by soldiers in blue and grey uniforms. One soldier was holding him while another was freeing him from the knout. A third soldier was taking hold of Wormersley, whose face was almost unrecognizably swollen beneath the blood. A fourth soldier was pulling Rufus Stone from around the other side of the carriage. Stone was bleeding from a gash in his arm, a cut that went all the way through the material of his jacket to the flesh beneath.

There was no sign of Mr Kyte.

The next few minutes were a blur. Sherlock and Rufus Stone were bundled into the grim Lubyanka Square building and half-pushed, half-dragged along dark corridors and up flights of stairs. Sherlock lost track of where they were in the building. Eventually they were taken past uniformed guards and into a series of linked offices.

In the last office, two men were standing waiting for them.

One was also in military uniform, but it was much more ornate than the ones the soldiers were wearing, and he had a cloak thrown over it. He was in his forties, his hair grey and close-cropped, and his moustache curled up at the ends. The other was in his twenties, wearing a black suit and a striped waistcoat.

‘Ah, Sherlock,’ Mycroft said calmly. ‘This is His Excellency Count Pyotr Andreyevich Shuvalov. Count Shuvalov, allow me to present my brother, Sherlock.’

Shuvalov stared at Sherlock. Finally he glanced back at Mycroft.

‘Yes,’ he said in excellent English. ‘I presume he must take after your father’s side of the family.’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The dining room at the Diogenes Club was as silent as a tomb, which was why Mycroft had arranged for their meal to be served in the Strangers Room. At least there the four of them could have a reasonable conversation.

Mycroft was at the head of the table, with Sherlock to his left and Amyus Crowe to his right. Rufus Stone was seated opposite Mycroft.

Looking around, Sherlock found it difficult to remember that this was the very room where the whole adventure had started. He checked the carpet for bloodstains, remembering the unfortunate man who had been so desperate for his family to have a little money that he had killed himself on the instructions of the Paradol Chamber, just to provoke Mycroft into going to Russia. Either it had been expertly cleaned or the entire carpet had been replaced.

Mycroft and Crowe were discussing what the American government were going to do with Alaska now that they had finally paid for it. Sherlock turned his attention back to his dinner. Silent black-clad waiters delivered bowls of soup to the table.

Crowe stared dubiously at the creamy reddish liquid. ‘This surely ain’t fit for human consumption?’ he asked. ‘It looks like somethin’ made up out of cow’s blood an’ milk.’

‘It’s borscht,’ Mycroft replied. ‘Russian beetroot soup with smetana, or sour cream, stirred in. I thought that we should share a little memento of our adventures with you. Our chef has been very cooperative. Unusually adventurous, in fact. I wasn’t sure that he could even attempt anything other than Brown Windsor soup, but he was eager for a challenge.’

‘Talking of challenges,’ Stone said, ‘is there any news of Mr Kyte?’ His hand crept up to rest on his right arm, where a dressing concealed a nasty cut. There was an edge to his words that suggested to Sherlock that he felt he had unfinished business with the burly red-headed man.

Mycroft shook his large head sorrowfully. ‘Not a word. He seems to have gone to ground. I presume the Paradol Chamber are looking after him somewhere – assuming they have a forgiving nature, of course.’

‘What about the rest of Kyte’s Theatrical Company?’ Sherlock asked.

‘As with Mr Kyte, they are missing, presumed hiding.’ His face was grave. ‘To have been that close to the Paradol Chamber – to have been that close to Mrs Loran, who I now believe is one of their most important members – and not to have realized… it galls me, Sherlock. My mind was affected by the accusation of murder and my subsequent, although short, incarceration. I should have realized there was something odd about that entire company. I should have realized that we were being set up from the start.’

‘And Wormersley?’

‘Now, there I do have an answer. For understandable reasons, Count Shuvalov would not release him to us. He languishes in the cells at Lubyanka Square. Ironic, considering the fact that we went all the way to Moscow because that’s where I thought he was to begin with.’ He sighed. ‘He changed. He was not the man I thought he was. But then, I suppose that travelling the world does that to you, which is why I fully intend to do as little travelling as humanly possible for the rest of my life.’

‘Ah’m surprised Shuvalov believed you so readily,’ Crowe rumbled, still staring dubiously into the bowl. He stirred the soup experimentally with his spoon.

‘That’s another irony,’ Mycroft said. ‘I knew Shuvalov considerably less well than I knew Wormersley, and yet in the end it was that relationship which survived on trust and the other that failed. Shuvalov and I understand each other. We think alike. When he was informed that I had been arrested, he immediately called for me to be brought to him. We drank tea, and we talked in a very civilized manner. He apologized for any harsh behaviour his men had exhibited, and I apologized for arriving in his country without proper notification. That is the way international relations ought to be conducted: politely and with refreshments, not using trained falcons as instruments of assassination.’

‘An’ he believed the whole crazy story?’

‘Once Sherlock told his story, it was obvious that the evidence backed it up. People had seen the falcon, with its metal claws, fly into the carriage, and they’d seen both the fight between Sherlock and Wormersley and the fight between Mr Stone and Mr Kyte. And Shuvalov had already received reports of my arrest here in London for murder. He has his own agents in London, of course, as I have – or had – in Russia.’ He paused, thoughtfully. Although his agents probably don’t work secretly for the Paradol Chamber, which is a point to him in our ongoing game.’

‘Game?’ Sherlock queried.

‘The continual strategic struggle between Russia and Great Britain for control of Central Asia – Afghanistan and India. We call it the Great Game.’

‘Father is in India,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘He’s fighting out there. It’s hardly a game, Mycroft.’

Mycroft had the grace to look abashed. ‘You’re right, dear boy. It is not a game, let alone a great one. Sitting here in London, in a comfortable armchair, it is possible to lose track of that. Perhaps if my time in Russia has taught me one thing, it is that the pieces that we so blithely move on the chessboard are real people, with real feelings. That is a lesson I will remember.’ He smiled tentatively. ‘But you have reminded me that I still owe you sight of Father’s letter, which he sent from India, and which you travelled up from Farnham to see. I have it with me. I will let you read it later.’

Amyus Crowe cleared his throat. ‘So what’s the plan now?’ he asked, obviously seeking to change the subject to something lighter. ‘Where do we go from here? For myself, ah’m plannin’ to spend some time with my daughter.’

‘I intend going back to my lodgings and my job,’ Mycroft said.

‘I suppose I’m heading back to Holmes Manor, to my aunt and uncle, and to the wonderful Mrs Eglantine,’ Sherlock said morosely. He looked over at Rufus Stone. For a moment his thoughts turned to Farnham, and to the black-clad woman who had been watching him, and who had vanished in an alleyway. At the time he’d assumed it was Mrs Eglantine, but now he wasn’t sure. Maybe it had been Miss Aiofe Dimmock checking on Mycroft’s brother before the Paradol Chamber swung their complicated plan into action. Or maybe it had been Mrs Eglantine. Sherlock decided there and then that when he returned to Holmes Manor he was going to get to the bottom of that particular mystery, and find out the true nature of the hold she had over his family.

‘What about you, Mr Stone?’ Mycroft asked, breaking into Sherlock’s train of thought.

Stone smiled and glanced at Sherlock. A gold tooth towards the back of his mouth twinkled in the candlelight. ‘I understand that you have a fine violin,’ he said. ‘I was hoping you would give me the pleasure of hearing you play it. Twice a week, for an hour a time. Do Tuesdays and Thursdays suit you?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Sherlock.

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