The Scottish Ploy (6 page)

I complied, racing as fast as I could on the slippery, uneven stones. I rounded the corner and saw the cab waiting. In a last rush, I made for the cab, Mycroft Holmes immediately behind me.

“Guthrie!” Holmes cried suddenly, halting two steps behind me. “Stop! That’s not Hastings!”

I skidded to a stop on the cobbles and looked in dismay. “Not Hastings?” I called out.

“Look at the horse!” he shouted, and turned with remarkable agility to run the other way. “It’s not Lance!”

To be sure, the horse between the shafts, now I came to look at it, was a mouse-colored gelding, not Sid Hastings’s new bay. Even as I followed Mycroft Holmes in his dash, I feared we were being herded into a trap, for as I swung back toward the alley courtyard, I saw the cab begin to move after us; as I ran, I dropped my overcoat, and would have tried to pick it up but that I heard the cab approaching. This goaded me on; as I rounded the corner once again, I almost tripped over Mycroft Holmes’ foot; he had taken shelter at the edge of the basement stairs of the building opposite the back of the one in which he lived.

“Behind the dustbins, Guthrie!” he ordered me.

I needed no more incentive than that. I slipped into the first open shed and leaned against the wall. The sound of the horse’s hooves grew louder, and I was compelled to attempt to shrink myself into the smallest possible space in the hope of remaining unseen while I railed inwardly at myself for not bringing my pistol. I clung to my portfolio and valise as if they could save me while I strove to keep out of the line of fire.

There was an exchange of shots, one from across the alley where Mycroft Holmes was hidden, and two from a rooftop. I heard a window open somewhere above me, but could not see who had done it, or where. I hoped the opener would not regret that action. Then there was a fourth shot, very loud, and a fifth. The cab stopped, the driver swayed on the box, falling forward.

Holmes emerged from his hiding place to catch the frightened horse before it could bolt; the animal and the cab provided him some protection. “Guthrie! Get onto the box!”

I was aware this might be reckless, but I answered his summons at once, hurrying across the narrow space that separated me from the cab. I tossed my valise and portfolio into the box-well, sprang onto the rear of the cab and scrambled up to the box. The driver was slumped forward, a large patch of red spreading across his brown stuff jacket. I mastered my revulsion and moved the man away from the reins, taking them in hand and pulling the horse to order. “Done, sir!”

I felt Holmes get into the cab, and then heard his tap on the frame. “Back out of here. They won’t shoot the horse. Too much attention.”

Making the kissing-whistle I had heard jarvys use to back their horses, I began to coax the mouse-colored gelding back out of the alley. It was a tricksy business, for the horse was sweating, mincing, and flinging his head in distress. Finally we reached the road and I guided the cab into traffic, looking about for Sid Hastings as I went.

“Go ’round to the
Fatted Calf,”
Mycroft Holmes told me, his voice calmer now.

“Sir, I have a dead man here in the box with me,” I exclaimed, looking about to see if anyone had taken notice of this distressing fact.

“All
the more reason to go to the
Fatted Calf.
It’s where jarvys gather; if anyone should ask, say you are seeking help for him.”

“Help?” I repeated incredulously. “He’s dead, sir. There will be no help for him.” I looked about in case I had been overheard, but it seemed I had not.

“Ah, but few will know that if you appear to be tending to a stricken man. You are in clothing that, however scuffed, indicates a station well above the jarvy’s. So if you behave as if he has been taken suddenly ill, I doubt anyone will question you. Take the rug out of the well and put it over him, as if to keep him warm.”

I did as he ordered, all the while repressing the scandalous urge to laugh. I noticed that one or two passers-by looked at us in curiosity, but no one attempted to detain us. I took this as a good sign for now, but wondered if the people in the street would be equally inattentive were I the one injured, or worse? And I began to wonder who had shot the driver of the cab.

The
Fatted Calf
was a pub off Tottenham Court Road, an old building with an almost black front, and a large yard behind where jarvys put their cabs while they had a meal and a pint. I found a slot where the cab could go, steered it there and halted the gelding.

