The Flying Scotsman (12 page)

I nodded, taking it all in. The worst problem was the police, beyond question, but I could not completely forget the extent of the danger we were dealing with if the Brotherhood was part of the plot to be rid of Prince Oscar. “How much do you suppose the Prince should be told?”

“It would be folly to keep him in ignorance, but we must also take care not to frighten him so much that he does not want to take on the risks of our journey.” Mycroft Holmes fingered his watch-fob, a sure sign of concentration and apprehension. “He could still change his mind and demand that he be protected by his own embassy and given escort by his own navy, which would mean a profound embarrassment to Her Majesty’s government.”

“He could, but he will not,” said Prince Oscar from the door. Behind him, Edmund Sutton stood somewhat awkwardly. “You are not asking me to do anything that dishonors me, or I would refuse. But your worry that I would not be willing to encounter danger, well, that is absurd. I was born to royalty, which is a kind of danger by its very nature. I have been guarded and protected and hemmed about since I was in my cradle. If I must be in danger now, at least I will be on my own.”

“Not quite on your own,” I said, with a glance at my employer.

“Compared to what I have encountered before, I will be free of all but the most minimal encumbrances.” He sighed a little. “When I was young, I loved to read those stories about Princes going about the world incognito, without guards or other companions, passing as one of the folk, and having adventures just like most men would. I loved to dream of what could happen if I had such an opportunity. Then I grew older and discovered that those stories were just fables, and I had to put them aside.”

“Your Highness,” said Mycroft Holmes, his voice serious. “This may seem like an escapade worthy of some novel, but the men seeking you have deadly purpose: you will be in danger while you are in our company. Those men who are hunting you are not villains from some play, as Sutton can tell you. They intend to do you harm, and they
will
if they have any opportunity. Be certain you know this hazard is genuine before we leave for King’s Cross.”

Prince Oscar laughed. “What has Osrich Schere to fear? He is a German fellow with a cold. Sutton has been showing me how to deal with this.” He gave an experimental cough and muttered something that was distorted by the apparent illness. “You see?” He beamed.

“Yes. And you will do very well so long as you keep in mind how very serious the situation is.” Mycroft Holmes regarded the Prince, saying slowly, “A fair-haired man of medium height. The description of the possible assassin might suit the Prince himself. How perplexing for us all.” He indicated the maps spread out. “Would you like to see the route of the
Flying Scotsman?”

“Yes,” said Prince Oscar, his blue eyes brightening still more. “This is going to be a grand bird, isn’t it?”

“I think you mean lark, sir,” said Sutton from behind him. He made a kind of apologetic gesture to Mister Holmes, his expression discouraged. “He
would
come.”

“Nothing to fret about, Sutton, dear boy.” Mycroft Holmes gave him a quick, reassuring pat on his shoulder. “You’re doing uncommonly well given the constraints of time and—er—circumstances.”

“Thank you,” Sutton said, bowing his head as if to acknowledge applause.

“I have learned much,” Prince Oscar declared as he looked around at the confusion of maps. “Which one must I examine?”

Holmes showed him the map of the routes of the North Eastern line and said, “The
Flying Scotsman
follows this track.” He traced the course with his finger, pausing once to say, “Here there is a transfer of cars—some go to Glasgow, while the main part of the train continues to Edinburgh.”

“And how long shall this journey take?” Prince Oscar asked, as fascinated as a child with a toy.

“Between eight and nine hours, if we have no trouble.” Mycroft Holmes was somber now. “It is far more important that we deliver you to Scotland in good health than in good time; even nine hours is good speed, one that ensures our enemies cannot catch us. Our arrangements, once we are there, are easily managed. I hope both promptness and safety are possible; but if they are not, I will put in my choice for your successful escape from danger instead of a record-breaking run.”

“But wouldn’t it be delightful if we could do both?” Prince Oscar enthused. “I would be overwhelmed to think I had participated in two great occasions.” He chuckled while Sutton and Holmes exchanged looks of dismay.

I decided to try to talk sense to the Prince. “You are right: it would be a great thing, but that very accomplishment might throw light on something you may prefer not to make public. You know how easily retelling magnifies an event—you have only to listen to the rumors about your footman’s death to know that in no time your ride on the train would take on embroidered details that would render the whole little more that titillation for the common love of gossip.”

