A Man From All Sides
Chapter 1
Beware the goat from the front, the horse from the rear, a man from all sides.
(Russian proverb)
He was laughing. Actually laughing. He could feel it, bubbling up from deep inside himself. He was, he realised with something of a shock, high on the awareness of his intelligence and his knowledge, his skill and his success. Yes: he was back into himself, his persona, his achievement. He was still good at this. Yes, dammit. He was!
There had been a clarion call from Lestrade. A puzzle of a murder in a dark corner of his city. A dash across London, with John Watson at his side. A body on the paving slabs, lying in the rain. Blood in the gutter and signs of a scuffle in the dark. A body identified, a modus operandi identified; and a killer named.
Easy. Just like old times. The best of times, not the worst of times. He had come through the worst of times. And now – now he felt fresh and energized, and back to himself. Back to his best, even. Well, almost. Perhaps.
So now he took a deep breath, and the words tumbled out.
"Waterloo is the busiest station on the London Underground system; 100 million passengers a year and has the most escalators," he said. For something to say, and because he knew. "It opened in 1848, with this remarkable Grade II listed entrance depicting War and Peace and Britannia, which commemorates rail staff who died in World War 1."
They ran up the steps beneath that very entrance arch, two men buoyed up with energy and achievement, one tall dark and feline, the other shorter, blond and wiry; having just solved a messy little murder behind the Old Vic theatre.
"What are you? A walking guidebook to London?" John Watson was grinning at receiving such random information as they strode through the complex of tunnels and passages. "Did I really need to know that?"
"But of course. Know your environment, John."
Sherlock Holmes was walking quickly, mock serious, on a high from solving the case before 10am on an otherwise dull Thursday morning, vibrating with energy and purpose, hands deep in his coat pockets and smiling that small enigmatic smile that fascinated people. Passers-by turned and looked even as he ignored them, drawn to his looks and his energy, some half recognising him. Not that he noticed or even cared.
For now they were on their way back home to Baker Street. Brunch instead of their missed breakfast, because Lestrade had called them in at 6am; the rest of the day would do with cold cases to sort, an evening shift in A&E for Dr Watson. The day in the week young Rosie Watson spent with her honorary grandmother, Mrs Hudson in her late discovered element.
Along the cavernous, resonating corridors and tunnels down to the trains, a flautist was heard playing Beethoven's Ode To Joy at the junction of two tunnels immediately ahead, a girl in a gypsy skirt with a woolly hat plonked on the ground for donations.
"Royal College of Music student," muttered the consulting detective dismissively as they passed her by, without contributing coins. "Light on pressure with her little finger, needs a better hand position. Pity." He thought for a moment. "Common technical error."
He kept walking. Still talking.
"Buskers on the Underground aren't random. They have to audition, and need a license. Did you know that, John? About eighty sign on every year. Two hour slots, at about 350 different pitches."
"Did you audition and sign on, then? When you were busking? Or did the rules come after you? Or were you above the rules? As usual?" There was a smile in his voice.
He had started smiling again, in the three weeks since he and Rosie had moved back to the solid, chaotic house he would always call home, and it was still all so new, such a relief after so much tragedy, that he still noticed himself doing it every time. Would, until the novelty wore off. But it had not worn off yet.
Sherlock Holmes also noticed the smile. Understood it. But it was not his way to visibly acknowledge it. So John Watson got a brief basilisk glare in reply, but was otherwise ignored.
"Lots of different buskers. Dancers, magicians, living statues…."he continued.
"Very popular at Covent Garden," John Watson remarked. He was used to the speed speaking, the encyclopaedic knowledge. And was delighted to have it back after drugs and recovery and a case that had almost broken Sherlock Holmes' sanity and his soul.
"No rules up on the surface. As good or bad as may be." The consulting detective rolled his eyes in mock horror at the thought. "Musicians are the only interesting buskers," he declared. But then passed three other musicians without even turning his head, and ignored them all.
But suddenly he broke step, and slowed a little, head raised. Listening, immediately focussed and intent.
The cause was a violin, heard distantly on a far concourse between two platforms.
"That's the music from The South Bank Show," John Watson offered helpfully, listening too. "Even I know that."
"Paganini's Caprice 24. The hardest violin solo ever written," Sherlock Holmes said, voice distracted. Turned sharply right, following the sound. Which was not the right direction to catch a train to return to Baker Street.
The closer he came to the violinist, the slower he walked, the harder he concentrated, the more obvious the interest. John Watson saw, but did not understand. Could not see what his friend had already assessed.
"Sherlock?"
The consulting detective looked back, smiled apologetically.
"Sorry. Need to hear this….."
Down concrete stairs to a new level. The rushing wind and huff of air brakes on trains, people piling out of newly arrived cars, walking in the opposite direction to the two men fighting their way against the tide. Feet and chatter drowning out the music for a moment. Then the crowds parted, and suddenly they saw the violinist they sought for the first time.
Back to a pillar, a tall dark haired young man stood, bent and curved around his violin, oblivious to his audience. Concentrating solely on his music, eyes closed, head tilted, and fingers flying across the strings. His elderly battered violin case lay open for offerings, and there was silver and a few notes inside; some people even paused in their journey to stop and listen, appreciating what they were hearing.
