The Flying Scotsman (3 page)

That had been bothering me since the shot rang out, but I had not pinpointed it until Calvin Somerford voiced it so well. “Yes,” I said, as I looked about. There most certainly
should
have been someone on this roof—other than the assassin—and the lack of someone was becoming more glaring in my observations.

“One man, I should say?” Chief Inspector Somerford observed, his manner seeming so laconic that one of the soldiers scoffed at this remark.

“It seems likely,” I said, unwilling to impart more while so many could overhear us. “You cannot want to speak—”

Chief Inspector Somerford coughed to show he understood. “I’ll just have a look around? And to think it’s only Wednesday. What will we have on our plates by Friday?” He nodded once to the soldiers. “Mind you let my men up when they arrive. I’ll need their help.” His diffidence was rewarded with a shrug of assent. I knew that Chief Inspector Somerford was a very canny fellow, able to do a great deal without appearing to, which Mycroft Holmes had realized was a major skill in diplomatic circles.

I went back to the place where it seemed that the assassin had waited; I wanted to bring little attention to myself. I succeeded so well that when a shot rang out, I staggered back and had to steady myself against falling.

Chief Inspector Somerford was the first to move. He ran to the rear of the roof, from the direction that the shot had come, and he pointed, “You! There!” he shouted, his quiet voice an authoritative bellow that shocked two of the soldiers into coming to attention.

Unsure if I should leave my position, I faltered, just long enough to see Mycroft Holmes step out onto the roof, showing no signs of effort from the long, quick climb up the stairs in spite of his portly build. I had often been aware of the man’s remarkable strength and endurance, and that made me respect him increasingly, for great as his intellect was, it was not his only attribute worthy of high regard: his appearance of indolence was nothing more than a ruse, and one I had come to know as a deliberate ploy used to encourage his enemies to underestimate him, much as his carefully maintained impression of a sedentary life made possible by his redoubtable double, Edmund Sutton. He strolled up to me. “Found anything, dear boy?”

“Nothing much,” I said. “But I think we should—”

“—discuss it later. Yes. Of course.” He looked to the opposite side of the roof. “What
is
Somerford carrying on about? I don’t suppose they have caught anyone but a cutpurse or a mudlark.” He sighed. “The Prince is safe and we will join him when our work here is finished. We will need to tend to matters here, and then I will be able to review what you have found.” He leaned down to look at the marks I had discovered. “Heavy weapon, by the looks of it. Very good rifle, probably with a big-game telescope attached to give him a more accurate shot. From the sound of the weapon, it was of a heavy caliber. My first thought was one of those American Sharps rifles that they use to so unsportingly kill their buffalo. But from the high crack that followed it may well have been one of the German weapons created for hunting big game in Africa. With their long, 30-caliber bullet and faster rate of firing, they are increasingly popular among those who trade in assassination. Such a weapon would be ideal for our criminal; he had to kill with one round.”

I shuddered as I again glanced over the wall at where the footman still lay. Staring at the corpse and pool of blood that was barely visible five stories up, I was reminded of the Brotherhood. “So it did—but not the intended target,” I said.

Mycroft Holmes nodded. “Also the new Weiss scopes are very powerful, but present only a narrow field of vision. That might explain how a professional could have missed his kill. And this was most certainly an attempt to kill the Prince. He was close enough to have been intending the worst; in such a crowd, if his purpose was only to frighten, he would have sprayed the coaches or something of the sort. In fact,” he went on thoughtfully as he picked up the shell casing and turned it over, end on end, in his long fingers, smiling grimly as he saw his suspicions about the caliber were correct, “it is a bit perplexing that nothing more was done. He was after Prince Oscar, and failing to accomplish his mission, he fled, since he knew he would not have a second chance here today.” He began to twiddle with his watch-fob, a sure sign of his growing apprehension. “This fellow hasn’t finished with the Prince, you may be sure of that.”

Inspector Somerford approached slowly shaking his head. “There you are, Mister Holmes. A most perplexing business?”

“Perplexing is the least of it, Inspector. I am not at all perplexed. We can have no doubt as to the culprit’s intentions,” Mycroft Holmes declared. “He was going to kill Prince Oscar; and we must assume that since he failed to do so, he will try again.”

