Sherlock turned reluctantly away from the personal advertisements before he became too obsessed with them and skim-read the rest of the newspaper. Two pages contained little snippets of news from around the country, and Sherlock found his gaze snagged by one report in particular, which involved the city to which they were travelling.
EDINBURGH. Prominent businessman Sir Benedict Ventham was found dead last night at his house on the outskirts of the city. Police have stated that murder by poisoning is a distinct possibility, considering the contorted expression on his face and the colour of his tongue, and have said that they are close to an arrest. Sir Benedict had made a number of enemies through his aggressive business techniques over the years. He had lived recently in a state of fear for his life and only ever ate food prepared by his faithful and trusted cook, who had served him for almost two decades.
Frustrated at the lack of detail, Sherlock wondered how he might find out more about this murder in Edinburgh. He didn’t think it had anything to do with Amyus Crowe’s disappearance – it would have been a coincidence too far if an article in a newspaper he’d happened to pick up at a passing station was directly related to the reason he was on the train in the first place – but he wanted to get a feeling for the place he was going to – a sense of what Edinburgh was like, and what kinds of things happened there. One of the things that Amyus Crowe had drummed into him on their regular walks through the woods and forests around Farnham was that the more you knew about your environment, the more you could control it. Most people, if they got lost in a forest, would be hungry and thirsty within an hour or two and would have no idea of the way out. Thanks to Mr Crowe, Sherlock now knew which plants to eat and which to avoid, knew how to follow animal tracks to find water, and also knew how to work out which way was north.
Thinking of survival in unfamiliar environments provoked a memory of New York, and his arrival in that city a year or so before. He’d been amazed then at the number of newspapers that had been on sale on street corners. Thinking about it now, he wondered how many different newspapers there were in London, and whether they all printed the same story. Presumably not – each must have its own style and its own bias. If he really wanted to know more about the background and the details of this murder in Edinburgh, then it might be a good idea if he bought as many different papers as he could, cut the relevant stories out and compared them against one another, looking for differences and for things that one report mentioned that the other ones ignored.
The train was some distance beyond Guildford now, and he had lost the opportunity to dive back out and pick up some more newspapers. He made a mental note to do it at Waterloo when they arrived.
Finishing the newspaper, he made sure that he carefully tore out the report of the Edinburgh murder and folded it several times before putting it in his pocket. If nothing else, comparing the various reports would be an interesting exercise.
Matty was curled up on a seat, head against the window, fast asleep. Rufus Stone had his eyes closed as well, but judging by the way his hands were twitching he was mentally rehearsing the violin part of the music score.
Sherlock glanced out of the window again, but the countryside flashing past held little to interest him. He opened the bag that he had brought with him and pulled out a book. It was all about theatrical make-up – how to make it, and how to apply it to produce various effects.
He buried himself in the book, memorizing the details of how to make your own theatrical putty and make-up, and how to apply it so that nobody could tell unless they were within a few inches of you. The book also talked about changing posture – the way you stood – to make yourself look taller or shorter. He forgot about the train, and the journey, until they clattered over a particularly noisy set of points, and he looked up to find that Rufus Stone was staring at him.
‘Thinking of a career in the theatre?’ Stone asked, indicating the book. ‘I advise against it, the way I would advise against sticking your hand inside a dog’s mouth and pulling on its tongue. The pay is bad, the hours are long and unsociable and society does not value those who entertain it. I should know – I’ve spent more time than I care to think about in darkened theatres playing for small, unappreciative audiences.’
‘I don’t know what I want to do when I grow up,’ Sherlock said honestly, ‘but I like the idea of being able to change my appearance so that nobody knows that it’s me.’
‘To be honest,’ Stone admitted, ‘there are times when I’ve been grateful for the ability to slip past an irate landlord or a former girlfriend without them realizing.’
‘You know about theatrical make-up?’ Sherlock asked, intrigued.
‘I’ve picked things up, over the years, working in theatres – or, more accurately, spending time in dressing rooms with young and beautiful actresses. Working for your brother, as well. There are some striking similarities between acting and spying.’ He smiled, but there was little humour in his expression. ‘Of course, dying on stage in front of an unappreciative audience is nowhere near as painful as dying in a back alley of a foreign city with a knife between your ribs.’
‘Can you teach me?’ Sherlock asked.
Stone shrugged. ‘I could give it a go. You’ll need a certain amount of raw artistic talent, and a lot of practice – not a million miles away from what you need to play the violin properly, in fact. Tell me what you already know, and I’ll see what I can add.’
They spent the rest of the journey with Stone giving Sherlock tips on the art of theatrical make-up. He brought the dry facts in Sherlock’s book to life with funny anecdotes of times when he’d seen false moustaches slide off actors’ faces or watched their make-up streak as they perspired until they looked like some bizarre striped animal. Sherlock found himself laughing, but also learning at the same time, and the rest of the journey seemed to flash past in moments.
Arrival at Waterloo was becoming a regular occurrence for Sherlock by now. The station, with its soaring iron arches and its glass panels, was a familiar sight, as were the crowds of people in all kinds of clothes, from black tailcoats to bright red-and-yellow checked jackets.
Rufus Stone led the way outside. ‘We need to get to King’s Cross,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘It’s on the other side of London. Trains leave there for the north of the country.’
Sherlock looked back over his shoulder, wondering if he would see the two Americans, but if they had been on the train then they were hanging back, keeping out of sight. Perhaps they had stayed at Guildford to ask questions about a big American and a girl who would have been travelling a day or two before.
A cab was waiting directly outside the station, ignoring the traffic that was struggling to get past. Its driver kept shaking his head at the various people who tried to hail it or climb in. Sherlock assumed that it was waiting for someone important, and he was prepared to walk right past it, but Rufus Stone walked straight up and opened the door. Instead of waving him away or shouting at him, the driver jumped down and took his bag, then looked at Sherlock and Matty expectantly, obviously wanting to take their bags as well.