Young Sherlock Holmes: Knife Edge (23 page)

Eventually Albano turned around and walked back towards the group. Everybody clustered around him – three eagerly and three with some scepticism.

‘I have managed to persuade a spirit to accede to my request,’ he said. ‘It is my old friend and spirit guide,
the one who now calls himself Invictus. He has returned from the
room above, and he tells me that the answer is . . .’ He paused dramatically. ‘The painting of the landscape has been hung in the room, and it has been hung upside down.’

Everyone turned to Sherlock.

‘Is that true?’ Herr Holtzbrinck asked breathlessly.

For a moment Sherlock had the almost overpowering desire to lie,
but he couldn’t do that. He knew there was a trick here, but he had to be completely honest.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I hung the landscape on the wall, and I hung it upside down.’

Albano threw his head back and laughed, while von Webenau, Holtzbrinck and Count Shuvalov applauded wildly.

Dinner was a bizarre, excitable affair.

From Sherlock’s point of view it was as if his revelation of trickery during the second séance, the night before, had never happened. Count Shuvalov, von Webenau and Herr
Holtzbrinck were clustered together at one end of the table. They were all talking together animatedly about psychic phenomena and the ‘spiritual plane’, suggesting
ways in which
communication with the dead might benefit the living, and debating what it might mean for organized religion. Sir Shadrach Quintillan and Ambrose Albano were absent, presumably to give their
‘guests’ time to talk among themselves. Niamh Quintillan and Virginia Crowe were further down the table, talking to each other – probably, Sherlock thought, about horses. They
formed
a barrier like an ocean between the continent of belief at the top end of the table and the island of disbelief at the other – Sherlock, Mycroft and Amyus Crowe.

‘I just can’t believe it,’ Sherlock said as he took a forkful of lamb. ‘Did that second séance actually happen, or did I just dream it?’

‘It’s human nature,’ Crowe pointed out. ‘If people are predisposed to believe a thing then
they will accept any and all evidence that it is true and they will do their
best to reject any evidence that it is false. Our international colleagues at the other end of the table really do want to believe that spiritualism and psychic phenomena exist. The three of us
down here are much more likely to be guided by logic than by wishful thinkin’.’

‘But
why
?’

It was Mycroft who answered,
in a low voice. ‘In the case of von Webenau and Herr Holtzbrinck, I suspect that they have both lost someone dear to them, and they do not wish to believe that
the person has gone forever. They cannot let go, and so they will cling to any shred of evidence that might mean that their loved ones are happy and that they can still communicate with those of
their family who are still alive.’

‘You may have noticed that neither of them was happy when you demonstrated the trickery in the séance,’ Crowe pointed out. ‘Ah thought at the time it was because they
were angry that they had been duped, but now Ah realize it was because they’d had something precious taken away from them. Albano and Quintillan have waved that precious thing under their
noses again, and they’re goin’ for it.’

‘In the case of Count Shuvalov,’ Mycroft continued, as if Crowe hadn’t interrupted, ‘I believe that the answer is more to do with his nationality than with his personal
history. In my experience the Russians are a highly religious and fatalistic people. They are already inclined to believe in all kinds of things that would seem bizarre to those who are not
Russian.’ He smiled. ‘I remember
that a military acquaintance of mine once said that if you put a British general, a Russian general, an American general and a German general in a room
together and give them a problem to solve, the British, American and German generals would come up with one solution and the Russian general would come up with a completely different one. The
Russians do not think like us, and the world will
get itself into a lot of trouble if it ever forgets that.’

‘They’ve all fallen for Ambrose’s explanation that he was ill, and therefore his powers were unpredictable.’ Crowe shook his head, and his voice took on an oratorical
quality. ‘“Hear now this, O foolish people, and without understanding; which have eyes, and see not; which have ears, and hear not,” as the Good Book says.’

‘Can
we persuade them that this is still trickery?’ Sherlock asked. ‘Or is it too late?’

Crowe sighed heavily and looked at Mycroft.

‘That,’ Mycroft said judiciously, ‘depends entirely upon whether we can work out how the trick with the painting was done. If we can’t explain that logically then the
explanation might just as well involve psychic phenomena.’

