The Scottish Ploy (29 page)

I was about to ask her why she thought so when the door to Sutton’s dressing-room came open and Mycroft Holmes surged out, once again wrapped in his cloak and a long muffler with his hat pulled down low. He coughed for effect. “Guthrie. Come,” he exclaimed, and clapped me on the shoulder before propelling me toward the stairs. “You, too, Miss Gatspy.”

“As you wish,” she said, her voice still tinged with inner merriment.

We trooped down the stairs, our steps sounding like hail in a smithy. As we reached the main floor, one or two other actors hailed Holmes—as Sutton—but didn’t detain him, seeing he was with company. The doorman hardly deigned to notice our departure.

“Where is your carriage?” asked Holmes as Sid Hastings brought his cab up in front of the theatre; now that most of the audience had left, the place seemed deserted and a bit sinister, for all its decorative facade and shining lights.

“Around the corner,” said Miss Gatspy.

“Then we shall meet again in Pall Mall,” he said, as if there could be no argument on that head.

“Yes. That we shall,” said Miss Gatspy, and slipped her hand through my arm. “Come, Guthrie.”

I went along with her, thinking as I did that the theatre is truly a haunted place. We rounded the building away from the stage door and started to where her sylphide had been stalled for the evening’s performance. All but one or two of the various carriages and buggies were gone, giving the place a forlorn look, like a ballroom after everyone had left. We had just got inside the sylphide when the mare whinnied loudly and tossed her head as if in protest of having to continue to work. I was about to say something about this when Miss Gatspy motioned me to silence. “What is it?” I mouthed, for I was keenly aware that she was abristle with distress.

“The mare’s been crippled,” she said barely above a whisper. “Someone is trying to trap us.”

“Are you certain?” I asked in the same hushed voice.

“She is not moving because her tendons are cut,” said Miss Gatspy in such a tone of fury and sadness as I never hope to hear from her again.

“How can you be certain?” I asked.

“Because there is blood on her legs and she is in pain,” said Miss Gatspy. “And we are trapped.”

I remained still, listening to the rain and any other sounds from the night. I thought I heard the snick of a pistol being cocked, and I dropped into a ball on the floor, Miss Gatspy immediately beside me.

The shot went off and the mare neighed again, struggling to run, and instead falling, tangling herself in her harness.

“I have had
enough,”
whispered Miss Gatspy, and reached into her muff for her pistol. “Guthrie, get ready to run.”

“I have my pistol with me, as well,” I told her softly. “If we both move simultaneously, we might be able to stop them—whoever they may be.”

She nodded agreement, and drew her pistol. “Ready? Set. Go.”

We both rolled out of the small carriage, she on the left, I on the right. We both landed crouched and aiming our pistols into the dark; a figure in a flapping cloak stopped not six feet from the carriage and turned to run.

“Stop!” I cried, and started after him. I chased him into Saint Martin’s Lane, and up toward Long Acre, but he had a lead on me, and I could not stop him from slipping between two buildings on the edge of Covent Garden. Fearing to leave Miss Gatspy alone, I turned and ran back toward the Duke of York’s Theatre only to hear a single shot just as I approached. “Miss Gatspy!” I shouted, dreading what that might portend, and arrived to find her standing over her mare, tears shining in her eyes.

“She was suffering,” she said, and handed her pistol to me.

“My dear Miss Gatspy,” I said, putting my arm round her shoulder to comfort her. “What a dreadful thing.”

“It’s one thing to shoot at us,” she said in a small, tight voice, “for we can defend ourselves. But to cripple a blameless horse for no reason but to make it easier to fight us—that is the utmost cowardice.”

“Yes, it is,” I said, truly agreeing with her. What on earth were we going to do now? I asked myself. How were we to disengage the carriage and harness from the dead horse, and how were we to dispose of the animal? It was all perplexing and inconvenient.

“Don’t worry,” said Miss Gatspy, as if reading my thoughts. “My colleagues will take care of this.”

“Ah, yes, your colleagues,” I said. “Just where were they when your horse was cut?” Little as I liked the notion of being followed, I dislike the lack of diligence even less.

“They were seeing Mister Holmes home,” she said. “They thought we would not need their attention.”

“Not much help,” I said, trying to keep my temper in check.

