Andrew Lane - Red Leech

It was humanity at its best and at its worst.

The past twenty-four hours had been possibly the most hectic in Sherlock’s life. Following the conference in Amyus Crowe’s cottage, and the unexpected decision that they would be going to America — a decision that Sherlock still couldn’t quite believe had been made — he and Mycroft had returned to Holmes Manor, diverting to Farnham to send a carefully worded telegram to the Post Office at Southampton Docks persuading Ives and Berle that Gilfillan had succeeded in stopping them. Once at Holmes Manor, Mycroft had gone into the library to talk with Sherrinford Holmes while Sherlock had headed up to his bedroom to pack his meagre possessions into the battered trunk that had once belonged to his father. Sherlock had slept badly, disturbed partly by his memories of the fight with Gilfillan and the stinging of his wounds but partly also at the excitement of being on the verge of leaving the country — for America! Breakfast was a strained affair, with neither Sherrinford nor Aunt Anna sure of what to say to him and with Mrs Eglantine smiling coldly from behind them. And then Sherlock had climbed into a carriage with Mycroft, watching as his trunk was hauled up and strapped to the back, and then they had set off for the long drive to Southampton.

On the way, Sherlock had found himself thinking about, of all things, the coded message that Amyus Crowe had found on Gilfillan’s unconscious body. He’d never really thought about codes before, but there was something about the rigorous way they were put together, and the logical processes that could be used to deconstruct them, that appealed to his orderly mind. He found himself imagining all kinds of codes, from simple reorderings like the one they had experienced yesterday, through more complicated substitutions where symbols replaced letters, to even more intricate arrangements in which the substitution changed according to a different code, so that the first time “a appeared it would be replaced with one thing, and the next time with something else, and so on, all driven by an underlying algorithm. In that case, a simple frequency analysis of the kind that Amyus Crowe had outlined would be useless. How could that kind of code be cracked, he wondered. The world of codes and ciphers would require some further research.

Eventually they arrived at Southampton. Amyus and Virginia Crowe were already waiting for them — Crowe with a discreet bandage wound around his forehead, nearly hidden by the brim of his hat. Sherlock guessed they had ridden down and then arranged for their horses to be stabled while they were gone.

“I have your tickets and travel documents,” Mycroft said, handing a sheaf of paper across to Amyus Crowe. “You are booked on the SS Scotia. That’s her over there. She belongs to the Cunard Line — a fine British ship. The tickets are First Class, of course. I would not expect you to endure the rigours of steerage — not with your daughter and my brother in your charge.”

Sherlock followed Mycroft’s gesturing hand, and saw a huge ship that appeared to be fully as long as a rugby field. A massive paddle wheel was set halfway along the side of the vessel — presumably there was a similar one on the other side. As well as the paddle wheels, it also had two masts with sails that were, at the moment, furled. Sherlock assumed that the paddle wheels were driven by steam engines inside the massive hull — two funnels emerging from the deck were probably there to carry the steam away — and that the sails would be used when there was wind to fill them while the steam-driven paddle wheels would drive the ship when the wind dropped.

His logical mind chased the thought down. If the paddle wheels were driven by steam engines then the steam engines had to be driven by burning coal, which meant that the ship must have reserves of coal stored on board, on the basis that there was no way to take on more coal in the middle of the Atlantic. That meant extra weight, which meant extra coal would be needed just to move the coal around. But how did you work out how much coal was needed for the voyage when for every extra ton of coal you added you had to add some more just to move that ton around, and knowing that as that ton was used up then the amount you needed to move it around got less and less? There was a complex mathematical calculation there, just out of reach, which reminded him strangely of the example Amyus Crowe had given him some weeks ago of the way the numbers of foxes and rabbits varied over time. Was everything in the world driven ultimately by equations?

“Grateful as I am for your help, Mr Holmes,” Amyus Crowe said, strangely diffident, “I’m not a rich man. We have not talked about the question of financial recompense.”

“No need.” Mycroft waved a hand, obviously embarrassed at this discussion of money. “The British Government has paid for these tickets. At some stage in the next week or so I will have a conversation with your Ambassador, and suggest that he helps defray the cost, on the basis that we are assisting your nation with your own internal politics, but for the moment rest assured that you will not be left destitute upon your arrival in New York. I presume you have access to funds there?”

Amyus Crowe nodded. “Grateful, nevertheless, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock glanced to Amyus Crowe’s side, where Virginia stood. She was looking nervous, and her face was bloodless, white.

Are you all right?” Sherlock asked, moving over to her while his brother and her father continued to talk.

She nodded. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said.

“I thought you’d be pleased about returning home?”

She glanced at him with an expression that could have cut through glass. “Which part of “I don’t want to talk about it” did you not understand?”

Sherlock raised a placating hand and backed away, the way one probably would with a wild animal. Virginia, he told himself, and not for the first time, was probably the most complicated person he’d ever met.

“What news of the Great Eastern ?” Crowe was asking Mycroft.

“As the coded message indicated, she left this morning from a pier near here, bound for New York. I have checked the passenger manifest, but can find no names which mean anything to us. One passenger failed to turn up — I can only presume that was the unfortunate Mr Gilfillan, who even now resides in the care of the Farnham police. I will have him transferred to the Metropolitan Police later today. It will make it easier for any investigation to take place.”

“Don’t be too harsh on the man,” Crowe said lightly. “Remember, he ain’t been convicted of anything yet.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but did not respond. Instead he turned to Sherlock. He put one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and with the other hand pointed towards the SS Scotia . “Launched six years ago, built and operated by the Cunard Line, here in England,” he explained. “She is three hundred and seventy-nine feet long and weighs three thousand nine hundred tons. Her captain’s name is Judkins, and he is Cunard’s most trusted operative. She carries three hundred passengers, as well as cargo, and burns one hundred and sixty-four tons of coal a day. She can make the trip from Southampton to New York in eight days and a handful of hours. Imagine that — one week and you will be in the Americas. In the days of the pioneers, first settling that majestic country, the trip would have taken months.”

“Have you ever been to America, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.

A shudder ran through his brother’s large frame. “Southampton is foreign territory as far as I am concerned,” he said. America might just as well be the Arctic’

Mycroft turned back to Crowe. “Your luggage will already be on its way to your cabins,” he said. “I have, after some thought, reserved three berths in two cabins. One is for you and Sherlock to share. The other is for Virginia, but I understand she will be sharing with another female traveller. I have not been able to ascertain the name of this traveller, as the decision apparently rests with the ship’s purser, but you can be assured that any woman travelling First Class will be of gentle breeding.”