‘The first step – choosing the
right room – is pretty clear,’ Crowe pointed out.

Mycroft nodded. ‘Yes, you are correct. That part is childishly simple.’

Sherlock looked from his brother to his mentor and back again. ‘Do either of you want to explain it to me?’

‘Surely it is obvious?’ Mycroft stared down at his plate sadly. ‘One of the unfortunate side-effects of being struck on the head is that it does interfere
with one’s
appetite. I am not sure I can eat any more.’

‘No,’ Sherlock said patiently, ‘it’s not obvious. The slip of paper with the room number on was chosen randomly, and we know that all of the slips in the bowl had
different numbers. Quintillan couldn’t have known in advance which number was going to be chosen.’

‘That is correct,’ Mycroft said, ‘but what if I reminded you about
the apparent random numbering of the rooms along the corridor. Would that help?’

‘No.’

‘Then what if I said that I believe none of the numbers in the bowl actually appeared on any doors?’

Sherlock thought for a moment, and then the answer hit him like a bolt of lightning. ‘Of course!’

‘Then please explain to us, just to check you have the right answer.’

‘All of the rooms on
the top floor were numbered with chalk marks, with the exception of the room that Quintillan wanted to use. That was left blank. The bowl was filled with numbers
written on scraps of paper, but none of the numbers on the scraps matched any of the numbers on the doors.’

‘An easy way to do it would be to make sure that the numbers in the bowl were odd numbers and the numbers of the doors were
even numbers,’ Crowe said, ‘although Ah believe a
more sophisticated scheme was used in this case.’

‘When von Webenau chose the number and called it out, a servant outside the dining room rushed upstairs with a piece of chalk and wrote that number on the blank door that Quintillan had
already chosen.’

‘Exactly.’ Mycroft speared a mushroom with his fork. ‘Well, perhaps a few more bites.
Just to keep my strength up.’

‘But why were the numbers on the doors random?’ Crowe asked.

‘Easy. Since Quintillan didn’t know which number would be chosen, he couldn’t have the numbers sequential, because it would have been obvious that the one von Webenau chose
– the one written rapidly on the blank door – was out of sequence.’

‘Bravo,’ Mycroft said, chewing. ‘But do any of us
know how the trick with the painting was done? Sherlock – you spent more time in the room than we did. Do you not
know?’

Sherlock shrugged. ‘I didn’t see anything that might help. Someone must have gone into the room, or observed it from outside, but I don’t know how. We all inspected the chalk
in the corridor and on the roof afterwards – Quintillan insisted that we did. It was obviously
undisturbed. Nobody had walked along that corridor or along that roof after the chalk was
scattered, and we were all outside watching the window. It was impossible. I thought maybe a balloon – but I was looking and I saw nothing.’

‘I think we can eliminate the impossible explanations,’ Mycroft said. ‘Which means that we must start working our way through the improbable ones.’

That statement
stopped the conversation for a long while, as each of them tried to come up with some improbable explanations, and failed.

Lying in bed later, Sherlock felt fragments of fact, observation and supposition flying around his skull. The attack on his brother had been explained – at least, as explained as it was
going to be – and he was as certain as he could be that the performance with the
painting was just an elaborate trick, but he still hadn’t figured out how it was done. Then there were
the sightings of the Dark Beast – were they real, or just rumours, hearsay and illusions? And did the death of the servant Máire fit into it somehow – had her body been moved,
and if it had, then why? Did the moving of her body indicate that she had been murdered – and if that was so, then, again,
why
? He had too many questions and not enough answers.

He fell asleep without realizing, and drifted through dreams in which shattered mirrors reflected fragments of scenes in fractured ways, and somewhere behind it all Niamh was staring at him. Or
was it Virginia?

Sir Shadrach wasn’t present at breakfast the next morning. Ambrose Albano was, although he looked ill at ease. He kept picking
up his cutlery then putting it down again without eating
anything. Perhaps he hadn’t slept very well. He kept on looking at Silman, the butler, and she kept staring back at him. Sherlock thought there was something odd about her expression –
it seemed like she was trying to warn him about something, or warn him against doing something. Either way, it wasn’t the normal expression he would
have expected on a butler’s
face.

