The Flying Scotsman (22 page)

“You needn’t sound like my butler, my boy, nor need depart upon the instant. Sit. Sit,” said Mycroft Holmes with the trace of a chuckle. “I shan’t keep you away from your Miss Gatspy all evening.”

“That was not my concern, sir,” I said, disliking the tone I had taken but unable to keep from being condemning in my thoughts. “I am going to take her place with Herr Schere before we go in to dine, so she might freshen her appearance; I trust you will not object to this? It is in our best interests to do this.” Obediently, I sat.

“If you say so, Guthrie; if you say so.” He continued to smoke in silence for a short while. “I will have more telegrams for you to send at Sheffield, as I mentioned, including one to Tschersky at the Russian embassy, that, perforce, cannot be in code. Then there is the Admiralty. You will have to make the most of the time we have there, as Tyers is not the only one we must report to.”

“Very good, sir,” I said, finally relaxing my hold on my portfolio. I wondered if I had left impressions in the leather above my initials.

“We must also plan for what we will do in Carlisle, when the Glasgow cars are taken off from this train. We will be more vulnerable there than in Leicester, and that now concerns me very much; for in the confusion of a rail yard, an assassin might strike and get away without so much as a constable’s whistle to mark him.” He folded his hands, continuing, “The problem with any yard is the combination of sound and movement. There is simply too much of it and too many things happening we have no way to anticipate. There will be a maze of open and closed cars of all types. Freights from Newcastle and all of the mills will be arriving hourly and their cars switched onto a dozen different engines. If we are trying to be alert to any threat, the noise level will be such that we will hardly be able to hear a shot, much less a shout. Our analytic eye will be sorely tested, and so it is where we will be most exposed.”

“How can you and I, with or without Miss Gatspy, deal with such risks?” I was appalled at what Mycroft Holmes had said. Leaving Constantinople had been easy by comparison, and that last desperate rush through the streets of Bucharest a game.

“Because we must,” said Mycroft Holmes quietly. He was almost finished with his cigar. “Go along to your compartment, Guthrie, and do something with your tie. I will come to the lounge within the hour.”

“As you wish,” I said, getting up again and going to let myself out. I wished I could think of something to say that would lighten the burden he carried, but nothing came to mind that did not also trivialize what was at stake. I nodded as I closed the door and went along to the third compartment where my valise waited, large and lumpish, faithful as a hound.

One glance in the mirror made it apparent that Holmes’ advice was more than needed: the knot was askew and the stick-pin was thrust to the side at a rakish angle. I could not recall how or when I had become so disheveled, but I set about putting myself to rights, not only fixing my tie but brushing my hair back into place.

On my way to the lounge car I stopped in the lav and noticed that the frosted window was partially open; about seven inches at the top were open to the air. I tried to close it and discovered it was jammed. As I had not used this facility in the first-class car before, I supposed it must have been that way since before we left King’s Cross. I was confident that few men could squeeze through such a small space and in such an inconvenient location, so I did nothing more than make a mental note of it and continue on my way to the lounge, where Whitfield greeted me like a long-lost friend.

“So much excitement,” he said, speaking as much to the dozen or so men who were enjoying their drinks. “And Mister Guthrie here right in the heart of it.” He handed me a small whiskey—one of his better ones, by the smell of it—and told me it was on the house. “You earned it, Mister Guthrie. That you did.”

“Thank you, Whitfield,” I said, thinking Mycroft Holmes had been right and I would be answering questions until I went to take over Miss Gatspy’s place with Prince Oscar.

“Very helpful you were, Mister Guthrie. The Inspector said so,” Whitfield continued to enthuse. “I’m sure they could not have done as much as they did without you to help them. You and Mister Holcomb, of course.”

A man somewhat older than I, with an air of prosperity and a very fine suit, came up to me. “About that horse that killed the jockey, they were saying. Some sort of conspiracy, according to the barkeep.”