“Yes, yes,” said Prince Oscar impatiently. “But it would be wonderful.” His expression was wistful. Then he pursed his lips. “Then Sutton will teach me to fold shirts. If I am an ordinary man, I must know how to do this.”

“It is not so difficult, Your Highness,” Sutton promised him.

“I suppose not. My valet does it all the time.” He concentrated on Mycroft Holmes’ description of the train route once again, saying, “I am sorry we will not get to cross the Forth Bridge. I am told it is a marvel.”

“A great accomplishment,” Holmes agreed. “But the very men who designed that bridge will be able to assist your engineers when our agreement is put into effect.”

“That will be most welcome, for I know Sweden-and-Norway will improve the state of their commerce once such bridges are built and our railroads expanded.” He rubbed his hands in approval. “Very good. Now, Sutton, let us deal with the shirts.”

Sutton nodded. “Certainly. I will also show you how to pack your trousers so that the crease will not be lost and the fabric will not wrinkle.”

“You actors know such startling things,” said Prince Oscar as he nearly dragged Sutton from the study.

“He is determined to make the most of this,” said Mycroft Holmes as the door closed behind Sutton and the Prince. “I only hope his yen for excitement doesn’t lead to more hazard than we have already undertaken.”

“Which is not unlikely,” I could not keep from adding.

“We will have to be on the alert for what he may do,” said Mycroft Holmes, his face looking longer than it was. “If only there were some workable distraction we could provide that would not hamper our task.” He shrugged. “Well, if we had more time, no doubt we could arrange it. As it is, we will have to be doubly diligent.”

“And that may prove more difficult than we would like,” I said, thinking back to the train ride out of Germany with Cameron MacMillian in tow. That had been a journey no one could envy; it was also my first experience in the world Mycroft Holmes so covertly inhabited. Now that I had been in his employ somewhat longer, I knew that I had been luckier than I deserved to be on that mission; I could not suppose that I could count on such luck to follow me now. I vowed I would not repeat the mistakes I had made then, or since.

“I think when we return to London, we had best not travel on the
Flying Scotsman
again. We don’t want to leave ourselves open to retribution, or to the animosity of the Directors.” Holmes’ smile was mildly sarcastic, but I understood his sentiments. “It will take a bit longer, but I think we had best come down the west side, don’t you?”

I felt moved to remark, “You are assuming, sir, that we will reach Scotland without trouble and will depart from there unnoticed.”

“Oh, Guthrie,” he chided me. “You forget: I never assume.” He reached out and began to fold his maps. “It’s time we were packing. There will be much to do between now and our departure for the station.” He raised a heavy eyebrow. “Best to make a good supper. I doubt we’ll have time for a proper breakfast.”

“Very well, sir. I will keep my peace for now. But we will have to review our plans at least once more before we leave.” I nodded to show I was not trying to contradict him.

“Yes, and you will need a sketching lesson from Sutton before we depart. We must account for your drawings without too much incident.” He began to put his maps away, pausing a moment to add, “It is fortunate, isn’t it? that Sutton has so many talents.”

“That it is,” I said, thinking it would be a hopeless task to try to teach me how to do sketches in an hour or two.

“Do not despair, Guthrie,” Mycroft Holmes advised. “Consider it a performance, and learn what Sutton can teach with a performance in mind.”

His recommendation puzzled me, but I gave a sign of compliance as I gathered up my notes and went to arrange my valise and portfolio.

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

They are having supper and I have just completed the copies of the codes we are to use in communication between the Flying Scotsman and this flat. MH has said he does not want HHPO to have a copy of it, for fear he would not hold it as carefully as MH would wish.

The personae of MH and G for this journey have been decided, and if all goes well, they should be dressed and prepared by first light.
Satchel’s Guides
will provide credentials for MH, G, and HHPO for the journey, which MH is certain will be all they will need to maintain their dissemblance. It is reassuring that G has picked up the basic skills that Sutton has taught him in regard to the appearance of sketching. Sutton has loaned G his portfolio of drawings of major castles along the North Eastern line, so that he will have something to display to account for his supposed work as an illustrator of travel guides. Luckily the memoranda that MH sent yesterday have gained some fairly convincing credentials for himself and G that should withstand anything but close scrutiny.