"Another student?" John Watson asked.
Sherlock Holmes shook his head.
"No. Not a student. Something else….."
He stood very still, relaxed his posture, becoming as unnoticeable as possible, positioned carefully just outside the musician's peripheral vision. And he watched. Ignoring the passengers going by in the space between them.
The music was infectious; fast, fluid, expressive. The notes danced and spun, and even John Watson recognised the high level of skill.
The violinist was probably in his early twenties. But his dark and spare appearance was both ageless and androgynous. Skeletal slim, overlong black hair across his face, dark eyes hidden behind long lashes, sharp cheekbones and a lush mouth, a face that would be classically handsome if clean and shaven.
He was locked in position, yet weaving and swooping with the music, the worn long black leather trench coat flowing around him as he moved. Ripped tight black jeans, and a rumpled, faded black tee shirt, scuffed big black leather biker boots. The violin danced and dipped, and the old varnish reflected light.
Between the man, the music and the instrument, the effect was as incongruous as it was mesmerising.
"He's good," John Watson offered.
Sherlock Holmes shifted his concentration a little to the side, but did not take his eyes off the busker.
"No, he's not. He's really not." Risked a nod and slight movement of his mouth that might have started life as a smile. "He's better than that. Very few violinists are ever good enough to play this piece. But listen. Look. Perfect double stopping. Bright pizzicato. The fastest scales. Expression and tone and flawless technique. Five minutes of perfection."
Then he frowned.
"What?"
"That violin…" he said. "It's…." Paused and looked again. "Oh. I see. He's…..me."
"What do you mean?"
Sherlock Holmes shook his head. Was focussed in too hard on a puzzle only he could see to bother to explain it.
"Nothing. I….Wait. This piece…." And his voice trailed away as he listened.
The music came to an end with a flourish, the violinist bowing his head, breathing hard with effort and concentration. Watched from beneath his brows as a smatter of applause rippled around him, and money was tossed into the red velvet lined violin case.
When he looked up Sherlock Holmes took three deliberate steps forward into his eyeline. The two looked at each other, without words or expression. Time seemed to hang in the air.
"Well done," Sherlock Holmes said mildly. A tiny nod of acknowledgement was barely noticeable.
The consulting detective stepped closer.
"If you tuck your left elbow into your side more, hold the violin lower, you would have more control, need less energy and movement for bowing. Less strain on your shoulders. More like Paganini himself."
There was a small pause that seemed too long, and loaded with something unspoken.
"I don't need the devil at my elbow." The reply was low and measured, dismissive. Public school vowels, a Paganini quotation deliberately misquoted. For anyone who knew. Sherlock Holmes knew. And parried.
"So: you are a genius, not a drudge?"
Another Paganini quote misquoted back, and with intent. Like a civilised duel of some sort. John Watson watched, not understanding what was happening, and reflected that they probably had an equal skill set regarding the violin. The thought sent a chill down his back. Almost a warning, if he was being whimsical.
The young man did not reply. So Sherlock Holmes tried again.
"Who are you? And what are you doing with a Stradivarius? Busking on the Underground?"
"It's not a Stradivarius."
"Yes it is."
Sherlock Holmes stepped forward, took the violin gently from the young man's left hand, his bow from the right. No resistance that might damage such a precious instrument. Mutual respect for something more important than either of them. A violin.
The detective studied it closely, holding gently and turning and peering at and into it.
"And it's an early Strad. Is it….." he was thinking furiously. As he did so he lifted the violin to position at his left shoulder; the bow came into place, and effortlessly and almost unconsciously, he sketched the first few bars of the Paganini caprice the boy had just been playing. "There are perhaps half a dozen Strads that survive from 1692. Is it one of those? My God. Not one of the Russian Strads?"
"No." Curt. But there was a flash of something behind the young violinist's eyes, and both men watching saw it.
The boy took the violin back, almost defensively, and there was a feeling in the air of contained panic. He avoided touching Sherlock Holmes' hands or meeting his eyes. Ignored the way the detective watched him with quiet intensity then fierce attention. The sort of attention that always made John Watson nervous and hinted at something other.
"Kto ty?" The question was sharp and unexpected, and Sherlock Holmes' tone sounded guttural and alien to John Watson's ears. Who are you?
"Sorry; don't do foreign languages," said the boy, dipping his head with a little shrug and starting to turn away.
"Kalk!" Rubbish!
The boy did not react, remained impassive and unmoved.
"Ivoya skripka." Your violin!
Now the boy seemed to not even hear, but bent down, gathered up his earnings and stuffed them carelessly into a coat pocket, put violin and bow back into their case, latched the lock quickly and stood erect again. Head high, body arched backwards; it looked like confrontation suddenly. And a need to escape.
He and Sherlock Holmes were of a height, and seeing them both in profile now, almost facing each other, oddly similar. Clear brow, straight nose, sharp cheekbones, feminine mouth, unruly overlong hair. A distinctive look of breeding and that indefinable public school poise, despite the old clothes. But the boy's features were more regular, more classically, almost startlingly, handsome, John Watson decided.
