A Man From All Sides
Chapter 3
"You push, and I pull back."
(Nicholas Galitzine)
If this was a romantic novel I would know what to do and how to do it. He thought, bemused. I would probably have to sweep her into my arms, whisper something ridiculously cliched and sentimental into her ear and carry her off to my bedroom.
How utterly bloody predictable. How pathetic.
The words, the reaction, shouted out to him, but only in his head. As it was, he was left reeling, frozen, stunned and silent.
She had skipped forward – confident and happy - and swept herself into his arms as soon as he hit the top step. If he had not been braced, horrified at the thought yet half expecting it, he would have staggered backwards and they probably would both have fallen down the stairs.
So he absorbed both the shock and the distaste at the way she had leapt for him in her over affectionate, over enthusiastic greeting. Bit back every snappy response to concentrate on the physical dilemma.
Caught her in his arms as much for self preservation as some parody of good manners, drawing her irresistibly down and into his body through nothing more than simple physics, and lurched them both forward and deep into the safety of the landing.
The scent of the latest Narciso Rodriguez perfume assailed his senses, his nose inevitably in her hair; a sleek bun now instead of the pony tail he remembered; black patent high heels today, not classy trainers; the luxuriant texture under his hands of a dark violet McQueen trouser suit. Elegance and style were hers now, he registered; a girl no longer.
Another complication.
Even he could see and feel the excitement of being so close to his body rippling through her. Some things never changed, it seemed.
"Put me down," he said, as plainly as he could – even though it was him holding her - trying not to sound like some blushing heroine, and opening his arms that had been tight around her so that she now slid, however reluctantly, along and down his body, down his chest and torso, and back onto her own feet again.
Yet she somehow still had her hands locked around his shoulder blades, was still pressing herself into him, looking up into his face with such openly adoring eyes he wanted to turn away and unsee whatever it was that lay there.
"Only after I have made the most of this moment," she breathed towards him on a laugh, her face turned up to his. "My Azrael, my dark angel. Here you are! And here I am – at last!" She shook him, mock angry. "You never answer my texts or my emails, little one. But I understand, yes, I do. So I have to make the most of any small moment I can share with you. Like now."
She laughed again, undeterred by his stillness, nuzzled her face into his shirt, and leant back a little to look up into his eyes, running her hands along his back, down his arms, to finally take his hands in hers as if to prove to herself he was really there in front of her; and because he was, she could touch as much of him as she needed.
He shook himself out of her grip. Looked down at her properly, face impassive and assessing.
How long had it been since he had saved her life from robbers who had attacked her in the small hours of a dark London morning, trying to tip her off a bridge and into the Thames and to almost certain death? Trying to steal her backpack containing her irreplaceable Guarneri violin. And how that simple result of being in the right – or wrong – place at the right – or wrong – time had changed both their lives.
How long since he had caught and calmed her, followed her to Aalburg on a case that had not only had worldwide criminal and diplomatic repercussions – but personal repercussions for them both? And also to others: deaths and drama and destruction had played out in the spaces between them. Retribution and revenge.
Their ultimate link – both possessing and playing rare Guarnieri violins - was a given.
But then there was also her crush on him, as her hero, her geroy. And he hated it.
She had called him Azrael that night they met, her dark angel; and she called him that still. She texted, and telephoned, sent emails and links to her website. But he never picked up her calls, and he never responded to her messages. He did not know how.
He had no desire for damsels when they were no longer in distress, no longer needed him to provide safety and justice. He had no need for her attention, or her admiration. No desire for the complication of her presence in his life. And yet, seemingly, he had no ability to put an end to her infatuation either. And it wasn't as if he hadn't tried. It was frustrating. Distracting.
"Sherlock, my chocnuttyk, it is wonderful to see you again."
She knew him well enough to ignore his stillness and turned her face up to his, offering a kiss. But he was tall enough, pulling his head back a little, to avoid something so obvious.
"What are you doing here, Alyssa? What do you want?"
"Why – you, of course."
The answer – and her smile – were bright and without guile, and for a moment he felt himself being drawn into her orbit before he consciously drew back from the charisma of a girl who had been a child prodigy violinist and had only become more accomplished, more famous, as she grew. Alyssa Almedova, an exceptionally gifted child from Minsk, who had met both critical and commercial success from the age of twelve, and who had grown into an exceptional adult star.
Being slight and blonde and undeniably pretty helped. But it was her talent that drove her forward. Her musicality, her on stage charisma, her genuine likeability. Everything – and yet nothing - had changed since he had last seen her two years ago. Her attributes had simply matured, developed, won more audiences around the world.
"Clearly. But what do you actually want?" His tone was dry, distant, detached. Not that she cared, even if she noticed.
"To see you again, of course, after so long. You are my saviour. You know you always have a place in my heart."
"Hmn."
He offered that twisted, fleeting fake smile most people saw if they ever saw him smile at all. Turned away, removed the Belstaff, hung it on it's peg in the corridor and stepped round her, past the dripping umbrella she had propped by the door, to go into his flat. He did not invite her in, nor look back to see if she followed him. He knew she would.
"Your housekeeper let me in. She said you would not be long."
"Landlady," he corrected.
"Oh? My English fails me. There is a difference?"
"Landladies rent you a room. Housekeepers bake you cake."
"Ah."
She was close to laughing – at him, or for him, or with him, he really didn't care which, and wasn't going to ask – as she sat down in his armchair by the hearth, the low sun streaming in the window behind her so her face was veiled.
"Well, I suppose I should say it was good to see you." He glared at her, at her assumption of invitation, the way she sat in his chair with such composure, then turned away with a little shrug. "So: 'Good to see you, Alyssa.' There, I've said it. So off you pop, now."
He avoided looking at her again, sat at the old dining room table he used as a desk, started opening his post and to all intents ignored her, whilst remaining very aware of her presence.
She let him be for two or three long minutes, and he could feel her eyes on him. Until she got up, took the two steps to his side, and slipped to her knees, putting her arms around his waist and her head against his side like some Victorian heroine. He stilled, froze.