“As much as we could determine, yes, that would appear to be the cause of the killing.” I noticed that two or three other men were listening attentively, and so I made an effort to elucidate my part in the whole. “Mister Holcomb was adept at discerning how the poisoning was done; I merely supplied an occasional drawing to help clarify—”

“It’s a shocking thing, what racing has come to,” said another newcomer, a skinny, knobby gent, with a nose that overpowered his face and seemed to have pulled his two small eyes near to it by magnetic force.

“That it is,” I said, adding, “The horse is not to blame, of course, but the men who plotted this are to be condemned for turning an innocent animal into a weapon.”

“Shameful,” said the hatchet-faced gent. “The name is Burley, by the way—Arthur Burley. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Paterson Guthrie,” I said as we shook hands.

“They tell me you and Mister Holcomb work for Satchel’s. You like the work?” His manner was genial, perhaps, I thought, a bit too genial.

“Well enough, if it is any concern to anyone but myself,” I said sharply.

Burley chuckled. “Habit, asking questions. I work for the
Sheffield Intelligence;
you’ve probably never heard of it, as it is not much known outside of Sheffield. It is a small weekly, devoted to local politics and business.”

“Interesting work, I expect,” I said blandly, while my thoughts raced: good God, we had a reporter aboard, one dealing in business and politics. This story had most certainly whetted his appetite for skulduggery. What could be more disastrous than this? If the slightest whiff of what we were doing should reach him, how could we keep the whole of this incident from being bruited aboard? And then what would become of our treaty, let alone our efforts to protect Prince Oscar not only from harm, but from scandal?

“Sometimes. Often it is bread-and-butter reporting, utilitarian and dry. Once in a while we happen onto something a bit more exciting, but those occasions are rare. Nothing like what happened here today. I’m sorry I missed it.” He sighed. “I should have realized that when the
Flying Scotsman
was late and arrived on a side-track with constables hovering about that it was more than a minor mishap aboard.” He downed the last of his whisky. “So if you do not mind, I will ask a few more questions. I might as well file some sort of story about this when I return to my desk tomorrow.”

I realized he had volunteered so much to put me off my guard; it had quite the opposite effect than the one he had intended. I did my best to smile and look as if I were willing to be interviewed on this subject, all the while responding with senses alert, not only to Arthur Burley, but to the men in the lounge, most of whom seemed eager to listen. “If you believe it will be of any interest to your readers, ask away,” I said, ready to deal with the man as best I could.

“You make this very formal, Mister Guthrie. Still, it’s worth a try, I’d think.” He pulled a notebook from his pocket and a pencil with a sharp point. “Can you describe what happened here?”

I took a deep breath and began to expostulate on the events surrounding the murders of Jardine and Heath, taking care to be accurate and all the while doing my best to make it seem that such an occurrence was normal enough, deserving of no special attention. Burley listened, taking notes and occasionally prompting me with questions while the other passengers in the lounge listened with that embarrassed curiosity reserved for calamities and scandals.

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

Word has come from the Admiralty that no attempt was made on the other double; in fact, there is some doubt among the highly placed officers that the ruse was successful, and that there was no attempt made because it was known the man was not HHPO. This could mean that the assassin might have learned of the change in plans that put HHPO aboard the
Flying Scotsman,
which is a development that can only be viewed with alarm.

Between reading the lines of Mosca and fretting about MH, Sutton has voiced concern for something that has me even more dismayed—that there may be two assassins working in concert, with the same intention as our use of doubles: to throw us off the scent of the primary assassin and his target. Sutton is afraid that the assassin may be aboard the
Flying Scotsman
with MH, G, and HHPO, an idea I can only view with utmost horror. Little as I may wish to, I realized I should inform MH as soon as possible, which would mean sending a companion telegram to the one I have already dispatched to Sheffield where G will retrieve it when he sends on the report from aboard the train ...

No further reports from the police, although I have noticed a constable patrolling the street rather more frequently than is the usual custom. What this may indicate I cannot be certain, but I am determined to use the backstairs and the service alley if I have to leave the flat anytime today or tonight.

