The Flying Scotsman (19 page)

I saw the barkeep go quite still, as if stricken with worry.

“To me the best poison has always been that which kills hundreds in Britain every year: food poisoning.” He looked about, knowing everyone aboard had at one time or another eaten a dish that was not wholesome.

Inspector Carew had returned in time to hear the last of this; he stood watching Holmes through slightly narrowed eyes. Only when there was silence again did he speak. “We may be in luck, but I doubt the chemist will think so. He has several days’ work ahead of him.”

The train began to slow down, not greatly, but enough to attract attention. As the men looked about in apprehension, Whitfield spoke up. “We’ve got behind the Ipswich to Manchester train—that’ll be it. It’ll take the switch to Derby just after Loughborough.”

“We’ll be behind it for such a distance?” Mister Heath sounded distressed.

“You have no reason to complain of it,” said Inspector Carew. “We will be put on a side-track while the body is removed, and the poor man’s luggage. He had a second-class ticket in the rear of the train, and would have gone to Glasgow, not to Edinburgh, had he completed his journey.”

One of the men looked disgusted. “The only speed record we’ll be breaking this run is the one for tardiness.”

His tone was taken up by several of the others, but not quite so boldly. This time Inspector Carew responded, addressing the men before Mycroft Holmes could speak. “I know you don’t like being late. It’s inconvenient and annoying. But think of Mister Jardine. He has experienced something far worse than lateness. You will at least arrive at your destinations; he never will. If he were your son, your brother, your husband, your father, wouldn’t you expect more than shuffling his body off with no more ado than if it were a sack of meal?” He gave the men in the lounge car a short while to think about that. “Whether or not you have sympathy for him, show a little to his family.”

I would have liked to say, “Hear, hear,” but I suspected it would not sit well with the Inspector if I did.

“Didn’t mean no disrespect,” said the square-faced man, who had a wife and three children in the second-class car bound for Edinburgh. He wore a mourning-band on his sleeve, and I recalled he had said something about having to attend a funeral when he was questioned.

“Of course not,” said Inspector Carew. “It has been a difficult time for us all. And as I must ask your continued indulgence until we have finished our tasks, I apologize for the delays and any inconvenience it may cause you.” He directed his gaze toward Mycroft Holmes once again. “Have you any more ideas about who might be involved in this?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, I do,” said Holmes evenly. “It will be my pleasure to tell you what they are. Speculation, of course, but that is to be expected. I may have misread the situation entirely, in which case, I will owe at least two men an apology: you and the man I suppose might have done it. Would you rather we discuss it here, or—?” He gestured to the platform.

“A fine notion,” said Inspector Carew. “Very well; the platform will do. And in the meantime, Constable Washbourne will inspect the tickets of all the men in this lounge. Only those who purchased a ticket to Leicester will be allowed to leave the train there. We will require your names and where you may be reached, of course. I am confident you will all assist us to your utmost capacity, and so I will tender my appreciation in advance of your service.” His cordiality was belied by the cold light in his pale eyes.

“Shall I remain here?” I asked Holmes very quietly.

“Better do. I need a reliable witness in this car.” He raised his voice. “If anyone else has a theory, my illustrator will take down your ideas, or make sure you have the opportunity to speak with the Inspector.”

I very nearly cursed him then, for I could see four of the passengers just bristling with notions they could not wait to elucidate. The next few miles promised to be hectic ones for me unless Holmes and the Inspector could hit upon some astonishing revelation. I resigned myself to the task to taking down every theory offered to me, and consoled myself with the thought that one or two of them might possibly be right.

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

There has been a death on the
Flying Scotsman
, as the telegraph operator at King’s Cross informed me when I presented my letter of authorization from the Admiralty. The police from Bedford have taken the investigation, and no one has been allowed to leave or board the train, which is now on its way to Leicester. The telegraph operator gave me his word he would inform me as soon as the train’s arrival at Leicester is confirmed. I must hit upon some means to get word to MH if he is not allowed to send his telegrams to me. It would probably be wise to send duplicates of the Bedford message, as well, and to send them and any new information to Sheffield, so that if I am unable to reach MH at Leicester, he will still be kept fully abreast of what has taken place thus for.

