The Flying Scotsman (2 page)

Sir Cameron MacMillian was descending from this carriage, his brindled mutton-chop whiskers brushed out like the ruff on a tomcat. His face was ruddy, which was probably the result of drink, for he was known to favor a dram to start the day. Unlike Mycroft Holmes, age had taken a toll on Sir Cameron; he was paunchy, his hair was thinning, and he walked unsteadily, as if in need of a cane. He was in the company of several Scottish peers, basking in the privilege of his title, Prince Oscar’s courtesy, and his ill-deserved reputation for heroism. Turning to nod to the crowd that had gathered to view the arrival of guests at the Cathedral, he beamed at the acclaim waiting behind the line of uniformed police. He sauntered along with his fellow-Scots, acknowledging the calls of journalists who lined the entrance to St. Paul’s with a salute that made me bristle.

“If we step back he will not see us,” I said to Mycroft Holmes.

“He will not notice us in any case. We are not the ones Sir Cameron is here to see. Indeed, he is here to
be
seen.” Mycroft Holmes was as caustic as I had ever heard him. “He is not worth our concern. But he could be a distraction.”

“True enough,” I said, thinking of all we had endured in Germany as a result of Cameron MacMillian’s ineptitude and the times since when encounters with him had led to trouble.

“Sadly, the Brotherhood knows him, not just you and I, and they are not so reasonable as we are; after the dèbâcle in Germany, they have wanted to see him disgraced at the least, although they may be wasting their time,” said Mycroft Holmes. He looked at MacMillian’s retreating back, scowling. “If he were not here, we would have less to bother about.” His next few words were lost in the swell of the organ. “... since the Brotherhood knows him, and he has got free of them, I cannot want him to show himself anywhere. His very presence alerts the Brotherhood, and they will use any means to silence him.”

“Do you mean they will try to harm MacMillian?” I asked, thinking that this was impossible. “Surely not here, and not now.”

“What better time?” Holmes asked me, pulling me back toward the rear of the Cathedral. “A single act on this occasion would do more to create dissension than any less public act they might perform. Think what an incident here would do toward upsetting the prestige of the British Crown abroad. What is an exploded bridge compared to an assassination in Saint Paul’s?” He looked directly at me, his eyes grave. “And you wonder why I am apprehensive about this occasion?”

“How ... Have you heard something?” I had been with Holmes for most of the last week, and I could recall no occasion that might have served to alert him to any danger. The music was changing, indicating that the wedding was about to begin; the last of the carriages were setting down their passengers; the wedding party was the final one in line.

“It is not so much what I have heard, but something my brother’s scamps have heard in the last few days. The warning we had was familiar to them. One of them sent me word late the night before last. I had hoped that we would not have to be—” He saw the last of the guests take their seats and motioned me to join him in the rear pew. “At least we are permitted to be among the lesser personages. We are not so likely to be singled out. And thank God I have been given full authority and responsibility in regard to the Prince. On an occasion such as this, he might be dragged into any number of predicaments. I have the full support of the government in this, which is the only way it is feasible for me to assume the obligation.” He slid along the pew toward a man in an Italian uniform.

“Here?” I asked, but the question was destined to remain unanswered.

A fanfare brought the entire gathering to its feet; the wedding party had reached St. Paul’s. The choir began a joyous anthem and the celebration began.

The wedding went on for more than an hour; the Archbishop of Canterbury, officiating in vestments that rivaled the state gown of the bride, intoned the long service, punctuated by glorious song, choruses from
Jephtha
and
Susannah
as well as more traditional wedding hymns. The choirs vied with one another and with the distinguished soloists to shine on this grand occasion. Being so far to the rear of the Cathedral, I paid more attention to the music than the actual service, which I was unable to see, though the service itself was enlarged to include all the pomp the occasion could command.

As the bride and groom turned to leave the church, another peal of brass and organ announced their union. Again the congregation rose, this time with happy relief; there was a counterpoint of conversation as the couple went out to the steps to the state carriage that was waiting to carry them back to Buckingham Palace, where a state reception would fill the afternoon.

“We will have a chance to talk with the Prince now, as he waits for his carriage,” said Mycroft Holmes, scanning the crowd. “I will be glad to have this behind us. I can hardly blame Police Commander Winslowe and Superintendent Spencer for washing their hands of this occasion; they are conspicuous in their absence, but no one in their position can feel entirely sanguine about the police in
this situation. Were I serving in
their capacity, I, too, would want to wash my hands of Prince Oscar’s safety—hence my own perplexity in
that regard.”

