Young Sherlock Holmes: Knife Edge (7 page)

‘Yet they still turn up to séances, write messages on bits of slate and move tables around?’

‘Hey,’ she said, raising her hands defensively, ‘I’m not
claiming to be an expert. I’m just relaying what I’ve heard.’ Her face suddenly became more
serious. ‘Besides, if we’re talking about supernatural entities, there’s other things I’d worry about before I worry about the spirits of the dead.’

Sherlock was intrigued. ‘And what’s on top of the list?’

‘How about the Dark Beast?’ she said.

He smiled uncertainly. ‘What’s the Dark Beast?’

‘It’s some kind of sea creature that can come up on to the land and carry off sheep and cattle. Sometimes it even kills people. The smugglers who used to smuggle contraband up and
down this coast, many years ago, were terrified of it – more terrified than they were of the revenue men.’

‘Oh really?’

She just stared back at him with no trace of a smile. ‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘I’ve
seen it.’

‘You are serious, aren’t you?’ Sherlock asked Niamh. ‘About the Beast, I mean.’

It was two hours later, and they were sitting next to one another at dinner. Just after Niamh had mentioned the Dark Beast, Mrs Silman had appeared in the hall and declared that she would take
Sherlock and Mycroft to their rooms. Sherlock had smiled at Niamh, and shrugged, then gone to fetch
his brother.

Their rooms were on the second floor of the Castle, and they had used the ascending room to get there. As Sherlock was pressed into a corner of the ascending room by his brother’s bulk he
noticed that there was a wooden panel beside the door with five buttons on it. His mind quickly made connections – five buttons, but only four floors – the ground floor and three upper
floors.
Four of the buttons were marked ‘G’, ‘1’, ‘2’ and ‘3’. The fifth button was unmarked.

‘What’s the fifth button for?’ he asked Mrs Silman, who was operating the ascending room. ‘Is there an extra floor at the top of the castle?’

‘No,’ she said, pressing the button marked ‘2’. ‘It’s an alarm button, in the unlikely event that there is a mechanical malfunction and anyone finds
themselves
trapped.’

‘Wouldn’t it be wiser to mark the button “Alarm”?’ he asked.

‘We wouldn’t want anyone to be worried by the possibility of a malfunction.’

The ascending room had shuddered into life, and sedately began to raise them up the inside of the hall. Sherlock looked out and down, and saw Niamh Quintillan staring up after him. She waved,
and he waved back.

Their rooms were only
a little way from the hall, and there was a connecting door between them. Sherlock’s luggage – only bought that afternoon – had already been unpacked, and
a bath had been drawn for him. While he waited for it to cool, he walked over to the window and opened it. A warm breeze blew in. Based admittedly on a small sample of evidence, the weather in
Ireland seemed very changeable, Sherlock observed.
He made a mental note to keep an eye on it. The sun had gone down, but there was a nearly full moon in the sky, and by its light he could see past
the edge of the cliff and out to the ocean. The breeze bore the crash of surf breaking on rocks to his ears. Moonlight glinted off the waves, turning it into a magical scene. It had been a long
time since he had been able to look down on waves
from this height – for the past year or two he had been much closer.

Eventually he pulled the curtain closed, undressed and slid into the bath. The water was still hot, and he found that he was disconcerted by it. Given that he had spent well over a year
surrounded by water that had ranged between cold and warm, the idea of
hot
water was . . . odd.

After getting out of the bath he had
dressed in his new evening wear, and had discovered to his surprise that he still remembered how to tie a bow tie. A gong had rung just as he was finishing
off the bow, and he had left his room to find Mycroft standing in the corridor.

‘Yes,’ his brother had said, gazing critically at him. ‘You will do. Come on, then.’

The dining room had been cleared of the snacks from earlier, and
the table set for a formal dinner. Sir Shadrach Quintillan was at the head of the table, with Mycroft Holmes to his right and
Count Shuvalov to his left. Sherlock had recognized the Count straight away – he still wore an ornate military uniform, his grey hair was still cropped close to his skull, and his moustache
still turned up at the ends. He acknowledged Sherlock’s presence with a slight nod.
Another man in military uniform – a burly man with close-cropped hair and a dark shadow on his cheeks
and chin where he needed to shave – was presumably the manservant that Sir Shadrach had referred to. He stood behind Shuvalov, staring at the far wall, ready in case his master wanted
anything.