"After so long. Yet still you are my cold and handsome man." She nuzzled her face into his shirt, into the warmth of his torso, but he did not respond to her contact. "You do not dismiss me so easily, my Azrael. Should I be sorry? To have interrupted something between you and the young man on the stairs?"
"He is a policeman. He wants my help."
She squeezed him to her, laughed a little.
"Everyone wants your help. You are unique."
He pushed his chair back from the table in the little space she had left him, but she simply ignored his irritation and adjusted her posture, remained leaning into him.
"I'm really not. Nor am I an object of desire."
She put her head to one side and simply smiled up at him.
"Yes, you are. Handsome and desirable and good. A good man. A good man who does good things. How rare that is these days."
There was an edge to her voice he could not ignore. She rested her chin on his thigh. Seemed to be breathing him in.
She had, she realised, missed the whipcord strength, the hard muscle of him; had missed his height, his haughty manner, his brittle behaviours that promised depth and danger, the clean, bright smell of him. The air of contained energy and excitement always around him.
There were new lines on his brow, and between his eyes; his dark tousled hair was shorter, she observed. And also something more elusive to define, a quieter maturity perhaps, something, somehow, more solid and even more reassuring than before, but no less appealing. Perhaps, she thought, he had grown and matured, just as she had.
"You look well," she said thoughtfully. "But you also look as if times have been hard for you. That you have grown past them."
He shot a look at her, surprised by her perception.
"I was ill," he said, offhand. Sloughing off the echoes of past death and disaster and the dangerous depths of drugs that were still too close. "I'm better now."
"You should have told me. I could have come. Helped you. Been at your side. Here. When you needed me." She looked up into his eyes, cupped a hand around a knee and shook him gently. He dropped his head with unnerving slowness to look down at her.
"I didn't need you. Didn't – don't – need anybody." He drew a long breath, as if pulling in self control. His voice changed. "Why are you here? You must know I don't want you here. Why don't you just go away?"
"I am Russian. We are an emotional people. We do not forget our loves, our losses, our debts. You are all of those things to me. So you are important to me," she said immediately, words of guileless honesty. "I have missed you. And I owe you. You must know that."
"No. And I don't want to," he contradicted.
"Too bad, milyy," she said with a smile in her voice; and the courage to call him darling. Reached up to stroke his lean right hand. Lean and veined, calloused pads but also immaculately manicured. It tensed beneath her fingers, and drew away. He looked at her, still cool and assessing. Face impassive, eyes searching yet shuttered.
"You have grown since I saw you last," he declared. "But you are still too young, too eager."
"I have grown. Of course. But remain forever the girl whose life you saved."
He was still looking at her without expression. Evaluating the eagerness and earnestness in her, the desire for him to take her every word seriously. He didn't like it, he thought, but also realised such a conversation had always been inevitable.
"I have saved more lives than yours. I was merely in the right place at the right time to save you that day. In such circumstances I would have saved anyone. Don't delude yourself that you are anything special to me."
She reached out again, undaunted, and reclaimed his hand again, held onto it tightly this time.
"How could I think anything else, you silly man? You are always special to me. Everything I achieve, I achieve because of you. Every morning I wake into a new world, knowing I would not be there to wake - without having been saved by your power. By the strength of you."
She rushed on before he could interrupt.
"I entertain audiences; they applaud me – without knowing they applaud you too, because you saved my life so I could be there to play for them. And I play my beautiful Guarnieri violin because that night on the Thames you saved my violin as well as saving me.
"So of course I owe you. My life, my heart, my career. Everything. Every day. Every breath I breathe, every beat of my heart, I owe to you."
"Fanciful drivel. Stop such sentimental….."
"Sentimental? No. My life, my talent, are your legacy. How do you not see that? And that I do not know how to ever repay you?"
Her grasp was tight, intent; strong musician's fingers, white healthy nails biting into his flesh.
"Repay me by leaving me alone. Living your life as if that attack never happened."
"I do – live my life. But I cannot just… do that. Pretend to forget. That is not even…." She searched for the right word, and found it. "Not a gesture that even begins to pay my debt."
"I've told you. You owe me nothing. And I don't need gestures."
"Gestures? No. Not the right word. Hmn…. You are more important than gestures. I owe you. I could love you. That would be my gesture for you to have special meaning. For us both."
Her voice wobbled with emotion, her tight grasp demonstrating her determination.
"No. It wouldn't." He lifted their joined hands. Turned his head down towards her and looked deep into her clear aqua blue eyes. "You have grown in the past two years, Alyssa. Gained a greater reputation for your music, your ability, your new maturity. Grown more than would be expected in the time scale. You are very bright, and talented, beautiful and so very clever; you live a life few people can share or understand."
He dropped her hand, braced his against the edge of the table.
"Look at yourself now. A woman. Famous. All grown up. Dress sense. Taste. Self confidence. World wide fame, professional reputation. And you have developed emotionally. Except for your teenage attitude to me. Even when no longer a virgin."
She did not deny his words, nor brush aside his impertinent conclusion.
"How can you tell?" She was not embarrassed, as he had expected; as he had hoped, to turn her away from him. But she was probably even amused, intrigued by the intimacy of his deduction, by the way her eyes suddenly sparkled, and met his.
He made a vague gesture with his free hand.
"Something behind your eyes," he added. "In your assured physical poise. In your….hmn…. emotional freedom of expression. Am I right?"
"Should I be ashamed of myself?"
"Of course not." His eyes narrowed. "So. Marco, I assume?"
She blinked at him, but did not speak. And for the first time he saw a chink in the armour of fame and new maturity.
"Oh, come on!" he pressed on. "Who else could it be? Your manager is beside you all the time. And he loves you. Has loved you for years."
"But so predictable, do you not think?" Her confidence stuttered before him. And he saw it. His head rose as if in challenge.
"Oh. I see. You don't love him back. Or not as much as he expects? Wants? Oh, I see. Demands."
She looked away, made a wordless, telling twist of her shoulders, shook her head.
"He wants me to marry him."
Sherlock Holmes looked, considered.
