Young Sherlock Holmes_ Red Leech - Andrew Lane [52]
‘Do you know every book that’s in the library?’ Sherlock asked.
‘I have been with this ship ever since she launched,’ the steward replied. ‘Not only do I know every book in the library, I know every cocktail on the menu, every plank on the deck and every rivet in the hull, yes?’ He nodded his head. ‘Grivens is the name, sir. If you need anything, just ask.’
Sherlock’s gaze was drawn towards the hand that held the tray. It was tattooed from the wrist upward, disappearing into the darkness of the man’s sleeve. It looked to Sherlock like a pattern of tiny scales, coloured a delicate, gold-flecked blue that shone in the sunshine.
The same colour as Sherlock had seen on the wrist of the figure that had been observing him from the shadows the day before. Coincidence, or not?
Grivens noticed the direction of Sherlock’s gaze. ‘Is something wrong, sir?’
‘Sorry’ Sherlock thought quickly. It was obvious that he’d spotted something odd, but he had to cover for his gaffe. ‘I was just noticing your . . . your tattoo. My . . . brother . . . has one just like it.’ In his mind he formed a quick apology to Mycroft, who was the last person in the world Sherlock would expect to have a tattoo. Except perhaps for Aunt Anna.
‘Had it done in Hong Kong,’ Grivens explained. ‘Before I joined the Scotia, that was.’
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘The man who did it was a wrinkled little Chinaman in the back alleys of a marketplace in Kowloon,’ the steward continued. ‘But he’s famous among sailors all over the world. I swear there’s nobody to touch him, not anywhere else. There’s colours he uses that nobody else can even mix. Any time I see a tattoo done by him on another sailor, or if another sailor sees my tattoo, we just nod at each other, cos we know we’ve both been to that same little Chinaman. It’s like being in a club, yes?’
‘Why do so many sailors have tattoos?’ Sherlock asked. ‘As far as I can tell, every member of this crew has a tattoo of some kind, and they’re all different.’
Grivens glanced away, out to sea. ‘It’s not something we tend to talk about, sir,’ he said. ‘Especially to passengers. The thing of it is, and forgive me for being indelicate, but if there’s a shipwreck then it might take some time for the bodies of the sailors to wash ashore – that’s assuming they ever do. There have been instances where bodies couldn’t be identified, even by their closest relatives. The action of salt water, harsh weather and the fishes of the deep, if you take my meaning. But tattoos last a lot longer. A tattoo can be recognized long after a face is gone. So that’s how it started – a means of identification. Gives us some measure of comfort, knowing that after we’re gone at least our families have a fighting chance of being able to bury us properly’
‘Oh.’ Sherlock nodded. ‘That makes sense, I suppose. Thanks.’
Grivens nodded. At your service, sir. Are you going to be here for a while?’
‘Where else would I go?’
‘I’ll check back with you later, then. See if you need anything else.’
He moved away, looking for other passengers to serve, but leaving Sherlock thinking. If this was the man who had been watching him from the shadows – if he was being watched from the shadows, which was itself an assumption based on a scuffle and a movement – then why was he so concerned as to whether Sherlock would be staying there on deck? Did he want to search Sherlock’s cabin for some clue as to what Sherlock knew? Or did he intend going after Amyus Crowe and Virginia? Whatever the answer, Sherlock couldn’t stay there. He quickly got up and headed off along the deck and down the stairway to the corridor where his cabin was located.
The door to his cabin was open a crack. Was it the steward, searching it, or was it Amyus Crowe inside?
Sherlock moved closer, trying to look through the crack to see what was happening. If it was Grivens then he would go and fetch Amyus Crowe, tell