I moved to the far aisle with him and joined the throng coming out to see the newly married couple get into the carriage to begin their ride to Buckingham Palace with an escort of the Coldstream Guard. Mycroft Holmes was not far behind me, taking a moment to look over his shoulder to watch the progress of Prince Oscar up the central aisle with his company of Danes.

At the front of St. Paul’s the illustrious guests milled, waiting to get into their carriages and trying to exchange a word or two or make arrangements for the later events. Toward the bottom of the shallow steps, uniformed policemen stood to make the departure from the Cathedral as orderly an occasion as possible. Between us and the main door there were three companies of ambassadors with members of their royal families. I doubted we would be able to reach the central door before Prince Oscar got into his carriage. Sliding through the crowd, I reached Mycroft Holmes and went jostling with him toward Prince Oscar; Holmes’ imposing frame made it possible for him to get through the people without hindrance; I went along in his wake, glad for once that I had learned to follow his lead. Only the Grand Duke of Cracow stared, affronted, at Holmes and me as we went behind the Polish delegation. “You must excuse me, Excellency,” Holmes said as he continued on his way.

“I must ask you to let me by, Excellency,” I said, as I attempted to follow my employer. I was not so fortunate as Holmes had been.

“You, sir, are a dreadful—” the Duke started to declare.

I did not hear the rest of it; Holmes summoned me in a forceful voice. “Do not get separated from me; I don’t want to have to wait much longer.”

I knew Holmes was eager to be away from this gathering and back in his flat again; I shared some of his impatience, but I could not help but be impressed by the company around us. I put my hand out the better to wedge myself through the crowd and was very nearly able to keep pace with Mycroft Holmes. I also began to share some of his exasperation with the festivities for they interfered with our purpose. I knew from experience that this general confusion accorded opportunity to those seeking to do ill. My experiences of six months ago had demonstrated this to me in such a way that I was not likely to forget their lesson anytime soon. I continued to shoulder along in Holmes’ wake.

I saw the Prime Minister move away from the gathering and climb into a nondescript carriage waiting on the side of St. Paul’s. I was startled at this apparent lapse in protocol and I faltered, tugging at Holmes’ sleeve to point out this unorthodox behavior.

Holmes displayed none of the dismay I might have expected at such news. “I know, Guthrie; I know. He has declined his responsibility on Prince Oscar’s account and wishes to put himself at a distance from this occasion. I must hope others are not so astute as you are.”

“Yes, but Mister Holmes,” I protested, “who is here as the representative of the government? Not that there are insufficient royals, but you know”—I saw something in his face that silenced me.

“I know only too well, Guthrie,” he said in a low voice. “Beyond the responsibility for Prince Oscar, I fear the Prime Minister has deputized me to stand wholly in his stead once the wedding ceremony itself is over.” He must have seen astonishment in my face, for he laughed, a trifle less humorlessly than usual, which served to warn me that this arrangement was not entirely to his liking. “There have been rumors that there might be trouble, and the PM is determined it will not stick to him.”

“I know about the rumors,” I reminded him without apology. “But these have been discounted. You said so yourself.”

Holmes rubbed his chin with his big, long-fingered hand. “You must forgive me, my dear Guthrie. I was sworn to keep the arrangement silent and have done so until now.” He sighed as we reached the edge of the crowd and found a place between the Londoners gathered to watch the occasion at an imposed distance. He stood, doing his best to be inconspicuous, which for a tall man of corpulent build and dignified mien, was not as readily accomplished as he might hope. He seemed to follow my thoughts and said, “This is one time I could wish for more of Edmund Sutton’s gifts.”

At the mention of his actor-double, I said, “I should have thought you have learned much from him. Your disguises have fooled even me.”

“Ah, Guthrie, that is the problem in a nutshell. It is one thing to vanish with the aid of a disguise, and quite another to do it without disguise. If Sutton were here, he could make himself invisible.”

“An actor—invisible.” I laughed, as I did my best to watch the crowd without drawing undue attention to my surveillance.

“Oh, yes. I have seen him do it just as surely as if a magician had waved a wand. It is a talent in him I envy. I certainly could have used such a talent that one time I trod the boards.” He stared at the line of carriages drawing up to receive their glittering passengers. “This is what troubles me the most, this confusion.”

“But the police are everywhere,” I observed, for I had not often seen so many Bobbies at a public occasion.