"Makes sense. Teamwork in all aspects of your life and world. Practical. And would of course, guarantee him a job for life; legally as well as professionally; always by your side."
"Stop it!" She laughed then, embarrassed both by his insight and his cynicism. Batted at him with the free hand removed from his. "You are too…" she sought for a word once more. "You see too much."
"No. Only what you show me."
"What else do I show you?"
"That you are confused about something. Rare for you." There was a silence as he looked into her eyes, into her very soul. "Oh. I see. You hope I will save you once again – by – what? Fucking you? You think that would – clear your head? Sort your confused emotions? Help you be brave and make a major life decision? Really?" His harsh laugh was scathing.
"Doing sex would sort out whatever you have with Marco, would it? Triangulate your experience into some sort of critical mass? Define love and what it means to you? And you think I can solve that dilemma for you? Good God."
She did not answer, but clutched his hand tighter, looked away.
"Oh, I see. Marco has disappointed you? You are a romantic girl, yet think I could be better? Think you love me instead?"
"I don't think it."
"Yes you do. You do. Typical immature delusion. A comforting fantasy about me rather than face the truth."
She laughed, a nervous sound.
"I should hate you."
"Please. It would be simpler. Easier for us both."
"You are my charm, my Azrael. I just want….." she struggled to put her feelings into words. "I just want to show you how much I know I owe you. Appreciate you. I don't know any other way to thank you. For all you have done for me." She sighed, smiled a little. "Because you don't listen to me any other way, answer my emails, my texts. My words are never…enough."
He shook his head. Felt old and hopeless, and very tired.
"Stop this, for your own sake. Sex with me….would disappoint you: debase us both. And you would regret it the morning after."
She was still sitting at his feet like a supplicant. Neither embarrassed nor upset. Oddly unmoved by his rejection. As if she knew him well enough to expect nothing else. He shot a look down at her. Different this time. Harsher, more detached.
"How do you know you cannot love me?" She sighed. "You think I am forward? Too open hearted? Cheap?" She heard herself say.
"Don't be ridiculous. You are just young. Grasp that youth – for yourself. Youth never lasts long."
She sighed and looked up at him as if with new eyes.
"What exactly happened to you, my dark angel? To have hurt you so deeply?"
"Shut up with the sentimental bollocks."
The quiet cynicism shook her, and she had no response to it.
"So now tell me what you are really here for." The voice had changed, deeper in tone now, icy and businesslike.
She sighed. Drew back a little, sat back on her heels.
"I…have tried my best. For you."
"Don't try. Emotion, appealing to my better nature…doesn't work."
She shook her head, but whether it was at him or at herself, he wasn't sure.
"My violin," she whispered. Two words spoken so simply he thought at first he had misheard.
"Your violin? The Holderness Guarnieri? What is the problem?"
She shrugged, looked back up at him.
"My Guarnieri was, as you well know, loaned by the Magnussen Foundation, a trust headed and financed by Pedder Magnussen to provide young musicians with high quality instruments they could never afford for themselves….."
"To bring pretty bright children – boys mainly - his way."
"I did not know that thing until you exposed him for the predator he was," she interrupted hastily. "But you know that."
"Of course."
"And so his arrest, trial and conviction meant that, among other things, the Foundation was suspended, it's work cast adrift."
"Sometimes others suffer to defeat evil. Ripples travel outwards. Yet you are still performing? With the Holderness Guarneri?"
"Yes. A new backer has stepped in. He is taking over and reforming the Foundation. Changing the name, removing it from the shadow of Pedder and Charles Augustus Magnusson. The younger brother, Johan, did not want to continue the family connection….."
"No-one could blame him for that," Sherlock Holmes reflected; remembering the quiet and very different youngest Magnussen; the mild academic who had had the word DIE carved into his forehead, who had been stabbed by an assassin sent by his brother. An assassin who had then stabbed him on Johan Magnussen's doorstep, leaving him bleeding in a flower bed. Until both of them were rescued and saved by Doctor John Watson, in full trauma surgeon mode. He banished the unbidden memory. "So where is the problem?"
"The new philanthropist is reassessing structure and ethos of the foundation – the grant system, the instrument loans. As of course he must. There have been questions asked of me. If I still need the loan of the Guarnieri. Now I am properly famous, and could be offered any of the best classical violins available. If it became known I was looking for a new instrument."
"But you're not, are you? You are happy with the Holderness?"
"Of course." She flung her arms wide in frustration. "I have been playing it for almost nine years now. I hear it speak to me. It is an extension of my arm, my heart. It takes years to learn the soul of an instrument to play at my level. You know that."
"But?"
"Marco…." She hesitated, torn between truth and loyalty. "Marco feels I would benefit from a different violin. That the Guarnieri limits me because of it's mellow, darker sound. That when I was younger being seen with such an adult instrument made me appear a prodigy. But he feels something lighter, softer in tone and more commercial, would benefit me even more now. A new repertoire, a different sound. Make my playing more feminine, more popular."
"Rubbish."
"I agree. But….he is very persuasive. And I do not know the new head of the Foundation. What he thinks."
"Who is he?"
"A fellow Russian. An oligarch, living in London. New wave rich. He is powerful. Daunting. We share a language but not….an understanding."
"You think I should plead for you?" She shook her head, without words. But he knew that had been in her thoughts; that she had hoped. "Tell me about him."
"His name is Nikolai Anrep."
He lifted a hand to stop her in full flow. His brain stuttered.
He had not expected a violin to become an issue. But saw immediately that it could be, as the world shifted beneath Alyssa Almedova's feet. A missing boy busking with a Stradivarius copy. The quest for a legendary Stradivarius belonging to the boy's family. A fatal stabbing. Another fake Stradivarius hidden under a bed. A hypothetical Stradivarius that might replace a Guarnieri…too many violins, he thought. Too many Strads. McGuffins galore.
And then there was that name. Anrep. He had heard that unusual name before. Thought back.
Anrep. A name on Kirill Essen's list of Russians who had been burgled. By Sticks Chapman in search of a violin. A fabled violin. The Golden Empress violin.
