Against the Brotherhood (22 page)

I listened to Mycroft Holmes with an increasing sense of frustration and foreboding. How could I protect McMillian from such forces without revealing my mission to him? And if I did tell him of my true purpose in accompanying him, would he believe me? And if he believed me, would he cooperate with Mycroft Holmes to protect the treaty?

Holmes sensed my misgivings. “I hope it will not come to it, but if you must be revealed, you won’t have to tell him anything. If it becomes necessary, I will do it.”

“Speaking of what I must tell him, what should I say about the person in this car? He is afraid that he will take some infection from the invalid,” I said.

He considered his answer carefully. “I think you should say that the invalid is an important military adviser who was severely injured in battle some years ago. There will be no question of infection, and no need for McMillian to fear any plague will light upon him.” He chuckled suddenly, adding, “You might also say that the invalid is nearly deaf and difficult to converse with. That should stop him wanting to press for an interview.”

“You have the cut of his jib,” I said with a single nod. “All right. I will give him this tale and I will hope we will be able to squeak through this without any more trouble. If only that treaty were not so crucial.”

“But it is,” I added, wondering again if any piece of paper was worth what this one had already cost. Certainly safety for the many outweighed the lives of the few, or so I had always believed. But I had seen a man murdered less than twenty-four hours ago, and had killed a man myself two days before that, and the matter was no longer as certain to me.

Mycroft Holmes noticed that I had not taken much of the brandy, but he did not comment on it, merely asking, “When did you last eat?”

“In the morning,” I replied.

“You will want to get something into you, Guthrie. I need you to be alert, and for that, you cannot starve. The kitchen can make up a supper for you at my order, if you would like.” He motioned to Kreutzer, and the young man stood at once. “Have a good dinner made for Guthrie, here. And take it to him in his compartment.”

“I should make sure that McMillian has something as well,” I reminded my employer.

“Naturally,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Kreutzer, tend to it, if you will.” He watched as the young man passed out of the private car toward the next one, which contained the kitchen. “If McMillian complains of your long absence, attribute it to the amazing deafness of the invalid. Let him know how painstakingly you had to repeat the simplest questions.”

I nodded. “All right. And I will be glad of a meal.” I had to admit that as little as food appealed to me, I could feel that hunger was affecting me. “I’ll have supper, and make sure that McMillian does not take it into his head to come and bother you.”

“Thank you, Guthrie.” Holmes rose and indicated the door leading back to the car where McMillian rode in solitary state. “He is difficult, I know, but it will not be long before this is over.”

My answer was as heartfelt as it was unguarded. “I hope so.”

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS:

There has been a note for G.
delivered by messenger this afternoon. It was sent by Miss Roedale, who has marked the missive “confidential.”

Given that I have had no further word from M.H., I can only hold this note until both men return, and I have sent a note to Miss Roedale to so inform her, so that in future she cannot claim that she was unaware of how matters stood.

“CRIPPLED AND DEAF,”
exclaimed McMillian as I made my report to him a few minutes after leaving the private car and Mycroft Holmes. “Poor devil. And to think they’re still hauling him all over the country.”

“He has the cadet to look after him,” I pointed out.

“Probably a relative of sorts. That’s how these old military families are in Germany.” As if they were different in Britain. He indicated the window. “I’ve been looking at the church spires, and the colors they are painted. It’s one of the things I like about Bavaria and Baden; the colors the peasants use to decorate their buildings. So much more festive than England. English peasants have no taste for bright things.”

“I took the opportunity to go through to the dining car and ordered supper for you,” I went on, trying to show myself a good servant. “It should be delivered shortly.”

“Excellent,” said McMillian, whose mood had mellowed as distance was put between him and Munich. “I hope they will have some of that good Rhine wine to serve. It’s well enough to drink beer at a country inn, but on a train, only wine is acceptable at a meal. And a French vintage is preferable to a German one, no matter where we are.” His expression was filled with satisfaction with his own opinion and approval of his taste.

“The cadet will probably bring the meal, so that his charge will not be unduly disturbed,” I said, aware that McMillian might not be pleased with this arrangement. “It seemed the more discreet thing to do.”

“If it will help accommodate the old man, I suppose there’s no trouble with it,” said McMillian with a touch of sulking in his manner. He looked toward the window again, and gave a sigh. “I’ve heard there are trains now that can go at nearly seventy miles per hour. They do not pull many laden cars, of course, but they can keep up that speed for as long as their fuel holds out.” His whole demeanor implied that if such a train did exist it should be at his disposal.

“I have heard the same thing,” I said, taking care not to mention that it was part of a confidential memo from Whitehall. “But you know how men like to boast. They want to believe that such a train exists, and so they make claims that assure them their wishes are met.”

