Young Sherlock Holmes_ Fire Storm - Andrew Lane [92]
Ahead of him was a dais, and on the dais was a chair. It looked like it had been hewn by hand from a massive tree trunk. Sitting on the chair, lounging on it, as if he was a king in the centre of his court, was a man who was as big as Amyus Crowe, but where Amyus Crowe was usually a symphony in white – white hair, white clothes, white hat – this man was a concerto in black. His mane of hair, wild eyebrows and unkempt beard were the colour of night. The checked jacket and the kilt he wore were mostly black as well, with occasional lines of red or white. Like Crowe he must have been in his late fifties or early sixties, but like Crowe he looked as if he could beat several younger men at a time in a fight.
Several men stood behind him. They looked like boxers, or wrestlers – heavily muscled, with flattened noses and thickened, misshapen ears. They too were wearing jackets and kilts of the same black-checked cloth. Clan tartan – wasn’t that what Matty had said it was called? Did that indicate they were all part of the same clan?
The man in the chair gazed down at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.
‘So,’ he said in a Scottish brogue so thick that Sherlock could have cut it with a cake knife, ‘this is the other bairn the Yankees are looking for.’ He raised a hand and gestured to one of the men behind him. ‘Bring the youngster’s friends here. Let’s have a little family reunion before the inevitable and tragic separation.’
The man nodded and walked off through an arched doorway. While they waited, Sherlock took the opportunity to look around. Gathered on either side of the dais was a mixed group of people who were staring either at Sherlock or at the man in the chair. There were men, women and some children, but they all had the look of people who survived by their wits – hard, watchful eyes, and skin that had seen a lot of sun and rain. They weren’t dressed in tartan. Instead their clothes were a mixture of the patched and the threadbare. Where Sherlock saw a jacket and a pair of trousers that actually matched he guessed it was either by accident or because they’d been stolen together. Among the rabble that clustered around the dais, Sherlock noticed several of the white-faced, skeletal figures. The rest of the crowd didn’t seem to mind their presence – unlike the people in the tavern. They were fully integrated, not avoided, chatting with their companions. They weren’t acting in the distant, corpse-like manner Sherlock had noticed before. He didn’t know why they were dressed the way they were, but there had to be a reason for it.
A ripple of interest ran through the crowd, and they turned towards the archway. Seconds later, Crowe, Virginia, Rufus Stone and Matty were pushed through. They glanced around, orienting themselves. Seeing Sherlock in the centre of the room, Crowe headed over towards him.
‘Son,’ Crowe nodded as Sherlock climbed to his feet.
‘Ah worked out when ah saw they’d taken Ginnie that they’d gotten you as well.’
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t protect her,’ Sherlock apologized.
Crowe shook his massive head. ‘Ain’t nothin’ you could’ve done,’ he said. ‘These folk are organized. They took us at the top of the cliff an’ brought us here.’
Sherlock frowned. ‘I’m guessing they’re not Bryce Scobell’s men,’ he said. ‘They look more like locals, like Scotsmen.’
Crowe nodded. ‘Ah suspect they’re a local criminal gang based around Edinburgh. We seem to have fallen into their hands, though ah ain’t quite sure why or what they want.’
The man who had been sent out to get them stepped towards Crowe. ‘Nae talkin’,’ he growled, and reached out as if to cuff Crowe around the ear. Crowe calmly caught his hand and bent it backwards until the man screamed and dropped to his knees.
‘Ah don’t much like bein’ manhandled,’ he said quietly, ‘an’ there’s been a whole load of that already. Grateful if you could stop.’
The man on the ground