Von Webenau and Herr Holtzbrinck were seated next to Mycroft and Shuvalov respectively. Castle
servants stood behind them, ready to serve as required. Sherlock was next to von Webenau, although
the Austrian ignored him, spending his time turned towards Quintillan. The seat opposite Sherlock was empty, reserved presumably for the missing American delegate, and Niamh Quintillan sat at the
opposite end of the table from her father.

‘I’m very serious,’ she replied to Sherlock’s question
as the footwomen served soup to everyone. ‘There is a monster.’

‘And you have seen it?’

‘I have.’

‘For real – not in a dream or in a vision?’

‘For real,’ she confirmed.

Sherlock took a sip of his soup. It looked and tasted like a thick, rich gravy. ‘What kind of soup is this?’ he asked.

‘Turtle,’ Niamh said simply, and took a sip herself.

‘Oh. Right.’ He took another
sip. It was actually very pleasant. ‘
Real
turtle?’

‘Oh yes. Snapping turtle, if you want to be precise. Father has them imported.’

‘How very cosmopolitan.’ He paused. ‘So, tell me about the Dark Beast.’

She glanced at him. ‘You’re not going to think I’m stupid, are you? For believing in a monster?’

‘I know you’re not stupid, but I have a hard time believing in monsters.’ He thought
for a moment. ‘Well, inhuman ones, anyway. Where did you see this thing?’

‘Down by the beach. I go there a lot.’

‘By yourself?’

‘Of course.’ She stared at him challengingly. ‘Who else is there to go with?’

‘I don’t know. I’m a stranger here myself. Is there a path down to the beach?’

‘Not one you can walk down easily. There are sections where you have to scramble down some
steep areas of rock, and if you lose your footing you’ll fall all the way down.
There’s one right by the castle. I climb like a mountain goat.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘What about you?’

Sherlock remembered the endless number of times that he’d had to climb the rigging of the
Gloria Scott
to the top of one of the masts. ‘I can manage,’ he said.

‘I was down there one evening. I’d sneaked
out of the castle. I just wanted to see the sea by moonlight. I used to do that a lot back on Barbuda – sit on the sand watching the
waves coming in. Anyway, I’d been there for a while when I heard something moving. I thought it might be a wild boar, or something, so I turned my head and looked behind me, towards the
cliff.’ She looked down at the tablecloth, but her eyes were unfocused and
Sherlock knew that she was staring backwards in time, seeing again what she had seen then. ‘There are a lot of
caves in the cliffs, worn by the waves. The smugglers used to use them to hide things. Coming out of one of the caves I saw . . . a
thing
. It was as big as a bear, but . . .’ Her
gaze flicked up at Sherlock for a moment, gauging his reaction, and then back to the tablecloth again.
‘But it had more arms and legs than a bear.’

‘How many arms and legs did it have?’ Sherlock asked in a low voice.

‘It was difficult to tell in the darkness. The moon was low in the sky, behind the cliffs, and the monster was walking in shadows.’

‘Where did it go?’

‘It lumbered along the beach for a while, and then went into another cave. I just sat there, motionless, hoping that
it thought I was just a piece of driftwood or something.’

‘Very wise.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You know how that story sounds, don’t you?’

‘It sounds like a dream, but I wasn’t dreaming. Look, I can prove it!’

‘How?’

‘Because the people in the town talk about the Beast as well. The fishermen all know about it. Any time one of their nets gets ripped, they say that it’s the Dark
Beast. I talked to
one of the servants here in the castle who said she saw it once, at night, walking around the outside of the moat.’

‘That’s hardly proof,’ Sherlock pointed out.

‘But it means I’m not the only person who has seen it.’

‘How far back do these stories go?’

She thought for a moment. ‘Apparently there have been stories of the Dark Beast for hundreds of years, but
there have been a lot more sightings recently. Maybe it’s been asleep for a
while. Or maybe something happened to make it leave its natural habitat.’

‘Or maybe everyone is just imagining it, and talking about it makes it more likely that someone will see a shadow moving and make it into a monster.’

‘I knew you wouldn’t believe me,’ she snapped, and turned her attention back to the soup.

