Andrew Lane - Black Ice

Sherlock ran a grimy hand through his hair. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d kept myself well out of sight.’

‘Learn a lesson,’ Crowe said amiably. ‘Traps can be reversed. That’s the difference between animals and humans – rabbits don’t suddenly turn around and hunt foxes, but men can switch roles. Prey can become predator. Look out for the signs. If your prey is leadin’ you somewhere isolated then just maybe they’ve spotted you and want to get you alone.’

‘Don’t you ever stop teaching?’ Sherlock asked wearily, remembering the lesson on the lake while they were fishing.

‘Life teaches us all the time, if we’re alert enough to understand.’ Crowe’s gaze flickered sideways, to where the man’s face was becoming increasingly congested and his eyes were bulging. ‘Now,’ he said conversationally, ‘let’s you and me have a little talk. Why are you threatening my friend and protege here with violence? That ain’t particularly civilized, friend.’

‘He was following me,’ the man wheezed.

Crowe looked over at Sherlock and raised his eyebrow. ‘Ah presume you had a reason,’ he said. ‘You weren’t just practisin’ your trackin’ skills – although they obviously do need the practice.’

‘I found the printer who made the visiting card,’ Sherlock said. ‘He said that this man was waiting out in the street for the man who had the visiting card printed. They went off together.’

Crowe nodded. ‘I assumed it was something like that.’ He turned his attention back to his captive. ‘So, that leads us to the question of why? Why did you pay for a poor, sick man to have a single visiting card printed up, and why did you then send him in to visit Mister Mycroft Holmes in his club?’

The man tugged at Crowe’s arm. ‘You’re choking me!’ he protested.

‘Neatly spotted. I am choking you.’

‘You’re breaking my neck!’

‘Not yet. Another few ounces of pressure and your neck will snap like a rotten twig, yes, but not just yet. You’ll suffocate first.’

‘You’re killing me!’

‘Yes,’ Crowe confirmed. ‘Ah believe ah am. Talk fast.’

‘I was paid!’

‘Of course you were. Ah didn’t think you were doin’ this out of love of Queen and country. The question is: who was payin’ you?’

‘I don’t know their name!’ The man pounded on Crowe’s rigid left arm. ‘Just let me breathe! Please!’

Crowe released his grip by a fraction, and the man drew in a shuddering breath. His lank hair was plastered across his face. His face lost some of its beetroot colour.

‘I was approached in the Shaftesbury Tavern one night,’ he gasped. ‘People know I’m a fixer. I can make deals, and find the right people for a blagging, or anything you want. I was told to find a man who was close to meeting his Maker and needed money for his family. I was told to persuade him to do one last thing, and if he did it properly he would secure his family’s future comfort.’

‘And you knew a man like that?’

‘I knew hundreds of men like that! They’re ten a penny around here. Consumption, alcoholism, gut-rot – there’re many ways to die in London.’

‘And what was this last task he had to complete?’

The man was silent.

Crowe tightened his grip. ‘Just one more ounce of pressure,’ he murmured, ‘and the last sound you will hear is your neck breaking. Ah’ve done it to cougars, ah’ve done it to alligators, and ah’ve even done it to a bull in my time. You will not present much of a challenge, believe me.’

‘He had to go to this club in Whitehall,’ the man said hurriedly, ‘and ask to see a man in private. Alone, like. A man named Mycroft Holmes. And then hand over a card which we had to have printed up. Just the one card. And when he was alone with this cove, he had to spray some stuff in the cove’s face – stuff from this thing like a perfume bottle. The cove would look like he had fallen asleep on his feet. Then he had to put a real knife in the cove’s hand and stab himself in the heart with another knife made of ice. Like a pantomime it was.’

‘Where did the knives come from?’

‘I was told that a boy would run up to us as we got to the club. He’d give us a case with the knives in it. We had to do it that way otherwise the ice knife might melt, even though it was in the case.’

Crowe smiled. ‘Didn’t this all strike you as a bit strange?’

‘I’ve done stranger,’ the man admitted, ‘and I was being well paid.’

‘This man who hired you – did you know his name? Can you describe him?’

‘I didn’t say it was a bloke, did I?’

Crowe’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. ‘Indeed you did not. My mistake. So – you were hired by a woman?’

He nodded, as much as he was able with Crowe’s arms around his neck. A woman, yes.’

‘Describe her.’

‘Youngish. Slim. Well-dressed.’

Crowe snorted. ‘The face, man – describe the face.’

‘Couldn’t see it. She was wearing a big hat and a veil.’

‘Colour of hair?’

‘Couldn’t see under the hat.’

‘But you followed her, didn’t you? After she hired you?’

Sherlock saw the man’s eyes flicker with surprise. ‘How did you know?’ he hissed.

‘Ah know you, my friend. Or at least, ah know men like you. A woman with a large wad of cash – of course you followed her. You wanted to find out where she lived, in case you could break in later and steal the rest of the cash she obviously kept on the premises. Men like you are always looking for an openin’, an opportunity. So – where did she go?’

The man shrugged, shifting Crowe’s arms slightly. ‘Didn’t go to no house. She went to a museum in Bow. Called the Passmore Edwards, it is. Used to be a big manor house. I waited for a couple of hours, but she never came out again. I don’t know if she lives there, or if there was a way out at the back, but I never saw her again.’

‘Anything else? Any other facts you want to impart to us?’

‘No – no, I swear!’

Crowe abruptly released the man, who fell to his knees, choking and holding his throat.

‘Ah think we’ve gotten all we can from this fellow,’ Crowe said to Sherlock. ‘If you’re feeling up to it, let’s repair to a coffee house and get some refreshments.’ He cast a critical eye over Sherlock’s mud-stained trousers and boots, and his brick dust-splattered jacket. ‘Maybe we can find a clothes shop first. You’re not going to make a good impression looking like that.’

Before Sherlock could reply, the small man suddenly surged up from the ground, arm swinging round, spiked knuckleduster slicing towards Amyus Crowe’s face. He was snarling; his face contorted in a mask of fury. ‘Try to choke me, would you?’ he shouted.

Crowe leaned back out of the way of the spikes. They slashed across in front of his eyes, just a few inches away. As they passed he stepped forward, twisted his body to the left and kicked out with his right foot. His boot made contact with the man’s knee. Sherlock heard something snap. The man crumpled to the ground, screaming.

‘Let’s go,’ Crowe said, gesturing to Sherlock. Ah feel there’s a pot of coffee and a cream cake somewhere with my name on it, an’ ah intend findin’ it.’

He led the way out, with Sherlock following. They left the small thug curled up on the ground, holding his shattered knee.

‘Shouldn’t we notify the police?’ Sherlock asked. ‘Shouldn’t they arrest him?’

Crowe shrugged. ‘If it makes you feel better ah guess we could, but it’s his word against ours, and the only permanent damage was done by me to him. Any self – respectin’ policeman would prob’ly arrest me instead of him. Or arrest both of us until he sorted out what had actually happened.’