The scandal at the races the men were talking about earlier has knocked all speculation about the assassination attempt off the front page of the earliest morning papers; the death of the constable has not yet come to the attention of the editors in Fleet Street, and when it does, it may well receive little more than a paragraph among the back pages.

HHPO is still approaching this journey as a romp, and MH is afraid his exuberance may well cause trouble while they are bound northward. For all his prudence, HHPO reminds me of a good Hunter that has never been given more of a run than a canter round the paddock. It is not surprising that he is readying himself for a thrill.

There are a dozen or so messages I must deliver once MH and the rest are aboard the train: I have instructions to pursue the trouble of infiltration and corruption of the police, which may bring some resolution to this unhappy turn.

I must finish preparing the luggage, and make sure that the banknotes MH requested are in his billfold. G has been provided £20, certainly more than he will need for the trip, but enough to help if there is trouble requiring a sudden expenditure of cash. At least he will have this at the ready. MH has a total of £55, and HHPO is being allotted £10, for small expenditures. Fortunately MH has access to such discretionary funds that these amounts are minor ...

AS
we had agreed,
Mycroft Holmes and I arrived at King’s Cross Station in separate cabs; he in Sid Hastings’, I in one I had flagged down on Regent Street. Prince Oscar rolled up in a handsome coach, as suited his good luggage and slightly top-lofty bearing.

We must have made quite a picture gathering there in front of the simple elegance of King’s Cross Station. I hoped we were not attracting too much unwanted attention among the other travelers. I glanced about, trying to determine if we were observed and was caught up again in astonishment for this splendid building: even after forty years the buff walls of the elegant station and curved windows were admired. Directly behind and above where the Prince was descending from his carriage, the central tower struck the hour. The large, arched windows brightened the interior, and the high ceiling kept the steam and smoke high away from the crowds. We had some time yet, but the sound of warning bells urged us to hurry under the wrought-iron supports and the patriotic blue, red, and white bunting onto the platform where the
Flying Scotsman
was waiting.

“It’s grand,” exclaimed Prince Oscar, stifling a cough as he had been taught to do.

The streamlined engine was visible at the far end of the train; its dark metal and brass fittings were recently polished, as was usual for the
Scotsman.
Puffs of steam occasionally escaped the new pneumatic brakes. Some still preferred the old mechanical breaks, but my employer had once explained the deadman’s system that stopped the train if the pressure failed; since then I have always felt more secure when the train I rode in was so equipped. Around us a jumble of passengers of all sorts hastened to reach their cars. Most were well-dressed, which was hardly a surprise since there were no third-class cars even in the
Flying Scotsman’s
standard configuration.

“What on earth—?” Prince Oscar blurted out as a scuffle erupted nearby.

A dozen steps from where we stood there was some disturbance as a hard-hatted bobby struck the pavement with his baton while holding tightly to a small man who struggled weakly to escape.

“A dip,” Mycroft commented relieved that the problem would draw no attention to our party. “Such denizens haunt places where travelers gather. Note the loose clothing, the many pockets, and the way he protects his hands even while resisting.”

A second and then third bobby arrived, and the man submitted to being led away. Mycroft used the distraction to push ahead of the gaping crowd and drew us after him in his wake. Thirty steps farther and we were approaching the car we had reserved. The large windows in the first-class cars were slightly open to allow the air to circulate. A severely uniformed conductor waited by each car eyeing the passengers and looking for the inevitable scaff-and-raff who were attracted by the departure of the most prestigious train in Britain.

“Go ahead and make sure that the compartments are prepared as instructed,” my employer ordered quietly while pulling the Prince into the shelter of a large baggage cart.

I sauntered down the platform as if nothing motivated me but restlessness, yet all the while I was examining the train, making sure the configuration was just as Mycroft Holmes had requested; I signaled to my employer, then made my way to the first-class car at the front of the train, showed my ticket to the conductor standing by the car, and went to settle my things in my compartment—number three in the middle of the car.

As with all the first-class compartments, the seats were a plush maroon color and the dark wood stained almost black. Compared to many other modes of transportation my work for Mycroft Holmes had required, this was luxury indeed. I put my portfolio by the door and secured my valise in the rack above the seat that would become a bed if one was needed on the journey north. I was still trying to remember to let my Scottish burr be more apparent than I had schooled myself to have it. On a Scotland-bound train, a few burrs should be apparent. Sutton had fitted me out in a fine suit of hounds tooth brown-and-white wool, with a natty tie and a dashing wing collar that made me look like more of a sporting gentleman than I am. I knew that I was expected to behave with an easier demeanor than I usually displayed, and I reminded myself that I should be ready to boast of my travels if the occasion seemed appropriate.