Sutton admits he is relieved. This long wait for information has taken a toll on him as well. For nearly an hour he abandoned his study of Jonson’s play and reviewed all our railroad notations in case he might hit upon some means of using any associates of his from the theatre who are touring in the Midlands to get a message onto the train. That is one approach that never occurred to me; and although it seems somewhat for-fetched, if communication remains precarious, I will have to consider Sutton’s alternative. At least HHPO is safe; that much I have been able to establish.

CI Somerford sent word that a spent shell has been found on the roof of the house where Constable Childes was killed, apparently matching the one on the roof from the first attempt on HHPO 5 life· Whoever this assassin is, he has left his mark like a calling card, perhaps to taunt the police, perhaps to signal his accomplices ...

I am off to King’s Cross again, to learn what I can about the
Flying Scotsman.

AFTER
the mail sacks had
been exchanged at Kettering—somewhat less frenetically than usual, owing to the slower progress of the train—Inspector Carew and Mycroft Holmes returned from their discussion to find the lounge awhisper with speculation, each passenger regarding his nearest traveling companion askance. I had been observing this and was still not as certain as my employer that it would be possible to unmask the culprit before we arrived at Leicester. Constable Washbourne had checked all the tickets and made notes of his observations in his memo-book. I busied myself pretending to sketch the interior of the car.

“Why bother with this place?” Whitfield asked suddenly, leaning over the bar to talk to me. “It’s nought but a lounge car.”

“It’s a lounge car where a man was murdered. I might find a paper that would pay well for it.” I shrugged. “Not that I can do much until we’re standing still, but I can make a beginning.” I thought I sounded plausible enough. “When we reach Edinburgh, I’ll do a proper job on it.”

“If you think so,” said Whitfield, looking in Mycroft Holmes’ direction. “Strange fellow, that Holcomb. Too clever by half.”

“It’s the travel,” I said, hoping he would make more sense out of my remark than I could.

“All that talk about poison. Quite puts me off.” He polished the wood automatically, his attention on Holmes and the Inspector. “Don’t like to think about how he comes to know it.”

“Now then, gentlemen,” said Inspector Carew. “I am sure you are all anxious to have this unfortunate event behind you, and Mister Holcomb has persuaded me that he might be able to show how the murder was done and who did it. I have discussed his theories with him, and I am satisfied that they may well offer the solution to this crime. Therefore, I ask you to listen to him and answer any questions he may put to you.” He gave a nod in Mycroft Holmes’ direction. “There you are, Mister Holcomb. The rest is up to you.”

“In other words, you are permitting me to damn myself if my conclusions are incorrect.” Holmes’ tone was dry. “Understood.” He straightened himself up to his considerable height, took a deep breath, and began. “When Mister Jardine first came into the lounge car, Mister Heath and Mister Dunmuir were seated—there.” He pointed to the table they had shared. “My illustrator was at the bar. Have I got that right, Whitfield?”

“That you have, sir,” the barkeep answered promptly.

“In other words, Mister Jardine sat as far away from Dunmuir and Heath as he possibly could,” Holmes declared. “He could have been trying to hide from them.”

“You might say that,” Whitfield said, as if the notion were new to him. “He didn’t seem the sociable type.”

A few men made noises of agreement. I saw one of the men point to Heath and whisper something to his neighbor.

Holmes rocked back on his heels. “Did none of you think it strange that the man should be wearing clothes more suited to the paddock than to travel?”

“Thought the fellow was rude and inconsiderate,” said Mister Olwin.

“He was dressed for the paddock,” Holmes went on as if Olwin had not spoken, “because he was trying to escape.” He paused for effect, just as Edmund Sutton would have done. “He had left the track without taking more than his bags. He packed and fled. You may imagine his dread when he stepped into this car and found the men he had been hoping to elude sitting together as if they were waiting for him.”

“Just a minute here ...,” Heath began. “I never met this man before today”—he indicated Dunmuir—“and as for the dead man, aside from sharing a table with him at luncheon, I have no acquaintance with him whatsoever.” His face was growing pink and his eyes glittered.

