Andrew Lane - Black Ice

‘Which tells me that the murder was not premeditated,’ Coleman said, pencilling a note in the notebook. ‘You don’t kill a man knowing you’ve got someone turning up for lunch any moment. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.’

‘For what motive?’ Crowe asked.

The sergeant looked up from his notebook. ‘Business deal gone wrong, argument over a woman – could be a whole set of reasons. In the end, that’s just a detail. The important thing is that we’ve got a murder and a murderer. That’s all the magistrate will be interested in.’ He paused. ‘Now, if I could have your full names and addresses, I’ll make a note for the file.’

Crowe gave the information, and Coleman dutifully wrote it down. Judging by the way he put his hands on the desk, ready to push himself to his feet, Sherlock realized that the interrogation was already at an end. He felt as if they were on a train, already hurtling down a preordained set of tracks, and there was no way to turn off and choose another direction.

‘Could we see Mycroft?’ he blurted. ‘Just for a few minutes?’

Coleman looked dubious.

‘What harm could it do?’ Crowe asked gently. ‘They are brothers, after all. And maybe seeing young Sherlock here will make your prisoner more amenable. More likely to confess.’

Sherlock glanced sideways at Crowe, shocked, but the big American winked at him with the eye that was facing away from Coleman.

The policeman thought for a moment, obviously reluctant. ‘Oh, very well,’ he said eventually, with bad grace. ‘I don’t suppose it will do any harm.’

He went to the door and opened it. A constable – the one who had escorted them from the Diogenes Club – was standing guard outside.

‘Take these two down to see the accused,’ Coleman said. ‘Give them ten minutes with him, then escort them to the front door.’ He turned back to Crowe and Sherlock. ‘I appreciate your time, gentlemen. An unfortunate business, of course, but please remember – if nobody committed any crimes then you wouldn’t need us, and I could go and join my father in the family haberdashery business.’

Coleman bustled out, and the constable gestured to them to follow him. He led them back through the maze-like interior of the building, down several flights of stairs to a basement level where the walls were lined with unpainted brick and pools of water glittered blackly on the tiled floor. A row of closed metal doors extended along the length of the corridor. The constable led them to a door about a third of the way along, then took a key ring from his belt and used one of the keys to unlock it. He gestured them in. ‘Ten minutes, and not a second more. I’ll be out here if there’s any trouble.’

Crowe gestured to Sherlock to go in first and followed him in.

Mycroft was sitting upright on a bench that ran along one side of the room, hands neatly clasped on his lap. His eyes were closed, but he opened them and looked up as Sherlock entered. Light was provided by a narrow barred and glassed slit at the top of the far wall that presumably gave on to the road. The cell was so small the three men nearly filled it. There was nowhere for Sherlock and Crowe to sit, so they stood.

‘Nice of you to visit,’ Mycroft said. ‘I apologize for my surroundings.’

Crowe looked around. ‘Cosy,’ he said. ‘Ah had worse when ah first sailed from America to England.’

‘Yes,’ Mycroft pointed out, ‘but you had the chance to leave when the ship docked.’

‘A good point,’ Crowe conceded, ‘but at least you get this accommodation for free. Ah had to pay for mine.’

‘Will you two stop!’ Sherlock snapped. ‘This is serious.’

Mycroft nodded. ‘I understand. I was merely trying to find some levity in the situation.’

‘How are you feeling?’ Sherlock asked.

‘My head is pounding, and I feel woozy. That may just be the stress of being hurried through the streets by a group of burly policemen.’ He shuddered. ‘I rarely travel more than a hundred yards away from the Diogenes Club. My office and my lodgings are both within that ambit.’ He glanced at Crowe. ‘Have you made any progress in establishing how the murder was committed? I have come up with seven separate theories, but I lack the evidence to distinguish between them.’

Sherlock frowned. Seven possible theories? He couldn’t even think of one.

‘The man who visited you had a case,’ Crowe pointed out.

‘I remember it.’

‘The inside was padded. Two objects had been stored inside. At least one of them was damp – or at least it left traces of a liquid behind.’

Mycroft frowned. ‘Did this liquid smell of anything in particular? Was it sticky to the touch?’

Crowe shook his head. ‘Felt an’ smelt just like water.’

‘And was there a pool of liquid anywhere in the room?’

‘There was. Sherlock found it.’

‘Instructive.’ Mycroft nodded. ‘That narrows the solution to one possibility.’

‘Indeed,’ Crowe said, nodding, ‘but the evidence has vanished.’

Sherlock felt his fists clench. ‘What on earth are you both talking about? What solution?’

The two men looked at each other. Mycroft gestured to Crowe to explain.

‘Let’s agree that there was no way for another man to be in the room,’ Crowe started. ‘There were no windows, no places to hide, and we would have seen anyone when your brother opened the door.’

‘Agreed,’ Sherlock said.

‘And your brother didn’t kill the dead man.’

‘Of course not.’

‘Therefore he killed himself.’

Sherlock felt as if the ground had suddenly dropped out from underneath him. ‘He what?’

‘He killed himself. Two men in a room, one is murdered, and we know that the other one didn’t kill him. Ergo, he killed himself

‘But…’ Sherlock’s voice failed him for a moment. ‘But Mycroft was holding the knife.’

‘He was holding a knife,’ Crowe corrected. ‘The victim entered the room with a case containing two objects. One of them was the knife that we found your brother holding. There was no blood on the knife because it was not the knife that killed the dead man.’

‘But there was no other knife!’ Sherlock protested.

‘But,’ Mycroft interrupted, ‘there was a damp patch in the case and a damp patch on the carpet.’

Crowe glanced at Mycroft, who shrugged.

‘I apologize,’ Mycroft added. ‘I couldn’t resist joining in.’ He glanced back at Sherlock. ‘Tell me, did the damp patch on the carpet feel cold at all?’

‘It did,’ Sherlock recalled, and then he realized. ‘Ice? he exclaimed. ‘The knife was made of ice?’

‘Indubitably,’ Crowe said. ‘The second object in the case was a knife made of ice. The padding prevented it from melting, although some water did soak into the satin. The case had probably been kept cold before being used, to ensure that the knife did not melt.’

‘The visitor incapacitated me,’ Mycroft said grimly. ‘How, we will leave for a moment. After rendering me insensible, he placed the real knife in my hand. He then sat down and stabbed himself with the ice knife. With his last ounce of strength he pulled the ice knife from his chest and threw it to the floor, where it melted in the warmth of the room.’

‘There was a risk that he would have died too quickly to pull the knife out,’ Crowe pointed out, ‘but in that case the residual warmth of his cooling corpse would have melted it anyway.’

‘But why use two knives?’ Sherlock protested. ‘Why not just stab himself with the real knife and leave it in the wound?’

Crowe glanced sympathetically at Mycroft. ‘Whoever arranged this little charade wanted to leave your brother with no room for manoeuvre. If he had been found in a room with a dead body which had a knife in its chest, he might have been able to claim that he’d found it there and was about to call for help. But if he was found with a knife in his hand, and no knife in the wound, he would not have been able to think of a convincing explanation.’