The Flying Scotsman (13 page)

The far end of the lounge car that I entered narrowed to provide a large storage area for supplies and baggage. The door was outlined by a brass strip that contrasted with the heavily stained wood panels that lined the car; the full luxury of the lounge was now visible. While studying the lounge’s other occupants and trying to determine if any were potential threats, I began to enjoy the opulence of my surroundings. There were curtains on the windows of the lounge car, blocking off the view of the fields beyond the tracks. These curtains matched the fine linen that covered the seven tables lining one side of the car. Near the window adjoining each table was a small vase containing a spray of blue flowers. The train swayed around a curve and I wondered how the tall, thin, cut-glass vases remained upright. Then I noticed a small collar had been fitted to each table to contain the fixtures and that the linen cloth stopped just short of it. Certainly those who engineered the marvels had forgotten nothing. Absently I wondered if any of the Race to the North runs had included a lounge car in their configuration.

I approached the bar that occupied the last several yards of one side of the car; two men tended it. The wall behind them was lined with shelves, each containing an array of the finest liquors; I was particularly impressed by the brandies, including a bottle that was seventy years old. There was also, not surprisingly considering our destination, a selection of Scotch whiskies, including a single malt I knew to be superior but I rarely had the opportunity to enjoy. I stood a moment studying the selection.

I watched Sir Cameron’s valet take a bottle of brandy from the barkeep, and a snifter, then turn around to leave the car, presumably bound for compartment one in the first-class car. I nodded to him and received no response whatsoever from the harried gentleman’s gentleman. I let my attention wander.

The valet’s departure left only five of us in the lounge car. The two men behind the elegantly outfitted bar, myself, and two others, seated at the window table, apparently strangers, for they were discussing the weather and the new extravaganza at the Hippodrome, as those who are chance-met do. One man was stoutish, square-faced, between forty and forty-five, of moderate height, with short, blunt fingers that were stained with ink. His companion was somewhat older, an angular chap in good Scottish tweeds, with a subtle air of success about him that his table-partner lacked.

“—don’t hold with cutting women in half. I don’t think it’s seemly,” said the stouter man, his accent a nice mix of Northumberland and London.

“But it isn’t as if anyone were really hurt,” said the Scotsman.

“Still. If anything went wrong, think of the scandal,” the first persisted.

“If anything went wrong, the police would set it to rights in a trice, with an audience of witnesses.” He reached into his pocket and extracted a pipe and a pouch of tobacco. He went about the task of filling the bowl and tamping down his mixture with the absentminded ease of long practice. His face was calm. “Cutting a woman in half, done by a fine magician, is a harmless entertainment.”

“But with those horrible murders of eight years ago, and it still unsolved,” the first man exclaimed. “If nothing else it is poor taste to have such a performance until the Ripper is brought to justice. Better to catch a bullet with one’s teeth than remind the public of those murders.”

I went to the bar and signaled the ’keep. “Quinine, if you please.”

“And what in it?” the barkeep asked, as he lifted a glass. “Gin?” He was in his thirties, sandy-haired and hale, his moustache neat and turned up with wax. He looked as if he fancied himself a dashing sort.

“Nothing just yet. The sun’s too high in the sky.” I held out payment and a generous tip. “I need a steady hand in my work.”

“And what would that be?” The barkeep had asked this so routinely that the words were almost without sense. He was bored but knew what was expected of him.

“I illustrate travel guides,” I said. “For Satchel’s.”

“Travel a lot then, do you?” said the barkeep, marginally more interested than he had been. “A job like that, I think you would do.”

“A fair amount. I was in Constantinople a few years ago. I’ve been to Bombay, as well.” I salved my conscience with the reminder that I had, indeed, been in Constantinople in 1889, but for Mycroft Holmes, not for
Satchel’s Guides.

“You couldn’t pay me to go there, either one,” said the barkeep. “Not with all the wogs and heathens. No, thank you.” He opened a bottle of quinine water. “Dare say you need this because of your time in the East.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking the glass and holding it carefully as the train rattled and swayed in response to its increasing speed. I went to sit down at the end of one of the upholstered benches, keeping my portfolio with me. I listened to the two men continue their sporadic conversation and waited for more of the passengers to drift in. Despite Mycroft Holmes’ assurance, I doubted I would automatically recognize anything or anyone who came into the lounge as suspicious.

