The Flying Scotsman (6 page)

“Very good,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Oh, and Tyers—will you be good enough to find out if the Prince finds the club to his liking when you’re finished serving?”

I had to work not to appear stunned. How could Mycroft Holmes be so lax? It was feasible that he was laying a trap, of course, but why should he want to trap the Chief Inspector? Was there someone among his men who might be dealing with the Brotherhood or one of the more obstreperous Irish groups? Much as I was inclined to doubt it, I could not wholly rule out the possibility.

Tyers offered no change of expression. “Of course, sir,” he said, continuing to look after our wants, his demeanor correct to a fault. Only when he was done did he bow slightly. “I will take a few minutes to cross the street, if that is suitable?”

“Fine, fine,” said Mycroft Holmes, waving Tyers away as if dismissing a dairyman or some other menial; I had to resist the urge to bristle on Tyers’ behalf.

As Tyers withdrew, Chief Inspector Somerford looked aslant at Mycroft Holmes, his expression bordering on smug. “Been with you a long time, has he?”

“Oh, years and years and years,” said Holmes making this truth sound as if he were used to enjoying Tyers’ excellent service without question. “Fine sort of fellow, in his way.”

This time my effort to keep silent was nearly impossible. I could feel heat mount in my face as I remarked, as coolly as I could, “He’s proven his loyalty on more than one occasion.”

“As well he should,” said the Chief Inspector, unimpressed. “It is his duty.”

Mycroft Holmes was busy slicing the rack and putting our portions onto our plates, so he did not say anything at first. When all the meat was distributed, he said, “But so many are lacking in duty in these days, Chief Inspector. Think of how many men of Tyers’ position have run off to America rather than fulfill their obligations. They do not go to India or Australia or even Canada, for fear they might have to answer the call of duty if they remain within the embrace of the Empire. So they go to where the raff-and-scaff go. Not that for Tyers. Nor for Guthrie.”

I had to struggle not to stare. “At least in America a man may make his way on ability and industry, not by rank or privilege.” I spoke in response to a slight, subtle pressure on my toe from Mister Holmes’ shoe.

At that Mister Holmes chuckled. “You must forgive Guthrie, Chief Inspector. He has a tendency to leap to the defense of any he thinks may be downtrodden, and he has a high opinion of American principles. A very strong, egalitarian spirit wells in his bosom.” He smirked, looking from me to Chief Inspector Somerford. “We have debated this issue time out of mind but he will not relinquish his commitment. You, having been there, may be able to show him his folly. I may doubt his basis for support of such sentiments, but I do admire his tenacity.”

Chief Inspector Somerford took a long draught of water before he spoke. “You are a most tolerant man, Mister Holmes. Few men of your position would be willing to employ anyone whose opinions were so different from his own.”

“Yes. Well, he is very good at languages. His German is excellent and his French is impeccable. I will put up with a deal of disagreement for such skills as Guthrie has.” He poured wine for himself and absentmindedly filled the Chief Inspector’s glass as well.

“And Swedish? Has he learned Swedish?” Chief Inspector Somerford drank in the same mildly distracted manner that Mycroft Holmes had poured.

“A little,” was Holmes’ reply as he made a small gesture to me to keep quiet. “In time, if we have more negotiations with the Swedes and Norwegians, it may be necessary for him to increase his vocabulary. For now, he knows enough to know when the translators are not being accurate, which is useful.”

I hated being spoken of as if I were not in the room, so it was an effort for me not to protest; I knew my employer was up to something, though I could not guess why he wanted to create a trap for Chief Inspector Somerford. I had seen Mycroft Holmes pose successfully as a Turk, as a Frenchman, and as a Hungarian, but never in Turkey, France, or Hungary, and, I thought with a certain furious delight, I had seen him attempt to play Shakespeare. I managed to curb my rising indignation and attempted to suit my responses to the subtle clues I was receiving from Holmes as part of this outlandish portrayal. This current impersonation seemed more difficult since he and Chief Inspector Somerford were English and in the heart of London; as irritating as I found his behavior, I knew better than to question it. I began to cut my lamb, although I had no appetite now, nor any likelihood of having mine restored at any time soon.

Chief Inspector Somerford laughed aloud. “I’ve thought for some time that would be a problem for diplomats. Having someone like Guthrie there would be an edge?” He sipped his wine again; Mycroft Holmes topped off the glass before he put the decanter aside and went to work on his meat.

