The Scottish Ploy (28 page)

“You can do that while we drive back. I promise you I won’t look,” she added as I stared at her. “We must leave as soon as possible. I am worried that Vickers may still escape.”

“Was it he who shot the warden, do you think?” I asked, nodding in the body’s direction. “Did Holmes venture an opinion?”

“It seems a reasonable conclusion to reach,” said Miss Gatspy. “He is probably still on the grounds somewhere, hiding.”

“Or setting a trap,” I suggested uneasily. “He is not one to accept defeat or to be willing to retreat in any circumstances.”

“I will have Bury remain, to watch for him,” said Miss Gatspy as matter-of-factly as she might send a man to fetch a pound of bacon from the butcher.

“You might expose him to danger,” I reminded her, thinking of what I had done not a quarter of an hour ago.

“Which guarding you is not?” she countered, her demeanor incredulous. “He is part of the Golden Lodge, and he—”

“—eats grizzly bears for lunch, as the Americans say,” I interjected. I hoped Mycroft Holmes would summon us quickly; I was not minded to sustain another rebuke from Penelope Gatspy.

There was the flash of a lantern in the dark, and I sighed with relief, going toward the door, Miss Gatspy a step or two ahead of me.

“Guthrie!” Holmes shouted as we stepped out of the door. “What are you doing?”

Before I had a chance to answer, the lanterns flashed again, then came a volley of gunfire and the sound of a motor car coming from the rear of the property toward the gate: a Daimler vis-a-vis was coming across the lawn at a good clip. Two trunks occupied the front seats, and Vickers sat in the rear, one hand steering the vehicle, the other firing a long-barreled pistol.

Hastings dropped down from his box, and I feared as I watched that he had been shot, but then I realized he had gone to quieten his horse while Mycroft Holmes stood over Sutton on the far side of the cab, protecting him from any stray bullets. Bury was occupied trying to keep Miss Gatspy’s mare from bolting, and so could not go after Vickers.

The shooting stopped abruptly—I supposed he had run out of cartridges and would have to reload before he could fire more—shortly before he reached the gate, where he leaped down from his motor-car, flung the gates wide, then climbed back into the Daimler and swung out into the avenue, the two lanterns marking his progress down the road.

“Quick, Guthrie!” shouted Holmes as the motor-car continued out of our sight. “You and Miss Gatspy go in pursuit of him. Bury, you remain here, in case he should double back. I must get Sutton to safety.”

Hastings soothed Lance, then said, “I don’t know how fast we can go, Mister Holmes; he’s that tired.”

“I know, Hastings. But we must do our best.” He resumed his task of getting Sutton aboard the cab. “You two. Off you go. Bury, stay alert. If nothing happens by ten, come along to Pall Mall.”

Miss Gatspy paused for a moment as if she was ready to question these orders, then thought better of it. “Quickly, Guthrie. Vickers is getting away.” She got into the sylphide and motioned to me to get in beside her. I hurried to do as she wished, hanging onto the side of the carriage as she set the mare in motion again, following after the Daimler, which was nearing the end of the avenue. As I swung myself into the narrow seat, I looked over at her. “It is most inappropriate, but I must get out of some of these wet things. If I keep my valise between us, I should not offend you too much.”

“Oh, Guthrie,” Miss Gatspy said in an exasperated tone. “Do get on with it. I have to concentrate on driving; you will not astonish me if you remove your coat, your waistcoat, your shirt,
and
your singlet.”

I could say nothing in response to her that would not give modesty its nimiety. “I will be as quick as I can.”

“Good. I need your eyes to help me.” She kept her mare going at a jog-trot—as fast as was safe in the dark on such wet roads.

“There are no other motor-cars that I can see on this road,” I said as I struggled to get out of my suit-coat. It was like peeling the wet rind off a tropical fruit, but eventually I managed it, and flung the garment onto the floor at my feet just as the sylphide rocked as it swung into the Uxbridge Road. I clutched my valise as if it would afford me balance, and waited to remove my collar, tie, and cuffs until we were on steadier ground.

