Young Sherlock Holmes_ Fire Storm - Andrew Lane [93]
‘Leave him be, for the moment. He’s got spirit. I admire that in a man.’ He nodded at Crowe. ‘Stand down, Mr Crowe. I could throw all my lads at you at once, I suppose, and that would certainly be fun to watch. As you can see, we do like to watch a good fight here – watch and place bets. Problem is that you’d return a few of them damaged and I need them for other things.’
Crowe faced up to the big black-bearded man. ‘You have the advantage of me, sir. You know my name, but ah don’t believe we are acquainted.’
The man stood up. He was even taller than Sherlock had thought, and his chest was as wide as a beer barrel.
‘My name is Gahan Macfarlane of the Clan Macfarlane, and I have a wee business proposition to put to you.’
Something about the name ‘Macfarlane’ struck a chord in Sherlock’s mind. He’d heard that name recently. But where?
Crowe smiled, but there was little humour in his expression. ‘You don’t strike me as a businessman,’ he replied. ‘More like a bully an’ a criminal.’
Macfarlane smiled back. ‘Strong words from a man who’s outnumbered. There are many kinds of business, my friend, and many kinds of businessman. They don’t all wear frock coats and top hats.’
‘So which particular kind of business are you in?’
‘Oh, I have a bonny portfolio of interests.’ Macfarlane stared around at his court, and they duly laughed. ‘Let’s just say I work in insurance and have done with it.’
‘This,’ Crowe said darkly, ‘would, ah guess, be the kind of insurance where local shopkeepers pay you a certain amount every week to ensure they don’t have . . . accidents.’
‘That’s correct,’ Macfarlane acknowledged. ‘And you would be surprised how often those shopkeepers have accidents very shortly after they decide they can’t afford my particular kind of insurance any more. It’s a dangerous world out there. Shops catch fire all the time, and shopkeepers get beaten up by roving gangs of roughs for no reason at all. As I see it, I’m providing a public service by protecting them from these perils.’
Crowe turned to Sherlock. ‘Extortion,’ he said simply. ‘Innocent struggling shopkeepers paying money to stop this man from sending his thugs in to destroy their stock, beat them up and set fire to their premises. It’s an ugly way to make a living.’
Macfarlane shrugged. ‘It’s nature, red in tooth and claw,’ he said. ‘Every animal has something that it’s scared of, something that can kill and eat it. It’s no different here in Edinburgh. The locals avoid paying their taxes to the Government whenever they get a chance. The shopkeepers sell beer and bread to the locals, but they water down the beer and adulterate their bread with sawdust to save some flour. I come along and take my own cut from the shopkeepers. It’s the chain of life, my friend.’ He smiled. ‘They call us the Black Reavers,’ he said proudly. ‘And we’re known and feared from here to Glasgow!’
The name was familiar to Sherlock from the Edinburgh newspaper reports. The Black Reavers were the criminal gang that was feared so much. ‘So who are you scared of?’ he asked boldly. ‘Who takes their cut from you?’
Macfarlane moved his shaggy bearded head to look at Sherlock. ‘I’m at the top of the food chain in these parts, laddie,’ he said grimly. ‘There isn’t anyone I’m scared of.’ He glanced back at Crowe. ‘And give me my due – I don’t get involved in prostitution, or blackmail, or kidnapping, or anything like that. Nothing that affects bairns, by the by. I leave that to the lower classes of criminal. I have my standards.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe a little pickpocketing or breaking and entering every now and then. Or some of the men who work down at the docks get a little careless with the occasional crate, it smashes on the dock and some stuff gets scooped up and taken away. I don’t organize the crimes, or carry them out, but I do take a cut from the pickpockets and thieves for the privilege of being able to operate on my territory.’
‘A criminal