Young Sherlock Holmes: Fire Storm

stretch their legs on the platform and buy some more food that they could eat from paper bags. This time it was apples wrapped in pastry and cooked until they were piping hot. Steam rose from them just like miniature versions of the steam rising from the train’s engine.

After a while Sherlock headed back to the compartment, even though the train wouldn’t be leaving for a few minutes. There was only so much walking up and down the platform that he could manage. The idea of exercise just for the sake of exercise had never appealed to him. He slumped in the upholstered seat, staring at the opposite wall. Train journeys, he decided, were excruciatingly boring. Sea journeys took longer, but there was more to look at, more to do. Ships had libraries, games rooms, restaurants and the whole entertaining routine of shipboard life. Trains had nothing.

Staring at the wall, counting off the minutes before they left Newcastle, he gradually became aware that he was being watched. It wasn’t anything supernatural that led to that conclusion, no prickling of the neck or shivers down the spine. It was something simpler, more prosaic: a pink and red patch at the edge of his vision that refused to move. A face. Two blue eyes aimed unblinkingly at Sherlock.

Without giving away the fact that he had noticed the watcher by moving his head suddenly, he tried to pick up whatever details he could, but the person’s body was partially hidden behind a pile of crates on a trolley.

When he’d squeezed about as much information out of the scene as he could without making it obvious that he had spotted the watcher, he decided to look properly. With no warning he quickly glanced to his right. Straight into the eyes of a man he thought he recognized.

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat.

He was the image of Mr Kyte, a man who had been introduced to Sherlock as the actor–manager of a theatre company in Whitechapel but had turned out to be an agent of the Paradol Chamber, and part of a plot to assassinate a Russian prince who was a friend of Mycroft’s. He was a big, bear-like man with a chest the size and shape of a barrel, a mane of red hair that flowed down over his collar and a bushy red beard that hid his throat and fell halfway down his chest like a waterfall of rust. The last time Sherlock had seen Mr Kyte, the man had been engaged in a desperate struggle with Rufus Stone in a carriage in a Moscow street. He had escaped, leaving Rufus bleeding, furious and swearing vengeance.

The skin around Mr Kyte’s eyes and on his cheeks, Sherlock remembered, had been covered with hundreds of small scratches. They had looked strangely like shaving cuts, but in areas where hair did not normally grow. Despite the smeary window between them, Sherlock was close enough that he could see those cuts now. There was no doubt – it was Mr Kyte.

Kyte stared Sherlock in the eye for a long moment. He didn’t smile, or nod, or acknowledge in any way that he had been seen. After a few seconds he slowly drew back, into the shadow cast by a structure in the centre of the platform – a storage area of some kind. Sherlock’s heart was racing, and the air seemed to catch on an obstruction in his chest every time he tried to take a breath.

He had to tell Rufus Stone! He had to tell Mycroft! He didn’t know whether Mr Kyte’s presence indicated that the Paradol Chamber were involved in Amyus Crowe’s disappearance, whether they were following Sherlock because they blamed him for upsetting their plans or whether the whole thing was a complete coincidence, but the fact was that Mr Kyte was there, watching him, watching them, and that meant that things had changed. The situation was not the same as it had been just ten minutes earlier.

A blast from a steam whistle jerked Sherlock’s thoughts back on track. The train was about to go. He started to get up out of his seat, aware that neither Rufus Stone nor Matty had returned, but just then the door to the compartment slid back and Matty entered. He was holding a pork pie in one hand.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘Close enough. Where’s Rufus?’

Matty frowned. ‘I thought he’d be back here by now. He was a minute or so ahead of me.’ He tossed the pie in the air and caught it again. ‘Saw a pile of these on a market stall just outside the station. The bloke who was selling them got distracted by some woman walking past. Just gave me enough time to swipe one.’

‘But –’ Sherlock started, then stopped. This was no time for talking. He pushed past Matty and headed out of the compartment, into the corridor that ran the length of the carriage. There were doors at either end leading to the platform. He ran to the nearest one and looked out of the window.

All along the platform passengers were getting back on board, but there was no sign of Rufus Stone.

The train whistle blasted again. Within moments the platform was clear apart from the station guard, who was glancing back and forth along the length of the train, waiting to wave his flag.

Sherlock stared left and right. Rufus Stone wasn’t in sight. Sherlock wanted to jump off and search the station for his friend, but the train was moments from leaving. What if Rufus had got on another carriage and was walking through the train at that moment? If that was what had happened, and Sherlock got off, then he would be the one who was missing. Stranded on a station where the Paradol Chamber were watching him.

But what if the Paradol Chamber had caught Rufus Stone? There was certainly unfinished business between Stone and Mr Kyte.

The train jerked into life. The engine pulled away from the platform, dragging its carriages behind it. Within moments the station was receding behind them, and they were heading out of the city and into the countryside.

Sherlock made his way back to the compartment and stood outside, looking left and right along the corridor, hoping against hope that Rufus Stone would appear, casually sauntering along in that infuriating way of his. After five minutes he had to admit to himself that Stone wasn’t going to appear. He was still at Newcastle Station, probably the prisoner of the Paradol Chamber.

‘What’s the story?’ Matty asked as Sherlock re-entered the compartment. His lap was covered with pie-crust crumbs. ‘Where’s Mr Stone?’

‘I think he got left behind,’ Sherlock said grimly.

‘What happened? Did he meet some girl? Typical if he did. He’s got a roving eye, that one.’

Sherlock shook his head. ‘No, I think he met the Paradol Chamber.’

Matty’s face screwed up in disbelief. ‘What, the people that the French Baron bloke was working for?’

‘And the ones who framed Mycroft for murder and tried to kill his friend in Moscow.’

‘What were they doing at the station?’

‘They must have been following us,’ Sherlock replied. He felt powerless, unsure what to do. ‘There’s no way of knowing from here. We can only make guesses, and guesses are worse than having no information because they pull you the wrong way.’

‘So what are we going to do?’

Pausing only slightly to think, Sherlock said, ‘We’re going to keep on for Edinburgh. If a train guard comes along, we can tell him that our friend got left behind at Newcastle and we’re worried that he might have had an accident. He might be able to get a message sent from one of the stations we stop at along the way. When we get to Edinburgh we’ll head for the hotel Mycroft booked for us. If Rufus manages to get away from the Paradol Chamber or whoever has taken him, or if there’s an innocent explanation for his missing the train, then he knows that’s where we’ll be.’

He settled back in his seat, folding his arms and resting his chin on his chest. Matty just stared at him for a while, then turned and looked out of the window. Despite his friend’s presence, Sherlock had never felt so desperately alone.

‘We could just go home,’ Matty said after a while. His voice sounded very small.

The thought had already occurred to Sherlock, but he had rejected it. ‘We could,’ he replied, ‘but that doesn’t help Mr Crowe, or Virginia, or even Rufus. Besides, the Paradol Chamber know where we live. Our best bet is to hide out in Edinburgh until we can get this whole mess sorted. Go to ground.’

‘Like Mr Crowe and Virginia,’ Matty pointed out. ‘They ran away and hid as well.’

‘I know.’ Sherlock didn’t look over at Matty. ‘I know. But I wish I knew why. I can’t imagine what would frighten Mr Crowe enough to make him run rather than stand and fight his ground.’

At some point the train passed from England to Scotland, but if there was a sign to mark the moment then Sherlock missed it.

The stations slipped past more rapidly now and the names looked different to those on the platform signs in