“You’re a cynic, aren’t you, Jeffries?” said McMillian with haughty amusement. “I wouldn’t be in such a hurry to doubt the train is real.” With this he waved me away. I returned to my compartment and sat down, feeling exhausted. But much as I wanted to nap, the least sound jolted me into alertness, and I began to fear I would never be able to rest again. I had reached that stage of exhaustion when a false alertness takes over, demanding wakefulness with jangled nerves. It was growing late in the day and the first streamers of sunset were beginning in the west. At home, I would be getting ready for tea, just finishing up my day’s work for Mycroft Holmes.

The tap on my door from Cadet Kreutzer almost sent me diving for cover, so loud did it seem over the steady racket of the rails. I did what I could to compose myself and went to the door.

“Just what was ordered, sir,” said Kreutzer, holding out a tray with three covered dishes on it. “Pork roast with apples and prunes, potatoes with cheese and onions, and cabbage soup with cream and pine nuts.” When I hesitated, he added, “I have just served McMillian.”

“In that case, thank you very much,” I said, taking the tray and putting it down on the end of the bench near the window. Before I closed the door, I asked, “Is your ... charge well?”

“He will be sending a telegram at the next station we reach, which will be in an hour or so.” He saluted and departed.

I could not bring myself to relish the meal I had been provided, but I did realize that it was what my body craved, and I set about consuming it as methodically as I was able, though it had all the savor of a sack of feathers to me. As I finished the food, I began to be sleepy, and I hoped that at last I could restore myself with sleep. With all the events of the last few days, I had begun to fear I would not be at rest again until I was laid out for my wake. Putting the tray and its now empty dishes on the floor, I opened one of the blankets and stretched out on the wooden bench, trusting to the steady rhythm of the train to lull me into slumber.

It was quite dark when I opened my eyes again, and at first I could not fathom why I had awakened. Then I became aware of a muffled, scuffling sort of noise coming from the next compartment. The compartment that was supposedly locked. The compartment containing McMillian’s luggage. I sat up, shaking my head as if to sort out my thoughts more clearly, all the while listening to the movement in the adjoining compartment. Were they actually stealthy, or did the thickness of the walls only make them seem so?

At last I decided I had to do something, in case the thief was in search of something more valuable than cuff links and shirt studs. How much I wished I had my lost pistol and knife now. And how little I wanted to have to use them. As I made for the door, I heard another soft thud, and I moved more quickly. I opened my door with care, making sure it made no telltale sound to alert the miscreants in the other compartment. It would probably be best, I thought, to grab the thief from behind, and pinion his arms to his sides, so that if the fellow had a weapon, he could not easily turn it on me.

The most difficult part was immediately ahead of me. I had to open the compartment door without alerting the person inside. I had put my hand on the latch when I heard a soft oath in English, and the tautness went out of my hand. I rapped on the door. “Herr McMillian,” I called out, wanting to avoid any misunderstanding on his part or the part of the German guard, who was supposed to be watching this car. “Herr McMillian, is all well with you? Is anything wrong? This is Jeffries.”

“Thank God, and about time,” he said, pulling the door open and glaring at me. “Where the bloody hell have you been?”

“In my compartment. I ... went to sleep.”

“So early?” he demanded. The lamp in this compartment had been lit, and I saw that McMillian’s cases and trunks and chests were all in a jumble. “I’ve been trying to find it.”

“To find what?” I asked.

“The map case, of course,” he said, as if any simpleton would have known the answer.

My heart went cold in my chest, as if it had been filled with ice instead of blood. I tried to maintain an even tone. “It is in the chest you had it in this morning. I packed your boots and hunting jacket with it.” I was growing more awake by the moment. “Is it missing?”

“Find it for me,” ordered McMillian in a tone that would tolerate no objections.

With a languor I did not feel, I stretched and said resentfully, in Jeffries’ character, “If you wish. But it is late, and your luggage isn’t going anywhere. Why is it so important now?” I realized too quick a compliance might well make him suspicious of my purpose here, and kept up my assumed surliness. “Surely I can do this in the morning?”

“I want it done now,” said McMillian in a flat voice that promised a fine display of temper if I did not set to work at once.

“All right,” I said, and sighed as I looked at the disorder McMillian had already wrought in the compartment. My distress at the confusion was only partly feigned and covered my rising panic well. “If you would return to your own compartment, I will do what I can to find the map case for you.” As he started to leave, I held out my hand. “I will need the key, sir.”

“So you will, so you will,” said McMillian, and took it from his waistcoat pocket. “It is now ten-twenty. If you have not discovered it in forty minutes, let me know, so that I may inform the guard of what has happened, and appropriate measures may begin to return my property to me. And put all this to rights.” With that he returned to his compartment, leaving me with the chaos he had made of his own belongings.