“He’s turning to the right,” said Miss Gatspy, leaning forward as if to urge her mare on. “He may be heading toward Brentford or Kew.”

“Or the Great West Road,” I said, thinking this the more likely choice. “He could very well want to get out of the London area.” I was down to my shirt, and about to extricate myself from its moist embrace.

“My thoughts as well, Guthrie,” said Miss Gatspy. “But I fear we will not be able to keep up with him.” There were already three carriages and a bicycle between us and the Daimler; we had little chance of closing the gap, for the mare was tired and beginning to flag. As I watched, the motor-car turned west again and was quickly lost to sight. At the next left turn, Miss Gatspy swung to the east and let the mare set her own pace back into the soggy bustle of greater London.

I took my roll-top pull-over and a clean singlet from my valise; I donned the singlet quickly, then pulled on the pull-over. “We hadn’t a chance,” I said after we had gone about two miles.

“No, we hadn’t,” Miss Gatspy conceded. “Although there was always a chance the motor-car would overturn, or it would suffer an accident of the motor in this rain.”

“A shame it didn’t happen,” I said as I put my valise behind my legs under the seat. “I would have been delighted to pull him out of a wreck of his vehicle.”

“Well, at least Braaten is no more,” said Miss Gatspy. “Now all we must hope is that Sutton is all right.”

“He did not appear all right,” I said warily. “His face was quite ... quite bruised.” It was not the whole of it, but it summed up the most obvious aspect of his appearance. “He was given morphia, and he is not ... himself.”

“He will be better,” said Miss Gatspy. “They didn’t have him long enough to habituate him to the drug.” She looked at the traffic ahead as we once again approached the Uxbridge Road. “I suppose we should go back to Pall Mall.”

“Yes,” I said. “But would you mind stopping on the way in Curzon Street long enough for me to change my clothes and drop of these things?”

“Of course, if you want. But what on earth for?” Miss Gatspy tried to mask a yawn with the back of her hand. “If you’d rather remain there, I will see you tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, no,” I said, a bit of my energy returning. “After I call in Pall Mall to see how Sutton is doing, I am planning to go to the theater.”

She stared at me. “Why on earth?”

I laughed. “You’ve forgotten? Mycroft Holmes is going to play MacBeth tonight at the Duke of York’s Theatre and I wouldn’t miss it for all the tea in China,” I cried aloud, and was pleased when Miss Gatspy looked at me with renewed vitality. “Would you care to join me, Miss Gatspy?”

She cocked her head flirtatiously. “Mister Guthrie, I would love to.”

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYRES

MH returned here at six-forty, with Sutton, who is now installed in MHs room where he will remain until he is more himself. I have been given the task of caring for Sutton until MH is once again in the flat. Sutton is in poor shape, his face showing signs of ill-usage, and patches of his hair shaved for a purpose he has not been able to describe. I am preparing a hearty broth for him, and I will feed him regularly until he is once again restored to good condition. Sutton is still under the influence of the morphia he was given some hours ago, and it will be some hours more before his body is rid of it; it has left him a bit delirious and drowsy, so that he is unable to hold thoughts together for more than a minute or so. He has also been kept in cold, wet clothing, which has left him much depleted of energy, and inclined to shiver at the least touch of a draught. I have built up the fire in MH’s room and taken another comforter down to help him restore himself.

G came by not ten minutes ago, dressed for an evening out, and eager to learn as much as he can about Sutton’s current condition; he was relieved to learn that MH sent for Watson before he left for Saint Martin’s Lane; the good doctor is expected here at nine. Thank goodness he is the soul of discretion. G also asked if there had been any new information brought to this flat since MH and he went out to find Sutton. I told him—as I had told MH somewhat earlier—that there was a dispatch bag brought round about half-five, and that I believed it had to do with some developments bearing on her Herr Kriede’s death. It appears there was more to that event than seemed the case at first. MH resolved to examine all his evidence in the morning, when he has recovered from the demands of this night.