“What, Mister Holmes? No one would be so foolish,” exclaimed Inspector Somerford. “He was foiled, and he put us on the alert. If the intention is to cause embarrassment to the government, this has been done. If it is a domestic matter, then why come to England to kill the Prince? Much better to make a point about your own country in it, if you follow me. That is why I am taking this as a sign that England’s foes are at work.”

“You may pursue your theories, Chief Inspector; Guthrie and I will pursue mine.” Mycroft Holmes made a gesture indicating he meant no criticism of the Chief Inspector’s goals. “Together we will be able to uncover the reason behind this lamentable event. Will you arrange for me to have access to this roof tomorrow? I may want to see how he hoped to accomplish his ends, and with all that confusion below, it would be useless now. Our combined efforts must lead us to the truth.”

“Of course,” said Somerford, making a kind of salute with his palm down, as the Americans do.

“Those years in Canada were ...” Mycroft Holmes said, his thoughts fraying as he put his concentration on the roof once more.

But I was not satisfied. “Years in Canada?”

“Um?” My employer turned a deceptively mild gaze upon me. “Oh, yes. Somerford was in Canada as a young man; he came back to England when he was twenty-three. It explains his accent, and his manner of saluting.” He then clearly put the whole of the matter out of his mind as he crouched down to study the groove that had supported the rifle barrel. “Most interesting,” he murmured, as he studied the angle of the thing.

In spite of my intention to ask him nothing until he volunteered, I could not help but say, “Why interesting?” just as he wanted me to do.

“Well, my boy, this groove was cut in place with a chisel, one that made a single impression, which suggests that the shooter brought it along for such a purpose, which in turn implies that he has done this kind of thing before and knew to come prepared.” He did not quite smile, but he did rock back onto his heels and nod to show his satisfaction. “If the man knew to do this, he is no amateur; and there will be a record of him somewhere.” He put his large, well-shaped hands together as if in prayer, which I now knew meant he was searching his astonishing memory for any similarity to other cases of which he had knowledge; his deepening frown indicated he was not identifying anyone to his satisfaction. “Well, I shall devote some time to it later.” He rose, dusting his fingers off against one another. “If the man is experienced—as we must suppose he is—he will have melted into the crowd, milled with them, and made his escape without attracting any attention; so whomever the soldiers have caught, we will discover that the poor creature is not our assassin.” He pointed to Chief Inspector Somerford. “I want you to call around at my flat this evening, Chief Inspector. Your men will have completed their first search of the area around Saint Paul’s. You and I will have much to discuss.”

Calvin Somerford made another of his American salutes. “Eight o’clock, then?”

“I’ll tell Tyers to have a supper laid for nine, if that will suit,” said my employer, ignoring the incredulous stares of the soldiers who watched their discussion. “Guthrie will be with us, of course, and you may bring your assistant, if you like.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Chief Inspector Somerford. He raised his head and peered up at the sky. “No rain for a while. That’s something in our favor?”

“Tomorrow. The weather will change by evening,” I said; the small fragment of a bullet that was lodged in my hip had provided me accurate weather predictions since I acquired it in the streets of Constantinople, almost four years since. “You’ll want a tarpaulin after that.”

“He’s very reliable,” said Mycroft Holmes, motioning to me to follow him. “I think we can leave the police to their work,” he said as he pocketed the shell casing. “Until this evening, Chief Inspector. And do try to keep the soldiers from falling over each other; it is bad for morale.” His single crack of laughter brought indignant stares from the soldiers and sly smiles from the two policemen accompanying Chief Inspector Somerford.

“I would like to think,” I said as we stepped through the door onto the top of the stairs, “that there will be a straightforward solution to all this.”

“My dear Guthrie, no more do I, no more do I,” said Mycroft Holmes wearily as he began his descent.

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

MH returned shortly before G from the aftermath of the wedding in separate conveyances, G having returned to his rooms in Curzon Street to change his clothes before reporting for his assignments from MH. It is apparent that there is a deal of confusion surrounding the events at StP this morning, and the confusion is mounting. By morning, it will be bruited about that mounted Cossacks charged the Scandinavian delegation singing “God Protect the Tsar,” and there will be many who will swear to have seen it, or something as preposterous. I share MH’s apprehension that by nightfall tomorrow there will be so many rumors about that we will be unable to discover a means to sift the wheat from the chaff, as the saying has it. By Friday, no fact will be untainted. To forestall the worst of this, MH is preparing a number of memoranda and other dispatches that I must presently deliver, most with the hope of discovering the truth of today’s events before they are forgot or distorted. The list is a long one and I will not complete my rounds in less than ninety minutes. I have agreed to carry my pistol, little though it pleases me to do so.

