Andrew Lane - Red Leech

“Not that simple,” Crowe said.

“It never is,” Mycroft agreed, “but it will do for the moment. Hostilities began on 12 April 1861, and during the next four years 620,000 Americans died fighting one another — in some cases, brother against brother and father against son.” He seemed to shiver, and for a moment the light in the room grew darker as a cloud passed across the sun. “Gradually,” he continued, “the North — known as the Union of States — eroded the military power of the South — who were calling themselves the Confederacy of States. The most important Confederate general — Robert Lee — surrendered on the 9 of April 1865. It was as a direct result of hearing that news that John Wilkes Booth shot President Lincoln five days later. That was part of a larger plot — his confederates were supposed to kill the Secretary of State and the Vice President — but the second assassin failed in his task and the third lost his nerve and ran. The last Confederate general surrendered on 23 June 1865 and the last of their military forces — the crew of the CSS Shenandoah — surrendered on the 2nd of November 1865.” He smiled, remembering something. “Ironically, they surrendered in Liverpool, England, having sailed across the Atlantic in an attempt to avoid having to surrender to the forces of the North. I was there, representing the British Government. And that was the end of the War Between the States.”

“Except that it wasn’t,” Crowe said. “There’s still people in the South who want their independence. There’s still people agitatin’ for it.”

“Which brings us to now,” Mycroft said to Sherlock. “Booth’s co-conspirators were caught and hanged in July 1865. Booth himself fled, and was allegedly captured and shot by Union soldiers twelve days later.”

“'Allegedly'?” Sherlock questioned, picking up on the slight emphasis in Mycroft’s words.

Mycroft glanced at Crowe. “During the past three years there have been repeated claims that Booth actually escaped his pursuers, and that it was another conspirator, one who looked like Booth, who was shot. It’s said that Booth changed his name to John St Helen and fled America, in fear of his life. He was an actor, in his personal life.”

“And you think he’s here now?” Sherlock said. “In England?”

Mycroft nodded. “I received a telegram from the Pinkerton Agency yesterday. Their agents had heard that a man named John St Helen and meeting the description of John Wilkes Booth had embarked from Japan to Great Britain. They asked me to alert Mr Crowe, who they knew was in the country.” He glanced across at Crowe. “Alan Pinkerton believes that Booth arrived in England on board the CSS Shenandoah three years ago, stayed for a while, then moved abroad. Now they think he’s back.”

“As I think I mentioned some time ago,” Crowe said to Sherlock, “I was asked to come to this country to track down those people who had fled America because they committed the most horrific crimes durin’ the War Between the States. Not killin’s of soldiers by soldiers, but massacres of civilians, burnin’s of towns, an’ all manner of godless acts. Since I’m here, it makes sense for Alan Pinkerton to want me to investigate this man John St Helen.”

“Do you mind if I ask you,” Sherlock said to Crowe, “what side you were on in the War Between the States? You told me you came from Albuquerque. I looked it up on a map of America, here in my uncle’s library. Albuquerque is a town in Texas, which is a Southern state. Isn’t it?”

“It is,” Crowe acknowledged. “An’ Texas was part of the Confederacy durin’ the War. But just because I was born in Texas doesn’t mean I automatically support anythin’ they do. A man has the right to make his own decisions, based on a higher moral code.” He grimaced inadvertently. “I find slavery... distasteful. I don’t believe that one man is inferior to another man because of the colour of his skin. I may think that other things make a man inferior, includin’ his ability to think rationally, but not somethin’ as arbitrary as the colour of his skin.”

“Of course, the Confederacy would argue,” Mycroft said smoothly, “that the colour of a man’s skin is an indication of his ability to think rationally’

“If you want to establish a man’s intelligence, you talk to him,” Crowe scoffed. “Skin colour ain’t got a thing to do with it. Some of the most intelligent men I’ve ever talked to have been black, and some of the stupidest have been white.”

“So you went to the Union?” Sherlock asked, eager to get back to Crowe’s fascinating and unexpected history.

Crowe glanced at Mycroft, who shook his head slightly. “Let’s just say I stayed in the Confederacy but I worked for the Union.”

“A spy ?” Sherlock breathed.

“An agent,” Mycroft corrected gently.

“Isn’t that... unethical?”

“Let’s not get into a discussion of ethics, otherwise we’ll be here all day. Let’s just accept that governments use agents all the time.”

Something that Mycroft had said finally percolated through Sherlock’s mind and sparked a response. “You said that the Pinkerton Agency asked you to tell Mr Crowe about John St Helen. That means” — he felt a wash of emotion flood across him — “that you didn’t come here to see me. You came to see him .”

“I came to see you both,” Mycroft said gently. “One of the defining characteristics of the adult world is that decisions are rarely made on the basis of one factor. Adults do things for several reasons at once. You need to understand that, Sherlock. Life is not a simple thing.”

“It should be,” Sherlock said rebelliously. “Things are either right or they are wrong.”

Mycroft smiled. “Don’t ever try for the Diplomatic Service,” he said.

Crowe shifted from foot to foot. He seemed uneasy to Sherlock. “Where does this St Helen fellow live?” he asked.

Mycroft took a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and consulted it. “He apparently has taken a house in Godalming, on the Guildford Road. The name of the house is” — he checked the paper again — “Shenandoah, which might be indicative or might just be a coincidence.” He paused. “What do you intend doing?”

“Investigatin’,” Crowe said. “That’s why I’m here. “Course, I’ll have to be particular about how I go about it. A big American like me is likely to be spotted pretty quickly”

“Then be subtle,” Mycroft warned, “and please do not try to take justice on to yourself. There are laws in this country, and I would hate to see you hanged for murder.” He sniffed. “I dislike irony. I find it upsets my digestion.”

“I could help,” Sherlock said abruptly, surprising himself. The thought appeared to have gone straight from his brain to his mouth without engaging his reason.

The two men stared at him in surprise.

“Under no circumstances,” Mycroft said sternly.

“Absolutely not,” Crowe snapped, overlapping My-croft’s words.

“But I can just ride into Godalming and ask questions,” Sherlock persisted. “Nobody will notice me. And haven’t I shown that I can do that kind of thing with the Baron Maupertuis business?”

“That was different,” Mycroft pointed out. “You became involved by accident, and most of the danger to you occurred while Mr Crowe here was attempting to disentangle you.” He paused, considering. “Father would never forgive me if I let any harm come to you, Sherlock,” he said in a quieter voice.

Sherlock felt aggrieved at the description of his actions against Baron Maupertuis, which he felt ignored or distorted several important points, but he kept quiet. There was no point in starting an argument about things in the past when there was something more important on the table. “I wouldn’t do anything to draw attention to myself,” he protested. And I can’t see how it would be dangerous.”