Mycroft Holmes got out of the cab at once, shaking off his clothing as he stood beside the vehicle and I climbed down from the box, my valise and portfolio clutched in my hands. “Leave it as it is, my boy. He will be found soon enough, and I will wager you a month’s wages that it will be discovered that the man was no jarvy. I would reckon he will be unknown to all the jarvys in London.” He watched as I came down from the box, and as I stepped onto the flagstones, he began to swat at my coat. “Most untidy. We will have to give the Germans a plausible explanation for your unkempt appearance, and when we return this evening, do you give your coat to Tyers to repair.”

I looked at my valise. “My suit-coat is in here, Mister Holmes,” I reminded him. “It is not as correct attire as this coat would be, but it is neat enough, and might be better than this.”

Mycroft Holmes considered this; I saw the bloody line on his face had dried, and felt intense relief that he had not been seriously injured. “It is the lesser of two evils,” he conceded at last. “Very well. Change your coat. But be quick about it. We do not want to be discovered here.” He bent down and opened my valise, pulling out the coat inside and reaching up for the one I was removing. This he thrust into the valise and then he closed it as I shrugged into the other coat. “Come. Walk quickly but not too much so.”

I did as he said, missing my overcoat as the damp wind cut through me. “What about Sid Hastings?” I asked as we walked.

“I hope nothing has happened to him,” said Mycroft Holmes as we came to the front of the pub and crossed the street away from it. The sidewalk was busy, but not so crowded that we could not keep up a good pace. “We will flag down a cab a bit later. We do not want to be remembered in context with that dead man.”

My stomach did a lurch at my recollection of his demise. “What of him?” I asked, rather more pointedly than I had intended.

“What do you mean, Guthrie?” Mycroft Holmes inquired as he picked up the pace. “The Germans had better appreciate our efforts to meet with them.” As a joke it fell sadly flat. “Not that you or I will tell them about it.”

“I should hope not,” I agreed, but I would not be put off the point. “Do you know who shot that man back in the cab?”

“Of course I do, dear boy,” said Mycroft Holmes as if the whole of it were obvious. “And so should you.”

I frowned. “Tyers was out,” I said, thinking aloud. Then I stared at him. “Gracious! You cannot mean that Sutton shot him? Sutton?”

Mycroft Holmes nodded as he adroitly dodged a flock of mudlarks rushing along the street, their high, young voices rising above the general rumble of traffic. “Who else?” He chuckled at my expression of dismay. “He is not nearly as incapable as you think him.”

“No,” I said as I increased my stride to keep up with Mycroft Holmes. “Apparently not.”

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

The physicians on the courier’s case tell me his condition is grave, and not from loss of blood alone, but in the distress to his system he has suffered. They are planning to clean his wound in the hope of preventing a major infection, and they tell me the next forty-eight hours will tell the tale. Watson has said he is not as confident as his colleagues. From his years in the army, he has come to know something of these injuries, and he is more concerned about the cold the courier claims to be suffering from than from the wound itself. I have paid close attention to all he has said, for I put great stock in the wisdom of military doctors.

I have also called upon Chief Inspector Alexander, who deals with Customs in regard to all manner of illegal activities and given him a report in regard to Mister Kerem’s claims. CI Alexander has given me his word to look into the matter as discreetly as possible. He has some useful connections in the criminal classes who are willing to betray their comrades if it serves their advantages. He himself does not put much credence in this accusation, but he is willing to investigate it on the off-chance there are vestiges of truth in it. I have asked him to keep us apprised of any developments he may have in the case, including any indication that Mister Kerem’s fears are baseless.

I am now going to prepare a soothing draught for Sutton, who is much distressed at having to shoot a man; he saved MH’s life, which he is glad to have done, but it does not mitigate the realization that a man who was living is now dead at his hands, a realization that is increasingly afflictive to him. He has to go to MH’s club shortly, and then to a performance of MacBeth, both of which require that he have his wits about him. I suppose I should not be surprised that he has experienced such upset at his act, for it is never easy to kill another man, and no time is more difficult than the first. As an actor, he has performed killing many times, and dying, too, for that matter, but it is not the same as doing it.