Word has just come from Sutton that he will arrive soon after midnight, when his performance concludes, which will relieve MH greatly. He has offered to purchase papers so that MH can read about the events as they are being reported to the British people, which MH believes may point to issues we have not yet considered.

A police constable has been provided to MH to carry messages between him and Chief Inspector Somerford, so that confidentiality can be preserved and so that there need be no delay when messages must be carried. MH is not as pleased with this arrangement as he might be. He does not like exposing Sutton, his double, to anyone who has no need to know of his arrangement with MH, but I suspect that his reasons are more complex than that.

The Prince is safe, and no one is aware of his hiding place, which is just as well.

WHEN I
returned to
my employer’s flat in Pall Mall, it was midafternoon and clouds had blown in, blotting out the glorious blue of heaven’s canopy, and my hip was underscoring this change with a dull, muffled ache that told me it would rain before the next morning. I found the sitting room closed off and the flat ringing with an uneven rendition of the duet “Suoni la tromba” from Bellini’s
I Puritani,
executed—if that is not too strong a word—by solo bass: Mycroft Holmes often sang in the bath when he had solved a problem to his satisfaction, and today, eventful though it was, was no exception. I smiled with relief as I hung up my overcoat on the rack just inside the door.

Tyers, who was preparing to leave, rolled his eyes upward and whispered, “At least he has a plan. Better him singing than brooding. He’s got the front of the flat empty, in case we’re being watched. He’s fairly certain we are. I’ll confirm it for him.”

I chuckled softly; five years ago I would not have been so bold, or so unconcerned, but after the hectic life Mycroft Holmes had thrown me into I had begun to revere him less and respect him more and to understand his enjoyment in the game. “I have my pistol. Shall I need it?”

“Probably not, at least not here,” said Tyers. “I should return in less than two hours; if I am gone more than three, alert the police. There’s tea ready on the cooker.” With that he pulled his muffler around his head and ducked out the front door. I closed the door behind him and shot the lock-bolt home.

“That you, Guthrie?” Mycroft Holmes called out, interrupting his assault on Bellini.

“Yes, sir,” I replied at once. “At your service.”

There was a vigorous sloshing while my employer climbed out of his tub. “I’ll be with you directly. There’s port in the study. Pour for yourself and fill a glass for me. We have work to do.” The energy in his tone warned me that it would be a demanding evening.

“Yes, sir,” I said, and went along to the study, sliding back the doors and going to turn up the gaslight. The bright, warm glow suffused the room, and I looked about with the pleasure of being in a familiar place. The port was in a decanter on a Spanish silver tray, with four thistles beside it. I chose two and poured the dark wine into them, relishing the strong, nutty aroma that rose from the thistles. I set one on the occasional table next to Mycroft Holmes’ preferred chair and sat down in the one opposite it. I put my glass aside while I waited for my employer to join me.

Ten minutes later Mycroft Holmes strolled into the study; he was properly attired for a convivial evening, and I supposed he would shortly leave to visit his club across the street. He nodded his approval at my more practical attire—I was dressed in a dark tweed hacking jacket over a rolltop jumper and driving trousers, as Mister Holmes had requested. “Very good. That is exactly what I requested. You could blend into almost any public place in London but the opera or a Whitechapel stew.” He sat down and picked up his thistle of port. “Thank you, Guthrie. Today has been a trifle taxing.”

“That it has,” I agreed, holding my glass untouched. He sipped to taste his own. I waited to learn what his afternoon’s reveries had revealed to him.

“That poor footman. The body will be at the morgue by now. I should go along and have a look at it in the morning.” He shook his head. “Sad thing, to have such a death occur.”

“That it is,” I said with feeling. The image of the man crumpling had haunted my eyes like a photographic exposure since I’d come down from the roof. “Four seconds sooner and Prince Oscar would have been hit.”

“We must be glad of the warning and the reprieve it has given us.” The expression on Mycroft Holmes’ face was hard to read. “Be very certain we must not lapse into unfounded optimism or security. That shell casing should tell us that, if nothing else.”

“How do you mean?” I knew the question was expected of me, and I waited for the answer with the conviction of one sure in his purpose.

“It is a most unusual shell, that came from the casing. I can think of only half a dozen men in Europe who would have cause to have such a shell.” He coughed. “I will explain later.” He scowled.