Russia. Violins. Exiles. These connections could not be a coincidence. The noble Russian name of Anrep was rare, little known. A family said to be descended from pirates, that had served the Czars for centuries, as soldiers and sailors, scientist and artists. One famous Anrep had become an iconic artist of the twentieth century and lived in London, creating unique mosaics in famous buildings, and then became just as infamous for his love affairs and marriages.
"An oligarch, you say. What do you know about him?"
"Not much. He has not invested in football clubs like the others, or courted publicity. Lives quietly. His father made a fortune in oil and utilities after the Soviet Union broke down in the Nineties. Moved the family to London. His parents died in a car crash ten years ago."
"There have been several sudden deaths of Russian oligarchs in London. All suspicious. I don't recall any car accidents, too hard to rig. None of that means your Anrep is a villain; just that he is in front of you.
"Russian money in the UK generally means muddy waters, though. Something like thirty billion pounds of Russian money is invested here. He is part of a new second generation, however. It may make a difference." He paused, looked at her. "What makes you think your Guarnieri is at risk?"
She shrugged, half defiance, half fatalism.
"He was born in Russia, but has lived here since he was a small child. He tells me he wants to be British, to be naturalised. I think he wants to put his family's Russian past behind him, and start afresh. And to do that….he needs to put his money into UK interests. Deliberately and patriotically. Supporting British musicians may only be a small part of that plan but….is still important. Visible."
"You think he wants to take your Guarnieri and give it to a British, violinist? As proof of his adopted Britishness? Of his commitment?"
"But of course. Marco thinks so too; this is why he is pressurising me to change my violin and turn to a Stradivarius, as there may be a couple available. One is with a Japanese technological firm, currently an asset lying in a bank vault. One with an eminent instrument maker and restorer in London, where it has been rebuilt."
"So the change would be practical?"
"If I want it to be. Although I don't. But there are several up and coming young violinists in Britain who would be obvious candidates for my Guarnieri. Sallyanne Jeffers, Aleks Essen, Jyoti Browne….."
Sherlock Holmes schooled his features to not react to the connection she had made so unwittingly.
"Isn't Essen Russian?"
"Russian heritage; British born."
"You know him?"
"I know of him; classical music is a small world."
"What do you know of him?"
"Wildly talented. Tall dark and handsome; a very passionate player. Some critics have called him a young Paganini. In the past many of his ancestors were famous violinists. In the court of the Czars. A very romantic history. But none recently, of course. He first learnt at school, I believe. A student of Gleb Stein."
"Oh. Yes, of course. He would be."
Sherlock Holmes nodded. Concentrated, silent and thoughtful. One hand stimming on the table top. Alyssa Almedova waited for him to speak, but it felt as if he had almost forgotten her. Eventually she cleared her throat, wanting to bring his mind back to her, and touched his elbow.
"You have a Guarnieri, I know. May I see it?"
"What?" He stepped reluctantly out of his thoughts, frowned. Turned in his chair and reached down for the old violin case on the floor beside him. Lifted it. Allowed her to take it from his hands. She stood. Rested the case on the table to open it.
"May I?"
She was asking permission to open the case. Waited for his brief nod. There was a small creak as the hinges opened. Inside a violin that looked rather dark in colour, rather ordinary. But an expert would know; that this was an instrument, centuries old, from another Cremona luthier, a contemporary of Stradivari, both pupils of the legendary Nicola Amati. But Guarnieri's life and career was short, his instruments more individual and more varied; yet just as sought after as the long lived Stradivari's violins.
But there were fewer Guarnieri's, violins with a darker, more sonorous tone, perhaps even more sought after but less well known outside classical music than the Strads, from a maker who died young, and whose history was wilder; a maker who, legend said, made violins even when in prison for murdering another violin maker; whose wife was also a violin maker; whose individuality and eccentricity was well known. So perhaps Sherlock Holmes was fated to own a Guarnieri. Which was not the first time that thought had soothed him.
She said much of this history aloud to him as she looked down upon his Vernet Guarnieri, knowing he already knew what she was telling him, that she was nervous, as her hands roamed lightly over the instrument. And he clicked his tongue in irritation and shook his head at her, but did not deny the compliment, both to himself and to his instrument, by asking to see and handle it.
And so he allowed her to lift the violin from it's bed, and her hands instinctively also went to the bow clipped within the lid. It was natural and totally instinctive for her to lift the violin to her shoulder and tuck it beneath her chin, offer the bow to the strings, tune the pegs.
Wait for the ultimate permission.
"No-one but me has played the Vernet Guarnieri for many years," he remarked quietly, without weight.
"May I?"
He nodded, curious rather than moved. Watched and listened as she trialled some notes, a scale and phrases.
"Please," he allowed formally with a quick nod.
"A little heavier than the Holderness, in weight as well as tone. But sprightly. A strong instrument, responsive and well cared for," she said. Focussed now.
"It has been in my family for many years. Was my grandmother's and her grandmother's before that. As far as we know it has never been on the open market, never assessed or valued. Not for centuries, anyway. I intend to keep it that way. When I die it goes to the Royal Academy Of Music."
"Noble."
"Practical."
She smiled softly at him. Looked down and along the violin. Took a deep breath. Concentrated, eyes only on the instrument now.
The music began. At first a little hesitant; but only for a bar or two.
He had had no idea what she might play. But she had chosen a world favourite, Kreisler's Leibeslied: Love's Sorrow. He shook his head slightly at the obvious message she was trying to send him, and deliberately did not watch as she played. He was not interested in who she was, what she played, how she played it; he really wasn't. But it was the first time he had ever seen or heard anyone else stand in his usual position by the front window, pick up his bow and his violin, and play his Vernet Guarnieri.
He remained motionless at the desk, expressionless and eyes downcast, unreadable. When he did not react after four minutes of the glorious Viennese music, she swung naturally into the companion piece, Leibesfreud. Love's Joy in contrast to Love's Sorrow.
He decided this was less of a message than a confirmation of her confusion.