I heard a noise just outside my window and I swung round to see what might be its cause, for someone was shouting and there was a flurry of excitement among the porters. What kind of lout could be causing such a ruckus, I asked myself. A moment later I had my answer as Sir Cameron MacMillian, drunk as a proverbial lord, swaggered up to the car, his valet in tow, and a veritable school of porters behind them. I backed away from the window, my heart sinking into my shoes. “Good Lord,” I whispered at this terrible development. We had not planned on having anyone who actually knew us—and Prince Oscar—be aboard the train. And now, Sir Cameron was, and drunk. He could be disastrous for our purpose. I began to wonder how I was to warn Mycroft Holmes when I saw him come aboard, bowler at a jaunty angle on his head, a cigar in his mouth, a stylish cane in one hand, and his double-caped coat open enough to show off his expensive, if slightly garish, suit of dark mallard blue. He was the very picture of a successful traveler and journalist; Edmund Sutton had truly out-done himself.

At Holmes’ instructions, a small trunk was put into the baggage section of the lounge car, and two valises were carried to his compartment by two porters, Mycroft Holmes coming grandly after them, handing each a shilling for their service, twice the customary gratuity, and for which the porters thanked him profusely. I had not been so generous, as we had planned.

I was about to go out and warn him of the intrusive element in our plans when Sir Cameron saved me the trouble by reeling aboard, trudging along the corridor to his compartment—the first in the cars—wearing at his valet. I heard the porter leaving Mycroft Holmes offer an apology for this disturbance.

“A great hero, Sir Cameron, but a great boozer, too, if you know what I mean,” he said as he prepared to leave the car.

Holmes stopped him. “Is he going all the way to Edinburgh?”

“Yes, sir. That he is.” The porter tipped his cap and departed.

I wanted to step into the corridor and have a word with Mycroft Holmes but I hesitated, for if Sir Cameron was drunk enough he might not recognize me or Holmes. That was hoping for a lot, I knew, since Sir Cameron had been in our company for several hectic days when I first went to work for Mycroft Holmes. I remained where I was, waiting to hear the door of the first compartment slam—as I was sure it must—before venturing out to speak with Holmes. As soon as I heard the door bang closed, I slipped out and rapped on the door of compartment two, where Mycroft Holmes was. I did not wait for Holmes to open the door, but stepped inside quickly, taking care to shut it before I spoke.

Mycroft Holmes was standing by the window adjusting the shades; he barely looked around as he spoke. “Yes, I know. It can’t be helped. We will have to keep Herr Schere in his compartment most of the time, for Sir Cameron will seize upon him and reveal him as soon as he catches sight of him. There is no turning back, Sir Cameron or no. We’re committed now and if we delay we lose all.”

“But Sir Cameron knows Prince Oscar and—” I began.

“Yes. Sir Cameron. We must pray he remains drunk or asleep from here until we reach Scotland. Something will have to be arranged. I must say, it is useful that he is in compartment one. We will not have to go past it except to use the lav, and we might do that in the lounge, as I recall.”

“True enough,” I said, wishing I might share some of his remarkable composure. “What if he should recognize us? Or the Prince?”

“You mean Herr Schere?” Holmes asked with mild incredulity. “Why on earth would such an important person as Prince Oscar travel in such an undistinguished way? No doubt Sir Cameron is too far gone to be relied upon for any identification.”

“I hope you are right,” I said with feeling.

“So do I, dear boy; so do I.” He patted my shoulder. “Speaking of Herr Schere, he should be here any minute. He is in compartment four, as I believe.”

“Do you know who is in compartment five?” I asked, wanting to reassure myself that we had not just made a mull of our attempt to keep the Prince safe.

“No, in the dispatch that came before we left the flat the compartment had not yet been reserved.” He began to twirl his watch-fob. “Perhaps it will remain vacant. That would serve our purpose very well.”

“Do you think so?” I could not rid myself of the conviction that something would happen, that someone would come and our planning would be for nought. The very presence of Sir Cameron shook me to my soles.