The butcher has delivered a rack of lamb which I shall set to roast with onions and herbs shortly, so that when Sutton returns from across the street we may dine straightaway, so that should any more complex problems arise, we will be ready to deal with them ...

MYCROFT HOLMES
arrived in
the lounge just as I was finishing my account of his revealing the murderous plot of Heath and Dunmuir. “The police determined to hold the two in the lav, certain that with a constable to guard the door, it must serve well for their confinement until they could be taken along to jail.” I looked directly at Holmes, saying, “Ah, Mister Holcomb. This is Arthur Burley of the
Sheffield Intelligencer.
He has taken an interest in the case you did so much to solve.”

“A reporter, you say?” Holmes beamed, holding out his hand. “A pleasure to know you, Mister Burley. I think of ourselves as brethren in type.” He beamed at this labored witticism. “Quite a change, seeing a journalist seeking to present the facts of an event instead of a more sensational fable. If I may assist in any way to present an accurate picture of the events in question, I would be honored to do so.” He signaled to Whitfield. “A brandy please, in a snifter.”

“Right away, Mister Holcomb,” said Whitfield, and I saw him put down the bottle he had previously opened into one of the storage crates before he unsealed a new one. This seemed to be something of a ritual with him, and I wondered again what its purpose might be.

“You seem a most astute fellow, Mister Holcomb,” Burley went on. “But how you were able to hit upon such salient points with so little opportunity for observation impresses me.”

“Well, you know how important it is to notice as much as possible while traveling,” said Holmes as he went to fetch his brandy; his crown was waved away by Whitfield. “Since traveling is my stock-in-trade, no doubt I have honed my capabilities more than most men.”

“No doubt,” said Burley. He glanced back at me. “You told me he lacks false modesty. I see you were right.”

Mycroft Holmes inclined his head. “Guthrie has worked with me long enough to appreciate my character.”

“No doubt,” said Burley again, as if preparing to dismiss Holmes from his work after all. “I wonder that you should be willing to be caught up in such work as unraveling a murder.”

“Mister Burley,” said Mycroft Holmes with an air of exaggerated sympathy, “you cannot think that murders on a train are good for travel. Since travel is my livelihood, I felt it incumbent upon me to do my utmost to end the mystery quickly, so that there would be no growing apprehension about rail travel.” He gazed up at the ceiling as if seeking inspiration. “You may not recall how sharply rail travel and holidaymaking dropped off in Cornwall after that freak rail crash in eighty-one? The rumors surrounding the tragedy were soon laden with specters and the most dire of manifestations, and all because it could not be determined who had left the switch open, or why. I should hate to see such a plight befall the
Flying Scotsman.”

Mister Burley scribbled a few notes, I suspect because he was being closely observed. He was still watching Mycroft Holmes narrowly, measuring him with canny attention. I was increasingly aware of the tension in the room and the attitude of—I must almost call it predation—that filled the lounge. At last Mister Burley achieved a sour smile and said, “No doubt it would be bad for
Satchel’s Guides
to have people take their holidays close to home.”

“Precisely,” said Mycroft Holmes, and sat down at the very table Heath and Dunmuir had occupied. “You see, Satchel’s is revising its guide to rail travel in Britain, which is why Guthrie and I are here. Guthrie has prepared some excellent drawings of interesting sights that might be seen on a rail holiday.” He motioned to me. “Show them your work, Guthrie. No need to hide your light under a bushel.” He tasted his brandy and made an affable gesture to the room at large, inviting one and all to view Edmund Sutton’s drawings, which I dutifully displayed.

“One doesn’t see many left-handed illustrators, I fancy.” Mister Burley remarked as I finished collecting the drawings I had shown.

“I have not thought much about it, sir,” I responded. “I recall my first teachers strove to train me to use my right hand, but I had not the aptitude.” That much was true; I had spent three years trying to work with my right hand only to fail, although I was rather more capable with that hand as a result than many another left-handed man. “I cannot say whether or not it has affected my work. How can I know without learning to write and draw afresh?”