I am sorry I cannot leave to attend the performance; MH left here wrapped in mufflers and his caped cloak, with a driving hat pulled down low over his brow, so that none of the company will have a good look at him until he has donned costume and make-up for the play. I will have to rely upon G’s report of the event, to which I look forward with great enthusiasm ...

BEATRICE MOTHERWELL,
in her medieval finery as Lady MacBeth confronted her husband, her eyes blazing.
“We fail.”
She reached out and took hold of his tunic, pulling him near to her.
“But screw your courage to the sticking-place/And we’ll not fail.”
She moved around behind him, her head pressed against his shoulder as she went on to describe how she would ply Duncan’s servants with wine while MacBeth murdered the King.

“She’s making changes,” I whispered to Miss Gatspy.

“Not in the text,” was her equally soft answer.

“No, in her movements. She hasn’t done it this way before.” I frowned as I said it.

“She didn’t do this with ... our friend?” Miss Gatspy asked, and was shushed by the man behind and one seat away from her.

“Not when I have seen it,” I said, barely louder than breath. “I wonder why she changed it?”

“Watch the play,” Miss Gatspy recommended.

In the third act, in the first scene with the murderers, Mycroft Holmes—in the persona of MacBeth—stumbled in the speech,
Your spirits shine through you.
I wondered if anyone noticed, or if they did, they assumed he had done so for dramatic reasons; none of the actors appeared to be aware of it, but it would not be likely that they would.

During the interval, while Miss Gatspy and I drank tea together, she said, “I think he is doing very well. It is a pity his injured friend cannot see him. I think he would approve; it is a very creditable interpretation.”

I could not help but smile at her clever conceit. “It is,” I agreed. “It is likely that he would be pleased with the performance.”

She gave me a quizzical look. “The play isn’t over yet.”

“And ... er ...
the play’s the thing?”
I quoted Hamlet.

“Tonight it certainly is,” she said, her words containing many levels of meaning.

In his fourth act scene with the Witches, Mycroft Holmes struggled with the visions of Banquo’s descendants who were destined to reign after him.
“A third is like the former. Filthy hags! Why do you show me this?”
Fortuitously his voice cracked as it rose; I thought it was a very skillful device—either that, or he was growing tired; much as I wanted to believe the former, I was more sure of the latter.

By the third scene of the fifth act, I could see that Holmes was flagging; apparently some of the actors were aware that he was not at full strength, as well, for they kept moving him downstage, and turning him more toward the audience—Sutton called that dressing—and helping him to make the most of his tired voice.

“Bring me no more reports; let them fly all: Till Birnam Wood remove to Dunsinane I cannot taint with fear.”
Arrogance covered the beginning of panic in MacBeth’s assertion.
“The spirits that know/All mortal consequences have pronounced me thus: ‘Fear not, MacBeth; no man that’s born of woman/Shall e’en have power upon thee.’”

He made the same grand, sweeping gesture that Sutton did, but a trifle slower and with a more ironic bow. As I continued to watch, I was glad the play was almost finished, for I recognized the exhaustion that was giving its impetus to Holmes’ performance now.

“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,”
Mycroft Holmes intoned as if sounding a funeral bell,
“Creeps in this petty pace from day to day ...”

“He’s really doing very well,” Miss Gatspy whispered to me. “In spite of the way his Lady MacBeth was behaving.”

She was vehemently hissed by a man behind her, who was much annoyed at her expressions of approval from the first rising of the curtain.

“ ... have lighted fools/The way to dusty death ...”

Because I knew Mycroft Holmes fairly well, I distinguished his personal discomfort in his position for what it was, and did not see it as the abandoning of hope that most of the audience perceived. I also felt an uncomfortable twinge of memory of Jacobbus Braaten earlier today, watching him die. Until this moment, I had been able to put that behind me and lose myself in the play.

“ ... That struts and frets his hour upon the stage/And then is heard no more ...”
The poignant words struck me as the farewell I understood them to be: Mycroft Holmes would not walk this stage again, nor any other, if he could arrange it.
“Full of sound and fury/Signifying nothing.”