At the end of breakfast Silman nodded towards Albano, giving him a signal. He stood up and rapped the table for attention. Sherlock remembered the knocking on the table at the séances and
stifled a laugh.

‘Gentlemen, esteemed international colleagues, ladies,’ Albano started. ‘I am sorry to tell you that Sir Shadrach has been taken ill during the night,
and will not be available
today.’

Niamh Shadrach glanced up, concern in her eyes. Obviously she didn’t know anything about this. ‘Is father—?’

Albano raised a hand. ‘He is perfectly fine,’ he said, although there was something about his expression which meant Sherlock didn’t quite believe him. ‘He is just tired,
and needs to rest.’ He looked quickly at Silman, and then away again.
‘The auction will proceed as planned, after lunch. It will take the servants a while to set up the room. Instead of
Sir Shadrach conducting the auction, I will be conducting it myself, with the aid of Silman. I trust that will be acceptable.’

There was a general murmur of assent around the table. Niamh got up and rushed towards the door, but Albano called after her. ‘Miss Quintillan – your
father is asleep. Please do not
disturb him.’

‘Please convey our regards to Sir Shadrach,’ Mycroft said, ‘and wish him a speedy recovery.’

‘We all wish him that,’ Albano said quietly.

After breakfast, Sherlock went wandering. He headed for the library, with some vague idea of continuing to look for secret passages, but was surprised to find that Ambrose Albano had got there
first.
He was sitting at a long table reading a book. His jacket was slung across the back of his chair.

Albano stared at Sherlock. ‘Have you come to discredit me some more?’ he asked, but he seemed amused rather than angry.

‘No,’ Sherlock said. ‘Actually, I didn’t know you were here at all, but now that I know you are, may I ask you some questions about magic? You obviously have a
considerable
amount of skill.’

‘I did spend some time on stage as a magician,’ he admitted, ‘although that was under another name, and before I had my accident and discovered that I could communicate with
the dead.’ He tilted his head on one side and stared at Sherlock. ‘How exactly did you see through my tricks at the séances?’ he asked. ‘Everyone else was convinced,
or on the way to being convinced.’

‘You might even have convinced me, if I hadn’t searched your rooms and found the evidence of how you had performed the tricks beneath the bed.’

‘I should be angry,’ Albano murmured, ‘but I haven’t the energy. Besides, it would be petty of me. After all, I searched everybody else’s room, looking for things
that I could use in my performance. I found a letter from Herr Holtzbrinck’s brother
that he keeps with him. I can hardly complain if my own rooms are searched.’

‘So what can you tell me about magic tricks?’ Sherlock asked, trying not to think about the psychic poking around in his room.

Albano smiled to himself. He stood up. ‘It’s all to do with misdirection,’ he said. ‘For instance –’ he tugged at his right shirtsleeve with his left hand,
pulling it up to display his
right wrist, while he held his right hand up with the fingers held apart – ‘as you can see, there is nothing hidden in my right hand or up my right sleeve,
and –’ he did the same with the other arm, pulling the left sleeve up to expose his left wrist and splaying out the fingers of his left hand – ‘neither is there anything
hidden in my left hand or up my left sleeve. Do you agree?’

‘I
agree,’ Sherlock said, knowing that a trick was coming but unsure from which direction.

Albano shook his head. ‘Then you weren’t watching carefully enough.’ He brought the fingers of his right hand and left hand together until they touched and then moved them
apart again. He was suddenly holding a banknote between his fingertips. ‘So where did this come from?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sherlock
said honestly. ‘It wasn’t up your sleeves, or in your hands. It must have been hidden somewhere else.’

‘Of course it was.’ Albano smiled. ‘Watch again.’

He folded the banknote in two, rolled it up carefully into a thin tube, pulled his right and left sleeves back down to cover his wrists again, and then carefully tucked the rolled banknote into
a fold of his left sleeve that was located
in the crook of his elbow. He stopped it from falling out by keeping his left arm bent, but he held his left hand with his right in front of him to make
the position look natural. ‘Now, can we agree that there is nothing hidden in my right hand?’ he said, pulling his right sleeve up again, as before.