“In a moment I shall demonstrate that isn’t true,” Mycroft Holmes said confidently. “You, Mister Heath, not only knew Mister Jardine, but you and Mister Dunmuir were part of a criminal ring fixing horse races. You, sir, are a bookie, and Mister Dunmuir is a breeder, one of the most respected in the North. But of late affairs have gone against you, have they not, Mister Dunmuir?”

Mister Dunmuir was packing his pipe and gave Holmes a long stare. “You’re the one telling tales, laddie, not I.”

Who, I wondered, was Mycroft Holmes’ source for information in the racing world. In an instant I realized he had had recourse to his brother’s formidable files. When had he perused the material on horse racing, and why had he bothered? There had been some word of a scandal in the papers, but why should Mycroft Holmes have any reason to pursue the matter? I would have to ask him when the occasion permitted.

“You, Heath, and Jardine have been feeding horses—often your own, so you could profit by betting against them—various substances to compromise their performance on the track. Only it went wrong this last time, didn’t it?”

Heath started forward only to find Constable Washbourne at his side. “You have no basis for these accusations.”

“You think not?” Holmes asked, and gave Heath a long time to answer. When nothing more was said, Holmes went on. “There was a mishap at the track, wasn’t there, one that brought inquiries too close to you, and which caused Jardine to panic. When you discovered he had decamped, you set out to get him, and to silence him.”

“Preposterous!” Heath bellowed.

“He was the weak link in your chain. He, being a trainer, was distressed by how the horses were being treated. I am guessing he wanted to end the ... er ... enterprise, and you would not let him. With this scandal, you were convinced he would turn against you and give your scheme away to the authorities.” Holmes set down his empty pony on the bar; Whitfield took it promptly. “There have been rumors for the last two years about tampering with the races, although there was no proof. But with the jockey dead, there is going to be an intense scrutiny, and you all were aware your activities would be revealed.”

“Assuming there is any truth in this farrago of yours, sir,” said Dunmuir, pausing to light his pipe, “why should we maintain so elaborate a ruse on this train? Why should we not travel together, the better to plan how to avoid the consequences of our reprehensible acts?”

“Because, as I have said, Jardine bolted. You had originally planned something of the sort, I suppose.” Holmes looked over at Heath, whose face was now mottled red and white, declaring either guilt or the righteous indignation of an innocent man. “You had to get away, and Mister Dunmuir could provide you a place to go to ground at his estate in Scotland. Jardine was on his way home to Glasgow. I believe Jardine thought he had a one-day lead on you.”

Inspector Carew spoke up. “On Mister Holcomb’s suggestion, I have gathered a number of newspapers from the passengers on this train, and there is indeed much attention given to the death of the jockey. The police are investigating it, and a number of irregularities from the track.” He held up a number of newspapers, rolled into an untidy tube. “It is all here. Scotland Yard have begun their inquiries.”

“What makes you think that has anything to do with us?” Mister Dunmuir seemed almost bored. “Why should either of us know Mister Jardine, let alone kill him? Your story would probably do very well in the theatre, but it will not answer in court.”

“But it will,
you know,” said Mycroft Holmes. “The police will hold you in Leicester while they search your home in Scotland and your office in London. It is likely you will have left some note or other evidence of your plot.”

It took Mister Dunmuir a shade too long to respond. “I will demand restitution for any invasion of my privacy.”

“It will be forthcoming, of course, if nothing incriminating is found,” said Inspector Carew. He noticed Mister Heath was sweating. “Washbourne, take the two of them into the lav, will you, and keep watch at the door? I have a few more questions for them once they compose themselves.”

A few of the passengers were looking relieved; one of them offered to buy a round of drinks, and in an instant a hectic melioration was spreading throughout the lounge. Whitfield hopped to his job as Constable Washbourne escorted Heath and Dunmuir to the lav. I watched them go with a degree of bafflement; I had not thought the matter would be so swiftly concluded. I admitted as much, sotto voce, to Mycroft Holmes, who replied, “The Inspector needs a good reason to hold the train at Leicester until he can get instructions from the Yard. This provides him one.”

“Then it was a ruse?” I asked, shocked at the notion.

