Snake Bite Read online

  Dedicated to Mike Elliott, Keith Garland, Derek Rothwell, Angus Martin, Lynn Martinez (or Lynn Furby, as she was then), Paula Fountain and (most especially) Sonia Morrish – the people who helped me survive the years 1982 to 1985 with some modicum of sanity. Thanks for being there.

  Dedicated also to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Guy Ritchie, for keeping the legend alive on the big and small screens.

  And with grateful acknowledgements to the skill and diplomacy of Sally Oliphant, who has worked above and beyond the call of duty to keep me sane and focused through bad times, and Polly Nolan, who managed to cut 12,000 words out of my first draft (including several hundred needless uses of the word ‘just’) and improved it immeasurably.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  PROLOGUE

  The corridors and rooms of the Diogenes Club are, perhaps, the quietest places in the whole of London. Nobody who enters is allowed to speak – except within the Strangers’ Room, and only then when the door is firmly closed. The staff who work there – the footmen and the waiters – have padded cloth attached to the soles of their shoes so that they can move silently, and the newspapers which the club members read are printed specially for the Diogenes on a paper that does not rustle when it is folded. Any member who clears his throat or blows his nose more than three times in a month is given a written warning. Three written warnings lead to expulsion from the club.

  The members of the Diogenes Club value their silence.

  When Amyus Crowe pushed past the footman in the lobby and strode through the club’s maze of corridors and reading rooms to where Mycroft Holmes waited for him, he didn’t say a word, but there was something about him that made everyone look up in disapproval, and then look away suddenly when he met their gaze. Although he was silent, although his clothes barely whispered as he moved, although the leather soles of his boots made little more than a scuffing noise against the floor tiles, he appeared to radiate an energy that crackled fiercely and loudly. He seemed to be broadcasting audible fury from every pore in his body.

  He slammed the door of the Strangers’ Room behind him so hard that even the special pneumatic hinges failed to stop the bang!

  ‘What have you heard?’ he demanded.

  Mycroft Holmes was standing to one side of the main table. He winced.

  ‘My agents have confirmed that Sherlock was kidnapped in Farnham and transported in a drugged state to London. There he was loaded on to a ship named the Gloria Scott.’

  ‘An’ what you are doin’ about rescuing your brother and my student?’

  ‘I am doing all I can,’ Mycroft said. ‘Which is not very much, I am afraid. The ship has sailed for China. I am attempting to track down a manifest so that I can anticipate when and where the ship will dock for supplies along the way, but that is proving problematic. The ship’s voyages are organized at the behest of its captain, who is notoriously eccentric, according to my agents. His starting and finishing points are fixed – London and Shanghai – but he might stop anywhere in between.’

  ‘An’ –’ Crowe paused – ‘and you are sure that Sherlock is alive?’

  ‘Why drug and kidnap him if the intention is to kill him? Why go to the trouble of transporting him to a ship when he could just be buried in the woods somewhere? No, logic tells me that he is still alive.’

  ‘Then what is the point of taking him?’

  Mycroft paused for a moment. His face grew, if anything, more serious. ‘The answer to that question depends on who it was that took him.’

  ‘Ah think we both know the answer to that,’ Crowe growled.

  Mycroft nodded. ‘Reluctant as I am to come to conclusions in the absence of evidence, I cannot think of any other possibility. The Paradol Chamber have him.’

  ‘There is some evidence,’ Crowe pointed out. ‘On his way up to Edinburgh he swore he saw that man Kyte, who turned out to be an agent of the Paradol Chamber, on a station platform at Newcastle. He mentioned it to Rufus Stone, an’ Stone mentioned it to me. We both suspected that the Paradol Chamber were keeping an eye on him, but we didn’t think they’d actually take any action.’

  Mycroft nodded again. ‘And that explains your anger, which is not directed at me but at yourself. You are angry that you did not anticipate the danger that Sherlock was in.’

