CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Macfarlane stared at Crowe for a long moment, as if he hadn’t heard Sherlock speak, then swivelled his head until he was looking directly at him. ‘Go on, laddie. Astound me.’
‘If we can clear your sister’s name, show that she’s innocent – you let us go. You don’t give us to Bryce Scobell.’
Sherlock could hear a murmur of disbelief run around the room.
Crowe had also turned to look at Sherlock. In contrast to Macfarlane’s calm, almost serene expression, he was frowning as if he was wondering what Sherlock was up to. Sherlock had to admit that he wasn’t sure himself.
‘Let me get this right,’ Macfarlane said slowly. ‘You want to . . . what? Investigate the murder? Look for things the police might have missed? And you seriously think you can collect enough evidence to convince the police that young Aggie is blameless in this crime?’
Sherlock shrugged. ‘What have you got to lose? If we fail to prove her innocent, then you give us to Bryce Scobell and collect your blood money. If we succeed, and she’s released, then you get your sister back. Either way, you win.’
Macfarlane smiled, as if amused at Sherlock’s confidence. ‘You’re a little young to be a copper, lad.’
Sherlock’s mind flashed back to the time, some months before, when his brother Mycroft had been accused of murder. The police hadn’t been interested in investigating the crime: they had a suspect right in front of them, and enough evidence to convict. It was Sherlock who’d had to find the real killer.
‘The police see what they want to see,’ he said bitterly. ‘They see what’s easiest for them. I don’t get distracted by the obvious. I can see things they can’t.’
Macfarlane stared at him without speaking. His expression was a strange mixture of dismissive scorn and faint hope. There was something in Sherlock’s voice that was working on him.
‘I believe you can, at that,’ he said eventually, ‘but I’m going to need more than that before I let you loose to investigate. This might just be a way of getting you somewhere you can make a run for it.’
‘Not when you’ve still got my friends captive,’ Sherlock pointed out. He glanced around, desperately looking for something – anything! – which he could use to persuade Macfarlane that he could do what he said.
‘You said some of your men work at the docks?’ he asked.
Macfarlane nodded.
‘What if I could tell you which of your men work on the docks and which don’t. Would that convince you?’
‘Just by looking at them? Not asking them any questions?’ Macfarlane shook his head. ‘I can’t see how you’d be able to tell.’
‘Line up twenty of your men,’ Sherlock said. ‘Don’t even tell me how many of them work at the docks. I’ll work it out.’
‘Let’s make it more difficult,’ Macfarlane said. ‘You can’t look at their hands either, just in case you were hoping for rope burns or the like.’
Sherlock shrugged. ‘If that makes you happier.’
Macfarlane moved away from Amyus Crowe as if he had forgotten that the big American was even there. He pointed at various people in the crowd. ‘You, you and you – over there, against the wall. Dougie, you too. And you, Fergus . . . Hands behind your backs, all of you.’
While Macfarlane was selecting his twenty men, Rufus Stone gestured to Sherlock. ‘Are you sure about this, Sherlock? Can you do it?’
‘I think so,’ Sherlock replied. ‘I’m not sure there’s an alternative. We need to find some leverage to get him to release us. If you’ve got a better idea . . . ?’
Rufus shrugged. ‘Not off the top of my head.’
‘All right,’ Macfarlane announced. ‘Let’s see your party trick.’
Twenty men were arranged along the wall, all with their hands behind their backs. They ranged from one of Sherlock’s age to a handful in their sixties. They all had dirt ingrained in their necks and in the backs of their ears, and crude blue tattoos on their forearms. Some had long hair down to their shoulders, some had ponytails and some just had stubble covering their scalps.
Sherlock went up to one end of the line. Instead of walking along and looking at their faces and their clothes, which he suspected Macfarlane was expecting him to do, he crouched down and examined the first man’s shoes as closely as he could. He could hears titters of laughter from the crowd of thugs and thieves, but he ignored them. On hands and knees he scuttled along the line, checking shoes and boots and the turn-ups of trousers.
When he got to the end of the line, he straightened up. The men in the line were all craning their necks, looking at him with fascination and, in some cases, suspicion, while the rest of the crowd were talking among themselves and pointing at Sherlock.
‘Right,’ he said. He walked back along the line, pointing to five of the twenty men. ‘You, you, you, you and . . . yes, you. Step forward.’ He glanced across at Macfarlane, who was watching him with fascination. ‘These five all work on the docks on a regular basis. The other fifteen don’t.’
‘You’re right. You’re absolutely right.’ He gestured to the men to return to the crowd. ‘How did you know?’
‘They work near salt water,’ Sherlock said, ‘and that’s what gives them away. They must get splashed with the water from the docks on a regular basis. I’ve noticed it before. Seawater does two things. When it soaks into shoe leather and dries out it leaves white marks behind, where the salt has been deposited in the leather itself. Also, when drops of water collect in the turn-ups of trousers and then evaporate, they leave crystals of salt behind. These five men either have white marks in their shoe leather or salt crystals in their turn-ups, or both.’
‘I’m suitably impressed,’ Macfarlane admitted. ‘You seem to have your wits about you, which is more than I can say for the coppers investigating the murder of which my sister is accused. All right then – I’ll take you up on your offer. Have to tell you, though, that you haven’t got long. It’s –’ he checked his watch – ‘nine o’clock now, give or take. A meeting’s been arranged with the men who want your American friends here for two o’clock this afternoon. You’ve got five hours, no more and no less.’
Sherlock glanced at Amyus Crowe, then at Virginia’s white face, then at Matty. Matty gave him a smile and a thumbs-up.
‘If that’s all I’ve got, then that’s how long it will take,’ he said grimly, hoping he could live up to the boast.
Macfarlane gestured to one of his men. ‘Dunlow, you know the lie of the land. Get a carriage out front right away. You and Brough go with the kid. Take him to the big house first. If he tries to make a run for it, go and find him. Whatever happens, get him back here for two o’clock. Understand?’
The men nodded.
‘The butler at Sir Benedict Ventham’s house is a . . . client of mine,’ Macfarlane told Sherlock. ‘Tell him you’re working for me and he’ll let you in to look around, although I can’t think what you’ll find now.’
‘Neither can I,’ Sherlock murmured. He went to leave with Macfarlane’s man, Brough, but turned back to smile at Virginia. ‘I’ll come back for you,’ he said.
‘I know you will,’ she replied.
Brough was a thin man in his thirties with a scattering of freckles across a bald head. His lips were twisted in a sneer, as if he could smell something unpleasant. He accompanied Sherlock back through the rooms he’d been carried through before. Whatever was in the pit was snuffling around behind the fence on the far side as they passed, but in the next room the two men were still fighting, trading blows slowly while standing close together, not moving anything apart from their arms. They looked exhausted, and their faces were swollen and covered with blood. The dog fight had ended, and the crowd who had been gathered around it were dispersing. Money was still changing hands.