“They say it will rain again tonight,” the stout man said suddenly with authority. “There isn’t much in the sky to make that likely.”

“We’re bound north,” the Scotsman reminded him. “It’s wetter in the North.”

“So it may be,” the stout man said, and reached for a copy of
The Scotsman
from beside him on the stool. He opened it and began to read with the determination of one trying to remove the print from the page with the power of his eyes.

The Scotsman lit his pipe at last and the smell of port-soaked tobacco filled the air. He was content to sit and drink his “wee dram,” as my Uncle Bethune used to say when he had his.

In very little time, a Glaswegian in clothes more appropriate to bird hunting than travel came along from the rear of the train, his dour expression daunting for anyone but a fellow-Scot. He leaned on the bar, glowering forbiddingly down at its surface, and ordered Scotts’ whiskey neat, lifted it, announcing, “To the ruddy Queen, save her,” tossed his drink back, had it refilled and went to a seat as far from the three of us as he could get in the lounge, and proceeded to demonstrate his unsociability by pulling the curtain aside and pointedly staring out the window. I had rarely seen such an unappealing man as he, in his buckskin breeches and high boots. I could understand why the Scot and the Englishman would try their hand at conversation—as you do when you travel with strangers—but I could not imagine anyone trying to strike up any talk with this Glaswegian.

I continued my observation, making the quinine last as long as I could, waiting for the luncheon chime. My lack of sleep very nearly caught up with me, for the rocking of the train was soporific and the sound of the wheels became as soothing as the babble of a brook. Were it not for the grim certainty that we were not safe, I might have dozed off. As it was, I tried to clear my head by opening my portfolio and pulling out a few of the sketches Edmund Sutton had so obligingly provided to lend verisimilitude to my role. He had included a few new ones, half done, of buildings of interest along the North Eastern tracks, so that I could claim I had works in progress.

“Not bad,” said the barkeep, as I held up a fine drawing of the front of Durham Cathedral. “Not bad at all.”

“Thank you,” I said, changing for one of the incomplete ones, of Stanford Hall in Leicester. The basic form was recognizable, but almost all the details were absent. The Hall was near where that dare-devil Pilcher kept trying to emulate a bird; most often his efforts in powered flight had so far resembled that of the dodo or the ostrich.

“Have to do some work on it while I have the chance.”

“While the train’s in motion?” The barkeep was much astonished.

I realized my mistake as soon as I made it. “Not the finished work, of course; in my business, you often have to work while traveling.”

The barkeep grunted a kind of acknowledgment and busied himself polishing the bar while the lounge fell silent again, but for the click of the wheels and the rattle and engine bellow of the train. I took out one of the pencils and did what little I could to make it appear I was working on the illustration, but as soon as the luncheon chime sounded, I was johnny-on-the-spot to put away my pencils and drawings and buckle my portfolio closed.

“Ah,” said the stout man. “In good time. I am feeling a bit peckish.” He tossed off the last of his drink, folded his paper, and prepared to leave the lounge. “After you, sir,” he told me.

“No; please,” I said, standing aside to let him open the door onto the platform.

We trooped out, the stout man, myself, the pipe-smoking Scot, and the curmudgeonly Glaswegian, across the platform and into the dining car—now redolent with savory odors of mulligatawny soup, potatoes in onion gravy, grilling lamb, and baking cod—where a dozen or so passengers were already seated, Mycroft Holmes and Prince Oscar among them.

“Guthrie!” sang out Holmes in the accent that had never known a public school education. “There you are. Come join us.” He waved me toward him with large gestures, which, from a tall, portly man, were nearly overwhelming.

“Coming, sir,” I said, clutching my portfolio and heading for their table, which was laid for four. I had to jostle by a young couple from the second-class car and murmured my excuses as I did. Reaching the table, I endured a hearty handshake worthy of an American, and did my best to look accustomed to this treatment.