“And they claim they can handle anything,” Holmes agreed. “In ordinary circumstances I might agree. But what if a malcontent should leap from the crowd? Do you think the police would be able to do anything in the chaos that would ensue? Or if a kidnapper should be driving a carriage, he might easily make away with those inside before anyone knew what he had done. There could be a demonstration that could cause embarrassment to the government or a similar outcry from the Scandinavians here in London. The Prime Minister has said he does not anticipate any incident, but you see he is gone and I am here.”

“As a scapegoat!” I exclaimed.

“Nothing so sinister,” Mycroft assured me. “Only as a lieutenant. If the Prime Minister supposed anything untoward would happen, he would not have given me the blanket authority he has. He would have divided it among three or four men so that he could claim he did not know their ineptness. With only me, he must assume the whole responsibility for his judgment and bring my work more into the open, which would serve no one’s purpose.” He rocked back on his heels. “I hope Tyers has attended to the task I left him.”

“Securing Prince Oscar’s passage home,” I said, “without exposing him to some of the very elements you fear here.”

Prince Oscar’s carriage was now third from the lead of carriages; the Prince began to make his way down the steps, his delegation around him.

“Just so,” Holmes said. “He cannot go with the official party because Grand Duke Karl has a number of supporters in the Sweden-and-Norway contingent who may be planning some mischief. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for uncovering that unpleasant intelligence.”

“But you told me the Prime Minister had decided it would be a bad show of faith not to send Prince Oscar back with the delegation.” I was surprised at this news; I began to wonder what else Mycroft Holmes had not told me.

“He was persuaded to change his mind,” Holmes said. “In return for my clandestinely taking on the position of his deputy, he agreed to make other arrangements for the Prince.”

One or two of the lesser Hapsburgs objected to the attention being paid by the police, which slowed the loading of their carriage. This resulted in a backup of wedding guests that began to spill out of the area set aside by the barriers. After some soothing of Austrian nerves, the carriage moved off and the Swiss got into their state carriage without fuss; it was now time for the Swedes and Norwegians to be away. The crowd began to mill as the delay to get into their vehicles became more intrusive.

“It will not be much longer,” Mycroft Holmes said to me; I could hear the relief in his voice, which told me he had been more apprehensive than he had been willing to confide.

“And it went well enough,” I said, just as a rifle shot cracked.

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

I have secured the passage required for HRHO, which will take him from Plymouth to Amsterdam and from there to Sweden; our government will protect him in his travels, as per our arrangement. MH has said the wedding delegation is to be avoided at all costs.... The ship departs tomorrow night from Plymouth ...

MYCROFT HOLMES
was jolted
as if he himself had been the target of the shot. He stood very still as shrieks and exclamation erupted from the splendid gathering; the footman holding the carriage door collapsed as if he were a marionette with cut strings, and a moment later blood welled from a gaping wound in
his side. I felt something on my face that was warm and wet; I reached for my handkerchief to wipe it away, not daring to look at the stain on the linen. There were shrieks and confusion that began to spread. One of the leaders of the coach’s team tried to rear up and was controlled with difficulty by the postilion mounted on the other leader. It was as if this were a signal. The Prince swung into the coach and Mycroft Holmes slammed its door shut, shouting to the coachman to make haste. A moment later the matched team of six Cleveland bays sprang away from the front of St. Paul’s, the coach careening indecorously as it swung into the street. “Get a doctor!” Mycroft Holmes cried, though he and I both knew the man was beyond all mortal help. I was about to kneel beside the footman when the crowd began to surge and my employer motioned me to stand where I was.

For a moment the world was suspended, only the clatter of hoofbeats punctuating the terrible thing that had just happened. Then a small band of uniformed policemen surged forward, attempting to surround the remaining high-ranking guests, while several mounted units of the Coldstream Guards rushed into the square and joined those in full kit who had been escorting the various members of the royal Houses. Some twenty or thirty dismounted. The greater number of them surrounded the Queen’s carriage, though she herself was still inside the Cathedral. The rest began politely, but firmly, herding the members of the royal family who had already been gathered by the police to shelter inside the Cathedral. Those Guards who remained mounted drew carbines that I hadn’t even noticed among the complicated trappings of their saddlery, changing in the blink of an eye from being part of the pageantry to seasoned soldiers. These new riders took up their traditional defensive positions at the edge of the crowd in a kind of disciplined scramble that was intended to hold the illustrious guests in and keep any further assailants out. This tactic had the added and unwanted impact of creating a clear division between those who were potential targets and those who were not.

