‘So what’s my alternative?’ Sherlock asked, keeping his eyes fixed on Marky’s eyes, looking for some indication that the man was about to strike with his hook-tipped pole.
‘The alternative is that you put that pole down and come with me. The boss wants to talk with you, is all. Just a little talk.’
Sherlock shook his head. ‘Based on what I’ve done, I think I’ve got a better chance with your friend outside than with Josh Harkness. At least I’d die quickly.’
Marky shrugged. ‘I see your point, I really do. It’s a conundrum, isn’t it? Go out of the window and you die straight away, but quickly. Come with me and you stay alive for a little longer, but your death is more painful and slower.’ He dropped his voice, trying to lull Sherlock into relaxing. ‘You know, kid, if I were you, I’d –’
Without warning he lashed out with the pole, trying to get the hook past Sherlock’s shoulder so he could catch it in the flesh and muscle over Sherlock’s shoulder blade and pull him forward, but Sherlock had noticed the slight widening of his eyes that meant he was about to do something physical. It was one of the things Amyus Crowe had taught him – how to predict from small movements what people were going to do. ‘Body language’, he had called it. Sherlock swept his pole left and right across his body, intercepting Marky’s weapon as it flashed towards him and deflecting it sideways.
‘So that’s the way you want it then,’ Marky said, pulling back again. ‘A stand-off, right? Except that when the boss arrives it’ll be two against one, and you won’t stand a chance.’
‘There’s always a chance,’ Sherlock said with as much bravado as he could muster.
‘Two ways to escape,’ Marky pointed out, ‘both of them covered. Unless you can magically walk through walls or disappear through the floor, you ain’t got a hope of escaping.’
‘I do if –’ Sherlock caught himself before he said Matty’s name – ‘if my friend escaped before Nicholson got to the window. He’ll have gone straight to the police. They’ll be here in a few minutes.’
Marky shook his head scornfully. ‘The local peelers don’t dare make a move against the boss. He knows too much about them.’
‘But how’s he going to prove it?’ Sherlock asked. ‘All his blackmail material has just been destroyed.’
Marky frowned, thinking.
‘Once the police know that all the letters and documents Harkness was holding over their heads have vanished into the tanning vats, they’ll know he can’t blackmail them any more. What will they do then?’ Noticing Marky’s perturbed expression, he pressed on more urgently. ‘Firstly they’ll want to come out here and make sure it’s true, and secondly they’ll pay Harkness back for everything he’s done to them. Once he’s lost his power, he’s just like any farmer or brewer in Farnham – with the exception that they hate him. He’ll be lucky if he makes it to the cells in one piece.’
Sherlock could tell from the way Marky’s shoulders slumped that his points had hit home.
‘How’s he going to pay you?’ he asked. ‘All the material he’s been using to blackmail people has gone, one of his tanning vats is contaminated and another one is leaking. One of his businesses is finished and the other one is in trouble. If I were you, I’d be looking for other employment.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Unless he’s got something on you as well, but if that’s the case then the proof’s in the vat along with everything else. All Josh Harkness has is word of mouth, but that’s not going to get him very far. Nobody’s going to believe a story with no proof.’
‘You’re a smart kid,’ Marky acknowledged. He nodded thoughtfully. ‘You’re right – Harkness is finished. If the police don’t get him, then some of the landowners around here who he’s been blackmailing will soon take the law into their own hands. He’ll end up as compost on someone’s fields before long.’ He relaxed, letting the pole drop. ‘If anything happens – if I get caught – you’ll put in a good word for me. Tell the peelers I let you go.’ He nodded once, decisively. ‘Time for a career change,’ he said, and then he turned and vanished through the doorway.
Sherlock couldn’t believe what had happened. He’d been expecting to have to fight his way out. He’d been talking in order to distract Marky, to give himself time to catch his breath and work out a plan of attack, but he seemed to have actually talked himself out of trouble.
He gazed at the window. It was tempting, but the other man – Nicholson – was probably underneath by now, and after what had happened earlier Sherlock didn’t think that the man would be amenable to argument.
Reluctantly he headed for the door back into the tannery.
He looked around, alert for Josh Harkness’s presence, but he couldn’t see the blackmailer. The only sign that he’d been there was the pile of damp, stained paper and cardboard boxes that slumped beside the nearest vat in a puddle of brown liquid. The smell was worse than it had been earlier – probably because Harkness had been stirring the stuff in the vats around while he was trying to rescue his blackmail material. One look at the papers and Sherlock knew they were useless for anything. What little printed material was still visible through the stains was smearing into incoherence.
He headed around the wooden walkway towards where the main door had to be, hoping that Harkness had already left.
He was wrong.
The blackmailer stepped out from behind one of the vats. His hair was sticking up wildly, and his eyes were so wide they were nearly popping out of his head. He held a knife in each hand. The light reflected off the wickedly sharp curve of the blades.
‘Flensing knives,’ he said casually, although his expression was anything but casual. ‘Used for cutting the skin off cow carcasses. Very sharp. Very sharp indeed. As you are about to find out.’
‘There’s no benefit in killing me,’ Sherlock pointed out calmly, despite the sudden rapid thudding of his heart.
‘No benefit at all,’ Harkness agreed, ‘apart from the fact that it’ll let me sleep a little better tonight. You’ve ruined me. You’ve stolen the food from my mouth and taken the roof from over my head.’
‘I’ve saved a whole lot of people from ruin and despair,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘It seems like a fair bargain to me.’
‘Nobody asked you.’ Harkness shifted position. ‘Half an hour ago I was a man contented with his lot. Now I’m destitute. I’ll have to start all over again.’
‘If the people around here let you.’ Sherlock walked casually down the few steps that led to the central part of the room. He was too exposed on the walkway. ‘When they find out your power over them has gone, some of them will come looking for you. Best thing you can do is run.’
‘You’re right,’ Harkness nodded. ‘But I’m going to take as much of your skin with me as I can cut off, and when I find a place to settle I’m going to have it tanned and made into a waistcoat so that people will be able to look at me and know what happens if you cross Josh Harkness.’
Before Sherlock could say anything in response Harkness drew his right hand back over his shoulder and jerked it suddenly forward, throwing one of the flensing knives at Sherlock’s head. The knife seemed to spin lazily in the air. Sherlock ducked, and the blade embedded itself in the wood of the nearest vat.
Harkness hefted the remaining knife, tossing it from left hand to right. ‘You can’t run forever, son. But by all means try. It’ll make things sweeter for me.’
Sherlock turned and tried to prise the knife out of the vat, but it was stuck fast. A sudden intuition made him jerk his head to one side, just as the second knife whistled past his face. This one hit the vat handle-first, bounced and clattered to the floor. Sherlock bent to pick it up, but Harkness was rushing towards him, arms outstretched, and Sherlock converted the duck to a spring and a forward roll to take him out of Harkness’s way.