The Flying Scotsman (23 page)

“Yes, sir,” he said, and continued on his way back to Sir Cameron’s compartment.

“The valet,” I said as I once again closed the door.

“Yes, Guthrie. We heard,” said Miss Gatspy. “I wonder why he was listening at the door. Do you think Sir Cameron suspects anything?”

“I think Sir Cameron is in a drunken stupor,” I said.

“If his singing was any indication, I can think nothing else,” said Prince Oscar.

“I think he was listening,” said Miss Gatspy.

“I think he was coming back from the lav and stumbled, just as he said, for I did not see him in the corridor as I came along, which I must have done if he had been stationed here to listen,” I countered. “You must always suspect everyone.”

“In a situation like this one, only a fool would not,” she snapped back.

“Guthrie, Miss Gatspy, please,” the Prince intervened. “Whatever the cause of the valet’s presence, he had only a minute or two to listen, and all he could learn was our unflattering opinions of Sir Cameron. I see no danger in that.”

Miss Gatspy nodded, her fair, shining hair catching the light from the window. “It’s having to be confined,” she explained. “I begin to be apprehensive when my world is limited to a corridor and a compartment.” She stood and stretched. “Do you think, Guthrie, that you could give me a moment or two to use the lav?”

“Of course,” I said, knowing it was expected of me. “If you want to step into your compartment for a moment as well, I will be glad to continue on here.”

“How kind of you,” she said, smiling at me as she left the compartment.

As soon as she was gone I secured the door. “When she returns is there anything you would like me to get you?”

“A deck of cards, to pass the time,” Prince Oscar said.

“Cards. Of course,” I said, a trifle disconcerted that it had not occurred to me to make such an offer myself. “I should find a deck for you.”

“I cannot ask you and Miss Gatspy to amuse me all the time,” he added with a hint of an impish smile.

“Amuse you?” I echoed.

“Well, you do fence so endlessly, I wonder you have not married the girl,” said the Prince.

I could feel heat mount in my face and I stammered out, “Marry? Miss Gatspy?” I managed not to take umbrage at this provoking remark. “I fear you mistake the matter, sir. Miss Gatspy and I have passed one or two adventures together in the nature of our work, but nothing more, I assure you.” I could feel color mounting in my cheeks as if to give the lie to my protestations. “The railing you perceive is our way of testing one another, nothing more.”

“If you say so, Guthrie,” said Prince Oscar. He looked toward the window. “We must be nearing Sheffield. There are more houses.”

“Yes. We must,” I said, obscurely grateful for the nearness of the town. I supposed we should soon arrive at the station, where I would be busy tending to Mycroft Holmes’ instructions regarding telegrams.

“While you are in the station, would you be kind enough to pick up a paper or two for me? I have nothing to read but the reports I was provided when we signed the treaty, and frankly, Missus Radcliffe would be welcome to me now.” He laughed once to show he was exaggerating.

I knew I was expected to laugh, and I did my best to comply, although to my own ears I sounded most false. “I will try to oblige you, sir.”

“Thank you, Guthrie,” said the Prince, and resumed watching out the window as we moved more deeply into Sheffield.

The farm cottages and estate houses amid the gorse rapidly gave way to mills, factories, and the tight rows of narrow-fronted homes. There was a slight haze over the entire town, a combination of dust and the smoke from thousands of coal fires. The streets, when I could see them as we rushed by, were bursting with traffic, mostly wagons filled with goods. We went past a wagon piled so high with wool I wondered it didn’t topple over. A few seconds later Irish laborers in their distinctive caps came into view, loading machine parts into a wagon that must have been specially reinforced to handle the weight of the steel. Everyone we passed moved energetically.

“I know many English purport to dislike industrial towns, but I think they must be very proud of such a place as this, and Manchester, and Birmingham,” said Prince Oscar, as we slowed still more, approaching the station.

“They are places to be proud of,” I agreed, feeling a trifle apprehensive as I would soon have to report to Mycroft Holmes and Miss Gatspy had not come back to her post. I could not help but worry on her behalf.

