Snake Bite (11 page)

He thought back to Captain Tollaway. ‘Ye-es,’ he said carefully. ‘Mr Mackenzie . . . Mrs Mackenzie . . . I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble. It would be wrong of
me to intrude if you’ve got dinner guests coming. It’s probably best if I go.’

He tried to ignore Cameron’s face, which was almost comical in its combination of disbelief and disappointment.

Mr Mackenzie slapped Sherlock on the shoulder. ‘Good manners,’ he said. ‘Exactly what I’d expect from a Brit. Don’t worry about it, son – we’ve got
enough food and enough chairs, and I guarantee you’ll eat better here than anywhere else you might end up. The matter’s settled.’

‘Malcolm . . .’ Mrs Mackenzie started. Her husband looked at her. She looked at Sherlock, then back at him. She was obviously trying to convey a message.

‘Son – where are you staying?’ Malcolm Mackenzie asked.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer the question, then realized that he didn’t really have an answer. ‘I . . . I suppose I’m staying on the ship,’ he replied hesitantly.
‘On the
Gloria Scott
.’

Mrs Mackenzie kept staring at her husband. After a few seconds he said, ‘Nonsense. You’re staying here, with us, for as long as you’re in port. Cameron obviously likes you, and
that’s a good thing. He doesn’t often get on with other boys.’

‘Apparently I’m too critical,’ Cameron said quietly. ‘Which means that I tell people what I think, rather than what they want to hear.’

‘If you can cope with that,’ Mr Mackenzie said, ‘then you’re welcome here.’ He checked the watch that hung from a chain on his waistcoat. ‘Dinner’s in
an hour. You two get upstairs, get scrubbed up and get dressed up. And be on your best behaviour – Captain Bryan is an important man.’

Cameron led Sherlock not upstairs – as far as Sherlock could tell there
was
no upstairs – but along a corridor and then out through a doorway into a square central area that
was open to the sky. It was beautifully landscaped, with boulders and small trees, and benches where people could sit. Brightly coloured paper lanterns had been hung around the edges, casting a
kaleidoscope of light across the skirting paths but leaving the middle in relative darkness. The occasional night bird swooped by with a rush of wings.

Cameron crossed to the other side. Cameron’s room was filled with models of ships and pictures of what Sherlock assumed were American street scenes, complete with horses and carts.

The blond-haired boy threw open a wardrobe and gestured at the clothes hanging up inside. ‘Find yourself something smart,’ he said. ‘Jacket and trousers. My father will be
wearing evening dress, and Mother will wear a gown, but they won’t expect us to be all dressed up like that. As long as we’re smart, we’ll be all right.’

Sherlock stared at the array of clothes in amazement. He had forgotten all about having more than one set of clothes, about the social graces, about dressing for dinner and using the right
cutlery.

‘I’ll have the maid draw two baths for us,’ Cameron said, interrupting his thoughts. ‘Looking at you, I’d say you haven’t had a hot bath for a
while.’

After so long spent ploughing across the ocean, Sherlock wasn’t sure that he wanted to see water again, but after a few moments staring at the free-standing bath and
waiting for some kind of emotional reaction to occur, he slipped gingerly beneath the water. It was warm, and it seemed to envelop him and caress him as he lay there, feeling his muscles relax and
the accreted layers of salt and grime that had built up since leaving England start to dissolve away.

When they were both dressed they headed back towards the rest of the house. Sherlock could hear voices raised in conversation.

Malcolm Mackenzie and his wife were welcoming their guests into the garden. Chinese servants were circulating with trays of drinks. The butler – Harris – was standing off to one
side, watching to make sure all the guests were happy.

The guests from the USS
Monocacy
were wearing uniforms: navy-blue frock coats with two rows of gilt buttons running from top to bottom, navy-blue trousers and white caps with gold chains
around the peak. There were also one or two men in evening dress, whom Sherlock assumed were business acquaintances of Mr Mackenzie. Mrs Mackenzie was the only woman there, but she didn’t
seem at all embarrassed by the fact. On the contrary, she was moving easily among the guests, making sure that everyone had a drink and someone to talk with.

‘I hate these parties,’ Cameron said morosely. ‘I always end up talking to the most boring person present. The problem is that I usually tell them so.’