“A telling point, I’ll give you that. Self-effacing, aren’t you?” Mister Burley inquired testily some while later. “One would think these drawings were the work of another, for all the pride you show in them.”

Mycroft Holmes responded for me. “Illustrators are not like gallery painters, don’t you know. They are not as moved by passion as those who style themselves artists, and they view their work more pragmatically than their more self-absorbed brethren.” He rose, handing the nearly empty snifter back to Whitfield, along with a shilling and thr’pence. “For your excellent service,” he said grandly.

Whitfield took the tip and chuckled. “You’re as generous as an American, sir, and no doubt about it.”

“Well, a traveler like me learns to show appreciation for good service,” he said magnanimously. “If you can tear yourself away, Guthrie, I would appreciate your company for a short while. We must prepare a telegram for Satchel’s to explain our delays.”

I slid the drawings back into my portfolio and prepared to follow him, but I was detained by Mister Burley, who had one more question for me. “Mister Guthrie, where may I find other examples of your work? I should like to acquaint myself with it.”

Fortunately I had anticipated his question and gave my answer without stumbling. “Until last year most of my illustrations were done for newspapers, most of them English or Scottish. I have been employed by Satchel’s for nearly a year, and my first work for them will appear in a guide to the
Orient Express,
which is due to appear in Europe in two months. If you contact
Satchel’s
in London, I am sure they will supply you a copy when the publication is available.”

“What kept you?” Mycroft Holmes demanded, as he stood on the platform between the second- and first-class cars at the front of the train.

“Mister Burley wanted to do a bit more fishing,” I replied. “I thought it best not to avoid answering him.”

Holmes nodded. “Very wise. Damn the man! To have a journalist on this train is the worst possible luck. Our attempts to make our passage undetected by our enemies have not been sufficient. We should have ridden in the rear car of a freight train and traded comfort for safety. But I thought speed would—” He scowled out at the hedgerows flashing by. “Burley may be able to recognize Herr Schere, which would be—” He stopped himself before he revealed the whole of his anxiety.

“But he will leave the train at Sheffield,” I pointed out.

“And send telegrams to half the newspapers in England, or I do not know the breed. Journalists are more curious than the police and often more dogged. Mister Burley senses all is not as it appears, which moves him to look more closely. A man of his profession is always on the alert for a story that will make his reputation and none more so than a journalist working in a routine publication doing routine work. Journalists are easily bored, and when they are bored, they can do mischief.” He sighed. “I know
Satchel’s
London will endorse our credentials; but if Burley pursues the matter, as I fear he might, we cannot rest assured that we will remain ...” His words trailed off. “I hope we do not end with a débâcle.”

For a long moment I could think of nothing to say, but then I suggested to him, “Can Chief Inspector Somerford do anything to throw Burley off the scent?”

Mycroft Holmes rubbed his chin, his large, long fingers outlining his jaw. “Chief Inspector Somerford,” he mused aloud. “Perhaps. If we can reach him without causing an upheaval. That may prove to be an excellent notion, Guthrie.”

I saw at once that my employer had more in mind than I had had when I had offered my word of advice. “You will want to prepare another telegram,” I said, knowing what was to come.

“No, my dear Guthrie, I will prepare two more, and I’ll supply you the money for full delivery.” He very nearly smiled. “I think you may have hit upon something very useful.”

“I wish I knew what it was,” I complained, and followed Mycroft Holmes into the first car and along to compartment two.

“We will be in Sheffield shortly,” said Holmes, pulling his valise down and extracting his writing supplies. In no time he was at work on his additional telegrams, handing them to me with the previously prepared ones, and two pound notes to pay for messenger delivery upon receipt.

“Are you expecting communication from anyone but Tyers?” I asked as I put the telegram texts into my portfolio.

“Not at this stop. At Leeds perhaps—certainly at Carlisle.” He rubbed a spot of ink from the tip of his finger. “Tschersky should have something to tell me by then.”

