Andrew Lane - Red Leech

“I’m sure Virginia can manage,” Crowe said. He seemed awkward.

“One other thing,” Mycroft went on. “I have taken the precaution of reserving seats for the three of you at the first dinner. I am told, by people who know these things, that the seats you get at the first dinner determine your social position for the rest of the voyage. The best seats are those nearest the Captain, nearest the doors in case of seasickness and furthest from the engines. I know the journey is only eight days, but you may as well be as comfortable as possible during that time.” He shuddered again. “I cannot say I envy you. These days, the journey from my lodgings to my office and my office to my Club is enough to exhaust me. I cannot conceive of any force which could move me from that routine.”

Crowe smiled. “You may be surprised, Mr Holmes, at what disturbs us from our orbits. It may be the simplest thing. I suspect you too may discover the joys of foreign travel.”

“God forfend,” Mycroft said.

And then it was time to go. Sherlock stuck out his hand. Mycroft did the same. They shook, soberly, like gentlemen meeting in the street.

“Be safe,” Mycroft said, “and do what Mr Crowe tells you. Your presence on this trip is important — we may not know how important for some time, but I remind you that only you can identify these rogue Americans. At the very least, they are criminals and political refugees who should be taken into custody and tried for their crimes. At most, there is some plot afoot that needs to be scotched, lest the fragile political situation in America be affected for the worse. And, for heaven’s sake, enjoy yourself. It’s not that many children of your age who get the chance to travel abroad.”

He reached into a pocket, and withdrew a small book. Handing it to Sherlock, he said: “You will need something to pass the time. This is a copy of The Republic, by the Greek philosopher Plato. It takes the form of a dramatized set of dialogues between Plato’s mentor Socrates and various other Athenians and foreigners in which they discuss the meaning of justice, and examine whether or not the just man is happier than the unjust man. Plato also uses the dialogues to propose a society ruled by philosopher-kings, as well as discussing the roles of the philosopher and the poet in society. The Republic is one of the most influential works of philosophy and political theory, and I commend its study to you.”

“Is it translated?” Sherlock asked dubiously.

“Of course not,” Mycroft said, taken aback. “I know how fast you read. If it was translated, you would finish it in an afternoon. If you have to translate as you are going along then I have some confidence that the majority of the voyage will have passed by before you have completed it. Besides which, translations are always at the mercy of the skill of the translator. If you want to read and understand something properly that is in a foreign language, you need to learn that language.” He hesitated. “Knowing your love of the grotesque and the criminal, I would point out that although Plato succumbed to old age, his mentor Socrates died when he was forced to drink poison by the Greek authorities. I do not know if that will help you in reading the book, but knowing your penchant for the melodramatic I give the knowledge to you as a gift to do with as you wish.”

“I’ll see you again,” Sherlock said, feeling an unaccustomed choking sensation in his throat. He didn’t know if he meant it as a statement of fact or a question, but Mycroft looked away for a moment, his eyes glistening.

“Sherlock,” he said, “I will never have children — I am too accustomed to my own ways, and too intolerant of change to set up in a household of others — but if I ever had a son I could love him no more than I love you. Take care of yourself. Take great care.”

And then, in a rush, they boarded, up a long gangplank that led up from the dock to the deck. At the top their tickets were checked, and they were escorted down wooden stairs and along windowless corridors inside the ship to their rooms — going first to Virginia’s room, where her companion had not yet arrived but where Virginia’s luggage was waiting — and then to the room that Sherlock and Amyus Crowe were to share. The rooms were small and panelled in wood — about nine feet across, with two bunk beds on one side and a comfortable sofa across from them. Each end of the cabin had a washbasin and a mirror. Above the sofa a round window let in light and air, but Sherlock noticed with some trepidation that it could be shut and screwed tight. Was that in case of storms? And if so, how often did storms occur? And how would they get proper ventilation if the storm lasted for more than a few hours?

Amyus Crowe investigated the bunk beds. “Best if I take the bottom and you take the top,” he growled. “If I fall out in rough seas, I’d prefer to have less far to fall. An’ remember — I’m a deal heavier than you.”

Remembering what he’d thought about the window, and possible storms, Sherlock noticed that both bunks had a wooden lip running along the side of the mattress and extending above it, presumably to stop people rolling over in their sleep and falling out on to the floor, but he could imagine that if the waves were rough enough then people could just be rattled back and forth in their bunks like marbles in a biscuit tin.

“Not sure about these mattresses,” Crowe said disparagingly, testing their thinness. To Sherlock they looked thicker than his mattress back at Holmes Manor, but he discreetly said nothing.

With the knowledge that their luggage was safely aboard, they returned to the main deck to watch the preparations for departure. The gangplank was being pulled up as they arrived, and the crowds on the dock-side were clustering around, waving to the people on the ship. A part of Sherlock wanted to scan the crowd for Mycroft’s moon-like face, but another part of him knew that Mycroft would already have gone. Sherlock’s brother was not a sentimental man, and he hated goodbyes.

Sherlock’s hand crept down to the jacket pocket where he had stowed the copy of Plato’s Republic that Mycroft had given him. It had been an unexpected gift, and Sherlock intended to read the whole book — even if it was in Greek.

The ship’s engines, deep within its belly, were running up to speed now, and Sherlock could not only hear their rumbling but feel it through the wood of the deck as well. He had a sudden, horrible realization that the noise of the steam engines would be their constant companion for the next eight days. How would he sleep? How would he be able to hear anything anyone said to him? The only consolation was that he would probably get used to it, but at the moment he couldn’t see how that would be possible.

The ropes attaching the SS Scotia to the dockside were being released now from the bollards they were tied to, fluttering down to the side of the ship like ribbons even though they were hawsers as thick as Sherlock’s fist. The enormous paddle wheels started to turn, churning the water beneath them and gradually levering the ship forward. A steam whistle sounded, and at the signal the crowd on the dock let out a huge cheer, as if nobody had ever seen such a sight before. Caps and hats and bonnets were flung into the air, and the passengers gathered on the ship’s deck responded in kind.

A sudden shaft of guilt and sadness penetrated Sherlock’s heart. He wanted Matty to be there with them. He wanted Matty to be safe. His mind kept sidling around to images of what might be happening to his friend, and he kept having to force it away. Ives and Berle had no reason to hurt Matty. He was their insurance policy.

The question was, did Ives and Berle think as logically as Sherlock?