The Empty Birdcage by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

Author:Kareem Abdul-Jabbar
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Titan

23

LONDON WAS EXPERIENCING THE SORT OF WEATHER that made one question the calendar. Though it said spring, the low, dark clouds, bitter winds and needle-sharp rain bespoke a winter with a veritable stronghold and in no hurry to abandon it. This was particularly onerous, given that Mycroft and Douglas were sitting in the back of a chilly carriage with a newly faulty wheel, courtesy of a hole in the road, and heading to one of Mycroft’s least favorite places in all of London, the St. Katharine Docks.

Even on milder days, St. Katharine, north of the Thames, was plagued with slick walkways and surrounded by large warehouses that kept the air from circulating until all one could smell was an unholy mixture of coal dust and dead fish. Those everyday unpleasantries became that much worse in foul weather and had recently been compounded by a sinister memory: not six months previous, Sherlock had very nearly forfeited his life upon those selfsame docks, with Mycroft unable to come to his aid. The thought of it still stung.

On the other hand, just that afternoon had come an intriguing telegram from Sherlock with two names. The first name, Mycroft recognized. Heinrich Schliemann was that archaeologist who had been laboring at a dig in northwest Turkey for more than two years. He based the areas of his search upon clues in Homer’s Iliad—a passion of both arms dealer Vizily Zaharoff and, more recently, Count Wolfgang. Of the other name, a mining company called Via Esmeralda, Mycroft was not aware. And, although intriguing, it would have to wait; for Mycroft and Douglas were to meet a man who claimed to have concrete knowledge of Bingwen Shi’s fate.

Kang Chen, boatswain on the cargo ship Temptress, had proved helpful to them in the past.

“How did Sherlock come to hear about Schliemann and the Via Esmeralda?” Douglas asked as he clung onto the door, for the damaged wheel was now causing the carriage to swerve most unmercifully on the road.

“No notion,” Mycroft replied, as he too held on for dear life. “For he did not say.”

“And you did not ask, for you did not wish to know.”

True, Mycroft thought. Why verify what he feared? That, in his quest for particulars, his brother had already broken a commandment or three? The only possible punishment was to abort the case, something that appealed to neither of them, albeit for different reasons.

As the carriage steadied, Mycroft pulled aside the curtain and glanced out of the window, but he could see nothing except for rain and a veil of his own spent breath. The carriage turned a corner and careened again; the brusque movement extinguished one of the kerosene lamps.

Carlton the driver opened the trap.

“My apologies, gentlemen!” he called back before closing it again.

“And where are they now, Sherlock and Huan?” Douglas inquired as he stood to his feet. Balancing upon the unsteady floor of the carriage, he removed the chimney.

“They were first heading to Elise Wickham’s funeral, as you know, which I imagine they attended, else he would have sent news to the contrary.

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