Sherlock Holmes brandished a new twenty pound note under the violinist's nose. Who looked, but did not take it.
"End of my shift," he said. Dismissal. Turned to walk away. Sherlock Holmes' hand moved fast, caught the violinist's right arm, and both men froze.
"I know who you are," the older man said slowly, thoughtfully. "You are a prince. Are you not?"
There was no response, no recognition of the strange accusation. Nor even a laugh of disbelief.
Sherlock Holmes repeated his words in Russian. "Ya znayu klo vy. Ty prints."
"Bollocks, mate."
The boy dropped his elegant voice, just for that moment; apparently uninterested, unmoved and unamused, and shook the detective's hand off his arm. Put out an arm and an open palm to fend off anything more.
"Alexander?" The name that came out as a question was not answered; but the pronunciation was also different somehow; Aleksandr? Is it you, Aleksandr?"
"You're nuts, mate. I don't know anyone called Alexander."
"That's not what I asked."
But the boy was gone before he could be halted. Two steps backing away, head high in something like challenge or denial, before turning and running back up the tunnel towards the surface, violin case tucked into his chest. Snaking around travellers, muttering excuses and apologies as he bumped his way past and through the crowd.
Sherlock Holmes did not pursue him. He simply stood and watched him go.
"Aren't you going to follow? Catch him up?"
"No."
"So what was all that about?" John Watson asked at his side.
"I don't know," was the slow reply. "But I think perhaps I should."
He stood stock still, brain firing.
"This is not a normal busking pitch. So what was he doing? Playing in that spot? Playing something so special? So particular?"
He looked up and round.
"I would bet he is not a registered busker. Yet he clearly wanted to be seen. Needed to be seen. Noticed by as many people as possible. And was standing opposite a surveillance camera. Just to make sure."
"Sure of what?"
"I don't know. Not yet. Interesting, isn't it?"
"But…hang on….you must know. Something. You spoke to him in - Russian, was it? And you called him Alexander. You said - Prince."
Sherlock Holmes turned his head slowly to look down at John Watson with that inscrutable imperious look the doctor knew only too well. Then that telling little frown of thought appeared between his eyes.
"Did I? Oh yes. I did, didn't I?" He shook his head a little, as if puzzled by his own intelligence, his own mental process. "Don't mind me. That was just a guess. A longshot. Almost a memory. But I'll tell you this, John.
"That boy is running from something. And I think I need to know what, "
o0o0o
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was rocking his chair back on two legs, feet up on the desk, talking around a BLT sandwich without apology.
It was six hours since they had left the back alley murder to the Scene Of Crime investigators.
"Alan Croft was found in the gutter behind the Old Vic with three stab wounds, one of which proved fatal." He pushed some photographs towards Sherlock Holmes, who gave them a cursory glance. "I knew you knew him, which is why I called you in.
"You looked at the body and immediately identified the killer as Simon – Sticks – Chapman because of the character of the stabbings. And the fact they were known associates."
"Crystal clear. An easy one."
"Not necessarily. We brought him in. Interviewed him. He says he didn't do it. He says it was a young lad in a long black coat."
"And you believed that?"
"Not necessarily, but….."
"Fact: Sticks Chapman fits the bill perfectly. He worked for Croft, on and off. This is totally his MO. As good as a photograph. Do you know why he is called Sticks, Lestrade? Because he is a nasty little petty criminal who likes to intimidate people by sticking them lightly with a blade until they are bleeding and give him their money out of fear.
"Wounds in the usual places on the torso. Just one jab that went a bit far. He likes his own power trip. I think he likes the smell as well as the look of blood….." his voice trailed away as he thought.
"It's definitely him on the nearest CCTV," Lestrade agreed. "But that camera doesn't show the murder. It's a blind spot, down an alley. Sticks says Alan Croft knew that little spot had no eyes on it, so often met clients there."
"Croft had taken to meeting clients in the street? And Sticks says he was a client? Since when? And he even admits being involved with whatever happened?"
"Of course not." Lestrade snorted a cynical laugh.
"Of course not," Sherlock Holmes echoed, scoffing. "An employee on the make, more like. Reporting back to the boss. Croft had a reputation as a sleazy little private detective at the bottom of the pile using petty crims to do his dirty work. Sticks is just the sort of burglar Croft would use to get illicit evidence without getting his own hands dirty."
"I agree. But he might be telling the truth, for once." Lestrade flapped more photographs under the consulting detective's nose, despite another snort of disbelief. "Here we have photos of Croft going into the alley. Then Chapman two minutes later. Then Chapman coming out at a run. Just as you would expect.
"But look: here are photos from the CCTV of the guy Sticks Chapman describes. Going into the alley just before Croft arrives. But then leaving the alley before Chapman. Moving fast. So: did Chapman witness the other guy committing murder?"
"Or vice versa?" Sherlock Holmes picked up the dark and grainy photographs that showed a tall lean figure in a long black coat, collar flipped up, moving in and out of the alley. In and out rapidly and with hunched shoulders, tense body language, face in shadow.