MH and G should be with the Germans just now. If the meeting goes well, I should see them before eight of the clock ...

“THIS IS
a great honor,” exclaimed the German gentleman wearing the Order of Saint Karolus on the deep-blue sash that angled across his chest. He was between fifty and sixty, hale but marked by age. His light-brown eyes were almost tan, and his hair had faded from ruddy-brown to a shade the Dutch call mauve. He struck me as a fine painting might that has faded over time. Even his manner, which was cordial, seemed but an echo of earlier heartiness. He was in the library of the luxurious house just off Berkeley Square, currently the residence of a German industrialist, who was acting as the Baron’s host during his stay in London. The industrialist, Dietrich Amsel, was conveniently from home, attending a meeting in Antwerp.

We had been escorted to the library by the household butler, a man of such self-importance that he minced along holding his head as if trying to escape a bad odor. He had ordered the upper servants to line the hall and to curtsy or bow as we passed by. I could tell Mycroft Holmes was somewhat embarrassed by this; he walked as if he wanted to be invisible. By the time we reached our destination within the house, my employer was trying to contain his annoyance.

“Baron von Schattenberg,” said Mycroft Holmes, executing a perfect Prussian bow to the man.

“Mister Holmes: delighted. My aides, Helmut Kriede, Paul Farbschlagen, and Egmont Eisenfeld.” Each bowed as the Baron said his name: Kriede and Eisenfeld were fair, blue-eyed men, neither of them more than twenty-five; Farbschlagen was dark-haired and grey-eyed, and seemed to be a few years older than his fellows. Looking at them, I wondered which of them were part of the Brotherhood, if, indeed, any of them were.

“And my aide, Paterson Guthrie. You will discover he has some ability in your tongue.” Mycroft Holmes bowed again, and I winced, recalling my instructions to speak German like a novice, although I was fluent in the language.

“Good fortune indeed,” said the Baron, and pointed to a table in the corner of the library, the one place not given to floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. It was flanked by windows, just now with draperies drawn against the dreary afternoon. I imagined that in spring and summer they would provide a pleasant prospect of the small park that lay behind the house.

Mycroft Holmes took the seat proffered, and signaled to me to sit beside him. “We had a minor accident in our cab on the way here, so I trust you will excuse the somewhat disordered appearance my aide presents.”

“An accident?” The Baron halted in the act of sitting.

“You know what it is to be on the streets these days,” Mycroft Holmes said, almost apologetically. “It is dark and everything is wet—mishaps occur.”

“So they do,” said the Baron, sitting down and telling his aides in rapid German to sit at the adjoining table. As he settled into his place, folding his pale hands on the table and crossing his legs at an angle to the table, he went on, “I am grateful you would take the time to help us ... smooth over any possible difficulties we may encounter.”

“And I am pleased you would ask for my assistance,” said Mycroft Holmes with equal smoothness.

“It is always awkward, is it not, when an estranged married pair seeks to be reunited?” The Baron offered his conciliative, plausible smile. “Particularly when their respective countries must—perforce—be part of their considerations.”

“Truly,” said Holmes in a manner to match the Baron’s. “And yet, do you know, I think it must be said that this prospective reunification would be more easily done if both parties were willing to effect their meeting in Scotland.”

The Baron laughed richly. “Oh, no, no, no, my new friend. No, Sir Cameron must not have so great an advantage over his wife. They must meet here, in London, where they are both away from their own grounds.” He favored Mycroft Holmes with a slight nod. “You can see why we must honor her request.”

“I see why it is one means of accomplishing their ends,” Mycroft Holmes countered. “But I believe it is her uncle’s condition, not hers.”

“She is a good woman, willing to be guided by the men who love her,” said the Baron. “Would that more women followed her excellent example.”

