The Flying Scotsman (4 page)

I had just resumed my work when Mycroft Holmes returned from his club. Dusk had turned the flat gloomy, long purple shadows engulfing the rooms. He turned up the lights in the hallway, remarking how eager he was for tea. “Not that the port and brandy are not superb at the Diogenes Club, for they are, but I fear I have to keep a clear head this evening and tea is just what’s wanted.”

I recalled that Tyers said the kettle was ready in the kitchen. “I’ll attend to it.” When I was young, I often helped my mother prepare tea. No one in the family thought it odd that a son should help with such work for, as my mother said often, “You must not rely on women and servants to look to your comfort, my lad; they may not always be available to you.” Our family had one servant, and as she grew older, it fell to me, as the son of the household, to help with things Hatley could no longer do. I went to the kitchen and moved the kettle onto the hottest part of the cooker, as I had been taught to do while still a schoolboy. The sugar caddy and milk jug were set out on the preparations table, and these I set on the brass-fitted butler’s tray while I warmed the good stoneware pot Mister Holmes insisted upon.

“Guthrie,” Holmes called from the study, “are these your notes?”

“On the foolscap—yes, sir.” I measured out tea from the tin, choosing the Assam that Mister Holmes favored when he was faced with long hours of study.

“Not much worthwhile, is there?” His voice was louder and his step in the hall warned me of his approach.

“It has ... difficulties, sir,” I said, choosing my words carefully.

“So it would appear.” He was standing in the door, my pad of paper in his hand; he scowled down at my notes. “Dear me, I had no notion we had allowed such disorder to arise.”

“Such disorder?” I asked, my attention more on preparing tea than on his observations. The smell of roasting lamb was very strong, honing my appetite. There were cups on their racks, with saucers behind them. I took two down and placed them on the tray.

“There is almost no coordination with British schedules. Oh, the trains are not too inconvenient, but other posted sailing times—Good Lord, man. Have you ever seen such stuff? You would think the world still ran by sails and tides to look at these.” He tapped the page with an accusing finger.

“For some, they still do,” I reminded him, for steam had not wholly taken over the sea-lanes yet.

“But not enough to justify some of these schedules. They have accommodated their old schedules when they no longer have to.” He snorted with impatience. “The Prince would be as obvious as a boil on a nostril if we had to guard him at one of the ports between here and Stockholm.” He peered into the kitchen as I continued to set out lemon curd and preserves to accompany scones and Scotch petticoats. “We must find another way, Guthrie. This will not do.”

“No, sir,” I said, mildly distracted. For a couple of ticks, I could not remember where Tyers kept the clotted cream, and then I opened the cooler and brought it out; on the lowest rack a large jug of oxtail soup waited to be heated for our supper. Next I set out spoons and serviettes while the kettle began to thrill. I recalled I should have prepared three baked eggs for Mycroft Holmes, but it had slipped my mind; and even after all these years I was not that familiar with the cooker. I turned to my employer and prepared to apologize.

“My dear Guthrie,” Mycroft Holmes exclaimed, “I could not manage half so well were I in your shoes. When Tyers returns, if he has time between tea and supper, he can bake eggs if we require them. I doubt I’ll want them.” He looked at the tray. “Quite masterful, upon my word.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said as I went to pour the water, just on the boil, onto the leaves in the teapot. The sharp scent of black tea rose with the steam as I put the kettle down once again, this time on the cool part of the range. I checked the butler’s tray to be certain everything we required was in place, then I picked it up and started for the hallway.

“Let me open the door wider, Guthrie,” Mycroft Holmes volunteered. “You will want to be able to move easily.”

“I’d appreciate that, sir,” I said, surprised at how heavy the butler’s tray was thus laden. Holding it, I made my way down the hall crab-fashion; the brass handles of the tray were polished and a bit slippery, making the grip hard to maintain. All in all, delivering the tea was trickier than I thought it would be.

“I’ll clear a place on the tea table,” Mycroft Holmes offered, gathering up the schedules in a single gesture. “There you are.”

I set the tray down with relief. “Thank you, sir.”

“Nothing, I assure you,” he replied in as good form as he would show an ambassador. “I’ll pour, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Thank you,” I repeated, wiping my hands on the nearest serviette. “We should have our supper ready an hour after Tyers returns.”