“One day we will do as well in Scandinavia,” the Prince said, making his assertion sound like a vow.

“No doubt; and this treaty will help to make it all possible,” I said just as a knock sounded on the door. I very nearly jumped at the sound and went quickly to answer. “Miss Gatspy?”

“Whomelse were you expecting?” She sounded vaguely annoyed, and I opened the door at once, relieved to discover she was unharmed. “I am sorry I took so long,” she said before I could speak. “I had a minor matter to attend to.”

“Well, you are back and no harm done,” I said, adding, as I retrieved my portfolio, “I must go along to compartment two—”

“Your employer must have work for you to do in Sheffield,” Miss Gatspy agreed, and let me step past her into the corridor. As she closed the door, she said, “Do not fret, Guthrie. We’ll get through this. We’ve survived worse.”

“That we have,” I said as the door closed.

The train was now moving quite slowly, and the station was not far ahead. I hurried along to Mycroft Holmes’ compartment and knocked my identifying pattern as swiftly as I could.

“I was beginning to worry where you had got to,” said Holmes, as he admitted me. “How is Herr Schere?”

“He says he is bored. He would like a paper to read and a deck of cards.” I saw a sheaf of papers on the pullout table. “Are those for me to send?”

“Yes, Guthrie, and I am afraid you will have to rush to get them all on their way.” He picked up the sheets and handed them to me. “Read them carefully and make sure the telegraph operator does his work well.”

I made a sign of agreement that had the intention of showing I would waste neither words nor time. “And I will fetch Tyers’ messages for you.”

“I expect no less,” said Mycroft Holmes. “We will be in the station directly.”

As if to confirm this, the train lurched as brakes became more imperative. I steadied myself before tucking the sheets Holmes had given me into my portfolio. I turned and went toward the rear of the car so I would not have to pass Sir Cameron’s compartment, for surely this energetic slowing would disturb even his slumbers. The platform was just coming into sight as I reached the steps that would be allow me to descend. Glancing down the train, I saw that Mister Burley had taken up a similar position at the end of the second-class car.

Steaming like a monster of legends, the
Flying Scotsman
halted at last in Sheffield amid a flurry of activity to which I contributed in my rapid sprint through the slanting sunlight of late afternoon to the telegraph office in the station-house, only to discover a salesman from Harrogate was ahead of me with three telegrams to send. All my chafing did nothing to hurry this genial gent, who spent a good five minutes gossiping with the telegraph operator; apparently the two were somewhat acquainted. As if to add to my complaint, the old wound on my hip began to ache, making me less patient than I ought to have been.

“Damned awkward, missing the 3:27 out of Leeds, but it can’t be helped,” the salesman said at last. “I’ll have to hope the Red Ram will hold a room for me when my telegram is delivered.”

“I should think they would do,” said the telegraph operator. “Mind how you go along, now.” He very nearly waved as the salesman stepped away. “What can I do for you then?”

“Do you have any messages for Guthrie? Paterson Guthrie?” I asked as I handed him the various sheets of messages Mycroft Holmes had entrusted to me. “These are for immediate dispatching.”

“Guthrie, Guthrie,” said the telegraph operator, speaking slowly as if to shame me for my demand for prompt action. He leaned toward his receipt boxes and pulled half a dozen of them from the pigeon-holes behind him. “There you are, sir. If you’ll just sign for them.”

I took them and handed him a shilling. “For your trouble,” I said as I scrawled my name on the line he indicated on his telegram register. “And there is another for you if you will hasten to send these.” I put the telegrams in my portfolio, unread.

The telegraph operator glanced at the sheets. “We heard you’d had a murder on board,” he said as he began to tap out the first message; I knew the more I told him, the faster he would send the texts.

“Two of them. The first was a man who had sought to escape the men with whom he had undertaken a crime, which is what brought the police into the matter. Then, once they were apprehended, the leader of the criminals killed one of his accomplices,” I said, hoping the police would not regard any of this as compromising, although I was convinced it would be in every Midlands paper by tomorrow.

“They say one of them escaped,” the telegraph operator said, encouraging me to explain more.