"Any idea who this young guy is, Sherlock? One of your homeless network?"
Their eyes met. And for a moment Lestrade felt uneasy, unsure of what the answer might be. Because it was infinitesimal, because he knew him so well, but there was the slightest new tension in the other man's shoulders, in his face.
He shrugged. "Not one of mine. Why should I know him?"
Lestrade gave a half embarrassed shrug. "I know this sounds stupid, but….it's just that he looks like you; like you did."
"How fanciful of you, Lestrade. But I have an alibi. And you wouldn't get a proper ID from these photos anyway," he decided. Knowing Lestrade already knew that. Which was why he was at New Scotland Yard to debrief. "Does Sticks have any idea who this other person is?"
"Said he'd never seen him before. Said when he arrived Croft and this other guy were deep into an argument. About money. Said they heard him arrive, and turned to look; and that's when the bloke in the coat stabbed Croft. Several quick sharp stabs. Sticks said he went down like a tree, without a murmur."
"How very convenient."
"Yeah. A bit too convenient."
"My bet would still be that the other guy was merely a witness to Chapman stabbing Croft. Did you find a craft knife on Chapman when you arrested him? That's his weapon of choice."
"Yes. But it was brand new. Never used."
"Hmn. That's not…right." He thought for a moment. "So; did he throw the murder weapon away? And have you found it?"
"Well….." Lestrade took an evidence bag out of the drawer in front of him. "We found this….in the drain at the top of the alley."
Inside the transparent bag was a knife. A knife with a long thin blade decorated with artistic tooling, a beautiful shaft of black bog oak with silver edge work and a brass tine.
Sherlock Holmes looked at it without opening the bag, turning it in his hands, thoughtfully and silently and for so long Lestrade had to prompt him.
"Well? What do you make of it?"
He looked up slowly, expressionless, sea storm eyes hooded. To meet Lestrade's honey brown eyes and his open, hopeful expression.
"I think this is a more complex case than either of us thought it was at first sight. If this really was the murder weapon then there is more to this than a simple ruck between villains."
He drew in a deep slow breath. Spoke and committed himself.
"This is a specialist killing knife, Lestrade. Called a misericordia. Which means mercy. Long, strong, slim. To get through the gaps in the armour of a knight to finish him off when mortally wounded in battle. A serious weapon. Very popular in Europe, in Italy.
"A killer's knife, designed for a professional killer. A weapon very far from Sticks Chapman's skills. Or courage. Or even life experience."
"So surely that puts the guy in the long coat back into the frame?"
"Not necessarily."
Lestrade looked up at him, and grinned suddenly, breaking the dark mood.
"Right. But this mystery man seriously looks like you. Like you did when I first knew you, fifteen or more years ago."
"Noted." Sherlock Holmes met the detective's eyes. "That thought had also crossed my mind." He nodded grimly. "The plot thickens."
He sucked in a ragged stuttering breath Lestrade heard, but did not comment on.
It had not meant to be like this, Sherlock Holmes thought, mind racing behind his impassive exterior. But sight of that killing blade took him back down into the pit; and the misericordia that had been used to threaten him mere months ago by Charles Augustus Magnussen's right hand man Enrico Baldissi. He ignored the memories and the sour taste in his mouth that memory had returned unbidden.
"The misericordia is a Mafia weapon, Lestrade. Is the Mafia active in London again? Declaring it's presence? Or do you have a rogue at work?"
"Don't say that, mate. That sort of thing takes us back to the dark ages."
"Indeed. But whatever he might say, Chapman killed Croft. Trust me."
o0o0o
He was peering over Molly Hooper's shoulder, and she could feel the warmth of his breath on her ear.
"Give me some space, Sherlock…."
Alan Croft lay on the mortuary slab in front of her; pale and still and as unimpressive in death, as he has been alive. Caucasian, thin but with a beer paunch. Flabby arms, sparse yellowing grey hair, fifty five years old, with the dull skin and yellow fingers of a chain smoker.
"Not an impressive figure of a man, was he?"
The girl ignored his words. Pointed at the small dark lines on the cleaned naked torso.
"Look at these wounds," she said, gesturing with a delicate little finger. "I first thought this was a straightforward stabbing, but it doesn't look like it."
"Yes. I see. The angle's wrong, isn't it? They look more ..."
"Twisted. Yes. Not direct from in front, as you would expect. I've measured the wounds. The same width as the misericordia found at the scene. Self inflicted, from the angle of entry. Which doesn't make sense."
"Not unless he was holding the knife, but someone stronger was holding it too…" he stood upright suddenly. "Blood under the fingernails. Analyze it. Check fingerprint layering. "
"Well, of course."
"There are no preparatory wounds as with a suicide," he was thinking aloud, sharing his thoughts with Molly Hooper. "No little practise cuts."
"Yes, I noticed that myself. But at first sight this still looks like suicide, not murder," she said.
"Facts so far from witness interview don't support suicide," Sherlock Holmes offered. "If his story is true, there was no time. Or privacy. No psychology, for that matter."
