Andrew Lane - Black Ice

‘How long was that before we turned up?’

The footman thought for a moment. Couldn’t have been no longer than five minutes,’ he said eventually. ‘Or maybe ten.’

‘Any noise or disturbance?’

‘Not a thing, sir.’

Crowe nodded. And what did you think of this visitor, then? What was your opinion?’

Brinnell grimaced. ‘Not my place to say, sir,’ he muttered.

Crowe held his hand up. A bright half-crown flashed between his fingers. ‘I value your opinion,’ he said. ‘Nobody else will know – just us.’

Brinnell considered for a moment. ‘No need for that,’ he said finally. ‘I like Mister Holmes. He’s always been good to me. Been good to me, he has. If you’re trying to help him, then that’s all right with me.’

‘Good man,’ Crowe said. The half-crown vanished in his large hand.

‘I thought the bloke who came visiting was a little overdressed for his station in life, if you know what I mean,’ he said.

‘Ah know exactly what you mean, and ah ’ppreciate your honesty.’

‘Was the man carrying anything?’ Sherlock asked suddenly.

Amyus Crowe nodded. ‘Good question,’ he rumbled.

Brinnell frowned, trying to remember. ‘I believe he did have a small case. I recall trying to take it off him to put in the cloakroom, but he clutched it to him as if it were valuable. I presumed he needed it for the meeting with Mister Holmes.’

‘Very instructive,’ Crowe said.

The door burst back open, and one of the constables who had been there before entered. ‘Sergeant Coleman wants you to come down to Scotland Yard and give a statement,’ he said.

‘Glad to,’ Crowe replied. ‘I’d be interested to see how his investigation is gettin’ on.’

‘Investigation?’ the constable repeated, smiling. ‘No need of that. Got our man bang to rights, we did.’

The constable ushered them out of the Strangers Room and through the club room. As they left, Brinnell looked as if he wanted to say something, but instead he marched across and handed Sherlock a scrap of paper. When he looked at it Sherlock saw the words: Orville Jenkinson, Solicitor and an address. This must be the solicitor that Mycroft had mentioned – the one retained by the Diogenes Club. He smiled at Brinnell, and nodded his thanks.

Out in the open air, as the constable struck out along the pavement, Sherlock turned to Amyus Crowe and asked the question that had been burning in his brain for the past hour. ‘Mister Crowe – if we can’t prove my brother innocent, what happens?’

‘There’s a trial,’ Crowe said grimly, ‘an’ then, if he’s found guilty, ah’m afraid they hang him by the neck until he is dead.’

Bow Street Police Station and Magistrates’ Court was a monolithic building of white stone set on a corner just off Covent Garden. As they approached, Sherlock let his gaze wander over the building, committing its details to memory. He had the strangest feeling that this building was going to become important to him, although he hoped it wasn’t because it was the building in which his brother would be sentenced to hang.

The walls were ridged with jutting rows of stone, while the roof was set with crenellations which made it look more like a medieval castle than a place of law enforcement. Looking at those stones, Sherlock smiled. If Matty Arnatt was here, he could have scooted up them like a ladder to the roof.

The doors on the corner were set at street level, with no steps leading up to them. White lamps hung outside. Amyus Crowe frowned up at the lamps, and turned to the constable.

Are you sure you’ve brought us to the right place?’ he asked. Ah was led to believe that all police stations in this country had blue lamps outside, not white.’

‘That was the rule,’ the constable confided. ‘Happened about seven years ago, but Her Majesty the Queen objected about the blue lamps they put on this building. Apparently the Prince Regent died in a blue room, God bless his soul, and ever since then she couldn’t stand the sight of the colour. She used to come to the Opera House just down the road quite a bit, and driving past the blue lamps gave her a funny turn every time. So she asked for them to be replaced. Well, I say “asked” but I think she more or less told the Commissioner of Police to replace them, or she would replace him.’

‘Interestin’,’ Crowe rumbled, ‘that a woman has so much power in a country that denies its women the vote an’ the opportunity to own property.’

The constable led them inside, past the large desk in the front hall and into the depths of the building. Uniformed and suited men scurried past, each on some important piece of business. He took them down a corridor, round a corner and up a set of stairs, then gestured towards a room that had a table with three seats set around it: two on one side and one on the other. The walls were brick, painted a depressing shade of green.

‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘The sergeant will be along in a moment. Don’t leave the room.’

As he left, Crowe dropped heavily into a chair. It creaked beneath his weight. ‘May as well make yourself comfortable,’ he said. ‘We could be here for a while. He’ll probably leave us to stew, hope we get uncomfortable and more willing to answer his questions.’ He snorted. ‘’Course, if ah were him ah would have separated us and questioned us individually.’

‘Why?’ Sherlock asked, sitting next to Crowe.

‘If he questions us separately then he can check to see if we give the same answers to his questions. If we don’t, he knows that there’s areas where we might be lyin’. If he questions us together then you can hear my answers an’ change your story accordingly, an’ vice versa.’

He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, reaching up to pull his hat forward to block out the light.

Sherlock glanced around, but there was nothing in the room that was of any interest. It was deliberately bare of decoration and ornamentation.

He found his thoughts turning to Mycroft. His brother might be nearby at the moment, but wherever he was it was probably even less comfortable than the room where Sherlock and Amyus Crowe were being kept.

After about a quarter of an hour the door was flung open and the sergeant they had met before, Coleman, bustled in. He was carrying a notebook and a pencil.

‘Just some details to clear up,’ he said before he even sat down. ‘I don’t think this is a particularly difficult case. Quite clear to me.’

Amyus Crowe removed his hat and raised an eyebrow. ‘You might be surprised,’ he said.

‘The facts seem undeniable,’ the sergeant said. ‘Stop me if I’m wrong, but the room was locked and there was only one way in and out – the door. Two men were inside. When the room was unlocked, one man was found to be dead and the other was holding a knife. Have I missed anything?’

‘No blood on the knife,’ Sherlock pointed out.

‘The blood was wiped off on the dead man’s shirt as the knife was pulled out.’

‘Have you checked the shirt for signs of wiping, or is that just an assumption?’ Crowe asked.

‘You can’t deny there’s blood on the shirt,’ the sergeant protested.

‘Pumped out of the wound, yes, but are there any signs that the blade was deliberately or accidentally wiped against the material? Wipin’ and pumpin’ leave very different traces.’

‘Irrelevant,’ Coleman snapped. ‘Blood is blood, and there was only one knife in the room. Now, what I need you gentlemen to tell me is what you were doing visiting the accused.’

‘He’s my brother,’ Sherlock said quietly. ‘Mister Crowe is a family friend. We were meeting Mycroft for lunch.’