The people who had come to stare and heckle now became fearful and unruly; toward the middle of the crush a woman screamed and then panic set in. Nothing could be done to stop the turmoil that had taken hold of everyone on the steps and below. As the wedding guests strove to get away from the dying footman, the crowd swayed, bulged, swayed again, and people tore away from it, bolting into the side streets. The press was changing into a melee.

As the chaos spread, Mister Holmes said to me, his tone sharp, “Guthrie, did you happen to notice where the shot came from?”

I shook my head, I had not noticed what the shot had done, if anything, beyond inciting panic. I folded my handkerchief and thrust it into my pocket.

“I noticed that the footman of Prince Oscar’s coach was struck; he has not risen that I can see,” said Holmes, his voice eerily calm in the increasing turmoil. “I think that it came from the south side of Saint Paul’s, probably that eyesore.” He pointed to the Georgian building that gave offices to several foreign trading companies. “That’s just the sort of place that would afford a good view of the steps and is likely to be empty for an event of this sort. It is slated to come down next year.” His expressions said that he would have preferred to have had the building demolished before now. “Try the upper windows or the roof. Anything lower would not give any angle from which to fire.”

A Guards Major was coming toward Mycroft Holmes, his manner purposeful and his demeanor disapproving. “I understand I am to put my men in your hands, sir,” he barked.

Holmes tapped my shoulder. “Go, my boy,” he told me as he turned to face the Major.

I hastened to obey, making my way across the street through the tangles of carriages, policemen, spectators, and a number of running members of the press, who were bound toward the confusion instead of away from it. I adroitly avoided the most predatory of these men, knowing my employer would not be pleased if I should be caught and dragged into a confrontation with them.

As I reached the Georgian building, I took stock of its five stories and wondered how long it would take me to reach the roof. Before I could enter, a dozen men, most speaking languages that were not English, came spilling out, as if afraid they might miss the entertainment. I stood aside and then slipped inside. I found myself in a wood-paneled rotunda with three hallways leading to various parts of the building. I took the one directly ahead of me. I supposed it would lead me to stairs, being more central to the building than the other two, for I could see this structure had to have had a lift installed. My guess was rewarded: a narrow staircase wound down to a rear hall.

I sprang up the stairs, wishing I had my pistol in my pocket. I reached the first landing and glanced along the doorway; nothing attracted my attention, so I continued upward. I was halfway up the next flight when a door above opened and a man in Eastern European clothes shouted to me, “Higher. It is higher.” He blanched at the sight of my face, and I did not suppose it was because one of my eyes is blue and the other green.

“I’ll do it,” I told him. “Get away from here.”

“There is another stair,” he called as I continued upward.

That stopped me a moment. “Where?” I yelled back.

“East corner. For tradesmen. The gate in the delivery yard is closed, but I don’t think it’s locked.” He ducked back into his door and I went on, listening closely to the rumble of trouble from the street. The police did not seem to be containing the reaction of the crowd. I could feel my heart beginning to pound, and not simply for the upward climb; I did not know what I would be encountering when I reached the roof or the top floor. I decided on impulse to start with the top floor, so that the culprit could not escape below me while I searched the roof. I worried briefly that the man might already be gone or in a different building altogether.

As I reached the top floor, I heard a loud noise above me; the roof door had slammed closed. This ended any hope I might have had of surprising the blaggard, although I knew the chance of doing so was slim. I also abandoned my intention to search the top floor first; haste was needed and I was determined to make the most of my opportunity before it vanished entirely. I took three long, deep breaths and kept running upward only to find the door locked. I kicked at it several times and it splintered open ferociously, banging against the wall at the back of the stairwell.

The roof was empty. The second stairwell tower was on the east corner of the building; its door was closed, but that was not necessarily indicative of flight. Perhaps I should have searched the floor below. But since I was on the roof, I decided to make a cursory search of the side overlooking the front of St. Paul’s in case the shot had come from here.

I did not actually think I would find anything; I supposed the full search would be made by the police, but I knew Mycroft Holmes would expect this of me. I could hear the sound of police whistles mixed with shouts and the general noise of a burgeoning riot. I forced myself not to look over the edge but to concentrate on the waist-high rim of the roof.