“Try not to despair, Guthrie,” Mycroft Holmes said in heartening accents. “And go along to the lounge car in the next half hour, if you will, just to see what manner of company we have. You will know what to look for.” In his ostentatious clothes I felt as if he were trying to sell me optimism rather than inspire it. “Then we will meet, and you will remain Guthrie, and I will be Micah Holcomb. In fact, to all intents and purposes I probably am already.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” I said, and slipped out into the corridor and down to my own compartment where I ended up fretting until I heard Prince Oscar come aboard, coughing to make the most of his tutoring. I stepped out into the corridor as the Prince’s bags were carried on. The porter loaded his valise into compartment two and did not complain when the Prince tipped him half a crown, his hand closing on that lavish amount quickly, in case the Prince should change his mind. I noticed the activity around the train was more hectic as those riding in the second-class carriage strove to get on. A short while later the first warning whistle sounded, signaling the train would leave in five minutes. I became aware of a scramble at the end of this car as the porters struggled with the bags of a late arrival, and I swore under my breath. Compartment five would be occupied after all.

“Would you let me join you?” Prince Oscar asked as he came into Mycroft Holmes’ compartment.

“Of course, Herr Schere,” said Holmes with the appearance of enthusiasm I understood from my years in his employ was less than wholehearted.

The bustle of porters and passengers made one last surge; then the departing whistle sounded and the big engine began to huff and chuff, and slowly the
Flying Scotsman
pulled away from King’s Cross Station, en route to Edinburgh where we expected to arrive in less than nine hours.

It took some time for the train to pull out of the city. London sprawled for miles and it tended to extend along the train lines as well. Almost immediately after leaving the station, the train passed through the first of three small tunnels. None were so long that there was more than a momentary darkness, and our review of the route had prepared us for them. Even so, as the light disappeared briefly I was startled to see Mr. Holmes had moved silently from his seat to stand by the door to the corridor. After the third tunnel he sat down without a comment and stared out the window. The Prince and I exchanged glances and then smiles, his suitably nervous. We passed through the stations at Finsbury Park and Wood Green without pausing; the stations looked small after the grandeur of King’s Cross.

The train halted at a third station near the edge of the city. Here the houses had thinned and the brown pall that often blanketed London had been left behind. Again my employer moved to look first out into the corridor and then the window.

“A mail stop,” he observed, after a few seconds of studying the scene outside. “Most likely mail for the Far North gathered at the last minute. It should be no problem. Yes, three, four, five, all the gentlemen who entered with the bags have left again. One was likely a sergeant in the service. He has the walk and was more neatly dressed. Good solid yeomen are what make England great.”

“All that for a postman?” Prince Oscar marveled, as much amused as shocked.

After the stations we entered a deep cut and for quite a time the view was that of brown stalks and dirt.

Realizing there was no time like the present, I decided to brave the lounge car, where Mycroft Holmes had suggested he and I might pass some of the time in the company of our fellow-passengers, not only to assess them, but to keep an eye on Prince Oscar without seeming to be obvious about it. I remembered my portfolio and the box of drawing pencils Edmund Sutton had loaned me; it was to be part of my disguise. As I prepared to step into the corridor, I heard a commotion from the head of the car. “Sir Cameron,” I told myself with gloomy satisfaction: Sir Cameron MacMillian, son of the MacMillian, was drunk, and had been drunk, I suspected, since the debacle of a reunion with his German wife. Doubtless Holmes found his presence an annoyance, but would find a way to weave the sodden Scot’s presence into his plans.

A moment later my suspicions were confirmed as I saw his valet hasten past in the corridor; I decided to follow along and learn what I could. The corridor of the second-class carriage was very like the one in first class, but there were eight of them instead of five and the seats did not make up into beds; which were instead fitted with curtained bunks at the end of the car. Sir Cameron’s valet was still ahead of me, his body moving with the kind of restless urgency of one fearful of punishment, which working for Sir Cameron encouraged. The connecting platform from one car to the next was swaying from speed, and I saw the valet steady himself; I followed his example. In the dining car the napery was in place and the silverware set, but there were no other signs of readiness to serve. We went through it quickly, passing the galley where the sound of banging indicated that preparations were underway for meals; across the next swaying platform we went, the valet six or seven paces ahead of me. I held the door as it began to swing shut and stepped into the lounge car.