And when she had played that she simply stood and waited for his opinion, bow in one hand, the violin in the other.
"Very pretty," he said neutrally. "Good lollipops. Very Kreisler like. Very smooth double stops."
She nodded. Held out her hands, proffered the instruments to their owner.
"Your turn," she responded simply.
He recognised this as the challenge it was.
And yet he stood, took four steps across to her, put his hands out to take violin and bow from her. What would he play, he asked himself. Ravel's Tzigane? Sarasate's Zigeunerweisan?
But she held on tight. Drew the instruments, and him, towards her.
"Kiss me first, Maestro," she whispered to him, her eyes compelling him closer.
He felt the tension, her determination, both transmitted to him through their hands, either side of the body of the Guarnieri. Opened his mouth to say something cutting when the sitting room door slammed open, and John Watson appeared carrying a laden tea tray.
"John!" she squeaked, embarrassed, and sprung backwards.
"Saved by the buttered scones," he muttered in her ear, gently and finally taking violin and bow from her hands as she flashed him a wild look before stepping forward to greet the doctor.
"Hello Alyssa. Long time, no see."
John Watson slid a glance towards Sherlock Holmes as he put the tray down onto the coffee table then greeted her with a smile and an unselfconscious hug. "We heard the music and couldn't decide if it was you or Sherlock playing. So when it stopped we decided it was time to bring up the tea tray."
He was followed into the room by a slim elderly lady with wise and sparkling eyes carrying a small girl in a denim dress whose own blue eyes and fine wavy blonde hair defined her as John Watson's daughter.
"Alyssa, this is our landlady Mrs Hudson, and my daughter Rosie. Say 'how do you do," Rosie."
Rosie Watson buried her head shyly into the elderly lady's shoulder, who cooed and soothed automatically.
Mrs Hudson stood Rosie down on the floor, stroked Alyssa's hand lightly in greeting.
"Pleased to meet you, dear. Sherlock has told me so much about you."
The consulting detective rolled his eyes and distracted himself by putting the violin and bow back into their case.
"You are their housekeeper?" She was clearly as puzzled as she was amused.
"Absolutely not! I am their landlady. They wash their own socks!"
But she was smiling, bright blackbird eyes full of intelligence and knowing. And Alyssa Almedova found it impossible not to smile back.
"Mrs Hudson, you have provided a spread worthy of the best olde worlde tea shop. I'll put the kettle on and make tea!"
And Sherlock Holmes made his escape.
o0o0o
"I knew you would be here! What do you….."
He made an explosive entrance into the sitting room of 221b, Baker Street. Angry, self righteous, determined. But when he saw the reality of the tableau before him, as opposed to what he had been expecting, he stopped in full flow, stumbled to a halt just inside the door. And gaped.
For whatever Marco de Bono had been expecting that was not what he saw.
His eyes had sought out Sherlock Holmes first; of course they had.
The consulting detective was sitting back in a modernist grey leather armchair, an elegant china teacup and saucer balanced on his right knee, relaxed but observant; his eyes had been waiting for Marco de Bono's entry, the newcomer realised, discomforted.
So he had heard him coming, but had done nothing to meet the storm; had made a decision to not react, not alarm the other people in the room. And those wintry clever eyes held no expression but mild curiosity. Not what had been expected.
There were indeed other people in the room, he realised; so yes, there was Alyssa, just as expected. But not in the arms of the tall and commanding young man as he had expected, but – almost unbelievably - half lying on a shabby brown leather sofa, playing some stupid tickling game with a small girl child. Both nuzzled and giggled together, and lost in their own little world.
Both were being watched with good humoured tolerance by an insignificant old lady he did not know seated at the other end of the sofa, and by Doctor John Watson, sprawled and relaxed in a lumpy old armchair across the hearth from Sherlock Holmes.
And, even more surprising than this casual and homely scene, all five of them seemed to be in the middle of an old fashioned English high tea; on the coffee table on the hearth rug stood the remains of a tray of tiny sandwiches, a plate of what looked like home made cakes and scones.
And in the centre of all that, on a huge mahogany tray, a large teapot and used cups.
The scene could not be more cosy, or more domestic if it tried. And that, too, was not what Marco de Bono had been expecting.
"Hello Marco. I thought it was you coming up the stairs. Looking for something?"
Sherlock Holmes' voice was low, mild, shockingly urbane; and that too was nothing like Alyssa Almedova's manager had been expecting. He had been expecting guilt. Anger, passion, surprise. He realised all too soon he should have known better.
"No. Er. Yes. Alyssa…"
"Oh, you mean she managed to escape you for a few minutes?" The tone was still quiet and mild. The words had sting behind them, if he let them.
Finally the others turned their heads and looked towards him. The old lady smiling in welcome. John Watson – not seen since the drama of Aalburg - offering a lazy grin and a friendly nod. The child was taking no notice at all, but focussed, still grinning, at Alyssa. Who acknowledged his appearance with a low and off hand greeting, all her focus on the child.
"We were just having tea. Care for some?"
The politeness was disturbingly soft. Marco de Bono shot an assessing glance towards the taller and younger man, but could see nothing there but the polite greeting and good manners of English public school as the detective rose gracefully to his feet. Gestured with one hand to introduce the members of the little tea party.
"John you know, and this is his daughter, Rosie, a happy child easily keeping Alyssa entertained. And this is my landlady, Mrs Hudson; the wonderful cook responsible for this lovely spread."
Marco nodded a greeting and pushed a smile towards them all, restraining himself from quizzing Alyssa, who did not meet his eye, but instead sparkled a look at Sherlock Holmes, a smiling reference about how this particular landlady of his baked cake as well as renting rooms. But Sherlock Homes saw her look, her little flare of amusement only he understood, and her manager's misreading and reaction to it, just as he saw everything.
He bent to the teapot, lifted the lid and peered inside.
"We need more tea, I think. Care to come with me into the kitchen and tell me how you would like your tea while I make some more and get you a clean cup?"
There was an order, somehow, in those careful words, and Marco de Bono found himself crossing the sitting room into the dark and untidy little kitchen.
