room was a large table. Upholstered chairs were arranged symmetrically around it.
A man sat in one of the chairs. Judging by the spreading bloodstain on his shirt, and the way his sightless eyes stared at the chandelier hanging from the high ceiling, he was dead.
‘Mycroft?’ Sherlock said.
A ripple of surprise ran round the club room, followed by hisses of disapproval at his flagrant breaking of the rules, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to know what had happened.
The footman backed away, eyes wide. Crowe snapped his fingers at the man, then mimed blowing a whistle. The footman nodded, turned, and ran off.
Crowe grabbed Sherlock’s arm and pulled him into the Strangers Room, shutting the door behind them. Sherlock noticed that the back of the door was heavily padded, presumably to keep the noise of conversation from drifting into the club room. Mycroft backed away, his eyes still confused, his hand still holding the knife.
‘I don’t… understand,’ he said hesitantly.
‘Mister Holmes,’ Crowe snapped, you need to concentrate. What happened? Tell us everything.’
‘I was… waiting for you,’ Mycroft replied. His voice gained strength as he spoke. ‘I had predicted your time of arrival based on the train timetable and the usual traffic between Waterloo Station and the club at this time of day. There was a knock on the door. The footman – Brinnell – delivered a card on a tray. Apparently a man wanted to see me. I didn’t know who he was, and I was about to send him away when I noticed that some words had been scrawled on the back of the card. They were words that… that I had come into contact with during the course of my employment. Words of significance. I indicated to Brinnell that he should bring the man here, to the Strangers Room.’
He paused, frowning, as if he was attempting to remember something difficult.
‘I waited here,’ he continued. ‘There was a knock on the door. Rather than call out, I went to the door to open it. That is the custom, here in the Diogenes Club. It avoids undue speech, which most members find unpleasant. A man was standing outside -’
‘That man?’ Crowe asked, indicating the body slumped in the chair.
‘Yes,’ Mycroft said, wincing. ‘That is the man. I gestured to him to come in. He did so. I shut the door behind him, and…’
He trailed off. His hand – the one not holding the knife – rose as if he wanted to touch something on his head. ‘That’s all I remember until I heard another knock on the door. I thought I was having one of those moments that the French call deja vu, where you believe that something is happening to you that has happened before. I opened the door, expecting to find Brinnell and the visitor outside, but it was you. Both of you. I was confused. I turned round, expecting to find the visitor behind me.’ Mycroft indicated the dead body in the chair. ‘I did,’ he continued, a touch of the dryness with which Sherlock was so familiar creeping back into his tone, ‘but not in the manner I expected.’
‘Mister Holmes,’ Crowe said, ‘for the sake of completeness, and because it is undoubtedly a question the police will ask, did you kill that man?’
‘I have no recollection of killing that man,’ Mycroft said carefully.
‘Ah would suggest that you give a simple “no” next time the question is asked. Not that it will do you much good.’ Crowe sighed. ‘Do you know a good solicitor?’
‘The Diogenes retains one,’ Mycroft replied. ‘Brinnell can give you the man’s details.’
‘Then whatever happens in the near future, rest assured that we will engage the Diogenes’ solicitor and we will work to get you released.’
Mycroft turned to look at the body. ‘That may be difficult,’ he said painfully. ‘There is precious little evidence, and what little there is seems to implicate me.’
‘You did not kill him,’ Sherlock said firmly. ‘I don’t know much about what happened in here, but I know that.’
Mycroft smiled slightly, and patted Sherlock on the shoulder. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I think I needed to hear that.’
A commotion outside alerted them to the arrival of the police.
Ah suggest you put the knife on the table,’ Crowe said. ‘It never looks good to be holdin’ a weapon when the police arrive.’
Mycroft stepped towards the table and set the knife down on it just as the door burst open, and a group of blue-uniformed men entered. Crowe stepped forward, covering Mycroft’s movement.
‘There’s been a murder,’ he said. ‘The body is over by the table, as is the knife that was probably used in the execution of the crime.’
‘And who are you?’ the lead constable asked.
‘My name is Amyus Crowe. Who are you?’
‘A foreign gentleman,’ the policeman remarked, looking pointedly at his companions. ‘Were you here when the crime was committed?’
‘Ah asked you for your name,’ Crowe said, voice civil but with an edge of iron.
‘I am Sergeant Coleman,’ the policeman said, drawing himself up. ‘Now perhaps you could answer my question.’ He paused. ‘Sir.’
‘Ah was outside the door,’ Crowe said, ‘with the young man there. The footman can bear that out.’
‘And what is the young man’s name?’
‘Sherlock Holmes,’ Sherlock replied.
‘Then who was in the room?’ the sergeant pressed.
Crowe hesitated, wincing slightly. Ah believe this gentleman was in the room.’ He indicated Mycroft with a nod of his head.
The sergeant stepped forward. ‘Is this true, sir?’ he asked Mycroft.
Mycroft nodded. ‘I was in the room,’ he said clearly.
‘What is your name?’
‘Mycroft Siger Holmes.’
‘And did you kill this man, sir?’
‘I did not kill this man.’
Sherlock noticed Crowe’s lips twitch slightly at the firmness in Mycroft’s voice. The sergeant looked taken aback.
‘I’m afraid, sir, that I must place you under arrest. You will be taken to Scotland Yard, where you will be questioned under oath.’ He glanced over at the corpse, then towards one of the constables. ‘Send someone for the pathologist. Old Murdoch is on duty today. Get him to come and fetch the body. And bring that knife. We’ll be showing it to the judge, all right.’
The words were like the tolling of some huge, discordant bell to Sherlock’s ears. He watched in horror as Mycroft was taken by the shoulder and manoeuvred out of the Strangers Room, through the club room and into the hall. One of the constables took the knife gingerly by the handle and carried it away.
‘Mister Crowe…’ Sherlock started.
‘No time,’ Crowe snapped. Ah understand you’re emotional. That’s to be expected. Trouble is, if we’re to clear your brother’s name and save him from jail then we need to move fast, and we need to move with complete precision and accuracy. Emotion, right now, will slow us down an’ cloud our judgement. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Yes,’ Sherlock breathed.
‘Suppress whatever grief and shock you’re feelin’. Imagine that you’re wrappin’ it up in a blanket, tyin’ it tight and stowin’ it in the back of your mind. Ah ain’t askin’ you to forget about it forever, just for now. You can retrieve those emotions later, when it’s safe, an’ wrap yourself in them for as long as you want. Just not now.’
‘Yes. All right.’ Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to do what Crowe was suggesting. He tried picturing his roiling mixture of emotions as a fiery ball hanging inside his mind, and then he tried to imagine a fireproof cloth as black as night wrapping itself round that fiery ball. Ropes and chains emerged from the darkness and looped around the cloth, drawing tight until the ball was completely swaddled. And then he imagined it sinking down through the shadows until it sat on the floor, in a dusty cupboard, at the back of his mind. And then he closed the door.
He opened his eyes and took a breath. He felt better. Less panicky. He knew the feelings were there, in the cupboard, but he didn’t feel them. He could get them out whenever he wanted to, but right now he wasn’t sure if he