Mycroft Holmes sat down, his long head angled forward as he prepared to pour the tea. “Do you think we will be able to find a safe route for the Prince?”

“It will be difficult,” I admitted as I sat down. “The Prince has said he does not want to travel on a Royal Navy ship, for fear of offending Germany.” It had been a matter of contention from Prince Oscar’s arrival in Britain, and one upon which he had remained firm. “He must not be given a military escort. Since the PM agrees with him, there is no more to be said.”

“Yet finding appropriate civilian transportation is proving difficult. Have you considered the royal yacht?” Mycroft Holmes held out a cup-and-saucer to me; I accepted it awkwardly, for it seemed strange to have him serve.

“I thought it was not available for this service. Too many of Her Majesty’s relatives would take offense at so singular a display of favor.” I had taken notes at two meetings when this had been considered, and I recalled how vehemently the Swedish Ambassador had insisted that such a distinction was unwelcome to Prince Oscar, for it could lead to the kind of upset that could color diplomatic dealings. “I don’t think the Prince will change his mind simply because the transportation is—”

“Confusing,” Mister Holmes finished for me. “I think you have read the situation aright. Sadly, wiring for the Prince’s yacht at this point would be a concession that the government would not like, an admission that we cannot vouch for his safety.” He paused as he added sugar to his tea. “There is also now the necessity of a decoy.”

“A decoy?” I repeated, feeling rather foolish.

“For the assassin to follow. Surely you see the need of it, Guthrie; you comprehend the importance of Sutton so well,” Mycroft Holmes said, so confidently that I could only nod. “We must assume the assassin will not stop with a single attempt, and that when he continues his efforts he will be more determined. Therefore we must contrive a decoy to keep the Prince safe.”

“Was that why you were singing in the bath, sir?” I ventured to ask, as Mycroft Holmes took his first long sip of tea.

“One of the reasons, Guthrie, yes.” He smiled at me, his expression so benign that I was almost afraid to move. “While the Chief Inspector is here, I want you to follow my lead.”

“Of course,” I said, wondering why he should take such pains to remind me to do the very thing I had done from the first hours of my employment.

“Good. Very good, my boy,” he approved as he drank more tea. “You have become most astute in the last few years.”

Surprised at this unexpected praise, I tasted my tea as well, noticing only that it was a trifle too hot. I sat a bit straighter in my chair. “It’s what you’ve been watching for since Prince Oscar arrived. You have expected something of the sort from the outset. There is more to this than the assassination attempt, isn’t there? It is not so simple as you have implied; more is at stake.”

“I believe so,” said Mycroft Holmes, taking a scone and smearing lemon curd on it. “And I rely upon Tyers to bring me the confirmation of my suspicions in the next hour.” He bit down firmly and chewed.

“The Brotherhood, no doubt,” I said feeling a combination of fatigue and exhilaration at the realization that I would once again be in the fray.

“No doubt,” Mycroft Holmes agreed through a bit of scone. “They want Prince Karl Gustav on the throne one day, allied with Germany and aiding their cause of European collapse. No doubt you have noticed how often the Brotherhood works most injuriously in the nations around Germany, undermining their integrity and binding them to German purposes.”

“That is the aspect I cannot understand: why would a man of Prince Karl’s stature and position want to belong to an organization dedicated to the destruction of the very institution to which Karl himself has been born?” I was not hungry—nerves were robbing me of my appetite, a development I found disturbing for it was not one I often encountered.

“He has most certainly been promised a favored position with the Brotherhood when they triumph. Karl Gustav is a younger son, and in the usual course of things, he will live his entire life in the shadow of Prince Oscar, who, barring mishap, will one day be King of Sweden-and-Norway. How ignominious for Karl Gustav, perpetually condemned to the conscripted life of royalty, with responsibilities and obligations that would make the average man shudder, with little or no chance to achieve the position that all the demands support. No, Karl Gustav had no reason to eschew the privileges the Brotherhood has promised and no reason to refuse to aid Germany, for their policies could provide him the advancement that he, like Hamlet, so conspicuously lacks.” He had another decisive bite of the scone.

“But isn’t he making, well,”—I felt myself redden at this lurid comparison—“a deal with the devil?” I could see that my choice of image amused my employer.