“No; they will have to account for their lapse to our superiors.” She put her hand on my arm, keeping her muff on the other; she made no mention of her pistol, so I put it into my trouser-pocket, away from my own pistol. “Pall Mall isn’t so very far. We could walk back, if you don’t think it would be too great a risk?”

“We can certainly try,” I said, the fatigue I had been feeling vanishing as if by a fairy’s spell. “If we take too long, Hastings may well come in search of us.”

“Or my colleagues,” said Miss Gatspy. “Down Saint Martin’s Lane to East Pall Mall and thence to Mister Holmes’.” She did her best to smile. “It isn’t much more than half a mile, would you say?”

“More or less,” I replied, not caring about the distance. It was a sweet ending to what had been a most trying day, and one that wasn’t yet over. I thought that a few more minutes in Miss Gatspy’s company would lessen the sourness of what was to come, and solace her loss of her mare. So I did not walk as fast as I might, and I only worried that the rain might damage Miss Gatspy’s gown, or chill her. We saw few vehicles on the street, and not many men on horseback until we were almost opposite Cockspur Street, when a rider approached us, hailing Miss Gatspy by name and asking why she was not in her carriage.

“You will see why when you go back to the theatre. I leave you and Langford to tend to it.” Her tone was sharp, but I could hear the distress she strove to hide.

“Right you are, Miss Gatspy,” said the man, lifting his hand in salute before he rode on toward Saint Martin’s Lane.

While they had spoken I became acutely aware that her hand was still in mine in the crook of my arm and that she had made no attempt to remove it. It was a heady sensation, and one I feared I was making too much of: she had endured a most trying day, one that ended in her having to dispatch her own mare with her pistol. It was only to be expected that she would require succor; I was determined not to refine upon it too much, or to attach any significance to it beyond her inclination to be comforted.

“Tell me, Guthrie,” she said as we resumed our walk, “are you glad that you rid the world of Jacobbus Braaten?”

The question was so blunt that it took me aback. “I am glad he isn’t alive to plague innocent people any longer. But I am not glad to have killed him. If I were, it would make me such another creature as he was.”

“Imitation being the sincerest form of flattery?” she paraphrased inquiringly. “Well,
I
am glad of it.”

Much as I disliked admitting it, this bit of praise lifted my spirits. “You are very good to say so, Miss Gatspy. It isn’t the sort of thing that a man should take pride in.”

“Of course it is,” she said, chiding me gently. “We give soldiers medals for killing every day.”

“That is different,” I told her. We were nearing Mycroft Holmes’ building, and I wished we did not have to go up at once, though I knew we must.

“Only in your mind, Guthrie.” She preceded me up the stairs to the second-floor flat.

As we climbed, I asked her, “How are you going to get back to your ... accommodations tonight?” It struck me then that I had no idea where she stayed in London, or with whom.

“My colleagues will attend to that,” she answered obtusely, and continued upward.

Tyers admitted us promptly. “He’s in the study. So is Sutton.” He wore the look of a man much put-upon. “It is bad enough having one of them quoting Shakespeare, but
two—”

“We’ll take care of that for you, Tyers,” said Miss Gatspy, and led the way into the study, where we found Sutton sitting in Mycroft Holmes’ usual chair, a blanket wrapped around him over his dressing gown, and a pillow behind his head, Mycroft Holmes standing in front of the hearth, the make-up cleaned from his face, a snifter of brandy in one hand and the poker in the other which he was just now wielding in a mock display of theatrical swordsmanship.

Seeing Miss Gatspy, he lowered the poker, saying, “We were about to send out the hounds.”

“There was some trouble,” said Miss Gatspy, as if it were nothing more than a broken wheel-spoke. “We walked.

Sutton sat forward, although it was clearly a painful effort. Parts of his face looked like raw meat and when he tried to speak, his voice rasped and he gave up uttering the sympathies he wished to express.

“What sort of trouble, Guthrie?” Holmes asked, his grey eyes narrowing.

“We were attacked,” I said, hoping to make light of it, for Miss Gatspy’s sake.

“Attacked?” Holmes repeated. “By whom?”

“Someone all in black. I chased him, but lost him near Covent Garden. You know what a warren that place is. Not that that’s an excuse,” I added hastily.

