Young Sherlock Holmes_ Fire Storm - Andrew Lane [50]
‘In that case,’ Matty muttered, just loud enough to hear, ‘I would have taken a different train.’
Rufus glared at him. ‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘your musical tastes run just as far as a tin whistle and a rattle, and no further.’
‘Don’t knock tin whistles.’ Matty shook his head. ‘There’s plenty of good tunes come out of a tin whistle. That and a rattle is enough to dance to, and dancing’s what music’s all about.’ He glanced truculently at Stone. ‘Ain’t it?’
Stone just shook his head in mock sadness and kept quiet.
‘Actually,’ Sherlock said, ‘I wanted to talk a bit more about the theatre – about make-up and disguises, and things like that.’
Stone nodded. ‘I can happily do that. I love reminiscing about the times I’ve trodden the boards myself, carrying a spear in the back of someone else’s big scene, or played in the orchestra pit while the actors were on stage showing their craft.’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘You seem to have a strong liking for the art and craft of acting. What’s brought this on, may I ask?’
Sherlock shrugged, uneasy at talking about his own hopes and likings. ‘I suppose I just find it interesting,’ he said. Stone kept looking at him expectantly, and to break the silence Sherlock added testily, ‘If you really have to know, it goes back to Moscow, and that cafe we were in. I was sitting there with seven or eight people with whom I’d spent the past three days, and I didn’t recognize them. Not one of them.’ He felt his cheeks burning with a sudden rush of emotion that seemed to be a curdled mixture of embarrassment and anger. He hadn’t realized until he’d said the words how much that incident had bothered him. ‘I’m meant to be a good observer,’ he continued. ‘Amyus Crowe always says that I’ve got a talent for picking up on small details, and yet they fooled me. They fooled me!’
‘They were better than you,’ Stone said calmly. ‘There’s no shame in that. I’m not the best violinist in the world. I never will be the best violinist in the world. But I’m good, and I’m getting better.’
‘I want to be the best,’ Sherlock said quietly. ‘I want to be the best violinist, and the best animal tracker, and the best at disguising myself. If I can’t be the best, then what’s the point of even trying?’
‘You’re going to find life very disappointing, my friend.’ Stone shook his head. ‘Very disappointing indeed.’
There was a tense silence in the carriage for a while, and then Rufus Stone, seemingly apologetic, broke it by telling Sherlock stories of his time working in the theatre, and of particular actors who could inhabit a part so well that they seemed to submerge their own personality in the performance. ‘The thing is,’ Stone said, ‘that if you don’t believe that you are an old man, or a woman, or a tramp, then how can you expect anyone else to believe you? Looking the part is just the surface; being the part is the true disguise.’
‘But how do I do that?’ Sherlock asked.
‘If you’re pretending to be sad, try and remember something in your life that made you cry. If you’re meant to be happy, remember something that made you laugh. If you’re meant to be a beggar, then remember being hungry and dirty and tired – if you can.’ He smiled slyly. ‘If you’re pretending to be in love, remember the face of someone you care for. That way your face and your body will naturally fall into the right shapes, without your having to exaggerate for effect. Oh, and always trade on people’s inattention.’
Sherlock frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that people usually see only what they expect to see. They don’t look in detail at every person on the street.’ He closed his eyes for a moment and ran a hand through his hair. ‘How do I put this? It’s like a theatrical backcloth. If you want the audience to believe that a play is set in China, you don’t spend weeks painting a detailed backcloth showing a Chinese palace or a village so realistic that people think they’re actually