“I don’t know about you, Guthrie, but I am famished,” Mycroft Holmes exclaimed. “Didn’t have time for much of a breakfast; had to show Herr Schere here some of the sights before we left. Too bad he isn’t quite up to snuff.” He sat down and motioned Prince Oscar and me to do the same; Prince Oscar had the seat next to Holmes, on the window, which, after long debate the previous night, we had decided was safer than the aisle seat would be. He nudged Prince Oscar. “I dare say you at Satchel’s in Vienna don’t often enjoy a ride like this one?”

Prince Oscar coughed experimentally and mumbled, “Not often,” in German. He fumbled with his chair, the space being limited and the Prince unused to such treatment. “The countryside is very nice.” He remembered to continue to muffle his voice.

The Glaswegian was seated across the aisle from us, with the two other men from the lounge car. He looked decidedly bilious, his face an underlying shade of green, as if he had spent the night in hard drinking and was not yet wholly sober. The two whiskies had not helped that, I thought as we settled in for our lunch.

“Two soups, an omelette, lamb, or fish. Very nice,” Mycroft Holmes enthused in his Fleet Street accent. He seemed to have taken on the nature of his clothing, and he sat in his place with his shoulders thrown back, arms overlapping his chair, for all the world like a large, extravagant bird displaying his feathers. I was reminded yet again of Sutton’s remark that Holmes was a loss to the theatre—“He’d give Irving and Beerbohm-Tree something to worry about, especially in the Scottish Play, if his performance was any indication”—and at this moment I was prepared to concede Sutton was right.

“The fish is cod,” said Prince Oscar. “I dislike cod.”

“Then have the lamb,” Mycroft Holmes recommended, before he swung around to the table across the aisle from us and held out his big hand. “Good afternoon. I am Micah Holcomb, a writer for
Satchel’s Guide.
Since we’re traveling together, we might as well be acquainted. This is my illustrator; his name is Guthrie. And our companion is the from the Viennese bureau of Satchel’s, Herr Schere.”

The stout man looked slightly offended at this open display, but he put out his ink-stained hand at last and said, “Heath. Kerwin Heath. Printer by trade. I don’t know these gentlemen’s names, or I should introduce you.”

Such was the strength of Mycroft Holmes’ force of character that his hearty good-will was sufficient to require a response from both men. The Scot with the pipe spoke first. “Angus Dunmuir. Pleasure.” The brevity of his handshake belied his cordial word; he volunteered nothing about his profession.

The Glaswegian growled his response. “Camus Jardine.” He hunched his shoulders so that he would not have to shake hands.

“Well!” Holmes said genially. “Well met, gentlemen. I hope we may wile away the hours in pleasant conversation.” His determination earned him the careful scrutiny of the three across the aisle; undeterred by this beginning, Mycroft Holmes rose from his seat and went about the dining car, introducing himself to all the passengers who were waiting for their luncheon. When he had completed this self-appointed task, he returned to our table in time to order the Scotch Broth and the cod for his lunch and a bottle of claret for our table, which made me stare—ordinarily Mycroft Holmes would never drink a red wine with fish. But, I reminded myself, Micah Holcomb would. I joined Prince Oscar in selecting the mulligatawny soup and the lamb, wanting to compliment the wine.

The waiter brought goblets of water and a basket of crescent rolls and butter before returning to the galley for our soup. I noticed the swaying walk he had developed to compensate for the movement of the train. He brought the Scotch Broth first, took the luncheon orders from the opposite table, and went back for the mulligatawny. As he did, a middle-aged couple came from the lounge car; they were seated behind us and were immediately subject to Mycroft Holmes’ ruthless affability.

“Fine day for a journey,” Holmes declared, as soon as he had learned the names of the couple, James and Missus Loughlan, just back from America; they had returned from Baltimore some four days since and were now venturing home to Leeds. “Fine place, America. Full of travel possibilities.”

Until that instant I was unaware that Mycroft Holmes had ever been to America; he had made reference to Americans, but that was not the same thing. He had also confessed to having been in Canada, but that was hardly commensurate with visiting the United States.

“We were glad of your travel guides,” said Mister Loughlan. “I had no notion that country was so big.”

His comfortable wife laughed. “Now, don’t play the noddy, Mister Loughlan,” she said, giving him a shove in his elbow. “Not that the guides weren’t helpful, but we did spend many weeks planning our travel.”