“It is certainly an explanation,” said Holmes. “Sit down, the two of you. Tyers will bring us food directly, and I must say, I am famished.” He looked over at Sutton. “I must say I cannot imagine doing performances night after night. I’m quite enervated.”

“One becomes accustomed, if one loves it,” said Sutton, the sound raspy, but a great deal more like himself than he had been earlier this evening. There was no lingering vagueness, and no lethargy beyond that brought about pain and fatigue.

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Mycroft Holmes thoughtfully. He turned and regarded us for a long moment. “There have been developments,” he said at last. “Inspector Lionel Featherstone is dead.”

“How?” I asked.

“Who did it?” Miss Gatspy demanded in the same instant.

“He seems to have done the deed himself,” said Holmes. “It appears he was being coerced by the Brotherhood to be their agent within the police. Chief Inspector Pryce has sent me a preliminary report and will provide me with a copy of Featherstone’s account of his activities.”

“But coerced? How?” I could not grasp this at all.

“His mother has associations in Ireland who are against the English, men who would embrace any cause, no matter how reprehensible, if it was dedicated to the destruction of England. Somehow they made common cause with the Brotherhood, and through extortion gained Featherstone’s cooperation. When he could not endure their demands any longer, he stopped them the only way he knew how—by putting an end to his life, and his compromises.” He paused to drink a little more brandy. “They must have someone else in the police, and higher up, for Featherstone was often assigned those cases in which the Brotherhood had an interest. I hope Inspector Strange’s files may shed some light on this.”

“Then the Kerem debacle was given to him so that he could influence its outcome,” I said, keenly aware that this would account for a great deal.

“Yes. It was he who arranged for the removal of the body, and it was he who concealed the removal for more than twelve hours. He, himself, removed all traces of the deception, with Sir Marmion’s help.” Holmes’ face darkened. “I still blame myself for not seeing his part in this earlier.” He cleared his throat. “Only Sutton sensed there was something off-plumb about him; I should have listened to you, Edmund. Indeed I should.”

“It was as much my distrust of science as anything about the man,” Sutton conceded, his statement ending in a burst of tight little choking sounds. He waved his hand to indicate he had more to say. “Science always purports to high ideals, but often results in oppression and cruelty.”

“That is not the fault of science, but of the men who use it,” said Holmes austerely.

“Perhaps,” Sutton allowed, unwilling or disinclined to argue.

“Sutton has a point,” said Miss Gatspy. “Science may be as you say, but all scientists are men, subject to the needs and vagaries of men. It is probably astonishing that we have made as much progress as we have, given the nature of men.”

Mycroft Holmes bristled at this. “You cannot mean that you, too, decry science because of the use to which men put it?”

“No,” she said, “I won’t go that far. Yet you must allow that even the most enlightened scientist may have a dark side to his nature, one that will turn his most laudable intentions to despicable acts: Sir Marmion most certainly has such a blight on his character.”

Holmes stared at her, unable to answer for at least five seconds—something of a record for him—and then he bowed. “I cannot dispute that in Sir Marmion’s case, his application of his science is far from pristine.”

Miss Gatspy decided to press her advantage. “Isn’t that the underlying theme of
MacBeth?
Isn’t that the very point of your performance this evening?”

“Ah,” said Mycroft Holmes at his most beatific, “the play, dear Miss Gatspy, is fiction. Shakespeare makes no mention of the fact that the historical MacBeth reigned for almost seventeen years. Not to take away from Shakespeare’s genius: his compression of events, and his dramatic interpretation of history may have that as a theme, but history, like life itself, is rather more complex than that.”

Sutton made a cry of protest. “Who would remember MacBeth but for Shakespeare?”

Holmes considered this. “You have a point,” he said at last. “Truly, Sutton; you have a point.”

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

MH, Sutton, G, and Miss Gatspy are having their midnight supper, and I must shortly finish putting the kitchen to rights before retiring. In the morning, CI Pryce will come, and they will begin to unravel this complex knot of interlocking cases. It is likely to be a very busy day, one which will be as exacting in its way as the ordeal of the last week has been ...

Sutton is still rocky, but no doubt he will improve and recover. It may be just as well that he has only two more performances of MacBeth to go. He will need to rest for at least a week when it is done. I would hope that MH would be willing to rest for a day or two as well, but I suspect he would not be willing to give in to such indulgences ...