Against the Brotherhood (30 page)

I can but hope that my anxiety in this regard proves groundless and that the telegram we have been told to expect will arrive in the time designated. But it would be less than candid for me to claim that I am sanguine regarding the outcome of this mission. There are those who would say that the death of my mother has made me anticipate the worst, and given my outlook a morbid twist, but I
must confess that I cannot look upon the current circumstances of MH.’s investigation with anything other than the gravest apprehension.

THE GUNSHOT WAS
little more than a pop, so that I did not at first realize it was a shot, or that it had struck Herr Dortmunder. He seemed unaware of what had happened, and so I supposed the shot had either been for me, or had not found its mark.

Then, very slowly, his grimace still fixed on his face, Herr Dortmunder collapsed, like a puppet with severed strings, landing in an untidy heap on the ground.

I stared at him for almost a minute before I could make myself move. When I did, I was shaking so much I could hardly take the little crossbow from his dead hand.

“It’s ironic, really,” said Penelope Gatspy from the shelter of the trees immediately behind us, “that I should be sent here to kill you, and I have kept you alive.” She had a smudge of dirt on her cheek and her bodice was torn at the shoulder, but other than that she showed no signs of more serious harm. She held the Navy revolver easily, not quite pointed at me, not quite pointed away. “Do not make the mistake of thinking that we are on the same side. We are allies for the moment because our purposes are similar, just as Britain and Germany are in that precious treaty you are trying to preserve. I have my reasons for wanting to keep you alive, or you would be laid out beside that offal.” She kicked at Herr Dortmunder’s corpse with such feeling that I was distressed to see it.

I looked down at the crossbow in my hand. “There will be others nearby, I fear.”

“Yes. We must not linger.” She looked around. “Where is the Scotsman? And where is Mister Holmes?”

“Mister Holmes,” said he as he came up to us, “has just done away with two of the Brotherhood guards. You are to be congratulated, my dear, for so wise a decision in regard to Guthrie here. I would have not liked to kill you.” He offered her a slight bow which looked raffish with his clothes showing the depredations of the berry vines.

I had brought my trembling under control now, and the shock of the moment changed to a more pervasive feeling that I was extremely vulnerable and could not be sure of any protection. I held on to the crossbow with one hand and felt for the pistol with the other. I wanted to say something that would convey my gratitude as well as my misgivings, but no phrases came to me, and I gave up on the attempt, devoting myself instead to listening for the approach of other hunters.

“Guthrie,” said Holmes as he started off to where McMillian was lying, “get Herr Dortmunder under cover, enough so no one will trip over him. We don’t want to speed his deputies after us.”

At last I said what had most troubled me. “How is it that it was Herr Dortmunder who found us, and not one of the others?”

“He saw you from those narrow upper windows,” answered Penelope Gatspy, her manner as cool as when I met her. How could she manage it, I wondered? For I was doing all that I could to put my inner turmoil aside and get out of danger, when I would have to deal with another death on my hands. “When the alarm went up, he took his glass and looked over the slope. I saw the sun on the lens, and I recognized his clothes.”

“You’re very attentive,” said Holmes over his shoulder.

“Any assassin must be,” she answered, following after him while I dragged the body of Herr Dortmunder to the shrub-grown base of half a dozen elms.

It was disturbing to feel the utter deadness of that body, no trace of anything alive in it. I could well understand now how it was that people claimed the dead weighed more than the living. Penelope Gatspy had shot him at the base of his neck, and his head lolled most appallingly, though there was not as much blood as I would have expected in so fatal a wound. I heaped an armful of leaves over the corpse and was about to go after Mycroft Holmes and Penelope Gatspy when I noticed another of the Brotherhood guards making his way cautiously through the woods. On his current path he would find Mycroft Holmes, Penelope Gatspy, and McMillian in a matter of minutes. I could not allow this to happen. I took a position and braced my arm, then aimed the crossbow and pulled the trigger.