“Possibly; although I am certain those two men were behind Camus Jardine’s murder. I may have the details wrong, and it may be Heath and not Dunmuir was the instigator, but I doubt it. Dunmuir has the right demeanor.” He accepted another pony of shooting sherry. “I don’t want the police aboard the train any longer than necessary, for Schere’s sake.” He took a sip of the fortified wine.

I had declined more drink, knowing I might easily become sleepy and inattentive if I allowed myself anymore such indulgence. With the strain of the last two days, I knew that I would not be able to resist the sweet seduction of rest if I had stronger drink than tea, so I ordered a pot of Assam from Whitfield, explaining myself by saying, “I had wine at luncheon.”

“Very abstemious sort, aren’t you?” He signaled the kitchen for the order, adding, “You want milk and sugar with that?”

“Sugar only,” I said, knowing I would want the full benefit of the tea. I had come to marvel at Mycroft Holmes’ capacity for drink, which seemed to have little or no impact on him. Some men had such constitutions, and my employer was undoubtedly one of them; I was not made of such hardy stuff—when tired, drink invariably made me sleepy.

Inspector Carew made a point of putting a light touch on the moment. “Those of you who need the necessary room, use the ones in other cars. For the moment, the one in this one is engaged.” It was a feeble enough joke, but one the men in the lounge car were glad to laugh at.

Beside me, Mycroft Holmes said quietly, “No inspection of the train. We have something to be grateful for.”

“Amen,” I said with feeling. “And perhaps in Leicester we can use the telegraph station to reach Tyers.”

“I should think so,” said Mycroft Holmes, his long face appearing jovial now. “No doubt Tyers has enlightened himself as to our predicament.”

I knew better than to ask how he might accomplish this; instead I regarded Holmes with an inquiring eye. “Have you discerned who among the police has been working against us?”

“Not yet. I am lacking two crucial pieces of information. Once I have them in hand, I will be prepared to tell you all.” He laid his long, straight finger aside his nose, as if he actually were a journalist who made his living writing about his travels.

“As you say,” I responded, then added, “Do you think one of us should visit the first car?”

“Yes, but not yet. We do not want to draw any more attention to the car than is necessary. We have to remember that part of a disguise is being unnoticed.” He smiled a bit. “When one or two of the men, here have gone off to the lavs in the other cars, then one of us will be able to leave without being conspicuous.”

Inspector Carew made his way to Holmes’ side. “Constable Washbourne knows his duty. You need not fear that those men will bribe him. If they attack, Constable Snow is on the platform and ready to assist.” He looked at Holmes carefully. “I must say, your assessment of the crime was most astute.”

“Well, m’ father was a magistrate in Swindon. He taught me a great deal about crime and criminals.” He had a smile worthy of a Cheshire Cat. I tried not to stare at this clever fiction.

“How does it happen,” the Inspector asked, so nonchalantly that I, for one, was instantly on guard, “that the son of a magistrate is a journalist? Wouldn’t you have trained for the bar?”

“No talent for it, and no money to pay for it,” said Mycroft Holmes, with the bluntness of one long used to such questions. “As it was, my brother has filled that place, while I have become a kind of professional vagabond, going about the world and reporting on what I find.” He winked at Inspector Carew. “You learn a lot, going about the world.”

“No doubt,” said Inspector Carew drily. As Whitfield handed him a second glass of ale, he added, “Had some run-in with criminals in your travels, haven’t you?”

“What traveler has not?” Holmes countered. “I have seen my share of skulduggery, I believe.”

“Which accounts for your knowledge of poisons,” said Inspector Carew.

“Inspector, any man traveling on his own in foreign climes had better be alert to these things or he will never live to file his report. Foreigners are often targets for certain criminal elements. This is true in London, or Paris, or Rome, but it is the more so in regions beyond our usual travel. One must be on guard against poisons, against thieves, against murderers, against the greedy and the zealous. A man in my position has to tell the readers of
Satchel’s Guides
where it is not safe to go as well as where it is, and what the dangers are as well as the sights.”

“Very likely,” said Inspector Carew, and turned his interrogation on me. “Have you had the same experience. To illustrate the publications, you must go to many of the same places as Holcomb here has gone.”