Young Sherlock Holmes_ Fire Storm - Andrew Lane [97]
‘I’m suitably impressed,’ Macfarlane admitted. ‘You seem to have your wits about you, which is more than I can say for the coppers investigating the murder of which my sister is accused. All right then – I’ll take you up on your offer. Have to tell you, though, that you haven’t got long. It’s –’ he checked his watch – ‘nine o’clock now, give or take. A meeting’s been arranged with the men who want your American friends here for two o’clock this afternoon. You’ve got five hours, no more and no less.’
Sherlock glanced at Amyus Crowe, then at Virginia’s white face, then at Matty. Matty gave him a smile and a thumbs-up.
‘If that’s all I’ve got, then that’s how long it will take,’ he said grimly, hoping he could live up to the boast.
Macfarlane gestured to one of his men. ‘Dunlow, you know the lie of the land. Get a carriage out front right away. You and Brough go with the kid. Take him to the big house first. If he tries to make a run for it, go and find him. Whatever happens, get him back here for two o’clock. Understand?’
The men nodded.
‘The butler at Sir Benedict Ventham’s house is a . . . client of mine,’ Macfarlane told Sherlock. ‘Tell him you’re working for me and he’ll let you in to look around, although I can’t think what you’ll find now.’
‘Neither can I,’ Sherlock murmured. He went to leave with Macfarlane’s man, Brough, but turned back to smile at Virginia. ‘I’ll come back for you,’ he said.
‘I know you will,’ she replied.
Brough was a thin man in his thirties with a scattering of freckles across a bald head. His lips were twisted in a sneer, as if he could smell something unpleasant. He accompanied Sherlock back through the rooms he’d been carried through before. Whatever was in the pit was snuffling around behind the fence on the far side as they passed, but in the next room the two men were still fighting, trading blows slowly while standing close together, not moving anything apart from their arms. They looked exhausted, and their faces were swollen and covered with blood. The dog fight had ended, and the crowd who had been gathered around it were dispersing. Money was still changing hands.
They headed towards the door to the outside, emerging into a weak, watery sunlight that was filtering through rain-heavy clouds. Sherlock turned around to look at the building they had left. Based on the flagstones, the tapestries, the animal heads and the flaming torches, he was expecting an old manor house at the very least, perhaps even a castle, but he was amazed to see that it was just a large and anonymous wooden warehouse set among other warehouses. The area looked deserted. It was probably located somewhere near the docks where those men worked. From the outside the building looked like somewhere that sacks of grain would be stored, not the central base for a criminal gang. More disguise, he supposed. Anything could be made to look like anything else, if you took enough trouble over it.
Dunlow was already waiting outside. He was older than Brough, shorter and wider, but he gave the impression that his bulk was largely muscle rather than fat. The two men led Sherlock to a black carriage.
Half an hour later they drew up outside a building made of grey stone and with a long roof of black slate tiles. The windows were barred. A carving in the stone above the door read Edinburgh and Lothian Police.
‘This is where the boss’s sister is being kept,’ Dunlow said. His voice sounded like stones grinding together. He looked uncomfortable at being so close to a police station.