Crowe stared over at him. ‘Ah’ll give you an example of what Scobell is like,’ he said. ‘Cincinnati, three years ago: ah’d tracked Scobell down to a room in a boarding house. We surrounded it and burst in. He’d already left, but the woman who owned the place was sitting there, on the bed. She was holdin’ a stick of dynamite an’ a match. When she saw us, she struck the match and lit the dynamite.’ He paused, shaking his head. ‘We only just cleared out of the room in time. The explosion killed her, of course. Found out later that Scobell had kidnapped her daughter – said he’d kill her if she didn’t act as a livin’ booby trap for us. An’ she believed him.’
‘What happened to the daughter?’ Matty asked.
‘Oh, he let her go. He had no further use for her. Course, she was left without a mother, but Scobell didn’t care nothin’ about that.’
Sherlock stared at Amyus Crowe. There was something the big American wasn’t saying.
‘Why did he change tactics?’ Sherlock asked. ‘It started out with you chasing him, but it ended up with him chasing you. What happened?’
Crowe stared levelly at Sherlock. ‘There ain’t much gets past you, is there, son? You’re right. Something did happen. Ah said ah lost some men in firefights an’ traps an’ the like. Scobell lost somethin’ too. He lost . . .’ He paused, and looked up at Virginia. ‘Ah’ve never told you this, Ginnie. Ah reckon you’ll think the less of me for what ah’m about to say, but that can’t be helped. It’s the truth, so help me God.’
He took a breath, obviously having to force himself to continue. Sherlock found that he was holding his breath, waiting for what came next.
‘Bryce Scobell had a wife an’ child. Ah don’t believe he ever loved either of them. Ah don’t believe he’s capable of love. But ah think he came closer to real emotion with them than with anyone else. Maybe it was more like possessiveness – ah don’t know for sure. But the thing that happened was, we cornered Scobell an’ his bodyguards at a farmhouse in Phoenix. They started firin’ when they saw us, an’ we fired back. In the crossfire, two of mah people were killed, and so were Scobell’s wife an’ son. We’d had no idea they were there. Scobell escaped, like he always did, but he took an oath that day that he would make me pay for what ah’d done.’ He grimaced. ‘A month later a message arrived for me. It was from Scobell. He told me that he’d kill mah wife an’ mah child an’ he’d make me watch. He told me exactly what he’d do. It weren’t . . . the kind of thing that would occur to any normal, God-fearin’ person, but ah knew Scobell – ah knew that once he set his mind to a thing, then that thing would happen. With the permission of President Johnson ah took a leave of absence from mah duties an’ came here.’
‘And now he’s followed you,’ Sherlock said in the silence that followed Crowe’s admission.
‘As ah said, once he sets his mind to somethin’, that thing happens.’
‘You could have asked for help,’ Rufus Stone pointed out. ‘Mycroft Holmes would have provided guards for your cottage, I’m sure. If not, we could have recruited some people locally to help.’
‘For how long?’ Crowe asked. ‘Even if Mr Holmes provided us with round-the-clock bodyguards, he couldn’t keep them there forever. At some stage they would have been taken away an’ placed on more important duties.’ He shook his head. ‘Bryce Scobell is a patient man. Patient, and very, very clever. He would have waited until everyone had gotten bored an’ tired, an’ then he would have struck.’
‘But you’ve faced dangerous men before,’ Sherlock pointed out. He was confused. He didn’t understand why Amyus Crowe hadn’t stayed to fight. Crowe had always seemed to Sherlock to be a man who confronted difficulty rather than running away from it. Secretly he felt a bit disappointed. ‘I was there in the tunnels beneath Waterloo Station when you took on that man who wanted to kill me. You nearly broke his neck, and you didn’t seem the slightest bit frightened. What’s so different about Scobell?’
‘Ah have faced dangerous men before,’ Crowe agreed. ‘Ah’ve gone up against some of the toughest, hardest men in the world in mah time, but Bryce Scobell is a different bucket of catfish entirely.’ He sighed. ‘It’s difficult to describe, but there’s something . . . not human about him. Most people are wary of bein’ hurt, of bein’ damaged, an’ that gives you an advantage in a fight, but he ain’t. He just don’t care. Ah’m not sayin’ he don’t feel pain, cos he does, but he just shrugs it off. It don’t interest him. An’ he don’t remember the pain neither. If you punch a normal man in the face enough times he’ll stay back, not wantin’ to get hit again, but Scobell – hit him the first time an’ he’ll remember the fact that he was hit, but he don’t seem to learn from the pain. He don’t seek to avoid it next time. Knock him down an’ he just gets up again, an’ again, an’ again. He keeps comin’ back at you, like some kind of mechanical creation.’ He shook his head. ‘Ah’m not makin’ much sense, ah know, but facin’ Bryce Scobell is like facin’ some dark force of nature. He’s unstoppable. That would be bad enough if he was stupid, but he’s one of the cleverest men ah know. He thinks several moves ahead, like he’s playin’ chess, an’ he gathers people around him who are like him.’
‘I don’t understand about the names tattooed on his skin,’ Virginia said suddenly. She had been quiet up until that point. ‘Why would he do that? What does it mean?’
‘It’s a fixation with him,’ her father replied darkly. ‘Ah was told that when he joined the Confederate Army he only had three names, tattooed on his arm. Someone asked him what they were. He said they were the names of men he’d killed.’ He paused and shook his head sadly. ‘He was only eighteen. He’d had them indelibly inscribed on his skin, along with the dates. Said he wanted to make sure he never forgot them.’ He shrugged. ‘Course, in war you rarely know the names of the men you kill, so he’d leave a gap an’ do his best to find out who they were, where they were from, based on their regiment. After the end of the War Between the States he spent a considerable sum of money tryin’ to get the names of all the Union soldiers who died in particular places, at particular times. He even tried to find out the names of the Indians he killed. Had Black Kettle’s name tattooed right across the nape of his neck. He’s obsessed with the idea.’
‘What about the ones in red?’ Rufus Stone asked. ‘As if I didn’t know.’
Crowe eyed him darkly. Sherlock assumed he was tacitly warning Rufus not to mention Virginia’s name. ‘Those are the people he’s going to kill but hasn’t got around to yet,’ he said slowly. ‘Planning for the future, ah guess. He’s makin’ a statement that there are people out there whose days are numbered. When they’re gone, he has the name tattooed over in black.’ He peered out of the window again. ‘Ah’m told he’s got mah name in red on his forearm, right where he can see it every day.’
Rufus Stone was frowning. ‘For a supposedly intelligent man,’ he mused, ‘this Bryce Scobell seems to have missed a trick. I mean, he’s on the run from you, he’s on the run from the whole US Government, and he deliberately makes himself more and more recognizable. If I was him I’d dye my hair blond and keep out of sight, not tattoo more and more names on myself.’
‘It’s a compulsion,’ Crowe explained. ‘The man can’t help himself. An’ it’s amazing’ what a pair of gloves an’ some stage make-up on the face an’ neck can accomplish.’
‘So what’s the plan?’ Matty asked. ‘What do we do?’
‘We don’t do anythin’,’ Crowe replied. ‘Ginnie an’ I, we leave the country. Head somewhere else. Change our names. Change our descriptions, as much as we can. You three go back to Farnham an’ try to forget about us.’