Green wall tiles, mismatched units, a cooking range, a battered old kitchen table. Not the sort of worn and elderly kitchen he had expected. Nor had he expected to enter the room to find Sherlock Holmes facing him, a relaxed hip against the stove, arms crossed and head high.
"Lovely to see you and all that, Marco: but what are you doing here? And what were you expecting to find, charging in like that?"
"Alyssa's umbrella was leaning against the wall….."
"Yes? And?" There was no instant reply, so Sherlock Holmes spoke for him.
"You expected to find Alyssa here for a romantic assignation, because she had slipped you to come here. You expected to find a problem at most, an excuse for your jealousy at least. Hard luck."
Sherlock Holmes smiled, and Marco de Bono felt even more uncomfortable.
"Nothing to say for yourself? No. I bet you have. Never mind, you can work up to it. English Afternoon or Earl Grey?"
He turned away and lifted a tea caddy. Emptied the used tea leaves down the waste disposal unit, spooned tea into the warm and now empty pot, making the decision.
"English afternoon, I think. Good on any palate."
He brought a cup and saucer from a high cupboard: fine white porcelain, with gold rims and maps of the United Kingdom.
"Right. That's the important stuff done. So speak quickly. The others will be expecting a top up."
And somehow he was now barring the manager's escape from the room with nothing but an open hand, a slight lean to one side.
"Alyssa….."
"Yes. I know who she is. Do go on."
"Sorry. Just…I was expecting….."
"You were expecting to catch us in flagrante. As they say. So sorry to disappoint you. " He leaned in. "The real question is: why does that disappoint you? The thought of seeing the love of your life with another man."
"I…you…." He went red, stammered. Recovered himself. "She adores you. Thinks you're perfect. But you've got to disillusion her at some point. Because I can't compete with you."
"You could try." The response was dry, a detachment De Bono had not been expecting
He laughed, then. Something short and explosive and defeated.
"Oh, yeah? Not only tall dark and handsome. But plays a violin. And saves her fucking life. Tell me how I compete with that, you arrogant prick?"
The placid shrug was as much an insult as harsh words.
"Just be yourself. Because I'm not interested. She knows that."
"You think that bothers her? She is brilliant. And determined. And there has never been a challenge she has not won. She'll win you, yet. Unless you're gay, that is, and playing Happy Families with Doctor Watson."
"You really do deserve a smack in the mouth. And would get one if you didn't seem so desperate about all this. So what is all this? Disagreement over a violin, is it? Is that what's eating you alive? And for some reason I do not yet know, Alyssa is just the excuse?"
"None of your business! I'm not staying and listening to this. Just leave Alyssa alone – or bved her. But do something about her either way!"
Marco de Bono had managed to keep his voice low, so the people in the next room would not hear, but now he turned bright red, looked as if he was going to spit blood, then went pale and pushed his way under the restraining arm.
Sherlock Holmes stood and watched him go, heard the muttered farewells, the slammed door, the running footsteps down the stairs.
Brewed tea and took the fresh teapot into the sitting room.
o0o0o
"Oh, God. I don't like it when you dress like a normal bloke instead of all them poncey suits and that posh coat. It usually means you are up to something. So what are you up to?"
Sherlock Holmes leant back in the uncomfortable plastic chair, offered his best fake smile. Slumped further down into his nondescript black anorak, grubby grey sweatshirt, dark grey tracksuit bottoms, cracked and broken trainers. And managed to look and move entirely like someone else.
"Hello, Sticks. Nice to see you too."
The petty thief turned killer slouched down into the same seat as before in Interview Room Three, grasped it's arms in haunted anticipation and frowned.
"Where's Lestrade? And my brief?"
"Ah. No. Not today. I am not, in fact, here. I am a ghost." As he spoken the RP vowels drifted down into estuary English. Sticks Chapman heard the change, and his frown deepened into active discomfort. "Not Sherlock Holmes at all today. As you can see."
"What does that mean?"
"That means this is just a little chat between the two of us."
"Don't like the sound of that."
"Aw, c'mon! Gimme a break, Sticks. You owe me a break. I got you off a murder charge."
"Yeah. And?"
"And so you owe me." There was a pause, a silence, a meeting of eyes. Cold eyes of a winter's sea forcing elusive hazel eyes into submission. "Without me, you would be facing a twenty year stretch. Not a manslaughter plea of self defence that will most likely be dropped.
"As for the breaking and entering….well, there's not much I can do about that. No-one but you to blame for that – you and your greedy little paws. You'll probably go down for four; nice and sweet in an open prison, and that down to eighteen months to two years for good behaviour. You know the ropes. A doddle. In comparison to twenty years without parole, that is."
"Yeah, yeah; OK, I get it."
The prisoner grimaced, thought hard for a moment, nodded his head, and relaxed a little. Acknowledging the debt, the need for some return in kind.
"So tell me. Why you were doing all those owl jobs? Commissions from Alan Croft, I assume?"
A brief nod.
"Why? And why were all of them Russians?"
"Russians? Really?" The bafflement seemed real. And for once in character." He didn't tell me. He said it was a commission from a client. And he wasn't about to tell me who. Client confidentiality, he said."
"Honour among thieves? Really? How touching."
"Don't take the piss, Shezza. You know how tight mouthed he could be. And as long as he paid me, I didn't care, and I wasn't interested. A quick in and out, he said. For all of them. And that was what they turned out to be. Dead easy, to be honest. Alan said….he had been given a list. He gave me the names and addresses two at a time. Cautious.
He said…. Before the last break in I did…he said this job was out of his comfort zone. That this was playing with the big boys."
"What did that mean? What big boys?"
"He didn't say. Whatever was worrying him was out of my pay grade. Far beyond it. You know? Perhaps his as well, for all I knew or cared. So I didn't ask."
"But he told you what you were looking for, I assume?"
"Oh yeah. Not a lot of point otherwise, was there? Seemed a mad thing to send a pleb like me after, but…..well, I'm a sneaky bastard, and even the latest security systems rarely get the better of me….."
