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.’
‘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.’