"Not a knife fight, though, Sherlock. No secondary or defensive injuries to support that theory."
"A fight over possession of the knife, then?" He looked down at the corpse, willing it to supply answers. "Hmn. Get your full report to me, I need to speak to the murder suspect myself. Sort this."
And he was gone.
o0o0o
"Oh, fuckin' hell. It's Sherlock bloody Holmes. Might as well hang me now."
"Hello, Sticks. Drama queen as ever, I see."
In an anonymous stark grey interview room Sherlock Holmes sat alongside Lestrade for Lestrade's second conversation with Simon Chapman, ignoring the baleful glare of his appointed solicitor, a dull girl with curly red hair called Heidi Evans.
"So why did you knife Alan Croft, Sticks? Surely you knew each other too well for that?"
"Don't know what you mean."
The suspect looked away, grimacing and sullen.
"Oh, come on. You've done dirty little jobs for him for years. Everyone knows that. So what happened last night?"
"It weren't me, Mr Holmes. It were this lad…."
"Go on."
"Alan Croft and this lad were standing close, arguing about money. When I walked in on them and Al got distracted, the lad drew this long thin knife and stuck him with it. When I tried to stop him, he ran off."
"Nothing is ever that simple. Come on, Sticks, tell us what really happened."
The other man sat back in his chair. Crossed his arms, looked across at his brief.
"I've said all I'm going to say. So no comment."
Lestrade knew obstinate denial when he saw it.
"OK, Simon. It's late. So you'll have a nice bed here for the night while we get fingerprints sorted and a forensic report, And we'll start again tomorrow. And then we'll get to the truth."
o0o0o
In the early morning hush of the Adventurer's Club, Sherlock Holmes was alone. And at something approaching peace.
The overnight residents had gone to bed, and those whose work took them into the early hours – the club owners, the actors, the entertainers and the clients of casinos who came late to the club for a meal, or downtime, or to simply unwind after a busy day – had finally gone home.
4am was his favourite time of day to be in the club. To swim, to shadow box, to use the underground shooting range and the gymnasium. To relax, to exert, to be himself and to rebuild his fitness, alone and without anyone around to witness how seriously he took the need to make his athleticism and application appear effortless to the outside world.
It had taken time to drag himself back into his usual routine. Recovery from the Culverton Smith case had been slow, and the unexpected Joanna Moriarty problem had interrupted that and taxed him beyond measure.
Moriarty's mother's death, and the rescue of his own mother, had seared something new into his soul; something he refused to identify.
His calm, undemonstrative mother had clung to him in the cold empty swimming pool, and even afterwards, when the world intruded and demanded answers.
Throughout her interview and witness statement to Lestrade, filling in the gaps between kidnap and rescue, and even on the car journey back to Baker Street; she had hung onto his shoulder, onto to his hand, pressed herself into his side. He had been loathe to let go, to separate her from the strength and reassurance he realised, with something between wonder and sadness, he was giving her by his mere presence.
Back at 221B she had awkwardly released him and wrapped herself around her husband in silent solace and communion instead, while their sons disappeared into the kitchen to make tea and give them the privacy of reunion.
Across the humming kettle as it heated the brothers looked at each other, words inadequate.
"Is she OK?" the elder asked the younger. Who nodded briefly.
"She will be. She's tough."
Sherlock Holmes shook tea bags into the largest mugs in the cupboard, poured boiling water on top, let the four teas brew. Builder's tea, good for shock. Waited as Mycroft decided on what to say next, what to leave out, what to leave alone. Deliberately declined to help him.
He was braced for criticism, for attack. For judgement. But instead there came quiet words he had never expected to hear.
"Thank you. For bringing her back to us."
Mycroft Holmes' voice was so low it was almost a whisper, his face beyond expression. Sherlock Holmes gave no sign of having heard. There was a long silence. Then:
"You were right. I was wrong. I'm sorry."
Words Mycroft Holmes rarely thought, let alone admitted, never said out loud.
Still no response.
The elder brother tried a smile, took a hip flask from a pocket, tipped a generous slug of brandy into each mug.
"Good for shock," he said lightly by way of explanation. His brother nodded briefly, poured milk into three of the mugs, adding sugar and stirring, pushing one towards his brother, taking two through to the sitting room for his parents. Came back. Poured his own alcohol laden tea down the sink without tasting it and instead filled his mug with boiled water from the kettle.
"Whatever I offer by way of an olive branch is never good enough for you, is it?" Mycroft's voice managed to be both detached and bitter.
Sherlock Holmes looked at him with dead eyes, an empty expression. Voice disconcertingly neutral.
"I drugged up very deliberately, to stay alert and awake. Modafinil and more. To think, to act, to bring our mother home. Alcohol added to that now… would send me over the top. Crash and burn. But I daresay you would prefer that."
He paused, as much for effect as self control. Let the words sink in, make something shift behind his brother's eyes.
"I was right all along. Moriarty is alive. The post mortem will prove it was his kill shot that spared Mother and me, took out Joanna. Joanna had passed from ally to liability. Was even more obsessed in doing away with a member of the Holmes family than he was. Who would believe that was possible?