‘You’re talking to me,’ Sherlock pointed out.

‘Yes, but tonight is different.’ Cameron gestured to a passing servant, who came over with a tray containing glasses of champagne. Cameron took two glasses, and passed one to
Sherlock. ‘Here, this should make the evening pass quicker.’

Captain Bryan was easily recognizable. He was the oldest man there, and the amount of gold braid and the number of gold stars on his uniform made him difficult to miss. He also had the loudest
voice, and Sherlock listened as he told the story of how the funnel of the
Monocacy
had been ripped off like tissue paper by a waterspout that had swept over the ship off the coast of
Japan.

‘I’ve been meaning to ask,’ Mrs Mackenzie interrupted when it became clear that the Captain could talk all night without stopping, ‘what is the significance of the name
of your vessel?
Monocacy
sounds as if it should be a form of government where only one person can rule!’

‘Ma’am, the Monocacy River is a tributary of the mighty Potomac River,’ the Captain answered, changing conversational direction with graceful charm. ‘The name comes from
the original Shawnee Indian name for the river,
Monnockkesey
, which, I am told by those who know, translates as “river with many bends”.’ He glanced around his audience,
and continued, ‘The Battle of Monocacy Junction was fought during the War Between the States, six years ago now, and our fine ship was named in honour of that battle, lest otherwise it be
forgotten . . .’

Mention of the War Between the States reminded Sherlock of his time in and around New York, and of his confrontation with the bizarre Duke Balthassar. The man had been on the Confederate side
– the losing side – and he had planned to set up a new Confederate nation in Canada. Whatever had happened in America, it seemed that the scars ran deep.

‘How very splendid,’ Mrs Mackenzie said, breaking into his thoughts. ‘I’m afraid we have been away from our home country for so long, and news arrives so late here, that
we only had the sketchiest idea of what was happening with the Confederates and the Unionists.’ She rested a hand on the Captain’s forearm. ‘Was it . . . very terrible?’ she
asked in a quieter voice.

He patted her hand reassuringly. ‘Ma’am, it is never easy or pleasant when a country tries to rip itself apart, when father is pitted against son and brother is pitted against
brother. But we must remember that America is a young country, and is made up of many different parts, most of which have some kind of disagreement with another part. Squabbles can be
expected.’

‘Not just young countries,’ Malcolm Mackenzie said, joining the group. ‘China is an ancient country, but there are rebellious elements within it even now, and fighting breaks
out from time to time.’

Sherlock remembered the cannonball scars on the town’s walls. That would explain what had happened – there had been some kind of fight for control of the town between different
elements. He moved closer to hear more.

‘The majority of the local population are known as “Han” Chinese,’ Mackenzie went on, ‘and they have been living here for hundreds, if not thousands of years. The
trouble is that the rulers are the descendants of an invading force known as the “Manchus”, who came from the north. The Qing dynasty that controls China is entirely made up of Manchu
Chinese, and the Han are the ruled.’

‘I presume that the Han aren’t happy about that?’ Captain Bryan asked.

‘Actually, most of them don’t care one way or another, as long as they get to live their lives in peace,’ Mackenzie replied. ‘But there has been a small and persistent
rebellion by elements of the Han against the Qing over the past twenty years. It’s locally known as the Taiping Rebellion because of where it started. Every now and then there is a fight
somewhere, or a town is taken over by the rebels and then liberated. Shanghai itself fell to a group called “The Small Swords Society” in 1853, but it was retaken by the Qing within a
few weeks. Between 1860 and 1862, the Taiping rebels twice attacked the town and destroyed its eastern and southern suburbs, but they failed to actually capture the place. Their aim is to get the
Manchu invaders to leave, but the Qing dynasty don’t consider themselves invaders any more, and the rebels have no clear plan to get them to leave. So it keeps fizzling on and on.’

Cameron tugged at Sherlock’s sleeve. ‘Come on – this is boring. Let’s find somewhere in the garden where we can sit and talk about America.’

He turned to go, obviously certain that Sherlock was going to follow him, but he bumped into a man who was passing behind him. The man was wearing evening dress, and the white of his collar and
cuffs threw into sharp relief the silvery-blue colour of the skin on his face and hands.

It was Mr Arrhenius.

Cameron sprang back, shocked. Sherlock caught him before he could stumble and fall.