To my astonishment, I was rewarded for my inspection: a chink in the masonry, obviously newly made, showed a metallic scrape and below it a single shell casing glistened in the narrow gutter. It was as great a treasure as gold would have been, a wonderful bit of metal that might reveal more than anything else on the roof. I knew it would be unwise to move the shell until the place could be examined. I had no doubt that I had come upon the place where the assassin had waited to fire. I did not yet know what Mycroft Holmes would make of it, but I was certain he would glean much from it. I thought it was an unaccountable oversight to leave the shell casing behind, unless he intended it be found. So I made a point of finding a way to stand that would draw as little attention to the casing as possible.

Which made me wonder if it were the actual shell casing; might this not be deliberately left behind to mislead us. I knew I should raise some kind of signal and pondered what it should be. I finally looked over the roof and searched in the milling crowd for some glimpse of my employer. I was fairly certain that I would not see him.

The first I could discern anyone in the crowd, I noticed a small knot of military officers with a tall, portly man in their midst. No doubt this was Mycroft Holmes. I had no notion how to attract his attention without adding to the roiling confusion below.

Then, to my relief, Mycroft Holmes glanced toward the building, looking toward the upper floors and the roof. I knew he was looking for me. I leaned forward as far as I dared and waved my hat over my head to signal I had found something. Or so I hoped he would realize was my intent. I saw him shade his eyes the better to see me against the brilliant sky. I pointed toward the shell, nodding to indicate its importance. I was not surprised to see him give me a broad wave and point toward the building.

Half a dozen soldiers turned toward the Georgian building where I stood; I motioned them to hurry. I did not bother to shout—no one would hear me.

The door at the far side of the roof opened and then a young subaltern of the Guard burst out onto the uneven surface, a service revolver drawn and one arm windmilling to steady him. He gathered his dignity and came toward me, his face set in firm lines. “Good God, man. Are you hurt?” He clearly did not require an answer. “What have you found? Is the poltroon about?”

“If he were, I would not be standing here by myself, exposed to his shots, would I? And I am unhurt.” My tone was not as respectful as Mycroft Holmes would like, but the man’s officiousness put me off. I would offer him an apology when and if he caught the fellow. “I have found this,” I went on, showing him the brass casing.

“I should take this,” said the officer.

I held up my hand to stop him. “I think we should wait until Mycroft Holmes comes. The Prime Minister will expect him to handle this. I’m certain you have provisions for abiding by Mister Holmes’ authority.” I could see the resistance in the man’s eyes and I did all that I could to distract him. “I think the man might have gone down the other stairs. I haven’t had a chance to look there.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” The man hurried away, signaling his soldiers to follow him.

As I watched him go, I sighed a little, knowing this was only the beginning of the fuss that would result from this attempted assassination; my employer would be held accountable for anything that transpired as a result of this distressing development. It would cause no end of difficulties for Mycroft Holmes, who preferred to work away from the glare of the political arena. I leaned over the edge of the rail, hoping I might find someone in the crowd who was clearly trying to escape. Not that I thought any accomplished marksman would do anything so reckless, but I had known others to make just such a mistake; I had the scars to prove it.

I noticed that the soldiers were debating what to do, their officer exclaiming that the assassin was no doubt well away from this place and so it was useless to send his men pelting after the criminal. A few of his men were protesting, saying they ought to give chase, to maintain public confidence if not to catch the would-be assassin, which made me want to laugh at their confusion. Then I heard my name called and saw Chief Inspector Calvin Somerford coming toward me, and I was relieved.

“Guthrie,” said the Chief Inspector, his words slurring around the stem of his pipe. He was not the stiff sort of policeman that was most often found around such grand occasions as this one. He was in a dark suit, not quite formal morning wear, but several notches above his usual garb; he stood a bit taller than I, was about forty years of age, with clever, sardonic features. This man had been assigned to the Prince when Oscar arrived in England and had been shadowing him ever since. This event in St. Paul’s was the one place he had been excluded, the presence of the Coldstream Guards being thought to be sufficient deterrent to any assassin: This was now patently inadequate. “Mister Holmes coming up, I suppose, to have a look around?” Most of his phrases ended with an upward inflection, making him sound constantly inquisitive. I thought this was indicative of the man himself.

“Yes. He will be up shortly,” I said, glad to have another man to help me maintain the scene to Mycroft Holmes’ standards. I went to shake his hand as much to show solidarity as to be cordial, for in such a setting, form came after substance.

“Well, they can’t say Mister Holmes didn’t warn them of the risks.” He nodded toward the lip of the roof. “Looks like you were standing a mite too close?” Without waiting for a reply, he looked about, his eyes narrowed critically. “I’m surprised we didn’t have anyone up here? You’d think they would see the potential, wouldn’t you?”