"And before you scoff," he added as his brother opened his mouth to respond. "I have no doubts. I heard his laughter at the pool, recognised his footsteps leaving the building. He is alive. Just gone to ground again. He won't come after me again. Not just yet. He is playing a long game. I am still his target.
"So you have to believe me, this time. This time you owe me. I saved our mother. Again. Again, Mycroft! As if doing it in Sri Lanka wasn't bad enough!" His voice rose, and he clamped a hand over his mouth to stop the flow. He swallowed hard, took a deep breath. "So the next time he comes back for me…..you will believe me, Mycroft. And you will act. Give me whatever I need by way of support. Tools. Mechanics. Boots on the ground, even."
"You owe me." He repeated his words with slow emphasis. "And you won't forget. Because I won't let you."
o0o0o
The ripples from that day were still fresh, and would never leave him, leave any of them. But this night he actually felt that he was coming alive again, and full of a sense of purpose. Of The Work.
Having John Watson back at 221B had helped. Nothing would ever be the same now John Watson was a widower and a father and not just an unattached doctor cum soldier and right hand man, but at least it was something.
And if he had ever had any doubts, needed any excuses about converting the basement flat from a damp dark and dingy space into a bright and modern apartment, then Mrs Hudson was reason enough for that.
She glowed with delight the day the renovations were complete and the Watsons came home, directing the removal men, hanging curtains and opening a bottle of champagne to celebrate. And she had been delighted with her part in their unusual little family on a daily basis ever since.
John Watson was the son she had never had, sharing iced buns and jokes, swapping window cleaning and light bulb fitting for hotpots and casseroles, Mrs Hudson becoming a welcoming honorary granny as well as godmother to Rosie, from babysitting to playdays and sharing the nursery school run.
For the sake and the delight of the other three occupants of the house, all his planning and effort had been worth it. Even getting to know Dardan Sulemanji, the brother of the Albanian assassin who had saved his life and died for his pains.
So the child, daughter and goddaughter both, grew and happily thrived, and there were even times again, now, when a newly relaxed John Watson went with him on cases.
Slowly and carefully, balance and stability were being restored. With an unexpected degree of peace and comfort for them all. And if Sherlock Holmes occasionally had the thought that such harmony was so comfortable it could not last, he kept that feeling to himself.
oOo0o
The murder case in Waterloo was far from as simple as it had first appeared, and much as he had been shocked by the sight of another misericordia, he relished the challenge of solving the puzzle of the death in a dark alley.
His mind was on the situation as he swam and ran and breathed deep, and attacked the treadmill and the punchbag.
He would talk to Sticks Chapman again later. He knew the man was lying about something. But he was also certain he had killed Alan Croft. For the devil surely lay in the detail. And he would find that detail, and clear the pathway to the truth.
But it was not until he had showered and dressed, and helped himself to lemon juice and hot water from the overnight self catering trolley that the man who had been watching him from a distance for the past two hours, stepped forward and made contact. Moved his hands in some gesture like appeasement, cleared his throat.
"Mr Holmes. Good morning. I hope I do not disturb you. Permit me to introduce myself. I am….."
He looked across at the interloper.
Not surprised – because he had been aware of being observed by a man lurking in the shadows for some time, but he had refused to react to it. There could be no murderers inside the club. This was not Moriarty in a darkened swimming pool. Just a person who also had to be a member, someone who might know him, or might not. Who might want to speak, to engage his services, to even offer information. Or not.
That was nothing new. He had been a member of the Adventurer's Club ever since he was old enough, and had come alone to live in London. The club in Piccadilly was a second home, of sorts. Many people knew him, people of public office or of influence. All of them knew better than to bother him with conversation or conviviality unless there was need.
So now, instead of being worried or intimidated, he merely sat back into his armchair by the last embers of the dying fire, hands curled around his drink. Alert but appearing indolent.
He saw a man in his early seventies, who wore his years well. Tall and sleek with patrician features and a strong nose. Dark hair with silvered wings at the temples, a slim parted pencil military moustache. Elegant manicured hands, inscribed gold signet ring on the little finger of the right hand. Classic Gieves and Hawkes black shadow stripe suit worn with the green black and red striped club tie of the Rifles.
"I know who you are."
"Really? And yet I would guarantee we have never met before." The other man's head rose in something like challenge.
"We haven't. But I have wide ranging general knowledge and an eidetic memory. You are Prince Kirill Dimitrivitch Volkonsky Essen."
The older man pursed his lips and nodded briefly, almost clipped his heels together in formal acknowledgement.
"I very rarely hear my full title spoken these days. These days I am more simply known as Kirill Essen."
"Indeed? Understandable." The consulting detective absorbed and filed away the information. "So what do you want? Clearly something important, to have spent the last two hours watching me, plucking up the courage to talk to me." He took a sip of the hot juice, pulled a face at the sharpness. "When you could have simply come to Baker Street as a client."
"I prefer not to be seen. For us to be linked."
"Very sensible of you. Very circumspect. But you still need to tell me what you want from me."
"I….was recommended to come to you by a mutual acquaintance."