“He certainly threw himself out of a moving train, if you can call that escaping,” I said, trying to make it sound as if the whole issue were settled.

“That’s criminals for you,” said the telegraph operator. “You want this sent to the Russian Embassy in London? Is that right?”

“Yes, it is,” I said. “My traveling companions and I are all employed by
Satchel’s Guides,
“I confided as if this would account for the contact with the Russians.

“Oh,
Satchel’s,”
the operator said wisely, willing to accept this without cavil. In a matter of a minute, that had been sent. There were three more to go. I saw the activity on the platform increase, and I knew I had very little time to complete my errand. I handed payment to the operator, saying, “All the telegrams will have to be delivered. This should cover the amount, and any left over is yours for swift service.” With that, I turned away and went to purchase a paper and deck of cards for Prince Oscar, striding hastily back to the train as the warning whistle sounded. I was mildly surprised, thinking that the time had been very short. Swinging myself aboard the train, I noticed that Sir Cameron’s valet was doing much the same thing at the other end of the car. There was still sufficient light for me to be confident of my identification of the man; in another twenty minutes it would be too dark for easy recognition. It struck me as odd that he should have left the train for he held nothing in his hands and had not sent a telegram. I wondered if he might have been disposing of something—but what? I frowned as the conductor closed the door and signaled the engineer to begin moving. Taking this as my cue as well, I went along to compartment two, aware that the valet had already ducked back into Sir Cameron’s compartment.

“What do you have for me?” Mycroft Holmes asked as I entered his compartment; the first powerful strokes of the train’s great pistons began, and, jerking a bit, the train inched forward.

“Telegrams, sir,” I said, drawing them out of my portfolio and handing them to him. “Two from Tyers, one from Superintendent Spencer, one from Commander Winslowe, one from the Admiralty—I think the latter may be giving you a report on the shooting of the double.”

“That’s five, and as you can see, there are six,” said Holmes, continuing before I had a chance to speak, “Well, let me have a half an hour to study these. We’ll review what we can glean from them when I know what that may be.”

“Very good, sir,” I said. “They should be starting the first seating in the dining room shortly.”

He looked toward the window. “Oh, yes. It is getting late, isn’t it?” He sighed heavily. “And we have to wait until we’re through Leeds, I suppose.”

“That should be about the right time, providing we have no other impediments to our travel.” I was about to go to my own compartment when I decided I would do well to mention seeing Sir Cameron’s valet on the platform.

“He sent no telegram?” Holmes asked when I was through.

“Not that I saw. I reckon he was disposing of something, or posting a note perhaps, but I cannot say so as fact.” I shrugged. “I just thought you should know.”

“Very true, Guthrie, whether or not it comes to anything, you’re right—I should know of it.” His heavy brows drew downward. “Keep an eye on him, if you will. Nothing too obvious, and nothing that will prevent you from attending to our primary purpose. He may be doing nothing but sending gossip to a crony, or there could be something sinister in his activities. It would relieve me if we were just jumping at shadows.”

“And I, too, sir,” I told him before leaving him to peruse his telegrams.

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

Sutton is putting the finishing touches on his ensemble for his walk over to the Diogenes Club, and I am waiting for the next telegrams to arrive. This uncertainty is nerve-racking. I know it must take a toll on Sutton as well, but he expresses himself by other means than I do ...

I cannot rid myself of the fear that the information that ought to remain confidential has been spread about in a most dangerous way. Far too many of those who should know little or nothing about the destination of HHPO appear to have not only the general plan but some of the particulars as well. The only consolation I have is that once the source of the information is identified, it will be possible to root out the corruption that has so compromised the police.

I have had some dismaying news come my way through an old friend at the Admiralty—that an Admiralty agent has been placed aboard the
Flying Scotsman
to “lend support” to MH and G. This is the very kind of well-meaning interference that MH will find most unwelcome. I cannot help but think it is my duty to notify him of this action taken by the Admiralty, although I realize it will make the work MH does much more difficult. I must prepare a report to reach him at Leeds and hope that nothing untoward happens because of this rash decision made by someone at the Admiralty with more hair than wit ...