The little dart sped unerringly to the place between the man’s shoulder blades. He grunted, staggered, and fell, embracing the trunk of a tree as he went.

Working mechanically now, my thoughts masked from me by the demands of the moment, I hid this man as well, this time in a thicket of hawthorn. I hoped that these precautions had bought us at least as much time as they had taken. Then I rushed to where McMillian had been left and found Holmes just settling McMillian over his shoulder.

McMillian was half-awake, and he kept muttering through his gag. “Don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“We know that, old man,” said Holmes soothingly as we made our way through the lengthening shadows of afternoon.

Twice we had to hide in the shadows of trees as Brotherhood guards went by, and once we surprised a local poacher with a rabbit in his bag, who nearly used his sporting gun on us. But by four-thirty we were once again at the outskirts of the village, and Holmes stopped to take McMillian from his shoulder.

“There will be guards in the village, you may be certain of it,” he said. He was quite gray with exhaustion, but his stamina had not yet failed him. “It will be necessary to get the horses without alerting the guards.”

“But ...” Penelope Gatspy held up her revolver.

Holmes regarded her with such exaggerated patience that I wondered at her tolerance of it. “My dear girl, we can’t go shooting every member of the Brotherhood we see, no matter how laudable a project that may be. There are more of them than there are of us, and so circumspection is called for. And we don’t want to be kept here answering questions for the French authorities.”

“You are a most irksome man, Mister Holmes,” she informed him, by way of agreement. “Very well. I will not press you on that head again.”

I reckoned she had conceded the matter much too quickly and simply, given what I had seen of her zeal in her cause, but I kept my opinion to myself, not wanting to bring about any discord at this juncture.

We went toward the church via the backs of several houses, and as we arrived, we saw the Abbé preparing for Vespers. He was kneeling before the little altar, his hands joined.

“I hope we do not disturb you, Father,” said Holmes as we came in the rear door. “If you wish, we will wait until your service is finished.” He went and eased McMillian down in the front pew, making sure he would not fall onto the floor. “Our friend here has met with an accident, or we would not intrude.”

“You do not intrude,” said the old man, cocking his head once in the direction of the confessional, but otherwise unmoving. “You know where your horses are. They have been fed and watered.”

“Thank you, Father,” said Holmes, his eyes flicking toward the confessional. I did the same, and wondered if one of the doors was supposed to be ajar. “We have to reach the station at Chateau Salins to make our train to Metz this evening.”

At the word
Metz
the Abbe flinched slightly. Mycroft Holmes nodded once. I saw that Penelope Gatspy was moving toward the confessional, her pistol drawn.

The door was flung open, and two shots were fired. One struck Penelope Gatspy in the shoulder—she staggered, but maintained her hold on her pistol—the other missed Mycroft Holmes by inches, for he had dropped to the floor at the opening of the door.

And I put my hand on the pistol in my pocket and without drawing it, pointed it at the confessional and fired twice into its interior, completing the ruin of the garment I wore and killing von Metz at the same time.

For several seconds after the body sagged out of the confessional the church was silent. Then the Abbé rose, blessed himself three times, and went to say the offices for the dead even as Mycroft Holmes and I went to tend to Penelope Gatspy’s wound.

“He arrived a little more than an hour ago,” the Abbé said when he had completed his initial blessing. “He doubted you would live to return, but he wanted to be prepared, in case one of you should slip his noose.” His expression was somber. “He said other things, things so obscene that I cannot repeat them. I fear they will leave a stain on my soul. God will have to forgive him, for I cannot, and that will add to my sin.”

“We have some notion of what he told you, and if God is the fair judge you claim He is, you will have nothing to blame yourself for,” Holmes remarked as he inspected the crease in Miss Gatspy’s shoulder—she winced at his touch but made no sound. “Painful and bloody, but not dangerous. No bone was hit. It will heal if you have it attended to at once, and I am certain the Golden Lodge can arrange for it,” he said. “And it will not hamper you in your work, for what gratification it may bring you to know that.”