I remembered the battle was coming, and I hoped that Sutton had gone over the moves of it enough times for Holmes to copy them perfectly, for I suspected this would be the most difficult part of the play for my employer to perform. In spite of all the excitement on the stage, and the double tension I experienced—that of the drama itself, and that of knowing Mycroft Holmes was playing the lead role, not Edmund Sutton—fatigue was catching up with me. I was in no danger of nodding off, but I had slumped a bit in my chair, and I was aware of aches I could ordinarily ignore. I could not help but wonder if Miss Gatspy was enjoying herself, or if the exigencies of the day had robbed her of delectation.

The last fight came, and, as the Bard decreed, MacDuff triumphed. The play ended, the curtain came down, and there were curtain calls—all the usual ritual of the theatre. I applauded along with the rest, and felt assuagement of Holmes’ behalf that this ordeal was almost over.

“We should go backstage,” said Miss Gatspy, plucking at my sleeve. “We should congratulate him for getting through it in such good form.”

“Perhaps,” I said, not knowing if Holmes would welcome our visit.

“At least we should try,” she said, and began to edge her way toward the aisle. “He can always refuse to let us come in. The doorman will know.”

I could not say no to her, nor did I want to, truth to tell. I meekly followed after her, out of the building and around the side of the theatre to the stage door, where I stood while Miss Gatspy approached the doorman, saying, “We are here to visit Mister Sutton. He may have left our names: Mister Guthrie and Miss Gatspy?”

The doorman did not bother to consult the list. “You’re not on it,” he announced, and looked away from her.

“Oh, but I think you are mistaken,” said Miss Gatspy, going up to the stand where the doorman sat, and pointing to a grubby sheet of names. “There. You see? Gatspy and Guthrie. Along with Tyers.”

The doorman sniffed as he stared down at the sheet as if it had only just materialized in front of him. “Oh,” he said with such tremendous boredom that I wanted to call him to task. “You may go in. It’s the second door at the top of the spiral staircase, prompt side.”

“Thank you,” I said formally as we went into the dark, starkly functional world of backstage. The spiral staircase the doorman mentioned was beyond the banks of ropes and counterweights that raised and lowered scenery, curtains, and certain special lights. There was a faint smell of gas from the lights, but not enough to be alarming. We passed the stagehands—rough men in work-clothes—and a few supernumeraries in archaic armor and false beards before we came to the wrought-iron staircase that corkscrewed up to the dressing-rooms above; the whole structure gave off an unmelodious clang as I put my foot on it to begin our ascent.

“Be careful, Guthrie,” said Miss Gatspy, following me upward. “Someone may want to come down.”

“I will,” I said, and went on without incident to the narrow metal balcony that marked the start to the corridor. The second dressing-room had a label tacked to it:
EDMUND SUTTON
it read. I knocked and said, “It’s Guthrie, sir, and Miss Gatspy, come to congratulate you.”

“Come in,” said an exhausted voice I hardly recognized; we went in and found Mycroft Holmes in a dressing gown, his make-up partially removed. The dressing-room was small, and painted a shade somewhere between green and cream; it smelled of sweat and greasepaint and cologne. Gaslights flanked the mirror, giving a bright, even luminescence to everything before it. A small clothing rack mounted on wheels held the costumes Mycroft Holmes had just worn, and next to it, a butler’s chair held his engulfing street-clothes. I watched as Holmes went on smearing white cream on his face and wiping off the resultant smear of color with a bit of butcher-paper. He indicated a stool, and I offered it to Miss Gatspy, who sat down and watched this process. “And the devil of it is, I must put on more before I leave, so I may maintain some semblance of Sutton’s appearance.”

“I think Sutton would have been pleased, sir, had he seen you tonight.” I wanted to say more, but Holmes held up his hand.

“Had Sutton been able to see me, I shouldn’t have had to do this.” He took a last swipe under his chin. “I had no notion how tiring it is to project the voice for a full play. And the lights are distracting, as well as hot.”

“No one suspected,” I said.