"Sticks!"
"All right, all right! You know about these things, don't you? Classical music stuff. You play, a violin, don't you? A pretty good busker in the old days, Mouse Morris told me. So you'd know. Yeah. Well, you may as well know. I was sent in after a bloody violin, of all things."
"A violin? Come on, Sticks! To the uninformed one violin looks exactly like another one."
"That's what I thought. But I had a sketch. This one was special, he said. Had stuff on the front; frilly patterns in black ink. Twirls and stuff."
"Oh. Oh, I see." He lifted his head, eyes elsewhere, remembering. After a moment. "There is only one other decorated Stradivarius. That increases the value….fivefold. Did Alan tell you how valuable this violin you were looking for was worth?"
"Millions, he said. I thought he was nuts, exaggerating. Millions? For a violin? I didn't get it. Still don't."
"Have you ever heard of Stradivarius?"
"Yeah. Course. Comes up in pub quizzes. Top man, wasn't he?"
"The best. A wood carver before he became a luthier…" Paused on seeing a frown, explained: "That's the word for a man who make violins. He set up a family dynasty. Was still making instruments aged ninety."
"Silly sod. Should have retired."
"Perhaps. Did Alan tell you anything else about this violin you were looking for?"
"Said it had been missing for years. But that someone Russian said he had to have it. He even said it had a name. Called it something fancy. The golden something. Princess? Duchess? Something like that."
"Empress? The Golden Empress?"
"Yeah! That's it! The Golden Empress! How did you know?"
He shrugged, dismissive. "Oh, it's famous. More like a fable, though. Don't worry about it."
"I wasn't. I mean, I always thought it was a wild goose chase, to be honest. None of the houses I went to had any violins I could find, never mind a famous one that looked like the sketch I had. But it earnt me good money. So who am I to be picky?"
"What happened to that sketch?"
"In my flat somewhere." A shrug, uninterested.
"So why did you nick all those laptops and stuff?"
"I was bored. I was on a wild goose chase. Going through the motions, really. And all those electronic beauties just sitting there. Owned by people far too rich to miss them. Me palms itched, Shezza; you know what it's like."
He did. But knew he had to go back to the flat to find the sketch. To learn more about the elusive violin. But first…..
"So tell me about the boy."
"What boy?"
"The boy who was arguing with Alan. The boy who legged it. The boy who gave him the roll of cash."
"Oh. Him."
"Yeah. Him."
o0o0o
He hadn't meant to mention the boy. Not yet. Not until he had more to go on.
But Kirril Esssen's telephone call early that morning had preyed on his mind.
"Have you found him yet?"
The demand was made without introduction, without restraint.
"Not yet. Early to expect results. And I've been dealing with a murder."
"Which does not concern me."
"So?"
"I need to tell you: my housekeeper was cleaning Aleks' room. Found his cheque book, his bank card, his passport, hidden under his mattress…."
"Which means he has no plan to flee the country. Relax. Perhaps he left everything in such an obvious place to tell you that."
"But he has no money. No home…"
"He busks in the city. He makes enough money to keep himself. Or he would have been home already. Stop worrying."
"I can't help it. Please find him. Find him now."
"I will try. I am trying. Now stop bothering me. When I get news I will let you know."
o0o0o
Perhaps it was the edge of panic in Kirill Essen's voice that stuck in his mind. Or the simple puzzle of the whereabouts of a boy and a violin, especially when none of the homeless network had spotted him so far. Which was unusual.
"I don't know him, Shazza," Sticks Chapman was not lying, he could tell. "Never seen him before. Honest."
"What do you remember about him?"
"Nothing much. He was scared, and he was desperate. He reeked of it. All I heard him say was: "You promised me. You promised.""
"Promised what?"
"Results, I'd say. Some sort of results. Alan was a fence as well as a cheap detective. You know that. So it could be anything; something he wasn't telling even me."
"Do you remember anything else?"
"Well….just something stupid." Sticks Chapman hesitated. "His coat was too big for him. And he had something underneath it. On his back. Like a ruddy great hump. I could see the outline but not what it was. Does that make any sense to you?"
Sherlock Holmes leant back in his chair and smiled a small straight smile that made the prisoner uncomfortable.
Yes, it does, Thank you, Sticks."
He rose slowly from his chair across the desk. And the duty sergeant who had left them alone for the promised ten minutes returned silently to take the prisoner back to his cell.
Halfway through the door on his way out, Sherlock Holmes turned back.
"This does not mean I have finished talking to you yet. Neither me nor Lestrade. So have another little think before we're back."
He winked, grinned, and was gone.
But Simon Sticks Chapman did not feel any happier.
o0o0o
In an anonymous grey concrete building somewhere near a main railway station, Raj Chadra made a large mug of black instant coffee ("No milk, three sugars. Thank you.") and pushed it across the plastic desk to the nondescript young man at the bank of security cameras scanning recording from Victoria Station at high speed.
Facial recognition was working hard and fast, and the concentration of the watcher was intense. But he handled the controls with the ease of long familiarity.
"Want to tell me what you're looking for?"
"Eyes on a young guy who was busking in Victoria station two days ago. I've gone back to the point I first saw him; tracked him through some tunnels and across the main concourse. And now I've lost him in the crowd. Can't hit on him leaving at any exit, either."
"Hmn. Interesting. Did he go to a different pitch?"
"Not that I can see. It doesn't make sense."
Sherlock Holmes, straight from the Met, was almost talking to himself.
"So how did you spot him in the first place?"
"The music he was playing. Classical music. "
He brought up the images of Aleks Essen, standing and playing in front of the indifferent eyes of a security camera.
Raj Chadra leant in to watch. Nodded.
"Oh look, there's you and Dr Watson. Small world." He grinned, but Sherlock Holmes did not smile back, was concentrating and focussed. The security supervisor looked closely at the image before them. "I don't recognise him as a regular. So he probably isn't registered. And that's not a normal busking pitch. I wonder why he chose to play at that spot."
They both watched as the boy played the music, as he spoke to Sherlock Holmes, and then ran away.