“In more ways than one,” said Mycroft Holmes, after he took a long sip of tea. “For whether or not Karl Gustav ever achieves his desire to supplant Prince Oscar, he will always be at the beck and call of the Brotherhood. It is their damnable practice to aid you so you will be beholden to them, and then to compel you to do their bidding in all matters that suit their purpose.” He poured more tea, using the strainer to keep the dark leaves from getting into his cup; it was a fastidious gesture, reminding me of the narrow, restricted life he was believed to live and how far that carefully maintained façade was from the truth.

“Do you think Prince Oscar is aware of the problem?” I had heard many of the discussions that passed between my employer and the Scandinavian Prince and I could not recall any remark His Highness might have made directly on the subject.

“He has been told, of course. Whether or not he is convinced is another matter.” He stirred his tea as he dropped in sugar. “I have tried to alert him, and I know he is aware of the actions of the Brotherhood; but I am less certain he understands the role his brother is playing in the Brotherhood’s activities. I very much doubt he would entertain the notion that Karl Gustav could have had any role in the event today.” He lifted his cup. “More’s the pity.”

The door to the kitchen opened and Tyers called out, “I am returned,” his voice sounding a trifle breathless, suggesting he had rushed up the backstairs. “I have two replies. Others will be carried ‘round by nine in the morning.”

Mycroft Holmes nodded in satisfaction. “Were you followed?”

Tyers appeared in the doorway, still unwrapping his muffler. “Yes, sir, I was. And I was most particularly careful to observe my followers.” He pulled a small portfolio from inside his coat and handed it to Mister Holmes. “The information you requested. The two replies are with it.” He bowed a bit.

Holmes took the portfolio and put it on the arm of his chair, a gesture so negligent that I knew it had to be deliberate. “Thank you, Tyers. Now, about the man following you?”

“When I left—by the front, as you ordered—I was observed by a young man, no more than twenty-five, fair, with a moustache and a French necktie. He was well turned out and probably fancied himself a cut above most of those around him, a bit of self-delusion in Pall Mall. His suit was a good copy of Bond Street tailoring, probably done by one of the Chinese tailors offering such suits. He had what appeared to be a tattoo on his wrist, but aside from catching a glimpse of its color—which was bluish as so many tattoos are—I cannot tell you anything more about it. He followed me for my first two calls, bur I lost him near Saint Martins-in-the-Field, as you instructed I should. I was able to satisfy myself I had got clear of him before I continued on my errands.” His expression changed slightly, showing his appreciation for his skill in eluding his pursuer. “After my third call, a man looking like a West Country squire gone to seed followed me.”

“Is that Vickers’ man?” I asked sharply, remembering my first work for Mycroft Holmes that had taken me to the men of the Brotherhood in England.

“I would think so,” said Mycroft Holmes, frowning.

I could not entirely suppress a shudder. “If that’s the fellow I think it is, he has a whiff of corruption about him.” My own dealings with him had been brief but their impact remained, like the smell of a dead rat under the floorboards.

“That is the man and most certainly the whiff,” said Mycroft Holmes, his tone as dry as his features were unreadable. “The man is known to whip the bottoms of the boys attending his school for the most minor trespasses.” He took a deep breath. “He will undoubtedly report your calls to Vickers, wherever he has gone to ground.”

Foolish though it was, I could not keep from a moment of recollection, and the image of Vickers’ face before my mind’s eye was enough to chill me to the bone. “Is he still in England, I wonder?” I asked. “He was gone long enough that he might have decided to return to the Continent.”

“Or Ireland,” said Mycroft Holmes. “I shouldn’t wonder if he hasn’t decided to go there and stir the pot.” His face had hardened, seeming now to be hewn from granite. “I will find him.”

I did not doubt for an instant that he would.

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

Having returned from the errands MH sent me to do, I had supper to make for the arrival of Chief Inspector Somerford, who, fortunately, was ten minutes late and was willing to have a second pony of sherry before sitting down to eat. The soup is almost ready, an oxtail with barley, and I will have it in the tureen shortly and then put my concentration on the main course—in this instance I am grateful MH likes his lamb served rare. I seasoned it with garlic, olives, and cumin, as they prepare it in Egypt, one of the dishes I learned to make there. There is new bread and fresh-churned butter. I have to finish the buttered turnips and green peas in creamed cheddar in order to put all on the table in twenty minutes ...