Young Sherlock Holmes_ Red Leech - Andrew Lane [49]
Leaving his place at the rail, Sherlock walked back towards the stern, looking for the source of the music. There was precious little entertainment on the ship as it was: anything that broke up the monotony of the day should be investigated and treasured.
Past the long single storey of the saloon, in a clear area of deck, a man stood playing the violin. It was the man he had seen the day before, when they had been leaving Southampton – the man with long black hair and green eyes. He was still wearing the same corduroy jacket and trousers, although he appeared to have changed his shirt. The violin was pressed into his neck and his head was tilted, chin holding the body of the instrument steady while his left hand fingered the neck and his right hand sawed the horsehair bow across the strings. His eyes were closed and his face bore an expression of intense concentration. Sherlock had never heard a piece of music like that before: it was wild, romantic and turbulent, not ordered and mathematical, like the pieces by Bach and Mozart that he was used to hearing in the occasional recitals at Deepdene School for Boys.
Several other passengers were gathered around the man, listening to him with quizzical smiles on their faces. Sherlock watched, and listened, as he swept to a climax, held the note, and then stopped. For a moment he kept the violin up to his chin, eyes still closed and a smile on his face, then he let it fall and opened his eyes. The crowd applauded. He bowed. His violin case was on the deck in front of him, Sherlock noticed, and some of the passengers threw some coins in before they wandered away.
After a few moments, only the violinist and Sherlock were left. The violinist bent to scoop the coins from the case, then glanced up at Sherlock.
‘Did you enjoy that, my friend?’
‘I did. If I had some money I’d give it to you.’
‘No need.’ He straightened, having left the violin and bow in the case. ‘The money supplements my fare, and offsets my expenses, and allows me a little extra for the occasional drink, but I’m not trying to make a living by playing. Not here on the ship, anyway. I do, however, have to practise, and my room-mate does not appear appreciative of anything apart from German polkas.’
‘What was that piece?’ Sherlock asked.
‘It’s a newly written violin concerto in G minor by a German composer by the name of Max Bruch. I met him in Koblenz, last year. He gave me a copy of the score. I’ve been trying to get it right ever since. I think one day it will be a part of the repertoire of every classical violinist.’
‘It sounded incredible.’
‘He uses some ideas from Felix Mendelssohn’s works, but he gilds them with a particular glint of his own.’
‘Are you a professional musician?’
He smiled; an easy, unforced grin that revealed strong white teeth. ‘Sometimes I am,’ he said. ‘I can turn my hand to many trades, but I seem to keep coming back to the violin. I’ve played in orchestras in concert halls and string quartets in high-class tea rooms, I’ve busked on the streets and accompanied singers in music halls while beer glasses fly overhead and shatter against the stage. My name, by the way, is Stone. Rufus Stone.’
‘I’m Sherlock Holmes.’ Sherlock walked over and extended his hand. Rufus Stone took it, and they shook for a few moments. Stone’s hand was firm and strong. ‘Is that why you’re going to America?’ Sherlock continued. ‘To play the violin?’
‘Opportunities are drying up in England,’ Stone replied. ‘I was hoping that the New World might have some use for me, especially after the cream of their manhood was cut down in the War Between the States.’ His gaze flickered up and down Sherlock’s frame. ‘You have the build of a good violin player. Your posture is upright, and your fingers are long. Do you play?’
Sherlock shook his head. ‘I don’t play any instrument,’ he admitted.
‘You should. All the girls love a musician.’ He tilted his head to