  Crowe glanced away from Mycroft, his eyes glaring from beneath bushy white eyebrows. ‘You said that if we knew who’d taken him then we’d know why he was taken. So – we know it’s the Paradol Chamber. What do they want?’

  ‘The Paradol Chamber are – forgive me, would you care for a small dry sherry? No? Well, you don’t mind if I help myself then? Yes, as you already know, the Paradol Chamber are a group of politically motivated agitators who wish to change governments in order to achieve their own ends, which I presume are to make a great deal of money from dealing in stocks and shares and from armament sales, among other things. I have heard them described as being like a small nation without boundaries, territory or a capital city, which seems as good a description as any. In my limited experience they rarely have one reason for doing anything. Any action of theirs is predicated on that action helping them to progress on a series of fronts. If I were to venture a guess . . .’ He broke off, and shook his large head. ‘A pastime I find most abhorrent, by the way. But yes, if I were to venture a guess, then I would suggest that their reasons for abducting Sherlock are, firstly to punish him for his involvement in stopping several of their plots, secondly to prevent him from stopping any more of their plots, and thirdly to throw you and me into a state of confusion which would hamper our efforts to find out what their other plots actually are.’

  ‘But they didn’t kill him,’ Crowe pointed out. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Killing Sherlock would have punished him for a few seconds, after which he would not care one way or the other what they did. Being stuck on a ship, separated from his friends, his family and any possibility of a decent meal – no, that kind of torture lasts for a long while, at no cost to them. And rather than hampering our efforts in discovering their plots, they must know enough about you and me to know that if Sherlock were to die then we would spend every waking moment and every guinea we could lay our hands on in tracking them down and bringing them to justice.’

  ‘Or metin’ out some justice of our own,’ Crowe rumbled. ‘The kind of justice that comes out of the barrel of a gun.’

  ‘For once,’ Mycroft conceded quietly, ‘I might just agree with you on that one.’

  ‘Can’t you send a Royal Navy ship to intercept this Gloria Scott?’

  Mycroft shook his head. ‘I do not have the authority to dispatch a vessel for one boy, even if that boy is my brother. Even if I did, I would not. Those ships have more important duties, guarding our coasts against attack and enforcing the will of the Queen abroad. Against that, the life of one child weighs as nothing.’ He sighed, and clenched a fist helplessly. ‘All of this discussion leaves us better informed but no better off. We cannot help Sherlock. He is on his own.’

  ‘Sherlock on his own has better resources at his disposal than most people surrounded by friends and family.’ Crowe’s tone was calmer now, and the fierce energy that had appeared to radiate from his body had abated somewhat. ‘He’s brave, he’s strong and he knows his own mind. Oh, and he
’s handy with his fists as well. Ah think he’ll work out that he’s got to make the best of it. He knows that the ship is comin’ back to London, eventually, an’ that gives him a guarantee of returnin’ that he doesn’t get if he tries to jump ship in mid-voyage and find a ship comin’ in the opposite direction. The Captain will be short-handed, because captains always are, and so he’ll set the youngster to work. It’ll be hard work, but he’ll come through it. An’ he’ll probably come through it stronger an’ more self-reliant as well.’

  ‘Hardly the kind of torture that the Paradol Chamber were thinking of,’ Mycroft pointed out drily.

  Crowe smiled. ‘The people in charge of the Paradol Chamber, as far as ah can tell, live comfortable lives with servants tendin’ to their every whim. For them, splicin’ a mainbrace or haulin’ anchor would be torture. For young Sherlock it’ll be an adventure – if he chooses to make it so.’

  ‘I hope so. I really do hope so.’

  ‘Ah think ah’ll take advantage of that sherry now,’ Crowe said. ‘God knows ah can’t see the appeal of it mahself, but ah do feel in the need of some strong liquor.’

  Mycroft busied himself with pouring a glass for Crowe from the decanter on the sideboard.