I recalled there were side-dishes still to be served; had we been dining alone, I would have gone to the kitchen to fetch them myself. Given Mycroft Holmes’ performance tonight, I thought better of it. “Mister Holmes,” I said a bit stiffly, “when Tyers returns, let us hope that he will finish providing our food.”

“Not so equal when you want your dinner, are you?” Chief Inspector Somerford said, smiling a bit.

The laughter with which Mycroft Holmes greeted his witticism was far more than the remark deserved. I stared down at my plate, hoping to control my temper, for much as I knew that my employer was egging Somerford on, I was unable to keep from feeling much stung by the ungenerous remarks made. “I shall do the work myself,” I announced and rose to go to the kitchen just as Tyers came back into the flat.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said in an undervoice to me, then, more loudly, “I’m sorry to have taken so long.”

“It’s all one to me,” I answered, and returned to my seat at the table.

“So you’re back,” said Mycroft Holmes as Tyers came into the parlor. “How is everything over the way?”

“It’s all in place,” said Tyers. He bowed again and went to get the side-dishes.

“So you’ve put Prince Oscar in your club,” said the Chief Inspector, lifting his glass in a mocking toast. “Under guard?”

“He is protected,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Today’s incident is one too many for us to face the possibility of another.” He shook his head and caught a morsel of lamb on his fork. “It would be worse than an embarrassment to have him harmed now, in any way.”

“What do your fellow members think of having him there?” Somerford asked.

“Each has his opinion, no doubt,” Mycroft Holmes replied with strong indifference. “I do not suppose that a single night can be intolerable.”

“So they were not all for it?” The Chief Inspector managed a lopsided smile; I realized he had told the truth—he had no head for wine.

“Who would expect them to be? Few of the members like to have attention—any attention—drawn to them, even to the extent of having special guards posted to protect His Highness.” Mycroft Holmes sighed. “But these men, like London’s criminals, are patriots and are willing to act to aid the country in this time of need.”

“Commendable,” said Chief Inspector Somerford. “Loyalty of that sort is rare.” He finished the wine Mister Holmes had poured for him; his remark was directed at me. “You don’t see much of it in America.”

“With such diversity, how could you have it?” Holmes asked with a derisive turn of his lip. “They are energetic and hardworking, but their lack of tradition is a stumbling block that may yet prove insurmountable.” Of all the remarks I had heard him make about America over the years, he had never before expressed himself in so pretentious a manner in regard to that country. He looked up as Tyers returned with our side-dishes. “Very good. We’ll have our port and cheese in the study.”

“As you wish, sir,” said Tyers, more like a mannequin than I would have thought possible. He bowed and left us alone.

I looked over at Mycroft Holmes as he helped himself to the buttered turnips while he nodded to the green peas in cheddar sauce, saying, “Have some, Chief Inspector.”

“Glad to,” muttered Somerford as he struggled to spoon out some of the green-and-gold onto his plate. He fumbled and dropped a couple of the cheese-slathered peas. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have done that?”

“No trouble. The cloth is going to the laundry tomorrow in any case.” Mister Holmes took the peas away from him and added some to his plate. “Guthrie, have the turnips and pass them on, there’s a good lad.”

I did as I was told, though I knew I would not eat half of what I served myself. If I had been more at ease, I might have enjoyed the peas, but I could not make myself like turnips and never had done so.

“Odd eyes you have, Guthrie?” said Chief Inspector Somerford.

“So I have been told,” I said in my most neutral tone.

“One blue and one green? Don’t see that often.” He used his fork to push the peas up against a piece of roll. “A hundred years ago they might have thought you a witch for having such eyes.”

“Some parts of the world still do,” I said. “And woe betide those who have strange eyes, or scars, or birthmarks.”

“True enough, true enough,” said Mycroft Holmes, indicating he wanted to get away from this digression as quickly as possible. “Tell me, Chief Inspector, are you hopeful that we will identify the shooter any time soon?”

“I would like to do so, certainly?” he replied, doing his best to become serious once more. “But in matters of this sort, one must assume something more than simple aggravation is at work.” He shook his head. “I would not doubt that we will have clues aplenty by tomorrow, but which among them will be worth pursuing, who can tell?” He sighed. “These are dangerous times we are living in, Mister Holmes, make no doubt about it.”

“That’s true, and the danger is many-faceted,” Mycroft Holmes opined.

“I must agree with you,” said the Chief Inspector. “One has to do so many difficult things?”

I recalled what he had told me about the police spy, and I very nearly forgave him his snobbery. I could not imagine what a shock such a discovery would be, let alone the obligation he must now feel to his dead associate. “And today has been more difficult than most,” I said, hoping to convey sympathy to the man.

“And tomorrow won’t be any easier,” said the Chief Inspector, his tone bleak. “There is so much at stake?”

“Isn’t there just?” said Mycroft Holmes, his profound grey eyes filled with determination and unfathomable apprehension.

Watching him, I felt as a swimmer must who has gone out into the sea beyond his strength to return.

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

The Chief Inspector left half an hour before Sutton arrived. The CI was still feeling his wine, but had passed from the most inebriated state to truculent recovery. He was surly to the jarvy who picked him up. By the time Sutton came, I had had time to clear away the things in the parlor and ready the flat for a night of work. The sitting room has been turned into the center of activity for the late hours. G has been trying to persuade MH to reveal his purpose in goading CI Somerford more than once with remarks so far from his true character and convictions that G has gone from being perplexed to annoyance at MH’s continuing refusal to explain his intentions.

Arrangements have been made with the Admiralty to have the courier deliver tomorrow’s dispatches to MH’s club across the street, another ploy that has made G exasperated, and who can blame him for this?

A formal message sent round from the Palace and the PM informs MH that the Swedish Ambassador declines, for diplomatic reasons, to make the safety of Prince Oscar his responsibility. He has reminded the government that his country was assured of Prince Oscar’s safety and therefore entrusted His Highness to the British Crown and people, and will hold both accountable if any harm should come to the Prince during his stay. MH was less distressed by this communication than I supposed he might be. All he said was, “Damned Cecil,” and went about his business.

EDMUND SUTTON FLOURISHED
a bow
to the applause that Mycroft Holmes and I offered for his stirring recitation of an amalgam of Hialmar’s speeches from the third act of Ibsen’s
The Wild Duck.
“It’s a good part—a bit over-blown in its way, but—” He shrugged, relinquishing his posture and appearance of Hialmar and becoming Edmund Sutton once again. “It was a good run, but I was growing weary of it, and all the carping from Irving.”

“Very good, very good, very good; I don’t know how you do it, turning into someone else, but I am damned grateful.” Mycroft Holmes approved. “As always, I am astonished that you are not renowned for your talent, but appreciative for the same, since if you were as recognized as you deserve to be, I would not have you as my double.”

“And you would never have had to play Macbeth in my stead,” Sutton reminded him with a faint smile.

“That only confirms my point,” said Mycroft Holmes.

“My first and last great lead.” Sutton laughed aloud as the clock struck the half hour. “There are compensations everywhere, aren’t there?” He sat down in the high-backed chair next to our employer’s, his face settling into a youthful version of Holmes’ habitual expression. “I am a fortunate fellow. Thanks to you”—he nodded to Mycroft Holmes—”I am well-paid and need not take roles simply to keep the wolf from my door; I may venture into new plays that have not yet reached popular acceptance, and I can commit myself to revivals of forgotten works. If this condemns me to remain a character actor, then well and good. There are many wonderful roles I can play in that capacity. I will be glad that my abilities have done more good than entertained a full house for three hours of an evening.”

“Your dedication undoes me,” said Mycroft Holmes with such an appearance of humility that I was surprised. “Truly it does.”

“Nothing like that,” said Sutton. “I chose my way, and I have no regrets.” He slapped the arms of his chair. “So what is this urgent business you mentioned in your note?”

“I will need you to go round to the Admiralty for me tomorrow, and to maintain my schedule for the next several days.” Holmes coughed decorously. “I believe Guthrie and I will be out of town for a short while, and it is most essential that no one learn of it.”

“But including the Admiralty—you rarely do that,” said Sutton, rubbing his chin in the same way Mycroft Holmes did when he was struggling with a problem.

“In this instance I must,” said Mister Holmes, glancing in my direction. “Since Guthrie will be gone with me.”

I started, although by now I should have been accustomed to these abrupt announcements. I began to realize that I was learning why he had been singing in the bath. “We’re not accompanying the Prince, are we?” I could not stop myself exclaiming.

“As far as Scotland,” said Mycroft Holmes as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Scotland? Are you serious?” My own native burr grew stronger just speaking the word. “My God, why? More to the point—how?”

“By rail?” Edmund Sutton guessed.

“But you have been saying by sea!” I blurted out at the same instant. Instantly the recent headlines of the great train race came to mind: Holmes had disappeared twice during those record-setting runs. At the time I had thought my employer was off making the first steps toward some new treaty. Eventually I had learned otherwise—Mycroft Holmes had gone to Scotland for reasons of his own: the trains to Edinburgh were the cutting edge of engineering. Some were said to have achieved speeds over one hundred miles per hour, an astonishing and frightening prospect. The speed had fascinated Holmes, for he perceived at once the strategic implications of such rapid transport, and he had determined to assess its potential for himself. He told me upon his return that a train could reach Edinburgh in half the time of any steamship. “By rail,” I repeated less confused and more intrigued.

“Surely, my dear Guthrie, you recognized that for the stratagem it was.” He cocked his head in Sutton’s direction, and I was struck again at how much alike they could look, Sutton seeming a younger, paler version of Mister Holmes. In the near-decade that I had known him, I had seen the first signs of age settle on Sutton’s features, making his resemblance to Mycroft Holmes more marked than when we first met in June of 1887.

“I supposed it must be,” I said, “but if it is, why do you begin with the police? There must be better means of establishing false leads than through the police.”

“The building from which the assassin took aim had been searched by police,” Mycroft Homes reminded me. “Therefore I must presume that someone within the police is connected to the assassin, someone in a position of importance.”

I nodded twice as the full import of what he had said was borne in on me. “But the police being involved in something so heinous—” I stopped again, recalling Constantinople. “Well, not
British
police.”

“Your fealty does you great credit, my boy, but you cannot afford such admirable sentiments in this instance. Or in many others. The Brotherhood is only one of many enemies of Britain we must be wary of. You know that once the guards are corrupt the castle is doomed.” He reached for his port.

“Consider
Lear,
“Sutton recommended, quite confusing me, for I could not comprehend his intention in this context. “Well, he gave power to the dishonest daughters because they seemed more sincere than the unvarnished affection of his true one.”

“Not an unapt analogy in its way,” said Mycroft Holmes, making his praise as generous as he could. “The police are being diligent and busy, but it may mean nothing. Spencer and Winslowe are still trying to protect themselves ahead of the Prince. We shall see.”

“That wasn’t all you told the Chief Inspector,” I warned him, and was cut off by the loud report of a rifle. I jumped up, already moving before I had realized precisely what had happened. Mycroft Holmes was ahead of me, out the door of the sitting room and into the corridor with a speed and energy that still had the capacity to astonish me.

“Sutton! Stay here! Tyers! Watch the back!” he ordered sharply, as he reached for his topcoat. “Guthrie, do you have your pistol?”

“In my topcoat pocket,” I assured him as I grabbed for the garment as Mycroft Holmes flung open the front door and surged out onto the landing, as I hurried after him, pulling my coat on as we pelted down the stairs to the street where half a dozen uniformed policemen had gathered around the front of the Diogenes Club, two with pistols in their hands—a rare enough sight in the stews of Soho, but absolutely unheard of in Pall Mall. As it was starting to mizzle, the streetlights looked fuzzy and the pavement shone. As we rushed across the street, a naval commander appeared in the door of the Diogenes Club, his hands slightly raised to show he was unarmed and not the prey these police sought.

Mycroft Holmes hurried up to Commander George Winslowe, taking an instant to let the nearest constable declare he was not dangerous, a sentiment I knew was open to question. “Commander,” said Holmes in authoritative accents, “where did the shot come from?” I remained near the invisible line established by the constables while my employer issued his first orders.

The Commander pointed across the street to the building two doors down from the one where Mycroft Holmes kept his flat. “The roof, I should think.”

“You constables,” Mycroft Holmes said sharply to three of the policemen. “Go secure the place. Now.”

“Right you are, sir,” said the nearest of the three; he motioned to the others to move off with him.

“And you,” Mycroft Holmes went on to another of the constables, “find Chief Inspector Somerford as quickly as may be. He must know of this.”

Commander Winslowe came down one more step and spoke quietly to Mister Holmes; I could not hear what was said, but I saw Holmes give a grave nod and frown as he did. Then he said something quietly to the Commander before calling out, “Guthrie. Follow the constables, if you will. I want to be sure nothing happens to any evidence they may come upon.”

I wanted to remark I should have gone with them from the first, but this was not the time to question him. “Very good, sir,” I said, and hurried off in the direction the constables had taken. When I glanced back over my shoulder I saw Mycroft Holmes and Commander Winslowe go up the steps and into the Diogenes Club, the constables stationed close to the steps in anticipation of the arrival of other authorities.

As I reached the building in question, the doors of the flat at the ground floor opened and a red-faced man in robe and sleeping cap stepped indignantly out. “What in the name of all that’s merciful is going on?”

“That is what the police are trying to determine,” I said, prepared to start up the stairs.

“Shooting!” the man expostulated. “In Pall Mall!”

“Yes. It is shocking,” I said, hoping that concurrence would keep him from trying to detain me.

“Something must be done,” he insisted.

“That is our intention,” I said, already three steps up. “Please go back inside and lock your doors. We haven’t yet apprehended the criminal.”

That was sufficient to send the fellow back within doors; I heard the bolt of his lock snick home before I reached the landing at the first floor. Running up the stairs increased the ache in my hip, but not so much that I was unable to continue my climb, and speedily. I passed it and the second floor without incident and arrived on the roof to find the three constables using bull’s-eye lanterns to inspect the roof. One of them heard me approach and swung around, the beam of the lantern catching me full in the eyes and dazzling me.

“Who’s this, then?” one of the constables demanded. “This is a police investigation. Be about your business.”

“I’m afraid this is my business,” I said. “I am Mycroft Holmes’ confidential secretary. You saw me with him down on the street.”

Another of the constables said, “That’s right, Daniel. He came down with Mister Holmes, all right.”

The blinding light swung away from my face. I blinked, but spangles, like echoes, distorted my vision. “Have you found anything?” I asked as I groped my way forward, trying to peer through the blobs of glowing purple obscuring my vision.

“It’s possible,” said the constable who had identified me. “Here at the edge of the roof, there appears to be a new groove cut. Nice, clean work. Done in a single stroke, I should think,” he went on as he turned his lantern on the place he was describing.

I could not yet see clearly, but I could make out the place the beams of the lanterns were turned well enough to know it was like the groove I had seen on the roof above St. Paul’s. I squatted down to inspect it more carefully, and squinted to keep my sight as sharp as possible. A curved chisel had cut the groove, and as the constable had said, in a single pass. I touched it lightly, as if some secret to the identity of the assassin might linger in the groove. Nothing. “Did you find anything else?”

“Not yet,” said the first constable. “I would have mentioned it right off.”

“Well, if you do, make sure I am informed at once,” I said as I rose to my feet. “You and your men will need to check the stairs and the rear entrance to the building to ascertain if anyone has seen or heard anything. If our shooter has left something behind, we should know of it.” I thought of the shell-casing, and hoped we would be fortunate enough to find another such clue to link the two events beyond cavil.

The constable called Daniel came up to me. “You should tell Mister Holmes that there is something damned wrong about all this. They’re saying us coppers haven’t done our job proper, but that’s a lie.” He sounded resentful, which I supposed I would be in his position, with my own force facing the chance of implication in these crimes.

“True enough,” said his other colleague, who had been silent until that moment. “The rumors are that the police helped the bastard take a shot at the Swedish Prince, but it’s not true.”

“There are all sorts of rumors about,” I said, in the hope it would quiet their indignation sufficiently for us to get some work done. “I have heard that the Russians were behind it or the Turks.” This was not entirely accurate, but I had some experience of rumors, and I knew that it would not be long before someone made these claims, if that had not happened already.

“They’re saying the Austrians had a hand in it; at least that’s what I heard at the pub this evening,” the first constable said, taking my meaning to heart. “They could have done it, couldn’t they? They’re not over-fond of the Swedes.”

“Well, someone did,” I replied. “And it is up to us to find out who that is. We can leave it to longer heads than ours to find out why.” I bent to look at the groove one last time—the rawness of the scar was already being obliterated by the soft rain. I could feel the drops of water on my face and I knew we would have to get brollies or indoors very shortly if we were not to be soaked.

“Very good, sir. We’ll secure the roof and set a guard at the access so no one can come up later. That’ll keep the scaff-and-raff away.” The first constable shone his lantern in the direction of the roof-door. “If you want to go ahead of us?”