"Odd behaviour, Shazza."
"Yes."
The man who usually sat at those controls flipped some buttons, played the images backwards. The hardware changed the image, the camera position. And they both watched for several moments in silence.
"I don't get it. He's moving from security camera to security camera. Where you first saw him….that was about the seventh spot he had chosen and played at. And all close to cameras, almost as if he is playing deliberately in front of them. Started off playing outside, look; in the very early hours. After sitting on the steps for ages in full view, yet without a sleeping bag and gear, like the other homeless people out there."
"Yes. I see." Sherlock Holmes rested his chin on one hand.
"He is establishing an alibi, isn't he? Nowhere to go, no-one he trusts. Except the eye that does not lie. Transport for London's all seeing security cameras. How very interesting."
He sipped some coffee automatically. It was very hot and very strong, and he pulled a face.
"Perfect, Raj."
And then: "Where do you go when you have nowhere to go? How do you escape the all seeing eye when you have spent hours courting it? And why? Where do you go in a crowd where no-one can see you? Where do you go to disappear without going anywhere?"
The questions had been rhetorical, verbalised. Not expecting any answer.
But Raj Chadra put a hand on his shoulder, reached into a desk drawer, pulled out a ring of keys and removed one. Held it out.
"A spare. Bring it back, otherwise I'll get shot. You know where."
Sherlock Holmes answered with a nod, pulled out and palmed a fifty pound note from an anorak pocket, took the key and left.
The quiet corner behind an advertising hoarding far from the busy concourse with it's shops and restaurants concealed an anonymous door most people would not even notice. And he was through and into the dark corridor before anyone could have noticed, anonymous in his down at heel outfit, his shuffling stooped walk.
Victoria Station was a complex structure; one reason Sherlock Holmes had had problems spotting the young violinist he had been looking for. Originally called Grosvenor Terminus, home to four railway companies, two separate stations, and operated on several levels to such an extent the new ticket office was below the enclosed River Tyburn.
In past times it had included a cinema, had seen Jack Worthing discovered there as a baby in a handbag, been bombed several times, and had seen a German plane land in it's courtyard in World War Two.
So the architecture was complex and hard to remember. Presented many hidden corners and forgotten places. It was years since the consulting detective had been in those hidden parts of the station, where there had once been rest rooms and staff facilities. Rooms empty and abandoned now, dark and dingy, but where a fugitive could retreat.
He had seen the boy use some of his busking money to buy supplies from a fast food outlet in one of the arcades; what looked like hot chocolate, water, sandwiches, chocolate bars. Enough food to survive until another day.
Now, in the dusty gloom, he took a tiny torch from the squeeze pocket in the anorak, using the light sparingly, moving silently in the dark.
He wandered the rooms and corridors, everywhere quiet except for the intermittent and distant rumble of Underground cars in tunnels. He thought he had miscalculated, that he was on a wild goose chase; yet suddenly, in the silence, a small squeak that was not a mouse but could only be the squeak of a leather shoe on linoleum. Which must mean the abandoned staff kitchen.
One hand against the wall for balance, he approached the open doorway on the right. There was no light in there, but there was a small rustle of movement.
He could picture the scene: a run of old cupboards along one wall, a small sink and tiny table with a wooden chair either end; a half empty bag of cement in one corner, an old shovel, crusted with dried cement, balanced above it, as if someone had left it there by mistake, had forgotten it for thirty years, but might return later to claim it and get back to work.
"Aleks?" he whispered into the dark. "Don't panic. It's Sherlock Holmes. I've come to find you. Bring you back. Your father is worried…"
"Not worried about me!" the voice came back, low and fierce and full of pain. "Only about money and honour. Not me. However hard…." He bit down on his words.
As Sherlock Holmes rounded the doorway he could see a shape, crouched and determined. A small torch, battery running low, clicked on, was directed at his face; not sufficient light to blind; but he tried not to squint.
"You don't look like Sherlock Holmes. Not even a little bit. So piss off and leave me alone. Pretend you haven't found me. I'm not getting into knives and violence again. Better hiding down here. Until I work out what to do."
"Isn't as simple as that. And you know it." He held out a hand. "But I really am Sherlock Holmes. Trust me, Aleks. Let's sort this problem of yours together. Get you out of here."
"No!" it was almost a scream. "Told you. Leave me alone."
He heard the shovel being lifted and scraped across the floor. It was clearly heavier and more unwieldy than the boy had expected. He stepped back a pace, ready for action - or something…..but still could not see properly.
Heard the grunt of effort, the shovel being lifted awkwardly, then the rush of an object carving through the air, the uneven parabola of it's solid and swift movement.
It was coming for him, hard and fast.
He spun and dived, down into blackness. Prayed he was moving faster.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Author's Notes:
Characters and past events leading to this story come from the original short story, Black Angel, and the trilogy of long stories developing the Series 3, Episode 3 of Sherlock, His Last Vow, first shown on January 12 2014. These are, in order, Things We Lost In The Flames, The Magnussen Legacy and Meet Me In Samarra. It might be helpful to read all of these for background and something to do, but not essential.
Expertise for this story and this chapter has nothing to do with me; reference and thanks to Haynes Violin Manual by John Gosling and Marcus Corrie, and the inspirational Janine Jansen film documentary "Falling For Stradivari" in which she embarks on a quest to play twelve famous Stradivari violins and the best music she chooses for each.
Paganini:1782-1840. Italian violinist and composer, considered the creator of modern violin technique. Subject to many myths and legends.
The compositions mentioned in this chapter are Leibeslied and Leibesfreud by Fritz Kreisler, Tzigane (Ravel) and Ziegunerwein (Sarasate) All will sound familiar even if the names are not, and all can be heard and enjoyed in a variety of interpretations on YouTube.
Owl job: criminal slang for burglary undertaken at night.
Fence: criminal dealer in stolen goods.
Jack Worthing and that famous handbag: The crux of the Oscar Wilde play The Importance Of Being Ernest.
Heading quote from the song Comfort by Nicholas Galitzine.