I decided I did not want to pursue this just now. “Any word yet from Chief Inspector Somerford? Or his superiors?”

“No, nothing from any of them. Not Somerford, not Winslowe, and not Spencer. We’ll learn more when Somerford comes to dine.” He dawdled over his next sip. “We have made arrangements to send the Prince home under heavy escort,” he went on after a moment.

I had come to know that tone of voice. “Oh?” I said politely, wondering what we would actually do.

“Or something of the sort, in any case,” said Mycroft Holmes, with a nod of his big head. “I will need you to work out the details while I am across the street. We must not be too obvious, but we must use all means possible to ensure Prince Oscar will reach his country without being in danger again. You will have to arrange discreet protection for the Prince and contrive, if you can, to be sure he is kept under guard—”

“Like a prisoner?” I dared to interject.

Instead of dismissing my remark, Mycroft Holmes directed his profound gray eyes at me. “There are times, my boy, when royalty looks very like a prison. Oh, to be sure the accommodations are better than Brixton Gaol, but they are equally as confining, and the sentences are for all lifelong.” He coughed once. “Never mind. Our duty now is plain and we do not have a great deal of time to fulfill our obligations. So. Given the presence of so many of Her Majesty’s relatives in London, we must be trebly careful, for another incident could bring about precisely the kind of doubts we would most want to keep from the minds of such high-ranking persons.” He slapped his knee. “I am going to give you some travel schedules, and you will work out what we have to do in order to guard Prince Oscar and how we may best escort him from our shores to his. We are fortunate indeed that he is inclined to favor Britain, for if he did not, an event such as the one we witnessed today would set the seal upon Scandinavian support for Germany.” He shook his head. “You and I know, Guthrie, how much influence the Brotherhood has in German affairs. It
behooves us to proceed with care. We cannot play into their hands now, when we have come so far toward limiting their ambitions. You know where in Europe the Brotherhood is strongest. You would do well to make every effort to keep Prince Oscar away from such locales.”

“Certainly,” I said at once, setting my thistle aside, the port no more than tasted. I could see restlessness building in him, and I knew he would want me to work immediately. “Do you want me to work here?”

“Yes, if you would not mind terribly,” he said with uncharacteristic diffidence. “I think it would be wiser if you would not put papers about in any case.”

“No, sir; I would not,” I assured him, mildly annoyed that he would think I would so forget myself as to do such a thing.

Mycroft Holmes cocked his head, his expression mildly inquisitive. “Guthrie, what do you make of this? The attempt on the Prince’s life?”

I was so startled by his question that I hesitated to give an answer.

“I suppose it must mean he has enemies, as we have realized. What royal does not? But whether it is an enemy of Britain, an enemy of Sweden-and-Norway, or an enemy of Oscar himself, we do not yet know. It
may be a direct action of the Brotherhood, in which case it is all three; but the Brotherhood rarely works so openly, so it would be foolish to assume only one of the possibilities is operating here.”

A solemn smile was my reward. “Very good, Guthrie. Unlike the police, you have not yet chosen a theory to serve your purposes. Our years together have honed your thinking. Excellent. There are a few permutations of the possibilities you have outlined, but generally you have hit upon the salient points.”

Praise from Mycroft Holmes still delighted me, and I smiled to show my appreciation; I would have tried to turn the compliment; but in the past when I had attempted such a gesture, my employer had not encouraged such courtesy. “Thank you, Mister Holmes.”

“Not that there are not other factors to consider.” Holmes sipped his wine. “There are numerous possible motives for this attempt. It could very well be the act of those who oppose Britain and seek to embarrass or discredit her. There are many on our streets who fail to appreciate the benefits of our associations with their homelands. Nor can we rule out those few remaining Anarchists. While they prefer bombs, I have had experience with those of that ilk using rifles as well, though rarely as professionally.” He pulled at his lower lip. “What do you think, Guthrie?”

“I think that such an eventuality is unlikely,” I replied, knowing that most of my employer’s discourses were his way of thinking aloud and making sure he had considered all the possibilities by hearing them aloud.

