Young Sherlock Holmes_ Red Leech - Andrew Lane [51]
You heard me?’ Rufus said, smiling.
‘No, but you’ve got fresh dust on your shoulder. In my experience dust on a man’s jacket means one of three things: he’s a teacher, he plays billiards or he plays the violin. There ain’t any billiards table aboard this ship, to my knowledge, an’ I’m not aware there are enough children on this ship to make it worth while settin’ up a classroom.’
Sherlock checked the shoulder of his own jacket. Indeed, there was a fine patina of dust across it. He rubbed some between his thumb and forefinger. It was an amber-brown colour, and felt sticky.
‘This isn’t chalk,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
‘Colophone,’ Rufus explained.
‘A form of resin,’ Crowe interrupted. ‘Known as “rosin” to musicians. It’s collected from pine trees an’ then boiled an’ filtered before bein’ formed into a cake, like soap. Violinists coat their bows with it. The adhesion the resin causes between the strings and the bow is what makes the strings vibrate. Of course, the resin dries out and becomes a dust, which is deposited on the shoulder as that’s the bit of the body closest to the instrument.’ He glanced at Sherlock’s jacket, and frowned. ‘You’ve been playin’ the violin as well. No, you’ve been learnin’ the violin.’
‘Rufus – Mr Stone – has been teaching me.’
‘You don’t mind, Mr Crowe?’ Rufus asked. ‘I only offered to help us both pass the time.’
‘I never put much store in music,’ Crowe rumbled. ‘The only tune I know is your National Anthem, an’ that’s only because folks stand up when it’s played.’ He glanced at Sherlock from beneath shaggy eyebrows. ‘I was intend-in’ to continue our studies while we were on the ship, but Virginia ain’t taking too well to the voyage.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t rightly recall if I mentioned it but her mother – my wife – died on the last transatlantic voyage we made. That was from New York to Liverpool. The memory weighs heavily upon her mind. An’ on mine.’ He sighed. ‘Memory’s a funny thing. A person can slide memories of just about anythin’ to one side an’ ignore them, but sometimes the slightest thing can set them off again. Usually it’s smells an’ sounds that recall memories the best. Ginnie’s not talked about her mother for a while now, but the smell of the ocean an’ the smells of the ship have just bought it all floodin’ back.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Sherlock said. It seemed inadequate, but he couldn’t think what else to say.
‘Bad things happen to people,’ Crowe said. ‘It’s the one acknowledged truth of the human condition.’ He sighed. ‘I’m goin’ to trust you to spend time on that translation your brother gave you,’ he said. An’ I’ll try to spend an hour or two a day with you, talkin’ over what your eyes an’ ears can tell you while you’re on this here ship, but the opportunities for proper consideration are scant. The rest of the time is your own. Use it as you will.’
The rest of the meal was conducted in uncomfortable silence. As soon as it finished, Sherlock excused himself. He had a feeling that he’d somehow disappointed Amyus Crowe, and he didn’t want to add to that disappointment by going straight back to his violin lessons. Judging by the slight nod that Rufus Stone gave him as he left, the violinist understood.
He spent an hour in a chair on the deck, reading through the difficult Greek of Plato’s Republic. The process of translating from Greek to English in his head was so laborious that he hardly understood the sense of what he was reading – he could get the words right, but by the end of the sentence he’d lost track of where it had started and what it was trying to say.
He looked up at one point, wrestling with a particularly difficult transitive verb, to see a white-uniformed steward standing beside him holding a tray. It was the same man who had helped him with directions and who had served at dinner the night before.
‘Is there anything I can get for you, sir?’ the steward asked.
‘A Greek dictionary?’
The steward’s lined, tanned face didn’t change. ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘that I cannot help