“Why should they. Although La Motherwell noticed Sutton was not quite himself; you saw how she carried on in the earlier scenes. I said I had a touch of a cold. I am not entirely sure she believed me.” Holmes folded his hands and met my eyes in the mirror. “I rely on you to leave with me. I don’t want to be detained by any of this troupe. Actors are canny folk; I might fool them on-stage for a performance, but I cannot continue to do so now that the performance is over.” He looked down at the pots of color and the tub of powder. “Is it still raining?”

“Yes; it’s getting heavier again,” said Miss Gatspy before I could answer.

“I see,” said Holmes. “Well, that is in our favor. I will have excellent reason to be engulfed in my cloak. I shall have to give it to Sutton, or questions may be asked if he doesn’t wear it again.” He selected a tannish-pink shade of color and patted it onto his face, taking care to smooth it with a wedge of sponge. “I can’t change the color of my eyes, but I can put a little dark-blue on my lashes, to make my eyes seem bluer. My hair will be covered. Fortunately the cloak is voluminous, so it will conceal my bulk. I must say, I am pleased that the costumer wanted to make Sutton look bulkier. I took the padding out of the costumes; Sutton will have to put it back again.” He continued working on his face, using shading to diminish the lines in his face, creating an eerily younger appearance. “Hastings should be waiting for me shortly. I want you to accompany me out of the theatre.”

“So you said,” I reminded him.

“And I want you both to come back to Pall Mall with me. There are a few matters we need to discuss.” He continued to refine the make-up until it no longer looked applied. “This has been a most demanding week, Guthrie.”

“So it has, sir,” I said.

Holmes pushed back from the mirror. “It isn’t quite over yet, but very nearly. If we can but put one or two matters to rest, we will be able to conclude the whole by Friday.” He ran his fingers through his hair, muttering something about the wig he had worn. “Miss Gatspy, you have been most helpful. I hope this does not in any way compromise your position within the Golden Lodge.”

“You needn’t worry on that account,” said Miss Gatspy. “In this instance, our goals and yours have been in accord.” She favored him with a seraphic smile.

“Miss Gatspy, you unnerve me.” Holmes rose. “If you will both be kind enough to wait outside, I’ll complete my changing.”

“Of course,” I said, and held my hand out to Miss Gatspy, in case she needed assistance in rising in these cramped quarters.

“Thank you, Guthrie,” she said, so demurely that I wasn’t at all sure she wasn’t mocking me. She allowed me to escort her from the room, and then she pulled me to the head of the corridor where there was a small bench. “It has been a very exciting day, hasn’t it?”

“A very exciting—if that’s the word I want—week, I should rather say,” I responded.

“But today—had we been in Italy, it could have come from Missus Radcliffe’s pen. Disguises. Unscrupulous villains. Mysterious doubles. Insane asylums. Cross-country chases. Not that she would have had a motor-car in her tale,” she added hastily, her blue eyes bright with amusement. “But you will admit it had a touch of romance.”

“I should think more along the line of Wilkie Collins,” I said. “And he is more contemporary than Missus Radcliffe.”

“Yes,” she agreed, and fell silent as Beatrice Motherwell approached.

Out of her medieval raiment, she was a handsome woman with a generous figure that she was at pains to show off in a nip-waist princess gown of sapphire-blue. Her hair was done up fashionably and she wore a diamond dog-collar and a rope of pearls around her neck. She was accompanied by a man, at least a decade her senior, in evening clothes with the unmistakable air of wealth and privilege about him. As they passed us, she nodded to us, saying, “You’re Sutton’s friend, aren’t you? Shame he was having an off-night. Still, he is a trouper, to play in spite of it. His voice was off. It must be his cold.” With a smile that was almost a smirk, she was gone, making her way down the circular stairs with the ease of long practice.

“Well!” said Miss Gatspy.
“Frailty, thy name is Motherwell,”
she said in an undervoice. “I can see why Sutton speaks about her as he does.”

“That was a touch too much,” I agreed.

“Guthrie, you are a nod-cock,” said Miss Gatspy in kindly rebuke.