Mycroft Holmes nodded slowly. “We should not overlook that this was an attack against a royal. There are those few who still see the Directorates of the French Revolution as being right. That the only way for the masses to gain power is to destroy all those with privileged blood. This might not be the first shot fired simply in jealousy by that type of fool. Nor can we assume the assassin is, or was hired by, someone only from this country or the Brotherhood. After all, Sweden-and-Norway sits over Germany, shares a sea with Russia, and has extensive dealings with all of Europe. I suspect there are men in several nations who would benefit from the Prince’s death, directly or indirectly. And speaking of those benefitting, his brother may have arranged the attempt on his own, without the help or approval of the Brotherhood. He certainly has the most to gain and the resources to enable him to commit such an act. Finally, you have to take into account the fact that a footman, not the Prince, was killed. Although I think it remote, I cannot dismiss out of hand that the assassin was actually in Prince Oscar’s pay, under instructions to make the event appear to be an attempt on the Prince’s life. While I deem it highly unlikely, this may be part of a convoluted plot to eliminate his brother from the succession entirely—in self-defense.”

I regarded Holmes dubiously. “Highly unlikely,” I seconded.

“Oh, no doubt, my boy, no doubt. Some of these possibilities are indubitably more likely than others, but without hard evidence of the assassin’s employer it behooves us not to dismiss any possible source for the threat.” He had another sip of port, rolling the wine on his tongue appreciatively. “There is, finally, the most obscure possibility of all—that the footman was not only the target, but an integral part of a conspiracy to frighten Prince Oscar into capitulation or submission to those whom the footman supported with his life.”

“I will endeavor to keep this all in mind, sir,” I said with feeling; the complexity of the diplomatic world never failed to astonish me; that Mycroft Holmes had it all in his thoughts, at the ready, every hour of the day and night commanded my highest admiration.

“Yes. Well, see you put your observations to good use. I will be leaving in a short while; I expect to see progress upon my return.” He clapped once as if to conjure results from the air like a magician. “You know where the maps are kept.”

“Indeed yes,” I said, hoping to show a good level of dedication. Mycroft Holmes chuckled. “This isn’t Alexandria or Constantinople, my dear boy. You may be at ease.” He made his way to the door, his steps ponderous, as if visiting the Diogenes Club weighed him down with obligation and responsibility by virtue of his membership.

“Yes, sir,” I said, rising out of respect as was my habit.

I watched him leave from the front landing, going into the long spring sunset to cross the road, walking as if oblivious to the traffic around him. I wondered again at the mercurial nature of this most steadfast of men, that these two extremes should exist within him in successful juxtaposition. As I went back into the flat, I paused for a moment, listening. Then I made my way back to the study and began to puzzle out an itinerary that would take Prince Oscar back to Stockholm without exposing him to any more incidents. Beyond all doubt, the British government could not sustain the embarrassment that the assassination of a foreign royal while in British protection would lead to; that was obvious to the meanest intelligence. I had been about the world enough now to know that prestige was as valuable as the coin of the realm—sometimes more valuable.

For the next hour I worked with the various schedules Mycroft Holmes had provided, covering a sheet of foolscap with my notes and growing increasingly dissatisfied with the possibilities. I had almost come to the conclusion that it might be better to invite the Scandinavian navy to come to escort their Prince home, if such a request would not have dreadful implications for British-Scandinavian relations in the immediate future, which would render the work of the last two weeks useless. With a sigh I put my pencil aside and rubbed my eyes, then rose to my feet and stretched. I told myself that more than my shoulders and hip were growing stiff, and that I needed a turn around the room to limber up my brain as much as my muscles. I noticed a new addition to the framed drawings on the wall—a charcoal study of a ruined Cornish castle, vacant and forlorn on a spit of rock over the clawing breakers. I stopped to study it and noticed the ES signature in the lower right-hand corner of the work. Another one of Edmund Sutton’s sketches, I thought, recalling the portfolio of stage designs he had brought here several months ago. He had reminded me then that actors must know how to draw, not only to paint scenery and props, but to put on makeup. In
the time I had been in Mycroft Holmes’ employ, my opinion of Sutton’s profession had improved so that I now began to expect that in his own way Edmund Sutton was as remarkable a fellow as the man who employed us both, an observation Sutton found ludicrous when I suggested it to him some three months since. I thought he underestimated his talent, but he would not agree: he told me that had he a greater gift, he would have continued to pursue leading roles he had once attempted instead of the character parts he now essayed. I turned my attention to a handsome watercolor of the Lake District in high summer. I supposed the lake in the watercolor must be Windermere, but that was probably because I thought all the lakes were Windermere.