‘Ah, young Seaman Holmes, isn’t it?’ The voice was as dry and whispery as Sherlock remembered. Arrhenius’s gaze scanned Sherlock up and down. ‘You are
better-dressed than I recall from the ship. I am, I confess, surprised to see you here. I believed this to be a
soirée
for businessmen and those of the officer class. I did not
realize that . . . mere crew members were invited.’

Sherlock took a deep breath. ‘Mr Arrhenius,’ he acknowledged. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’ He indicated Cameron. ‘I have been invited to stay with Mr and Mrs
Mackenzie while the
Gloria Scott
is docked. This is Cameron – their son.’

Arrhenius’s gaze switched across to Cameron, and Sherlock could sense the boy shrinking back. ‘It’s all right,’ he said quietly. ‘Mr Arrhenius suffers from a . . .
a skin condition. It’s not serious, and it’s not catching.’

Now that he knew Mr Arrhenius was present at the dinner, Sherlock could see that the other guests were casting the occasional glance at the man with the blue skin. They weren’t nervous, or
worried, but they were certainly interested. It was as if there was something magnetic about the man that attracted their attention, but they were too polite to say anything, or point, or make a
fuss. What interested Sherlock was that although they were fascinated, they weren’t all clustering around Mr Arrhenius to ask him questions. Sherlock didn’t really understand that
– if he had a question then he usually asked it.

Cameron Mackenzie obviously had the same approach to life as Sherlock. ‘Does it hurt?’ he asked, moving closer and staring, fascinated, at Arrhenius’s face. ‘It looks as
if it should.’

‘No, it does not hurt, my young friend. In fact, quite the opposite. The colloidal silver that I have been consuming for years, and which gives my skin this . . . attractive sheen . . .
protects me from disease. I have not had the slightest illness – not a sniffle, not a sore throat – for all of that time. Not only does it not hurt, it actually
prevents
me from
hurting. Do you see?’

Cameron nodded. ‘Yes, I see,’ he said seriously. ‘That must be really useful. Does that mean your skin is valuable? If it’s silver, I mean. You’re not afraid that
someone might kidnap you and try to peel your skin off and sell it?’

Arrhenius laughed: a sound like leaves being rustled by the wind. ‘Sadly, no. The silver is held in the form of oxides and nitrates. It would take a very clever chemist to recover any real
silver from my skin – hardly enough to make the effort worthwhile, I am afraid.’

There was something about the thought that suddenly intrigued Sherlock. Not skinning Mr Arrhenius and extracting the silver from his skin – that would be macabre and wrong – but the
idea that silver could come in different forms, like nitrates, and oxides, and so on, and that someone who knew enough about chemistry could tell the difference between them, and maybe convert one
to the other. It was, he thought, a bit like being able to play around with the building blocks from which everything, from stones to trees to people, was made.

He realized with a sudden shock that Mrs Mackenzie had joined them while he was distracted with his thoughts.

‘Mr Arrhenius, isn’t it?’ she said, touching Arrhenius’s sleeve. ‘We are so pleased you could be here.’

Arrhenius nodded. ‘And I am very grateful to be invited,’ he said. ‘I have found that my appearance can sometimes get in the way of social events. I have become used to eating
alone on my travels.’

‘Nonsense,’ Mrs Mackenzie said with a smile. ‘You should see the effects that some of the local potions and medicines have. My husband bought a local remedy for hair loss from
a market trader a year ago. He didn’t tell me, of course, but he rubbed it into his scalp every night in secret. One morning he work up, and his hair was bright green. Not only that, but he
had a rash all over his scalp, and his face, and his hands. I spent the rest of the day pretending that I couldn’t see anything wrong, and I told the servants to do the same. It was so
amusing!’

‘And do I amuse you in the same way?’ Arrhenius asked. His lips were curled into a smile but there was no humour in his voice.

‘Of course not,’ Mrs Mackenzie said reassuringly, touching his sleeve again. ‘We’re very grateful that you’re here with us, and we are looking forward to hearing
about your travels. Now, come and meet my husband . . .’

She led Arrhenius away from the two boys, still chatting to him. Sherlock noticed several people watch him go.

‘What a strange man,’ Cameron said. ‘I wonder if I could make my skin like armour if I ate iron every day.’