After a few minutes the servants took the soup bowls away and replaced them with plates piled high with slices of venison. Steaming dishes of vegetables were brought to the table, and the guests
filled their plates.

‘I’m sorry,’ Sherlock said eventually, after several mouthfuls of the tender venison. ‘I only believe what I can see with my own eyes.’

‘You can’t see the wind,’ she pointed
out, ‘or the heat of the sun.’

He sighed. ‘No, but I can see their effects.’

‘And you can see the effect of the Dark Beast. It scared me. It scares the local townspeople and the fishermen as well.’

‘I’m not going to win this argument, am I?’

‘No,’ she said with finality. ‘You’re not.’

Sherlock knew that pursuing the conversation would be pointless, but he couldn’t help himself.
He was just about to say something else when a ringing noise from the head of the table cut
through the sound of conversation. Quintillan was rapping his wine glass with his knife.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said in his rich, dark voice. ‘Thank you so much for being here this evening. Given the shape of the table there are only two places that I can directly
interact with –’ he nodded at Mycroft
Holmes and Count Shuvalov – ‘but please believe that this does not indicate any preferential treatment. The seating arrangements will
be changed at each meal. I will have had the pleasure of talking directly to all of you by the time we have concluded our business.’ He paused, and looked around at all the people seated at
the table. ‘I can also only apologize for the absence of our American friend.
I am assured he will be here tomorrow. Nevertheless, I have no intention of delaying matters waiting for him to
arrive. We are on schedule, and we will remain on schedule. If he misses tonight’s events then it is unfortunate, but he, not you, will be the one disadvantaged.’

Herr Holtzbrinck and von Webenau nodded their appreciation.

‘I am sure you will have noticed,’ Quintillan went
on, ‘that Mr Albano is not present at dinner tonight. When he knows that he has to communicate with the astral plane, he does
not partake of any refreshment. He finds that it interferes with his ability to communicate with the spirits of the dead. Mr Albano is currently in his rooms, preparing for tonight’s
séance – relaxing, meditating and summoning his mental powers. The intention of this séance
tonight is to give you some indication of the scope and scale of Mr Albano’s
abilities. I would urge you to pay careful attention to what happens, but not to try to interfere. The spirits are sometimes agitated and excess noise or confusion can make them angry. Please, for
your own sakes, stay calm and quiet whilst the séance is taking place.

‘I will not be asking any of you to make any
financial commitments tonight,’ Quintillan went on. ‘I merely want you to observe, and to reflect on what you have seen. Tomorrow
we will start the negotiations.’

‘He really believes all this?’ Sherlock asked Niamh as the guests returned to eating.

She nodded. ‘Yes, he does.’

‘Dessert will be served shortly,’ Quintillan continued a while later. ‘When you have finished it I suggest
we repair to the reception room for the séance. After that, I
recommend cigars and brandy.’

Sherlock couldn’t wait to see what would happen at the séance. Fortunately, everyone else at the table had the same feeling as him. Conversation died as people rushed to finish
dinner.

When everyone had finished, Mrs Silman appeared, behind Sir Shadrach Quintillan’s bath chair. She grasped the
handles, pulled him backwards and manoeuvred him away from the table.

‘Please,’ he said, ‘everyone – follow me.’

Mycroft Holmes, Count Shuvalov, von Webenau and Herr Holtzbrinck all got up and followed. Shuvalov made a gesture to his manservant, dismissing him.

Sherlock glanced at Niamh. ‘Are you coming?’ he asked.

‘I wasn’t specifically invited,’ she admitted, ‘but I’d love to
see what happens.’

Sherlock escorted Niamh in the wake of the other dinner guests. They walked across the castle hall and through an archway into a room that was dark, lit only by candlelight. Thick velvet drapes
blocked out any illumination from the windows. A table had been set up in the centre of the room, smaller than the dinner table, and circular. It was not covered by a cloth, and
around the edge
were inscribed the letters of the alphabet, along with the numbers 1 to 10 and the words ‘Yes’ and ‘No’. Six seats were arranged around the edge of the table, with a gap for
Quintillan’s bath chair.

Ambrose Albano was standing by one of the windows. He was wearing evening dress and white gloves that clashed with his black clothing. His false left eye seemed to glow in the
candlelight. He
stood facing away from the doorway, and did not acknowledge the arrival of the guests.