Mycroft Holmes shocked me when he replied, “Amen,” for he was not a man given to religious exclamations. “Still,” he went on at his most amiable, “I am surprised that she has stipulated that she must be accompanied by her uncle, two cousins, and another relative whose degree of blood I have not entirely grasped.”

“She is a woman of high rank and dignity. She wishes not to be alone with her husband until she is certain they will be able to resume their marriage.” The answer was so easily given, I knew it had been rehearsed; Baron von Schattenberg looked directly at Mycroft Holmes and gave him a pleasant nod. “You must know what it is to have a woman of position undertake travel to a foreign country.”

“Indeed,” said Mycroft Holmes, and made an attempt to bring the conversation back to the topic he wished. “And yet, I cannot help but feel there may be a more appropriate escort for her than the one she has proposed. The Kaiser would be open to providing men and women to accompany her who would more easily be welcomed into the company of our Queen.”

I had to mask a near-cough to cover my astonishment. That Mycroft Holmes should say so much, and with such apparent candor, shocked me to the core. He might as well have accused the Baron directly of acting contrary to the wishes of the Crown. Opening my portfolio, I removed my notebook and pencils, as if preparing to record the rest of the conversation.

“It would not please Sir Cameron’s wife to be treated as a complete stranger, for although she has never visited these isles, she is married to a most distinguished Knight, an acknowledged hero and popular leader. To subject his wife to the kind of treatment reserved for foreigners will do nothing to hasten their reunion.” The Baron still spoke easily, as if he had nothing against such a suggestion, and sought only to end a minor misconception. “You must know that the establishment of a more regular relationship between Sir Cameron and Lady MacMillian must be the goal of all we do.”

“Just so,” said Mycroft Holmes, matching the Baron suavity for suavity. “Still, I cannot help but think that that which pleases Her Majesty must please Sir Cameron as well.”

“It is possible, of course. But it is Lady MacMillian who has instigated these efforts, not Sir Cameron, and for that, I would suppose she is within her rights to conduct herself as she believes she must.” Baron von Schattenberg shrugged. “Perhaps we should address other aspects of this coming visit and return to this matter of escort when we have concluded our other discussions?” Although his English was excellent, I could hear the language roughen; to me this indicated some tension or anxiety, but nothing in his manner supported such a likelihood.

“No doubt she is doing as she had been advised by her family,” said Mycroft Holmes, making this observation carefully, since he was keenly aware that he might easily give offence.

“It is the work of her uncles to guide her with her husband absent,” said the Baron pointedly but maintaining his affable smile.

“As she must be aware,” said Mycroft Holmes, “in coming to see Sir Cameron, she puts herself in her husband’s hands.”

“Not until she arrives. Should she decide to return to Germany, she will need to have companions. It would not do for her to travel in the company of strangers.” The Baron paused to snap his fingers; Eisenfeld jumped to his feet and all but saluted. “We have need of some schnapps. If you will ask the servants to bring the tray?”

“At once, mein Baron,” said Eisenfeld, and left the room with alacrity.

While Mycroft Holmes and Baron von Schattenberg continued their fencing, I took a little time to study the two remaining aides, to see if I could discern anything in their demeanor that might hint of a larger purpose: Paul Farbschlagen was edgy, but he had the look of a man who was always so, from the redness at his cuticles and ragged nails, to the intensity of his grey-eyed stare; Helmut Kriede seemed a typically German mix of steely discipline and sentimental cordiality. Both of them watched the Baron as if he were their master and they his hounds. I had an uneasy moment when I wondered if I appeared the same to them. Then I had a swift recollection of the Japanese aides—Messers Banadaichi and Minato—who had been involved with the death of Lord Blackenheath, and I squirmed inwardly at the memory of how that ended.

“Guthrie,” said Mycroft Holmes to me, his voice sharp enough to break into my thoughts, “do you happen to have to hand the information on Sir Cameron’s arrival?”

I flipped through the sheets in my portfolio. “It says here he is arriving tomorrow at noon, according to your records,” I said, proffering the paper with the information on it.