  ‘I will write letters,’ he said as he handed the glass across. It was almost lost in Crowe’s enormous and weather-beaten hand. ‘They can be transmitted by telegraph to various ports along his route. I can ensure that diplomatic staffs are on the lookout for the Gloria Scott. They can pass on our messages and report on how he is. He can write to us. There will be ships at every port he stops at which are heading to England. They can bring letters back.’

  ‘He’ll only be gone for a year or so,’ Crowe pointed out. ‘Maybe less, wind an’ weather permittin’. You’ll see him again.’

  Mycroft nodded. ‘I know. I just . . . I feel so responsible. So helpless.’ He took a deep breath, steadying himself against some sudden storm of emotion. ‘I shall not tell Mother, of course. Her health would not stand it. And I will not write to Father until I have more news – and perhaps not even then. I will send a note to our aunt and uncle in Farnham, telling them that everything is all right. They do worry about him.’

  ‘And ah’ll find some way of tellin’ Virginia ’bout what’s happened,’ Crowe said. ‘An’, frankly, that conversation scares me more than anythin’. She’s really taken a fancy to that brother of yours.’

  ‘And he to her,’ Mycroft mused. ‘Let’s hope that the memories they have of each other are enough to keep them going . . .’

  CHAPTER ONE

  There was a dark line on the horizon. Sherlock could see it as he gazed out across the ocean. Mostly the sky was a clear blue, but there, in the distance, it shaded down to an unhealthy purple darkness, like an old bruise. He would have assumed that it was land, except that it was off to the west of the ship. The only land nearby was to the east – the southernmost tip of Africa.

  He wondered if he should tell the First Mate – Mr Larchmont – about it. Mr Larchmont had taken Sherlock under his protection and given him a place on the crew after Sherlock had woken up to find himself on the ship, already sailing away from England. Perhaps he should tell Captain Tollaway himself, but the Captain was a remote figure, rarely seen on deck. Maybe he should just tell one of the other sailors. Sherlock glanced around, but they were all going about their duties unconcerned – as he should be. He was meant to be swabbing down the deck: clearing off the bits of wood and lengths of old rope that had accumulated over the past few days, along with the fine rime of salt that covered everything thanks to the spray from the ocean and the evaporating heat of the sun.

  He shook his head and went back to his mopping. He was the least experienced sailor on board. It wasn’t his job to bring things to the attention of the others. They didn’t like it.

  He dipped his mop into his bucket and swabbed a patch of deck where one of the sailors had bled, earlier that morning. The man had caught his little finger in a coil of rope which had been suddenly whipped away by a movement of the sails, taking his finger with it. The ship’s doctor – actually one of Mr Larchmont’s assistants, who had some knowledge of medicine – cleaned and bound the wound, and the sailor was now resting in his hammock with a double ration of rum to numb the pain. That left a gap in the duty roster which Sherlock knew he would be expected to fill.

  For what felt like the thousandth time, he wondered how he had gone from being a boy living in Hampshire to a sailor on a ship bound for China. There was a gap in his memory between suddenly falling asleep back in his uncle’s library in Farnham and waking up on the Gloria Scott. The best explanation he could come up with was that he had been drugged, abducted and left on the ship before it sailed, but who would do that to him, and why?

  The only answer he could come up with was the criminal organization that called itself the Paradol Chamber. He had crossed them too many times. Maybe this was their revenge?

  For a while Sherlock had planned to jump ship at the first opportunity and try to find his way back home, but logic eventually overcame homesickness. The Gloria Scott was a known quantity – he was friendly with the crew, he had a hammock and food, and he knew that the ship would be returning to England eventually. If he were to abandon the ship whenever it docked for supplies he would be alone, in a foreign country. He could fall prey to any number of criminals, and there was no guarantee that any ship he could find heading home would be as comfortable as the Gloria Scott – and the Gloria Scott was far from comfortable.