"Lady Smallwood, I presume?"
"Yes. How did you….?"
"How did I know?" He smiled a cold smile. "Because I am Sherlock Holmes."
Waved a hand towards the armchair opposite. "So please sit. This is as private as you can expect within a neutral space, no-one here but us. Mr Lockwood is on reception and security duty overnight tonight. And his discretion is without equal.
"So sit down, relax, and tell me what you want from me."
Kirill Essen crossed the room as directed and sat down in the brown leather club armchair opposite the younger man. Careful, controlled, collected. The consulting detective noted an arthritic left knee, the clean aroma of Houbigant's Fougere Royale, bitten thumb nails. And wondered.
"You are under a great deal of stress, Mr Essen."
The Russian prince in exile looked up sharply and met the concentrated gaze of unblinking sea storm eyes.
"I don't know where to begin." A simple confession, but made as if with deep and lasting shame. Sherlock Holmes registered that, but had no time for it.
"Begin chronologically. It may be the lesser of the issues on your mind, but every story begins somewhere."
"Indeed."
He sighed. Consciously relaxed his shoulders, thought for a moment before speaking, as if gathering his nerve.
"Eight weeks ago my house was burgled while I was out. A very professional job. Laptops and various electrical devices stolen. No jewellery or antiques."
"So far so average. What especially unsettled you about it?"
"Everywhere was left very clean, without damage. Except the whole house and everything in it had been ransacked, disturbed. Drawers, underbed storage, books taken from shelves, presumably looking for secret hiding places behind. Every inch of the storage cellar and the attic, the garage; ridiculous.
"The police were baffled by that, someone taking the electronics, yet also seemingly hunting for something else.
"Was there something else? Something the burglar did not find?"
"Of course not!" The man bridled; too extreme a response. As if there was indeed something else, something missed….. "If there had been, I would tell you."
"Not necessarily. But no matter. For the moment. Did the police say anything else?"
"Said I was lucky not to have had the house trashed. But basically a crime too ordinary to be properly investigated."
"Indeed so. And such boring investigations are not my stock in trade either. Sorry."
Disillusioned eyes lifted and met his.
"I haven't finished," Kirill Essen stated. "If I may explain?" He waited for a nod of permission before going on. "Between then and today there have been ten similar burglaries within my social circle; families of other exiled Russian emigres such as myself. Poltoratsky, Anrep, Putyakin, Fermor….and so on."
"The same modus operandi?"
"Of course. I would not have come to you otherwise. All identical. Alarms disabled. Access through ground floor French doors or similar, locks picked. No windows broken or other damage. Laptops taken, every drawer and cupboard opened and checked through, every room, every space, taken apart."
"So what do you think your robber was looking for? And what have the police told you?"
He shrugged, grimaced.
"They say it is coincidence. That burglaries are common. That as rich people living within a small part of London we are targets. Which makes sense on the surface, of course it does. But there has to be more to it."
"What do you think? From inside this?"
"I don't know. We leave our work laptops at work for basic security. We all have different professions, hobbies and interests. As you may expect. The only common denominator any of us can see is that we are all families exiled from our motherland of Russia because of the Revolution.
"And that was more than one hundred years ago. There are no survivors that could have had any secret or historical links. We have discussed this between us. None of us can see a special link."
"What did all your families do before exile?"
"The same as all aristocrats and nobles of Russia: finance and farming, art and culture, diplomacy and social affairs. As you would expect. Everything, but nothing outstanding."
"And you have all maintained those interests in exile?"
"In the main. No farming in central London, however." A slight smile. "Certainly nothing exceptional, illegal, scandalous or dangerous."
"But there is something else worrying you. Worrying you more than these burglaries, these thefts."
"I…."
"Something connected? Or something else?"
"I am not sure. I hesitate to explain…."
"Oh, please don't hesitate. Because I have probably heard anything or everything before that you may tell me. There is very little about the human race that shocks me any more."
He sounded almost bored; not yet engaged, terribly patient. Nothing special in the story he was being told.
"No. It's not that." The older man looked down and away, struggling with confession.
"Elizabeth Smallwood told me you would understand my problem. That you are uniquely placed to help me. I hope that is true, Mr Holmes."
"So try me."
"The real reason I am here is more personal than the burglaries. I am very worried. Not something I have admitted to anyone else as yet. I fear going to the police for what they might know…or discover."
He paused. Wiped a hand across his face.
"My son is missing. Without sounding melodramatic about it, he has run away from home. And it is my fault."
At that he buried his face in his hands for a moment and stopped talking.
Sherlock Holmes made a small noise of disapproval, but stood and brought a glass of iced water from the service trolley. Put it into the older man's hands. Who nodded his thanks, took several sips, Put the glass down onto the side table.
"My apologies."
"Just get on with it."
"Yes. My son has had his problems. Too clever for his own good. Too isolated. Too focussed. He has been under the influence of the wrong sort of people. I have tried to help him, but he sees me as the villain of the piece."
"Predictable. Far from unusual."
"He has stolen money from me. To fund the usual things. Drink and drugs. You understand?"
