Mycroft Holmes (10 page)

When he showed the advertising brochure to Douglas, the latter laughed and reminded Holmes of the points it failed to mention. Somewhere below decks and hidden from view, stokers known as the black gang—aptly named for the color they quickly assumed—would be shoveling a backbreaking five hundred tons of coal per day to keep the ship moving at a steady clip. The black gang consisted of trimmers, who shifted the coal, coal-passers, who carted it in huge barrels to the boilers, and firemen, so called because they tended and stoked the furnaces.

“Hell hath no fires that burn hotter than those,” Douglas proclaimed.

Upon the deck itself, a bit of the heat might have been welcome. The morning was overcast and cold, with a pervasive mist that—especially in late spring—often gave Liverpool its slightly yellow hue.

The dense fog obscured a great crush of strangers from all parts of England, from the very rich to those so poor that they carried everything on their backs, including bedding. There would be no comfortable bunks to be found for the third class, also known as “’tween decks.” Indeed, between those decks they would be entombed for eight long days, with no light and precious little air.

Holmes easily spotted the dreamers among them, the ones with a bit of light still in their eyes. The ones who dared to hope that their children, or their children’s children, might someday join the ranks of the burgeoning professional class—physicians and barristers, owners of businesses, perhaps even what Holmes himself had become: a civil servant on his way to a political career.

For many, their hopes were buoyed by the Prime Minister himself. William Ewart Gladstone was a non-aristocrat like them. The fact that he was a millionaire many times over, with massive holdings of land, did not quench the pride with which the “common folk” clutched him to their proverbial bosoms. Like Georgiana, those poor wretches were certain that progress was just around the corner.

Holmes wished with all his heart that he could believe as they did. But a war was looming. And war rarely did the poor any favors.

The captain of the
Sultana
, James Miles, walked past Holmes and Douglas as he hurried aboard. He sparkled in his uniform and wore very well his other emblems of authority, including side whiskers so fulsome that they would have made Edward Cardwell weep with envy. As he went, all eyes were upon him, for twelve hundred passengers relied on him to get them through gales and mists, past treacherous tides and small islands of floating ice, safely to their destination.

As the fog grew thicker and more pronounced, guards took their positions at the hatchways and companionways and spoke ominously of heavy waves that would soon be crashing over these pristine decks. As if on cue, a great bell sounded and the steward cried out.

“All ashore!”

This prompted another jostling and unsettling of the great throng as non-passengers said their final goodbyes, then hurried off the ship across the heavy bridge that connected the
Sultana
to the pier.

A second bell sounded, and the massive engine came alive. Water at the stern suddenly became a whirlpool of boiling surges as the vessel slowly moved away from the pier. As she picked up speed, and the city and its waving denizens became smaller and smaller, everyone aboard felt the thrill of knowing that they were at long last underway.

Some passengers hurried to secure seats on the promenade deck, where they would wrap themselves in blankets for warmth and watch the shoreline recede. Others strolled to their staterooms to unpack and relax in peace. The poorest of the poor scrambled down the rough-hewn wooden ladders to steerage, to claim the hard wooden planks on which they would sleep—the only alternative being the harder deck.

Holmes and Douglas moved through and past the throng, searching for the one passenger who had set this entire adventure into motion. From the moment they’d arrived—more than three hours before—Holmes had been craning his neck, hoping to spot Georgiana. The bouquet of irises and yellow roses that he’d purchased from a street vendor had by now been crushed so assiduously by strangers that it looked every bit as crestfallen as he felt. He found himself growing so desperate, in fact, that if he could have climbed upon Douglas’s shoulders to have a better look round, he surely would.

As the two men kept up their vigil, a handsome but severe-looking man in his mid-thirties with light brown hair, a neat handlebar mustache, and rather intense hazel eyes, took particular note of them.

Then he melted into the crowd.

Douglas and Holmes both caught a glimpse of him, but as they could think of no particular reason why someone should be observing them, they granted him only a curious glance. Then, when he disappeared, they thought no more about it.

Douglas, in his usual guise of valet, was handling Holmes’s bags along with his own. As a result, he would have loved nothing better than to locate their cabin and put them down at last, but Holmes insisted they first go to the steward’s office. Since he understood Holmes’s anxiety, Douglas acceded to the request.

* * *

Armed with his credentials, Holmes demanded to see the passenger list, adopting a tone that said he would countenance no response but the affirmative. When the steward quickly complied, Holmes ran his finger down the pages filled with names.

“Sutton… Sutton…”

Searching for Georgiana was no easy task. There were hundreds of passengers aboard. As was standard, the list had been compiled, not in alphabetical order, but in order of boarding, with extended families at times grouped together under various surnames.

Douglas helpfully pointed out a Sutton that Holmes had missed.

“That is a
Sully
Sutton, aged fifty-five,” Holmes grumbled.

“Could the person you are seeking have boarded an earlier ship?” the steward inquired meekly.

“The last ship to depart for Trinidad was three weeks ago,” Holmes snapped. “Don’t be absurd!” At which point the steward found something else that demanded his immediate attention, while Douglas quietly proposed a different explanation.

“Perhaps she changed her mind,” he offered, “and had no manner of contacting you.”

“Nonsense, Douglas,” Holmes muttered. “She is quite resourceful. Had she wished to get a message to me, she would have done so.”

“Resourceful or not,” Douglas replied, “she is most certainly not aboard.”

Holmes stared at the list, very nearly undone.

As they walked out of the steward’s office, he looked toward the strip of land that seemed now so thin that it might have been the paring of a fingernail.

“What now?” he asked of no one in particular.