“Thank you,” she said in her self-contained manner. “The Golden Lodge is grateful for all you have done, with me and for me.”

Holmes hesitated before he spoke again. “I am sorry we could do nothing to save Guilem.”

“So am I. But he died for what he believes in, as I will one day.” She might as well have been talking about the weather for all the concern she expressed.

The enormity of what I had done struck me then, with such force that I did not trust myself to remain on my feet any longer. I held on to the nearest pew, steadying myself I had killed von Metz. He was actually dead. I was glad and sick at once. I gripped the pew with all my strength.

“Guthrie, dear boy, you look as if you could use a drink,” said Holmes.

“I
should have one first,” muttered McMillian. “How could you take so long to find me?” His words were slurred but his tone carried his complaint eloquently. “What kind of incompetents are you?”

Holmes had taken a flask from inside his voluminous cloak. He had offered it to me, but now he went and lifted it to McMillian’s lips, saying to me as he did, “Make allowances, Guthrie.”

I shrugged, absurdly relieved that amid the chaos McMillian had not changed. “When you are through, sir.”

McMillian cried out as the brandy touched his broken lips and missing teeth, and this gave me pleasure it should not. I wanted some distraction. Penelope Gatspy provided it.

“If you will come and help me onto my horse, Mister Guthrie?” she said. She had completed wadding her neckcloth into a bandage and packing it under her torn habit to protect her wound.

“But—” I began, rather stupidly.

“My people are expecting me. They are not far away. They are never far away from the Brotherhood.” She made a gesture of farewell to Mycroft Holmes, and then hastened to the door.

Sunset bloomed around us, the sky a magnificent display of rose and orange, with long, blue shadows crossing the hills.

“You will need a lantern,” I remarked as I escorted her to the little stable at the back of the church.

“I don’t have far to go, and I know the way.” A hard amusement lit her blue eyes. “The world is not what you imagine it to be, Mister Guthrie. Your Mister Holmes knows that better than most, especially for a man working in a government. If you want to be in it, listen to him. If not, then—” She found her horse and watched as I tightened the girths. “It has been an unexpected mission in many ways. I am almost sad to leave you.” She reached for her reins. “I will accept a leg up, if you will give it,” she said.

I held my hands linked at my knee, and as she stepped into them, I lifted her into the saddle. She was lighter than I had supposed, a strong girl with the mind of a Hindu fanatic. “I thank you, Miss Gatspy, for all you have done for me. I wouldn’t be alive now but for you.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” she said as she gathered her reins and adjusted her leg over the horn. “Nor would I but for you. So all debts are canceled. Remember that next time we meet.” And with that she turned her horse away and rode out of the barn, and I supposed, out of my life.

Mycroft Holmes looked me over as I came back into the church. “You look rather steadier,” he informed me as he offered the flask to me.

I took it gratefully, and let the welcome burning go down my throat so fast that I coughed at the impact.

“What is Jeffries doing?” demanded McMillian in a quarrelsome tone. “How could you let them take me, Jeffries?”

“He isn’t Jeffries, he’s Guthrie,” said Mycroft Holmes. “And he does not work for you, he works for me.” He gave his attention to the Abbé. “I am sorry for this disturbance, Father, but I trust you will pray for us. We will be going now, with your permission. We are almost out of danger.”

“Go, my son,” said the Abbé with a very French shrug. “We will take care of this fellow”—he motioned to von Metz—“in our churchyard. And may God be merciful to us.”

“Charity is a great virtue, Father,” said Holmes as he began to pull McMillian upright.

“And this misguided man has much need of it,” said the Abbé as we left him in his church and went to prepare for the ride to Chateau Salins.

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS:

Thank God they are safe, and aboard a train headed for Antwerp. The message came at a few minutes to eight this evening, and I have rarely been so pleased to have news. I have sent word round to the Admiralty to inform them of these welcome developments.