"Yes. Not difficult. You think he has been burglarising your house, those of your friends, to fund his habit. A logical conclusion."
"So I asked him. We had a huge argument about it; we do try to avoid something as uncivilised as arguments, but this one happened. But I was so fearful that he was turning to crime. I challenged him about it. I could not help myself. I was harsh and angry. And fearful for him.
"He carries all my hopes for the future, you see, and all my hopes for himself. He is a great talent, and I cannot bear to see him waste himself like this.
"I challenged him about the burglaries. He became very angry. Denied it, of course. God forgive me, but I told him that if I was to ever see him as an honest and an honourable man he needed to prove himself worthy of my respect. To do something useful.
"In the heat of the moment I demanded something stupid. I challenged him to find one of the Russian Stradivarius violins. Our family's lost Russian Stradivarius, in fact – The Golden Empress."
"I thought that violin was just a legend."
"Not at all, Mr Holmes. It is our lost treasure that would save our family from ruin. It's loss has been in my mind for most of my life. So the challenge just came out. Under extreme stress."
"How did he respond to your demand that he find the equivalent of The Holy Grail?"
"He pushed me down and ran out of the house. Angry. Upset. I have not seen him or heard from him since. Neither have any of his friends or contacts. I have tried to find him….." He shook his head and looked grey, and exhausted, and ashamed, at the end of his tether with fear and self loathing eating into his elegance and self control. "I fear what he might do. To himself. You understand?"
"More than you might think. Will ever know." Sherlock Holmes looked, and assessed, and took a deep breath. " Prince Kirill: forgive me, but Matvey is my age; he is never going to be a better man than he is now. And I do not see him ever having the nerve to become a professional cat burglar."
"Matvey? It seems we are talking at cross purposes, Mr Holmes. I am aware you were at the same school with him and at the same time, which is another reason why I came to you. But I am actually talking about my younger son."
"Your younger son." The echo explained much.
"He is much younger than Matvey. A romance and short lived marriage after my first wife died. She was much younger than I. A marriage doubtlessly destined to fail, as everyone I knew predicted. But I was trying …. a last chance of happiness and companionship after tragedy." He shrugged, shook his head. "My fault we failed, I am sure.
"But our son together was a beautiful child. Happy, beautiful, clever. He was five when Lyubov and I separated and he went to live with her in Beckenham; we have remained friends, but not lovers.
"I have always supported her and our child. A home. Private school, music lessons. Whatever they needed. He needed. And the thought that he has wasted all that love and support; that he may be dead….. It destroys me, Mr Holmes."
"Music lessons, you say?"
"Of course. Music is his heart. He is a rare talent, a performer. Who also wants to become a composer. If life does not destroy him first. Or has already done so."
Sherlock Holmes leant forward.
"Which instrument, Prince Kirill?"
"He plays piano and guitar. But essentially, he is a violinist."
The consulting detective suddenly had his mobile phone in his hand, was pressing buttons. He turned the screen so Kirill Essen could see it.
"Tell me. Is this your son, Vashe Vysochestvo?" Your highness.
It was a photograph of the young violinist at Waterloo Station. Secretly snatched while the boy played the complex pizzicato section of Caprice 24 and his concentration complete.
"When did you take this photograph? Why? And where? Does this mean he is not dead after all?" He looked up, face wiped clear, surprised by hope.
"What is his name?"
"Do you not already know him? To have taken his photograph like this?" The demand was not answered, but the father answered the question regardless. "His name is Aleksandr. Or, more properly - Prince Aleksandr Kirillovitch Volkonsky Essen.
"My tortured boy."
And he put his face down into his hands. And sobbed.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Author's Notes:
Niccolo Paganini (1782-1840) was an Italian violinist and composer. Tall, pale, with long fingers and usually wearing black, he had been a child prodigy who became a world wide phenomenon. His flair, energy and womanising gave him the reputation of having done a deal with the devil to attain his brilliance. Aside from that (!) he was a great musical moderniser and still considered the greatest violinist in history. See the 2013 movie The Devil's Violinist, starring German virtuoso David Garrett for more.
Paganini misquotes: "Now I am a genius. Before that I was a drudge."
"At Vienna, one of the audience affirmed publicly that my performance was not surprising for he had distinctly seen, while I was playing my variations, that the devil was at my elbow, directing my arm and guiding my bow. My resemblance to the devil was a proof of my origin."
Russian Stradivarius violins: All Stradivarius violins have a unique story. The stories about the Russian Strads are fantastical, little known, but true.
Russian aristocracy, nobility and royalty is a very complex and multi layered field of study, both before and beyond the Revolution. As above – fantastical and true.
Crims: street shorthand for criminals.
Misericordia: a real and highly regarded weapon. The sfondagiaccio is a development of this, and is armour piercing.
Builder's tea: might be an English thing. Strong, sweet and light on milk, builder's tea is the standard cure-all. Especially to give comfort after shock or upset.
Author Notes:
See YouTube /TrMxbZPGSyU?si=-St9uwHRzZjjBY3_ to get an idea of the young violinist.
For The Paganini, see Hilary Hahn on YouTube: