The Scottish Ploy (19 page)

“I should think they would be glad to be rid of him by now,” I said, knowing how putrefaction sets into a body.

“Very likely,” said Mycroft Holmes. “I have to admit I am worried that they may have taken the corpse for burial in Potter’s Field. That would be embarrassing at the least.” He saw my dismay. “But consider, Guthrie. The boy is foreign, the victim of a murder found disposed of. The identification of the young man may not have reached the proper hands before an interment order was given. I would prefer to think that this is the case than that there is an on-going effort to be rid of the evidence.” He put the envelope aside. “Remind me to give this to Tyers when he brings breakfast.”

“If you forget, I will,” I said, thinking it highly unlikely that such a possibility would occur. I wanted him to tell me how he escaped from the Brotherhood, but before I could bring it up again, there was a ring from the front as someone twisted the bell.

“Ah,” said Holmes getting to his feet. “This will be your Miss Gatspy.” He went to open the front door himself while I stood in anticipation of greeting the new arrival—no matter whom that might be.

I rose in anticipation of greeting the caller, wondering why it was that Mycroft Holmes expected her this morning. If I asked, he would subject me to more jocularity in her regard, so I thought it best not to inquire too deeply into the matter. I had bent to retrieve my teacup when I heard a voice that was no more Miss Gatspy’s than mine is.

Mycroft Holmes came to the door with the new arrival in tow. “Sir Marmion Hazeltine has come to call, Guthrie.” He raised his voice. “Tyers, there will be a third for breakfast.”

“Oh, no, Mister Holmes,” said Sir Marmion. “I must not stay so long. As I told you, we are soon to receive at the asylum a most dangerous madman. He is a criminal of the deepest stain, and, much as I am reluctant to do it, he will have to be confined in a small, dark chamber. It is for his protection and the protection of others. I wanted you to know this because I am going to be unable to receive you later today. I hoped we might reschedule for later in the week, say Thursday or Friday? The worst should have passed by then, and I will be able to explain my methods to you without fear of ruction.”

“Do come into my library, Sir Marmion,” said Holmes as he escorted him through the door. “As you see, Guthrie and I are hard at our chores. Tyers is preparing sirloin and eggs. Do join us. If we cannot meet this afternoon, surely you can spare half an hour for discussion.”

“Well,” said Sir Marmion, his resistance fading, “it is not my habit to take meat in the morning, but I should
not refuse an omelette, if one can be made.” He ducked his head in appreciation, gave a glance in my direction, then looked back again. “Egad, sir,” he said, coming up to me in surprise. “Your eyes are different colors
.
Most unusual.”

“Yes. Left blue
,
right green,” I said, recalling how much my mother feared they would
prove unlucky for being mismatched.

Mycroft Holmes went to the door. “Tyers, Sir Marmion will have an omelette.”

“I shall attend to it, sir,” came the answer from the kitchen.

“Most
unusual,” Sir Marmion said again.

“Does such divergence play any part in your theories?” Mycroft Holmes asked as he pulled a reading-chair from its place against the wall. “Tyers will use the butler’s table to serve,” he added as he left an open place among our chairs. He resumed his seat. “How does it happen that you are taking such a dangerous fellow as the one you described under your wing?”

“It was the request of the judge who sentenced him. Apparently the prison inmates are afraid of him, and for very good reason. Since I am fascinated by the working of criminal and degenerate minds, I offered my services to accommodate this one. My assistants are preparing a cell for him even as we speak.” He looked at me again. “Did you know that Napoleon Bonaparte had eyes of differing colors?”

“I believe I read that somewhere,” I answered, remembering how my schoolmaster would compare any minor infraction on my part to the calamities of that Corsican upstart:
beware of Guthrie. Next he’ll be sacking Moscow.

“It may be that such eyes contribute to independence of thought,” said Sir Marmion. “As grey eyes, such as Mister Holmes has, are said to indicate profundity of soul.” He turned his attention to Holmes once again. “I am certain that your skull could tell us much about the intellect.”

“You flatter me,” said Mycroft Holmes, whose tone indicated he did not want to discuss this any longer.

“Hardly that. But let
it go for now.” He sat back comfortably. “You will be interested to know that my studies have determined that hysteria in women can be diagnosed through phrenology, and much unhappiness prevented by timely massage and electrical applications.”

Mycroft Holmes nodded. “It would please many married men to have such techniques at their disposal, I should think.”

“Yes. In time we should be able to address any number of chronic complaints through proper diagnosis and anticipatory treatment, such as electrical stimulation of the affected area of the skull.” He paused, as if awaiting questions; when none came he went on, “I hope to learn much from this criminal, so that no one with dangerous tendencies indicated by the skull may be free to go about the world creating havoc everywhere.”

“How complete are your studies?” Holmes asked. “Have you sufficient data to support your theories?”

“What I have encourages me,” said Sir Marmion. “But I will need a great deal more than I have now before I can present wholly persuasive evidence to the scientific and medical community.” He coughed delicately. “Understanding the human character is certainly a worthy goal to which to aspire, don’t you think?”

“I think it is,” said Holmes, a great deal more carefully than Sir Marmion perceived.

“Then you should be willing to let me do a reading of your skull, to add to my collection of data. Skulls such as yours are hard to come by. I should be grateful of an opportunity to take such a reading. You must not blame me for reiterating my request: I can study ordinary skulls, and those of the man, in plenty. But men of such high calibre as yourself are rare in my studies, and therefore all the more worthwhile.”

“You continue to flatter me,” said Mycroft Holmes, not best-pleased.

“Hardly. I am eager, I admit, to increase the information I have to hand, and to widen the samples from which I draw my conclusions. Scientists are like this, wouldn’t you agree?” His eyes were bright as jewels and his enthusiasm was all but contagious.

“Many are, some are not,” Mycroft Holmes responded.

“Oh, come, Mister Holmes. You cannot tell me that you lack curiosity. I will not credit it.” He peered at the side of Mycroft Holmes’ head, just above the ear. “I should think you are most inquisitive.”

“A requirement of my work, I’m afraid,” said Holmes, pouring more tea for himself. “Tyers will bring a new pot and a cup for you, Sir Marmion. If you will excuse me?”

“Of course, of course. I am the intruder.” He beamed on the two of us, beneficent as Father Christmas. “You have been more than kind in receiving me on such short notice.”

“I am interested in what you are doing, Sir Marmion. It is you who is being kind.” He did not smile, but his demeanor was cordial. “So you would rather postpone our visit because you are going to be taking in a dangerous criminal. It seems a prudent measure to me.”

“It is, it is,” said Sir Marmion. “The other inmates we have are easily overset and many of them become agitated when any disruption occurs. You may well imagine how some of them may respond to the presence of so dangerous a man as this murderer we are going to keep in close confinement.”

“I should think one need not be mad to have such a presence be upsetting to one’s peace of mind,” said Mycroft Holmes just as Tyers came in with breakfast on his butler’s table. He set this down in the center of our chairs, saying, “I have made another pot of tea. And the clotted cream was delivered not half an hour ago.” He stepped back and left.

“Sirloin, eggs, muffins, preserves, clotted cream,” said Mycroft Holmes, enumerating the food set out. “And an omelette under the cover, Sir Marmion,” he added as he lifted the lid.

“A fine collation,” approved Sir Marmion. “You are most fortunate in your staff, Mister Holmes.”

“So I think,” said Holmes tranquilly as he leaned forward to take his silverware in hand and set to eating.

I followed his example, feeling wolfish myself. The eggs were perfectly prepared, poached until the whites were firm but the yolks were runny. I consumed them gleefully, and had more tea when Mycroft Holmes offered to pour another cup for me.

“Mister Holmes,” said Sir Marmion as he cut off the end of his omelette—a ribbon of yellow cheese oozed out onto the plate where his knife had freed it—“do you think you might be able to come to my asylum at two on Friday afternoon?”

Holmes considered this. “I should think it could be arranged,” he said, “if no emergency commands my presence at the Admiralty.”

“That is understood, of course,” said Sir Marmion, and had more omelette.

I recalled that would be the evening of the closing performance of
MacBeth;
I had supposed that it was my employer’s intention to attend: he had already purchased tickets for Wednesday night’s performance.

“With that caveat, I should think we can plan to come to ... is it called Hawthorne End?”

“The town is,” said Sir Marmion. “The asylum is an old estate from the time of the Stewarts: Hawtrees, between East Acton and Park Royal. You will find it readily enough. Give your name at the gate and you will be admitted.”

“And how many inmates do you house there at present?” Mycroft Holmes asked.

“There are ninety-three currently in residence,” said Sir Marmion. “About half of them are seen as untreatable. They are the ones for whom I hold the greatest hope, for with phrenology to guide us, and galvanic shock to treat the afflicted areas, I believe in time we will achieve significant improvement.”

“Very commendable,” said Holmes a bit remotely; he seemed far more interested in his sirloin and eggs than in what Sir Marmion was saying.

“Someone must do something to stop the degeneracy that is dragging down our lower classes—most of the incorrigible cases come from the lower and immigrant classes—and this may be the most promising avenue of treatment yet.” He paused. “I have even got hope for the man we are taking into our care today.”

“The criminal you mentioned? I believe you said he is a murderer?” Holmes prompted.

“The very same,” said Sir Marmion. “I should hope that we will be able to do him some good.” He paused again, this time to wipe his mouth with his serviette, and then went on with growing enthusiasm. “Imagine how much better the world will be when we eliminate the criminal element entirely! when we have put an end to feeble-mindedness, and to all forms of mental aberration that have plagued mankind down the ages!”

“A most laudable goal,” said Mycroft Holmes with a hint of irony in his voice.

“I shall show you how it is to be done. You will endorse my work when you understand it better.” He took another bite, then put down his fork. “I must thank you for your hospitality, Mister Holmes, but I fear I must leave you now. I look forward to our next meeting.” With that he rose, put down his serviette, and made for the door. “I think I will stop on the way back to Hawtrees and find out how that young courier is doing. I trust he continues his recovery. Your man will show me out; do not disturb yourself.” And with that, he was gone.

“Well,” said Mycroft Holmes after a thoughtful moment of silence. “He certainly has given us a lot to think about. We will discuss it when your Miss Gatspy arrives.”

“Do you still expect her?” I asked, surprised at how wistful I sounded.

“Of course, dear boy,” he said serenely. “Don’t you?”

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYRES

Sir Marmion has left and MH is still closeted with G. It is half-ten now, and the rain is getting heavier.

I have tended to my errands; I carried a quick note brought by Hastings from Inspector Strange to MH I will shortly make a strong pot of tea for the Golden Lodge follows, and one for Sid Hastings as well, to help them ward off the damp ...

WHEN THE
doorbell rang shortly before eleven, Mycroft Holmes allowed Tyers to answer it. “I am not leaping to my feet again without purpose,” he announced, and an instant later, rose as Miss Gatspy’s familiar voice said, “Tell me where they are, Tyers, and I will find them for myself.”

“The library, ma’am,” said Tyers.

Mycroft Holmes had just turned to the door when Miss Gatspy came into the room. Her fair hair was drawn back into a sensible bun, as if she were about to ride to hounds; wisps of curls escaped around her face fetchingly. Her ensemble was more than appropriate for London’s streets: a suit of mulberry wool with modified leg-o’-mutton sleeves and a neat shirtwaist blouse beneath ornamented with a bit of lace at collar and cuffs.

“Good morning, Miss Gatspy,” said Holmes, bowing her to the chair Sir Marmion had vacated; the butler’s table—and the aftermath of breakfast—had been removed a short time before. “I had almost given you up.”

“So you
were
expecting me,” she said. “I thought you might be.”

“Actually,” he said, almost drawling, “I supposed you would come somewhat earlier in the morning. But here you are at last.”

“You have had a busy morning thus far, Mister Holmes,” she pointed out. “You could hardly want me to appear while you were speaking with the Turkish fellow, or Sir Marmion.”

“You’ve either been watching or your Golden Lodge associates have kept you informed,” said Mycroft Holmes at his driest.

“It has been some of both, I’d say,” Miss Gatspy remarked breezily. She turned toward me. “There you are, Guthrie. Are you well?”

“Well enough, Miss Gatspy. And you? Do I see you well?” How pompous I sounded, and how little I had intended to.

“I have the constitution of an elephant,” she said. “Surely you must be aware of it?”

“I know you have much stamina,” I said. “If you will sit down?”

“With gratitude,” she said, and sank into the reading-chair Sir Marmion had occupied so short a while ago. “You must be very busy, trying to find the common thread in all your disparate activities of the last few days. May I ask what progress you have made this morning?”

“You may ask,” said Mycroft Holmes, sitting down as well; I hurriedly resumed my place. “It has been a most interesting day,” he told her.

“In what sense?” she asked. “A weed in a cabbage patch is interesting, if it is the right weed. I would guess your current problems are more complex than that.”

I shook my head. “You know very well they are more complex.”

“Guthrie,” Mycroft Holmes admonished me, then said to Miss Gatspy, “It began with poison-pen letters. Perhaps you would care to venture an opinion on them?” He reached out for the folder in which he had placed the scurrilous letters. “The same hand wrote them, you will notice.”

“Yes, indeed,” she said as she read quickly and attentively. “A bit overdone, I should say,” she remarked. “They smack of a trap.”

“They do, don’t they?” Holmes agreed affably. “I thought so,
too.”

“What do you plan to do about them?” she asked. “Is there anything the writer might reveal to the press that would cause the kind of embarrassment claimed here?”

“Who knows?” Mycroft Holmes asked with a shrug as he took the letters back from Miss Gatspy. “Anyone might read perfidy into anything, recounting it with such a bias.”

“Now you are not being entirely honest with me,” she said. “But no matter. A man in your position must have any number of secrets he would not like to see exposed. I will not press you for details, but I warn you that you should be prepared for a difficult period in the next several months.”

“I think so as well.” Holmes leaned forward. “I may need some assistance from the Golden Lodge—assuming this originates with the Brotherhood.”

“Which I suspect it does,” said Penelope Gatspy. “And so do you, or you would not bother to mention it to me.”

“You are most astute, Miss Gatspy,” said Mycroft Holmes with false contrition.

“Yes. I am.”

For several seconds, no one spoke, and then I remarked, “Mister Holmes said he wished to discuss Sir Marmion’s visit after you arrived, Miss Gatspy. You know already that he visited here earlier.”

“Good for you, Guthrie,” Mycroft Holmes approved. “Keeping us to the straight and narrow.” He leaned forward, looking directly into Miss Gatspy’s face. “I need to know: what does your organization have by way of information on Sir Marmion?”

She thought about her answer. “He was knighted in 1887, six years ago, for his success in dealing with the mentally impaired. He has spent more than twenty years studying the mind and the skull. His papers have been published in all the best theoretical journals and he has addressed the Royal College of Surgeons on the subject of phrenology as a diagnostic tool. He has an excellent reputation in the scientific community. Everyone has acclaimed the results he has had with his electrical treatment of hysteria. His studies in phrenology are at the forefront of the subject. He keeps an asylum to the west of London; there have been favorable reports on his work there. His techniques are studied by many others in the medical community. There is talk of providing permanent funding for his asylum. It is said that he has had better results with the treatment of melancholia and hysteria than almost anyone else in England.”

“Yes. Your records agree with mine.” He began to twiddle his watch-fob. “And yet, he told me he is taking a dangerous murderer into his care. He implied the man’s a maniac.”

“And so he might,” said Miss Gatspy. “He has done so in the past. Why should this be of interest to you?”

“True enough; he has treated other criminals. And yet, you know, I am perplexed. You see, whenever a perpetrator of a capital crime is moved in this country, for any reason, I am informed of it, and I have received no report in regard to this criminal. I have gone over my records, and I can find no mention of such a man, nor of any decision to put him into Sir Marmion’s care. Very few people know I receive this report; it is the sort of information one does not want bruited about, so it is not astonishing Sir Marmion was unaware of it. That, Miss Gatspy, gives me to wonder.”

She was engrossed in what he said. “Can there have been a delay in providing you the information?”

“It is possible, but highly unlikely. And I have never seen any mention of any such a proposed transfer to Hawtrees, this year, of a murderer or any other criminal. I find this most baffling. So I ask myself, what is the purpose of telling me about this fictitious criminal?” He cocked his head as he glanced from Miss Gatspy to me and back again. “What is he seeking to hide? For he has no reason to boast of this to me.”

“I should think not,” I said to Mycroft Holmes.

“You must have some preliminary theses on the question,” said Miss Gatspy, ready to listen.

“That I do,” he admitted, and went on slowly, thinking aloud. “I think there is some reason Sir Marmion does not want me to visit Hawtrees before Friday. He cannot or will not tell me the real reason. This suggests to me that something is happening there he is not eager to have discovered, or he has someone on the premises he must conceal for the next few days. That would make my arrival inopportune, and so Sir Marmion wishes to discourage me.”

“But he does not want you to know that your visit would be awkward,” said Miss Gatspy.

“That seems to be a part of it. Why is that? Does he have an inmate who does not want his presence known? But who could be there?” Mycroft Holmes raised his hand. “Someone I would recognize, perhaps? Someone who is not supposed to be there.”

“You mean Brotherhood men,” I said before Miss Gatspy could speak.

“I may be jumping at shadows, but it seems to me that if I wished to hide with impunity, a madhouse might be an excellent place to do it. Odd behavior would not be commented upon, and most persons are inclined to ignore the mentally afflicted.” Mycroft Holmes rubbed his chin, his eyes fixed on the middle distance. “I had hoped that the Golden Lodge could shed more light on this.”

“You suspect a possible connection between Sir Marmion and the Brotherhood?” said Miss Gatspy.

“Yes. Or any similar affiliation.” Holmes dropped his watch-fob and shook his head. “I would like to make some headway somewhere in this mare’s nest.” He sighed. “It is like one of those infernal Russian dolls, each containing another until the very heart of the matter is revealed.”

I ventured to say, “A mixed metaphor, sir,” in the hope of amusing him.

“My dear Guthrie, I do not aspire to persiflage, only to the apprehension of criminals, and enemies of Britain,” he said with awful hauteur.

Miss Gatspy seconded him. “I cannot blame you for your misgiving. You may have discerned something we”—by which she meant the Golden Lodge—“have not. I will ask our members to turn their attention to that possibility, if you like.”

“It may be helpful, but only if it can be accomplished in a day, two days at most. By then I fear the damage—whatever it may be—will be done. I have the ... the pricking thumbs of
MacBeth
warning me that whatever is planned, it must happen soon. Do not tell me that I am succumbing to superstition, for that is not the case; I hope I have more intellectual rigor than that.” Holmes got out of his chair and began to pace. “If Lady MacMillian reaches London, again to mix the metaphor, the genie will be out of the bottle.”

“How is that metaphor mixed?” Miss Gatspy inquired, dimples appearing in her cheeks.

“Pricking thumbs have no commonality with genies,” said Mycroft Holmes, dismissing the question with a wave of his hand. “Do not bother me with these trivial considerations. I have too much on my mind.” He stared at her, his expression polite but unrevealing. “You need not remind me that I brought it up. I am aware of it. When I am much pressed, my thoughts spring every which way, like hares in March. And pray do not bring up Professor Dodgeson’s cunning little satire.”

“Then I shall remain mum on the subject,” said Miss Gatspy at her most obliging. She got up from the chair; I rose with her. “If there is nothing more, I must go and send my superiors word of your need for information in regard to Sir Marmion’s background. Is there anything other than his possible ties to the Brotherhood that you would like us to examine?”

Mycroft Holmes stood still for nearly five seconds. “Yes,” he said. “If you would, review the titles of his published papers. There may be something there that we have overlooked.”

“All right,” she assured him. “I will. For whatever your reason may be, I will do this. And I will bid you good-day until tomorrow, gentlemen,” she said as she went to the door. “Don’t fear. Tyers will see me out.”

I watched the door close behind her, and listened while her footsteps faded down the corridor to the entry-hall. Only when she had left the flat did I sit down again.

“A most illuminating twenty minutes,” Mycroft Holmes approved. “If only all my colleagues would be so succinct. I am glad to have all the help I can on this, providing it is genuine and not deliberately misleading.”

“Why would she provide you with inaccurate information?” I asked, unable to think that Miss Gatspy would do anything so reprehensible in this precarious situation.

“I have no idea. That doesn’t mean she would not do it, particularly if her superiors instructed her to do so. She is their lieutenant, Guthrie, not ours, and she must answer to them, not to us.” Holmes went to the shuttered window and peered out through the narrow gap between them. “The courier. The Turk. The police. Sir Cameron. Baron von Schattenberg. Herr Kriede. Lady MacMillian’s uncles. Sir Marmion. It is all a muddle, and deliberately made
so.”

“Small wonder it rankles,” I said. “Put like that, and no one could make sense of it.”

“But there must be sense in it, somewhere,” Mycroft Holmes said emphatically. “As deceptive as the Brotherhood can be, I must believe that there is a uniting purpose in all this. I know their ways and I recognize their methods here. What eludes me—infuriating as it is—is what they seek to accomplish in all this confusion. I am certain that we will shortly have to take the brunt of their machinations.”

“More pricking thumbs?” I suggested.

“No. Or at least not entirely. I have had over twenty years of opposing them,” he said bluntly. “The Brotherhood knows if ever they are to gain a foothold in England again, they must confuse and mislead me so that I cannot recognize their presence. All this confounding of incidents and information is clearly their work, and to the end of allowing Braaten and Vickers to enter the country undetected. Once they have the support of Lady MacMillian’s uncles, removing them becomes a most ticklish operation.” He slapped his hands together. “It is not easy to know where to begin, but I do not wish to wait for them to act again. Next time they may try something more deadly than attempting to ambush you in Green Park.” He sighed. “If a Hungarian hunting pistol were the weapon used, then I would know where we stand.”

“No doubt; but that might have had a more fatal conclusion if Miss Gatspy had not—” I said, only to be interrupted.

“I will vouch for her pluck and her self-possession, Guthrie. You need not fly to her defense.” He pointed to the file that contained the two letters. “In your reading, keep a watch for phrases like the ones used in the letters. They may point the way to our opponents.”