“Carlisle,” I repeated, recalling his apprehension regarding the place. “But we will have more time there, won’t we?”

“That may or may not be to our advantage,” Holmes murmured. “We will have to be very careful; when we arrive in Carlisle it will be full dark, which is not to our advantage. We will have to make preparations.”

I nodded and glanced at the wedge of corridor I could see beyond the drawn shade. There was Sir Cameron’s put-upon valet, making his way down to the rear of the car. I once again had a fleeting impression of the short time I had served Sir Cameron in that capacity, and my sympathy for the man welled anew. Recalled to Mycroft Holmes’ remark by a clearing of his throat, I said, “Beg pardon, Sir. You were discussing the preparations we will need to make for our arrival in Carlisle.”

“At least you were not wholly wool gathering, my boy.” Holmes took another of his cigars from his silver case, which he kept in his inner breast pocket. When Sutton had given it to him, I noticed he had had it inscribed to his “most highly regarded mentor.” Now, as Holmes prepared to return the case to the inner breast pocket, he paused. “I trust I have not placed Sutton in danger again. My conscience still smarts when I recall he was shot in my stead. And kidnapped, as well.”

“Sutton is a brave man,” I said, aware that until I met Sutton, I had never thought of actors as brave; Sutton had long since taught me the error of my ways. “He will not begrudge you a risk or two.”

“Very like you in that way,” said Mycroft Holmes as he snipped his cigar and went through his little ritual of lighting it. “Don’t imagine I am unaware of my good fortune in that regard. But I would just as soon neither of you got shot again, if you don’t mind.” He blew out the smoke. “Given how long it has taken us to come this far, we will probably have to take on water at Sheffield, as a precautionary measure.”

“How long will that take?” I asked.

“It’s hard to say. Perhaps no more than five additional minutes, but it will mean pulling onto a siding to do it, and that could create a delay by itself. The York-to-Birmingham is due through Sheffield at about the time we will arrive; and if we must take on water, we will have to wait for the other train to pass before resuming our journey. Assuming we have no other delays, this run will take half again as long as it was supposed to.”

“It may be possible to continue on without further mishap,” I said, with more hope than conviction.

“Possible, yes, but I fear it is not likely.” He motioned to me to get down his valise. “I will have to prepare one more telegram. If you like, go along to compartment four and see how Herr Schere and Miss Gatspy are managing.” He gave a rumbling sound, which I knew to be a chuckle.

I accepted this dismissal with alacrity, excusing myself at once and hastening to knock on the door to Prince Oscar’s compartment. I noticed that the Prince remembered to cough as he called out, “Come in.”

“Hello, Guthrie,” said Miss Gatspy as I closed the door behind me.

“Miss Gatspy,” I replied. How fetching she was, I thought, and reminded myself that she was also very dangerous. “I hope I find you doing well?”

“Actually,” she said with the hint of a smile, “I am a trifle bored. These long journeys, no matter what the circumstances, have a sameness that wears on one, don’t you think?”

“I hadn’t noticed,” I said somewhat mendaciously, for I had felt very much the same after the police left the train.

“When our only entertainment is Sir Cameron’s antics, it is a sign that all is not going well,” said Miss Gatspy.

Just then there was the sound of someone stumbling against the door, and I moved swiftly to see what was the cause, hoping as I did that Sir Cameron had not wakened and was making his perambulations about the narrow corridor. As I slid back the door, I saw Sir Cameron’s valet, his face a bit ruddy. He did not smell of spirits, but his manner suggested he had been drinking. I noticed his eyes were lacking that shine of inebriation. “Well?” I said sharply.

“Beg pardon, sir, I’m sure,” said the valet. “Tripped. Foolish thing to do. I don’t like riding on trains.”

“Well, hold onto the outer rail. That’s what it’s there for,” I recommended, unwilling to berate the poor fellow; Sir Cameron did that to excess in any case.