  Sighing, he pushed the detritus of the deck over to the side. There were gaps in the railing there through which he could push it off and watch it fall towards the water. The sea birds – albatrosses and seagulls – which followed the ship swooped to investigate, in case there was food among the wood and the rope strands. Far below, the detritus hit the water with a splash of white spray.

  Sherlock raised his gaze towards the horizon again, to check out that dark line, but his eyes were caught by a movement beneath the water. As he watched, a glistening grey shape broke the surface. It was a fish, but one that seemed to be bigger than he was – as big as his tutor, Amyus Crowe. He gasped in surprise as another five – no, ten or more shapes broke the surface after their leader. They had long, beaky snouts, and flat tails, and their eyes were large and dark.

  ‘Checkin’ out the girlies?’ someone called from behind him.

  Sherlock turned his head and shouted back, ‘One of them says she’s your wife! She says you promised to send her half your wages, but you never did. She’s come to collect!’

  There was laughter from the sailors on deck. Sherlock had quickly found that they were always probing each other with personal jokes. It reminded him of dogs – always snapping at each other and play-biting to establish who was in charge. You could either take offence, in which case the jokes would get harsher and more pointed, or you could join in, and in doing so elevate your position. Sherlock had been taking the second option ever since he had joined the crew, and it seemed to be working. They accepted him, and he wasn’t at the bottom of the pecking order. He was a long way from the top, but at least he was treated as one of them, not as an outsider.

  One of the crew – Jackson, his name was – stood close to Sherlock. He indicated the things in the water with a twist of his thumb. ‘Never seen their like before, I warrant.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Sherlock admitted. ‘What are they? Can we eat them?’

  Jackson crossed himself. ‘They’re called porpoises,’ he said, ‘and it’s bad luck to kill one, let alone eat it. They keep the ship company. Some say that if a sailor falls overboard, then the porpoises will circle around and keep him afloat, and fight off any sharks that try to get to him.’

  ‘Sharks?’ Sherlock asked.

  ‘The wolves of the sea,’ Jackson said. ‘Teeth like a band saw. Take your arm off just by brushing their mouths against it.’

  ‘Right. I’ll try not to fall in then. Or, if I do, I’ll try and d
o it when there are some porpoises around.’ He took the opportunity to nod towards the horizon. ‘What’s that?’ he asked. ‘The colour looks . . . strange.’

  Jackson lifted his gaze to the horizon, and frowned. ‘You’ve got good eyesight,’ he admitted. ‘That looks to me like a tropical storm. Mr Larchmont will want to know about it. You want to go and tell him?’

  Sherlock shook his head. ‘You do it,’ he said. He knew that Mr Larchmont kept a mental list of all the sailors, with a little mark against their name to denote how well or how badly he thought of them. Those marks slid up or down depending on whether the sailors were working hard or not, how observant they seemed, how deferential to him and to the Captain they were and how many fights they got into on board the ship. By being the first sailor to draw Mr Larchmont’s attention to the storm, Sherlock could get some additional points – if it was a storm. But by passing the opportunity to Jackson, Sherlock could make the sailor into more of a friend, and that might prove useful in the future.

  ‘Thanks,’ Jackson said, eyeing Sherlock curiously. ‘I’ll not forget that.’

  He turned away and headed towards the raised section at the back of the ship where the wheelhouse was located, and where Mr Larchmont could usually be found.

  Sherlock glanced at the horizon again. The dark line was now more pronounced. It stretched as far above the horizon as a couple of fingers held at arm’s length, and its edges seemed to be stretching out to either side, like arms seeking to encircle the ship. There was something about the unnatural purple colour of the storm that made him feel sick in the pit of his stomach. He could feel a warm breeze on his face, blowing from the direction of the storm. He noticed that the deck was pitching beneath his feet more heavily than it had been even a few moments before. When he looked at the grey-green mass of the sea he could see that the waves were getting higher, and the white spume on their tops was blowing off like the froth from a pint of beer and floating above the water.