Young Sherlock Holmes: Fire Storm

gaps in the fence Sherlock could see two dogs – big ones – fighting. They leaped at each other, tearing at ears with their teeth and scratching at eyes and skin with their claws. In the flickering torchlight he could see blood spattered across the floor. Some of it was fresh, but some of it was dried. Dogs – and maybe other things – had been fighting there for a while.

He was carried out of that room and into another one. There was no fenced-off area here – instead, men and women were gathered around a rough circle that had been chalked on the flagstones. In the centre of the circle, two men warily stalked each other. They were stripped to the waist, and their chests gleamed as if they had been oiled. One of them had fingernail marks ripped down his torso. The second man suddenly stepped forward. He crouched, grabbing the first around the waist, lifted him in the air and threw him to the ground. The crowd went wild, yelling and cheering.

Moments later Sherlock was being carried out of that room as well. The next had a walkway round the edge and a rectangular pit in the middle, like a swimming pool. Except that there was no water, and a waist-high fence made of wide wooden panels ran all the way round the edge of the pit. Sherlock could smell a rank, feral odour.

Something made a snarling sound. Sherlock realized that there was an animal corralled in there. It had obviously heard the men carrying Sherlock, because it threw itself against the fence. The wooden panels shook. What was in there?

The men scurried for the far door, obviously terrified of whatever the beast was.

Sherlock was taken into a large room and dumped on the ground.

He lay there for a while, staring upward. His arms and legs felt three inches longer than they had been. He could feel bruises all over his body. All in all, he thought, he wasn’t really in a position to do any damage to anyone.

The ceiling was white plaster separated into squares by wooden beams. It looked old, and it looked impressive, but there were massive strands of cobwebs in each corner, hanging like grey rags.

Sherlock closed his eyes and listened. He could hear the crackling of a fire – logs splitting in the heat – and a background murmur that sounded like a whole group of people waiting for something – whispers, giggles, the shuffling of feet. The sound of an audience waiting for a show to start. He could smell sweat, and food, and underneath it all the rank odour of the animal in the pit in the previous room.

Eventually Sherlock pushed himself to a sitting position and looked around.

He was in a stone hall. Flaming torches hung from the walls, illuminating everything with a flickering red- tinged light. Tapestries hung between the torches, looking like old moth-eaten bits of carpet. Interspersed between the tapestries and the torches were the stuffed heads of animals, mounted on shield-like plaques. Most of them were stags with spread antlers, but there were also some wolves with their jaws open, exposing their teeth, and something that Sherlock could have sworn was a bear. He supposed he should be glad there weren’t any men’s heads on the wall.

Ahead of him was a dais, and on the dais was a chair. It looked like it had been hewn by hand from a massive tree trunk. Sitting on the chair, lounging on it, as if he was a king in the centre of his court, was a man who was as big as Amyus Crowe, but where Amyus Crowe was usually a symphony in white – white hair, white clothes, white hat – this man was a concerto in black. His mane of hair, wild eyebrows and unkempt beard were the colour of night. The checked jacket and the kilt he wore were mostly black as well, with occasional lines of red or white. Like Crowe he must have been in his late fifties or early sixties, but like Crowe he looked as if he could beat several younger men at a time in a fight.

Several men stood behind him. They looked like boxers, or wrestlers – heavily muscled, with flattened noses and thickened, misshapen ears. They too were wearing jackets and kilts of the same black-checked cloth. Clan tartan – wasn’t that what Matty had said it was called? Did that indicate they were all part of the same clan?

The man in the chair gazed down at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.

‘So,’ he said in a Scottish brogue so thick that Sherlock could have cut it with a cake knife, ‘this is the other bairn the Yankees are looking for.’ He raised a hand and gestured to one of the men behind him. ‘Bring the youngster’s friends here. Let’s have a little family reunion before the inevitable and tragic separation.’

The man nodded and walked off through an arched doorway. While they waited, Sherlock took the opportunity to look around. Gathered on either side of the dais was a mixed group of people who were staring either at Sherlock or at the man in the chair. There were men, women and some children, but they all had the look of people who survived by their wits – hard, watchful eyes, and skin that had seen a lot of sun and rain. They weren’t dressed in tartan. Instead their clothes were a mixture of the patched and the threadbare. Where Sherlock saw a jacket and a pair of trousers that actually matched he guessed it was either by accident or because they’d been stolen together. Among the rabble that clustered around the dais, Sherlock noticed several of the white-faced, skeletal figures. The rest of the crowd didn’t seem to mind their presence – unlike the people in the tavern. They were fully integrated, not avoided, chatting with their companions. They weren’t acting in the distant, corpse-like manner Sherlock had noticed before. He didn’t know why they were dressed the way they were, but there had to be a reason for it.

A ripple of interest ran through the crowd, and they turned towards the archway. Seconds later, Crowe, Virginia, Rufus Stone and Matty were pushed through. They glanced around, orienting themselves. Seeing Sherlock in the centre of the room, Crowe headed over towards him.

‘Son,’ Crowe nodded as Sherlock climbed to his feet.

‘Ah worked out when ah saw they’d taken Ginnie that they’d gotten you as well.’

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t protect her,’ Sherlock apologized.

Crowe shook his massive head. ‘Ain’t nothin’ you could’ve done,’ he said. ‘These folk are organized. They took us at the top of the cliff an’ brought us here.’

Sherlock frowned. ‘I’m guessing they’re not Bryce Scobell’s men,’ he said. ‘They look more like locals, like Scotsmen.’

Crowe nodded. ‘Ah suspect they’re a local criminal gang based around Edinburgh. We seem to have fallen into their hands, though ah ain’t quite sure why or what they want.’

The man who had been sent out to get them stepped towards Crowe. ‘Nae talkin’,’ he growled, and reached out as if to cuff Crowe around the ear. Crowe calmly caught his hand and bent it backwards until the man screamed and dropped to his knees.

‘Ah don’t much like bein’ manhandled,’ he said quietly, ‘an’ there’s been a whole load of that already. Grateful if you could stop.’

The man on the ground struggled to get to his feet, and two thugs from behind the bearded man on the chair started forward towards Crowe, but their leader raised a hand.

‘Leave him be, for the moment. He’s got spirit. I admire that in a man.’ He nodded at Crowe. ‘Stand down, Mr Crowe. I could throw all my lads at you at once, I suppose, and that would certainly be fun to watch. As you can see, we do like to watch a good fight here – watch and place bets. Problem is that you’d return a few of them damaged and I need them for other things.’

Crowe faced up to the big black-bearded man. ‘You have the advantage of me, sir. You know my name, but ah don’t believe we are acquainted.’

The man stood up. He was even taller than Sherlock had thought, and his chest was as wide as a beer barrel.

‘My name is Gahan Macfarlane of the Clan Macfarlane, and I have a wee business proposition to put to you.’

Something about the name ‘Macfarlane’ struck a chord in Sherlock’s mind. He’d heard that name recently. But where?

Crowe smiled, but there was little humour in his expression. ‘You don’t strike me as a businessman,’ he replied. ‘More like a bully an’ a criminal.’

Macfarlane smiled back. ‘Strong words from a man who’s outnumbered. There are many kinds of business, my friend, and many kinds of businessman. They don’t all wear frock coats and top hats.’

‘So which particular kind of business are you in?’

‘Oh, I have a bonny portfolio of interests.’ Macfarlane stared around at his court, and they duly laughed. ‘Let’s just say I work in insurance and have done with it.’

‘This,’ Crowe said darkly, ‘would, ah guess, be the kind of insurance where local shopkeepers pay you a