“Ah, yes,” said Holmes, as though it had slipped his mind, although I knew it had not. This tactic had some other purpose than informing Baron von Schattenberg of Sir Cameron’s itinerary; I gave my full attention to their discussion again. “Since he will be here tomorrow, we might best postpone our conversation until he may be included in it.”

“Are you certain that will serve your purpose? He may well agree with our position,” said the Baron with a keen smile.

“So he might,” said Mycroft Holmes, somewhat wearily. “But if it will resolve our problems to our mutual satisfaction, then I think it is a better use of our time and energy to include Sir Cameron in our deliberations.” He looked around as Helmut Eisenfeld came back with a tray on which stood a bottle of schnapps and two chimney glasses.

“In time to drink to our success, Mister Holmes: to the fruits of our efforts,” said the Baron, so warmly that I supposed he assumed he had won this round. “To the reunion of Sir Cameron and Lady MacMillian.” At this signal, Eisenfeld poured out two glasses of the clear, potent liquid; the Baron handed one to Mycroft Holmes and kept the other for himself.
“Prost!”
he exclaimed, and downed the schnapps in one go.

“Hear, hear,” said Mycroft Holmes, and tossed his off as well.

Baron von Schattenberg held out his hand to Holmes. “Tomorrow then, at—shall we say?—four o’clock?”

“That is suitable to me, providing Sir Cameron has no objections,” Mycroft Holmes said as if that would be an unlikely event.

“He must see the advantages of settling this matter,” said the Baron.

Little do you know, I thought. What was Mycroft Holmes up to this time? I pondered the various possibilities, but nothing suggested itself.

“I am sure he will give you his full attention,” said Holmes, and I knew then that he had some mischief in mind. Turning, he addressed me. “Gather up your things, Guthrie: portfolio and valise. It is time we left our hosts to their evening.” He inclined his head toward the Baron. “Thank you for your hospitality, Baron, and for your candor. I will have much to tell Sir Cameron when we meet him tomorrow.”

“I thank you for coming.” He bowed, clicking his heels as he did. “It has been most ... instructive.” He made a motion, and Paul Farbschlagen moved to accompany us to the door of Herr Amsel’s house.

It was nearly dark out as we left the house behind us, and Mycroft Holmes sighed. “I wish I knew what happened to Hastings.” He looked about the street for a cab to hail. “I do not like summoning a jarvy I do not know,” he said under his breath. “This is a most damnable situation.”

“Do you want me to find a cab for us, sir? I could go to the corner and choose one not on this street.” This was not an idle suggestion, for it would tend to ensure a safer ride than selecting a cab from those on this street: there were always cabs to be had at Berkeley Square. I had a notion my valise and portfolio could become uncomfortably heavy if we walked any distance.

“No,” he said. “No, I think we might as well walk a ways, until I can sort out my thoughts.” He buttoned his cloak and went into the thickening mists.

I followed after him. “Why did you cut the discussion short?” I asked when we reached Berkeley Square. I was aware I was only a few blocks away from my rooms in Curzon Street, and yet I was about to turn my back on them once again; I would not see my door for many hours.

“That was no discussion, Guthrie, and well you know it,” he said to me as we turned along the Square and made toward Conduit Street and Saville Row, with the intention of making his way down to Vigo Street, thence to Sackville Street, to Piccadilly, to Church Place, down to Jermyn Street to Duke of York Street, to Saint James Square, and then to arrive at Pall Mall. “This was maneuvering, pure and simple.”

I lengthened my stride to keep up with him. “It did have that feeling about it,” I said.

“As well it should. You have been with me six years now, and you must know what you saw in there.” He was not quite disgusted, but he was far from pleased. “That Baron von Schattenberg is too plausible by half!”

“Do you think he is part of the Brotherhood?” I could not keep from asking.

“If he is, he is a fool, since the Brotherhood seeks the downfall of all European nations so that it may assume power. As a Baron, he would be among those slated to be removed.” He slowed his pace enough to blend in with the others on the street. “But he may have been promised advantages if he helps them, or they may be blackmailing him. Whatever the case, he will not entertain any suggestion I may put forth.”