Before Douglas could reply, a gaunt woman dressed all in black came rolling toward them. Deathly pale, she rode in a rickshaw-like wheelchair, supported by pillows and attended to by an Indian maid, and was looking around languorously. As she glided past, her eyes fell upon Holmes, and she smiled a hello.

But when she caught a glimpse of Douglas, she reared back as if he might take it into his ebony head to abuse her, there and then. She clutched possessively at a plum-sized black pendant that hung about her neck.

Douglas ignored the insult and would have walked on, but Holmes was in no such mood.

“He is not interested in your jewel, madam,” Holmes said scornfully. “He has two of his own—larger, I am sure, and much more dear to him!”

The old woman looked shocked, while behind her the Indian attendant struggled not to smile.

“You
cannot
say such things to an elderly woman,” Douglas hissed as they continued on their way.

“She deserves no special consideration,” Holmes replied crossly. “She’s the sort who finds
Oliver Twist
seditious. I will not allow you to be abused by someone like that.”

“Please allow
me
to decide when I shall be abused,” Douglas retorted, “and by whom. And the next time you wish to berate someone in public, kindly leave my ‘jewels’ out of it. Now, may we please find our cabin and be rid of these bags?”

“One more detour, Douglas, I beg of you.”

“Holmes, she is not here!”

“Perhaps she is traveling under an assumed name…”

“An assumed name? For what reason?”

Holmes could think of none. Yet he would not be deterred. He was so agitated, while at the same time bullish about their mission, that Douglas simply sighed and followed him—bags still in hand—to the grand saloon.

THE GRAND SALOON, SET APART FOR FIRST- AND SECOND-CLASS
passengers, was neither grand, nor was it a saloon in the traditional sense. It was a large, plain room with walls covered in cedarwood, a dozen long cypress tables in the center, three beds on wheels in one far corner, and four large gas lamps that hung from the ceiling, as the room let in little natural light. Its plainness was by design, as it was meant to serve a variety of functions: parlor, study, dining hall, drawing room, and even—should it prove necessary—invalid chamber. All around it were ventilated doors that opened onto the nicest staterooms, so that the passengers therein could have the luxury of going directly from their cabins into the saloon without having to set foot outdoors.

When Holmes and Douglas walked in, ladies and gentlemen were already selecting their preferred places at the long dining table in the center, pinning their calling cards upon the seats to mark them as reserved.

One of these was the intense brown-haired chap who’d been eyeing Douglas and Holmes. As they walked past, Holmes glanced at his card.

MR. ADAM MCGUIRE

Once again, Holmes paid him little mind, noting only that his mode of dress and bearing indicated he was American, and that he’d been—at some juncture—a government official or military man. While scanning the crowd for a glimpse of Georgiana, Holmes noticed that there were perhaps half a dozen government officials from various countries lingering about… and that they all seemed to be avoiding one another.

He whispered as much to Douglas.

“How do you know they are government officials?” Douglas inquired.

“Because
I
am a government official,” Holmes replied. “Do you not know other purveyors of tobacco when you see them? Surely I can suss out my own kind.”

“Be that as it may,” Douglas countered, “people can eat with whomever they choose.” But Holmes shook his head.

“There is something about this that I find unsettling.”

Douglas considered pointing out to Holmes that he was already unsettled, and might be fabricating excuses to become more so, but he decided to hold his peace.

In the meantime, Captain Miles—he of the fulsome side whiskers, for they extended to the top of his breastbone—hurried in and waved a jovial hello to the passengers. Clearing his throat, he announced that, should they choose to stroll out onto the quarterdeck, he would be briefing them on the ship’s progress for the day.

But it was bitterly cold outside, and the quarterdeck offered no barrier against the biting wind, so most passengers stayed where they were, chatting in little groups, or celebrating to the steady sound of popping champagne corks. Since there was no sign of Georgiana, however, Holmes and Douglas decided to hear the report, after which they would locate their quarters…

Then something caught Holmes’s eye.

Seated on a straight-backed chair, a small portable writing apparatus unfolded before him, was a boy of fourteen or so, not homely but not particularly attractive, laboring intensively on a document of some kind. His concentration was such that Holmes, some twenty feet away, couldn’t help but notice, though he had no way of seeing what the boy was writing.

“Ah, he is saying his final farewells to a girl,” Holmes whispered to Douglas.

“Or perhaps he is writing down a description of his surroundings,” Douglas countered, ready to move along.

“Nonsense,” Holmes scoffed. “He isn’t scanning the room for detail. Rather, from his point of view, the room seems to have disappeared. You see how his eyes turn down and to the right? That is a sure sign of the poetical, rather than the practical thought. And the florid way he composes each and every letter? No, it is a schoolboy crush gone awry.”

Douglas was keen to continue on their way, but Holmes planted himself squarely in the middle of the room, so that others were forced to flow round him like eddies of water.

“It is an inferior paper stock,” he said, his eyes still fixed on the boy, “mixed with too much hemp. What does that tell you, Douglas?”

“That he cares little for this girl you are imagining?” Douglas muttered.

“That his family has few resources,” Holmes corrected. “The fact is supported, too, by his attire. Curious, however, in that the writing apparatus is… aha! Note the flourishes on the capital ‘A’.” With that, Holmes began to spell out a name, letter by letter, as the boy wrote.

“A… n… a… b… e… l. His beloved’s name is Anabel!”

“Or his mother’s,” Douglas posited.

“Nonsense, Douglas. One does not ‘flourish’ one’s mother’s name unless one is given to moral turpitude…”

“Enough, Holmes, it’s not appropriate to peek into someone’s private—”