – good enough to please even Mycroft – and Sherlock’s brother allowed him to have a glass of wine with the meal. They talked of inconsequentialities – the different types of grape that could be used to make wine, the way brandy, sherry and port were made either by distilling or by fortifying wine, and the fact that sparkling wine was first made by Benedictine monks in the sixteenth century.
Sherlock sensed his feelings towards his brother easing as the meal went on. He still felt angry that Mycroft – and Rufus Stone – had gone behind his back, but he realized that part of that anger was directed against himself for not working it out.
He resolved to learn a lesson, though: never take anything on face value ever again.
At the end of the meal, while Mycroft was relaxing with a glass of brandy and a cigar, Sherlock said, ‘I’m going to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Mycroft nodded. ‘Sleep well. Tomorrow will be a difficult day.’ He frowned. ‘I have a feeling I am missing something obvious. It is not a comfortable feeling. If I was back in London, safe in the Diogenes Club, I am certain I would work it out in an instant, but here, with all these distractions…?’ He sighed. ‘Perhaps a good night’s sleep in a comfortable bed will help. Goodnight, Sherlock.’
Sherlock’s room was small, and on an upper floor, but it didn’t matter. It was more comfortable than his room back at Holmes Manor, and he was asleep within moments of undressing. If he dreamed at all then he did not remember what his dreams were.
The next morning was bright and crisp. Snow still lay on the ground, but the sun shone from a clear blue sky. Sherlock washed and dressed and then headed down to the same restaurant where he and Mycroft had eaten dinner.
Mycroft was sitting with Mr Kyte. He nodded at Sherlock as he entered the restaurant, then went back to his conversation.
Sherlock looked around. Mr Malvin and Miss Dimmock were eating together, while Mrs Loran was sitting by herself. She caught Sherlock’s eye and smiled at him. He smiled back. He liked her: she seemed to be treating Sherlock more and more like a surrogate son. He wondered about the missing and unmentioned Mr Loran. Had he died, or run off with another woman, or was he waiting at home for her?
The four stagehands – Rhydian, Judah, Pauly and Henry – were sharing a table and bickering. The musicians were scattered across three different tables, segregated by instruments: strings on one, brass on another and woodwind on a third. The conductor, Mr Eves, was sitting alone.
Despite the fact that he was in the string section, Rufus Stone was also sitting by himself. He waved as Sherlock caught sight of him, and indicated the spare chair at his table. For a long moment Sherlock debated whether to find a table by himself, but in the end he walked across and joined Stone.
‘Sleep well?’ Stone asked.
‘Not too badly,’ Sherlock replied.
‘The hotel is very impressive. Speaking as a man who is more used to hay as his quilt and the night sky as his ceiling, the bed was far too comfortable for my liking. When I woke up I found I was marooned in the centre of a mattress that was so soft it would have given a marshmallow a run for its money. It took me five minutes of exertion to struggle to the edge. I swear that if I’d slept for a half hour longer I would have sunk without trace.’
Sherlock didn’t reply.
There was silence for a few moments, then Stone continued quietly: ‘You said back in England that you had bought yourself a violin.’
‘Yes, I did.’ Sherlock felt as if he should add something, but he couldn’t think what to say.
‘I presume that your purchase of such an instrument indicates that you still wish to wrestle the muse of music to the ground?’
Sherlock shrugged.
‘Sherlock,’ Stone said, ‘I understand your feelings. I wish things were otherwise. Life being the way it is, bad things happen more often than good. The trick is to see the sunshine behind the dark clouds.’ He paused. ‘Sherlock, if you believe only one thing that I say, believe this: I enjoy your company, and if your brother were to tell me tomorrow that my services are no longer required then I would still wish to continue to teach you.’
Sherlock felt an unaccustomed tightness in his throat. He looked away, then back at Stone. ‘I’d like that,’ he said hesitantly.
‘Of course,’ Stone said, ‘that will have to wait until this particular mission is over. If I am not careful, playing down to the level of these fiddlers and blowers will seriously compromise my skills.’ He looked around, then lowered his voice. ‘I have a bad feeling about all this,’ he said. ‘I can’t quite work out why, but something is wrong here. Something is very wrong.’ He glanced at Sherlock. ‘Be careful this morning. Be very careful.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
After breakfast, Sherlock watched from the hotel lobby as the rest of the theatre party, minus Mycroft, left in horse-drawn cabs for the Maly Theatre. Once they had vanished around a corner, Mycroft said: ‘Come on then. Let us go.’