The chest in question was, of course, on the bottom of a stack of cases. It took me fifteen minutes of shifting the various trunks and cases into other piles before I could reach my target. When I opened the lock, I put my hand on the map case almost at once, in the very place I had been told to pack it. Relief coursed through me; the treaty had not been discovered or touched. Holding this trophy in my hand, I ventured into the compartment next door. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it, sir?”

“It is,” he said with as much visible relief as he could bring himself to express around someone of my station in life. “And the lock is in place?”

I extended my arm so he could see the lock. “Closed all right and tight. You have the key for this. I do not.”

McMillian cleared his throat as if ridding himself of a cud, and gave a single nod. “Very good. I am satisfied that there has been no tampering. Replace it carefully, make certain the lock is set on the chest, and restack my luggage. And ask the waiter to come for the tray.” Now that he was assured of the safety of the treaty, he wanted to restore his dignity as quickly as possible.

“What sort of map’s in that case, sir, that it’s so important to you?” I could not keep myself from asking.

“The map is none of your concern,” came McMillian’s brusque answer. “It is necessary only that you make certain it is protected.”

“That I will,” I said, and added, expressing the worry that had taken hold of me. “But what of the guard you’ve been assigned? Shouldn’t he be looking after this?”

McMillian shot me a startled look. “I should think so. Go and find him. Tell him I want a word with him.” His brow darkened, promising that the word would be a harsh one.

“Very good,” I said at once, and started toward the head of the car in the other valet’s compartment. The guard was not there, though I did see a large cup with the last remnants of chocolate at the bottom of it, suggesting he had waited there earlier in the evening. There was also a faint, drying impression of another glass, for a dark ring remained where a second libation had stood. I made note of this to include in my report.

In the compartment immediately next to McMillian’s the guard lay asleep, his rifle tucked along his body like an ungainly doll. He was snoring gently but with that steadiness that indicates deep sleep. I would not rid myself of the unwelcome suspicion that the fellow had imbibed something in his second drink that had promoted this sleep as chocolate and cream would not. I bent over and smelled his breath: a strong odor of kirschwasser was present; the odor of cherries could conceal many other substances. Reluctantly I woke him, and noticed the groggy confusion that possessed him, and the muddled way in which he formed his words. He had certainly had more than one glass of schnapps or he had had something along with it. “Herr McMillian has had a disturbance and wants to talk to you.”

“A disturbance?” the guard repeated thickly. “I didn’t hear anything.”

“That is what he wants to talk with you about,” I said, and helped him to his feet, feeling I was doing him no kindness.

McMillian received the fellow with haughty, hearty displeasure. “I heard someone enter the compartment behind this one. You were nowhere about. Are all Germans so lax in their duty?”

“Well, you see,” the guard said, his face turning red, “I ... I fell asleep,
mein Herr.
There is only the invalid in the next car, and when his companion offered me chocolate, I didn’t think there was any harm in it”

“Chocolate!” jeered McMillian. “Brandy, more like.”

“No, sir,” I interrupted, taking care to speak in English, no matter how rude. “Chocolate. I saw the dregs in the cup.” I did not want him pursuing the manner in his ham-handed way, which I was certain he would do if I revealed what I had observed. I had also to consider what might happen should McMillian take it into his head to confront my true employer.

McMillian’s gaze was intended to turn me to stone. “How dare you defend this coward!”

“I am not defending him, sir, far from it,” I persisted, hoping I would not be dismissed out of hand for this. “But it would not surprise me if the chocolate might have been drugged.”

“Drugged! What nonsen—” McMillian burst out. “What sort of fool would—?” Then his eyes narrowed. “Drugged,” he mused. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, as you must have noticed, it is early in the evening to sleep, and this man—look at him—is still logy; you might think he had drunk himself into a stupor. If the chocolate were poisoned, it might account for it, mightn’t it?”

Now McMillian ruminated on the question, his face blank with concentration. “It is possible,” he allowed. “And if so, all the more reason to demand a competent guard.” He switched back to German. “You, sir, have failed in your duty. You will be put off the train at the next station and a new guard will take your place.”

The man bowed his head.
“Jawohl, mein Herr.”

“And I will inform the railroad of what took place aboard this train.” This addition was intended to impress the guard with McMillian’s importance, and it came near enough to succeeding.

“The invalid’s companion brought the chocolate,” said the guard, trying to offer some defense of his actions.

“I will speak to him, if you like,” I volunteered quickly, wanting to postpone any meeting of those two men for as long as possible. “There may be some explanation I can gain without bringing any embarrassment to anyone.”