Young Sherlock Holmes_ Red Leech - Andrew Lane [42]
He reached into a pocket, and withdrew a small book. Handing it to Sherlock, he said: ‘You will need something to pass the time. This is a copy of The Republic, by the Greek philosopher Plato. It takes the form of a dramatized set of dialogues between Plato’s mentor Socrates and various other Athenians and foreigners in which they discuss the meaning of justice, and examine whether or not the just man is happier than the unjust man. Plato also uses the dialogues to propose a society ruled by philosopher-kings, as well as discussing the roles of the philosopher and the poet in society. The Republic is one of the most influential works of philosophy and political theory, and I commend its study to you.’
‘Is it translated?’ Sherlock asked dubiously.
‘Of course not,’ Mycroft said, taken aback. ‘I know how fast you read. If it was translated, you would finish it in an afternoon. If you have to translate as you are going along then I have some confidence that the majority of the voyage will have passed by before you have completed it. Besides which, translations are always at the mercy of the skill of the translator. If you want to read and understand something properly that is in a foreign language, you need to learn that language.’ He hesitated. ‘Knowing your love of the grotesque and the criminal, I would point out that although Plato succumbed to old age, his mentor Socrates died when he was forced to drink poison by the Greek authorities. I do not know if that will help you in reading the book, but knowing your penchant for the melodramatic I give the knowledge to you as a gift to do with as you wish.’
‘I’ll see you again,’ Sherlock said, feeling an unaccustomed choking sensation in his throat. He didn’t know if he meant it as a statement of fact or a question, but Mycroft looked away for a moment, his eyes glistening.
‘Sherlock,’ he said, ‘I will never have children – I am too accustomed to my own ways, and too intolerant of change to set up in a household of others – but if I ever had a son I could love him no more than I love you. Take care of yourself. Take great care.’
And then, in a rush, they boarded, up a long gangplank that led up from the dock to the deck. At the top their tickets were checked, and they were escorted down wooden stairs and along windowless corridors inside the ship to their rooms – going first to Virginia’s room, where her companion had not yet arrived but where Virginia’s luggage was waiting – and then to the room that Sherlock and Amyus Crowe were to share. The rooms were small and panelled in wood – about nine feet across, with two bunk beds on one side and a comfortable sofa across from them. Each end of the cabin had a washbasin and a mirror. Above the sofa a round window let in light and air, but Sherlock noticed with some trepidation that it could be shut and screwed tight. Was that in case of storms? And if so, how often did storms occur? And how would they get proper ventilation if the storm lasted for more than a few hours?
Amyus Crowe investigated the bunk beds. ‘Best if I take the bottom and you take the top,’ he growled. ‘If I fall out in rough seas, I’d prefer to have less far to fall. An’ remember – I’m a deal heavier than you.’
Remembering what he’d thought about the window, and possible storms, Sherlock noticed that both bunks had a wooden lip running along the side of the mattress and extending above it, presumably to stop people rolling over in their sleep and falling out on to the floor, but he could imagine that if the waves were rough enough then people could just be rattled back and forth in their bunks like marbles in a biscuit tin.
‘Not sure about these mattresses,’ Crowe said disparagingly, testing their thinness. To Sherlock they looked thicker than his mattress back at Holmes Manor, but he discreetly said nothing.
With the knowledge that their luggage was safely aboard, they returned to the main deck to watch the preparations for departure. The gangplank was being pulled up as they