The Scottish Ploy (22 page)

“I will have notes for them, and for Chief Inspector Alexander of Customs; I will also send word to Inspector Strange for his opinion of our most recent developments.” He saw me look at him in some confusion, and he explained, “I have a question or two about Lionel Featherstone’s investigation, and Customs should be able to bring me abreast of matters.”

“Is this something Inspector Strange recommends?” I asked.

“In part,” said Holmes, volunteering nothing more on that head, but adding, “I am aware that there are more issues here than those we have discerned so far. If I can review all the opinions held by the police and others, I might be able to make some sense of it all.”

“You are going to put them against one another,” I said, as much warning him as describing his tactics. “You will have more of Scotland Yard distressed than Inspector Wallace.”

“Had Wallace kept to his work, he would have had nothing to fear from me; he was slipshod and took too much for granted,” said Holmes, dismissing my concern without more than a slight frown. “Let his fellow-officers learn from him.”

I knew there was nothing more to say that would soften his sense of the police. “Do you think you will have a quick response?”

“I had better.” Mycroft Holmes took out another sheet of paper and began to write on it.

I tried my tea again and was just able to swallow it. “What would you like me to do, sir?” I asked when I had drunk half a cup.

“For the moment, I would like you to review the sailings for yesterday and today, from the London docks.” He nodded to a stack of papers that were under the seal of the Admiralty. “I want to know what ships have departed, or are scheduled to depart.”

“Departures?” I repeated, surprised at the request.

“Yes. I will need to have that information to hand shortly, think,” he said as he continued writing. “This is to Inspector Featherstone, and I hope it will bring us information at once.” He put the note in the envelope, sealed and addressed it. “This is to Chief Inspector Pryce; I am informing him of Sir Cameron’s imminent journey to Scotland. This, too, should elicit a swift response.” When he finished writing this note, he made its envelope ready for delivery, then began another note for Chief Inspector Alexander of Customs. “As soon as these are in the hands for which they are intended, I shall expect a flurry of developments. I will weigh what I am told against the information Inspector Strange provides me.” He began another note, writing swiftly, and he addressed another envelope, then he sat back and looked at what he had done; there was a hard amusement in his grey eyes. “You will see how quickly these men will spring into action.”

“And if they do not?” I inquired.

“That, in itself, will tell a tale,” said Holmes. He completed his notes, rose, and took them to Tyers in the kitchen.

I sat drinking the last of my tea, trying to put behind me the sensation that there had been a change that made us more closely involved in these complicated cases. I put my teacup down and did my best to anticipate all that I might be called upon to do. There were so many avenues I might explore that I was nearly overwhelmed by them all. I was reviewing what we had been told of Jacobbus Braaten’s arrival in England over the last several days, when there came a sharp knock on the door. I rose automatically, prepared to answer the summons if Tyers should still be with Mycroft Holmes; it wasn’t necessary, for Tyers hastened down the corridor and Holmes strolled back into the study.

“I admit I am curious,” he said, acknowledging the knocking from the front door.

“Do you have any notion who it might be?” I asked.

“I have guesses, not notions,” said Mycroft Holmes, sitting down and pouring more tea into his cup. “Here, Guthrie. Have another cup.”

I did as he required, listening all the while to the urgent sound of the caller. I could not make out the words, but the tone of voice was unmistakably concerned.

A minute or two later Tyers came to the study door and said, “Inspector Lionel Featherstone to see you, sir.”

“And he hasn’t yet received my note—impressive, to be so beforehand,” said Holmes. “His errand must be pressing, indeed. Send him in, Tyers.”

“Shall I remain?” I asked.

“Of course, dear boy. I rely upon you to pay close attention to all we hear.” He stood up again as if performing a necessary duty, and prepared to greet Inspector Featherstone.

I, too, rose, and a moment later, Inspector Featherstone bustled into the study, his face flushed, his hair damp, and his expression dismayed.

“Inspector Featherstone. What am I to do for you?” Holmes asked, indicating one of the straight-backed chairs that stood about the study.

“The boy’s body is missing, and the Turk is gone,” the Inspector announced without any introductory remarks or even a greeting.

“Good gracious,” said Mycroft Holmes, not nearly so astonished as I was. “And when was this discovered?”

I realized now why Holmes wanted to know about the sailings from London docks yesterday and today; I wondered when he had realized something of this sort might happen.

“The body must have been taken last night, very late, as far as I have been able to determine,” said Inspector Featherstone. “I can’t put an exact hour on it, but the morgue attendant who came on duty at six in the morning said he discovered it was gone. I made a thorough search of the morgue myself, to be sure the body had not been misplaced, but that was not the case; the corpse has vanished. The night morgue attendant must not have noticed anything unusual, for he said nothing to the orderly who brought a new body down shortly after midnight, but I believe the late-night attendant slept half his shift, if what I have been told about him is true.” Having laid out so much, he sat down. “I have questioned the other attendants, but no one at Saint Elizabeth’s saw anything to rouse their suspicions, or so they claim. I have surmised that the theft was planned carefully. So the body was most likely removed between three and six, when activity is at its lowest.”

Mycroft Holmes touched the tips of his fingers together. “Did you happen to ask if a patient left in a wheeled-chair, or a body in a coffin?”

“No, not as such, and yes, I did make such inquiries as soon as the loss was reported to me,” said Inspector Featherstone. “But there is no record of such, or of a hearse coming to the carriage-entrance during the night, and only two cabs were summoned between midnight and five. I have the attendant’s statement on the incidents and the times. I have also made inquiries among our informants who know about the working of body-snatchers. Nothing from any of them so far.” He pulled his notebook from his waistcoat pocket. “One cab departed at two forty-eight, the other at three twenty-one. The first carried a woman whose father had succumbed an hour earlier, the second was summoned by a surgeon. The desk attendant says that no one entered Saint Elizabeth’s from one-thirty-two to five-oh-six.”

“So it might be possible that the body was removed earlier, and some misleading bundles were put under the sheet and were not removed until last night,” said Mycroft Holmes. “You may want to ask which of the various attendants actually checked on the bodies. If no close review was made, the body of the young man might have been missing for more than twelve hours before its loss was reported.” He regarded Inspector Featherstone with interest. “Don’t tell me such a possibility has not occurred to you.”

“Well, yes, I have thought it might have happened that way,” said Featherstone.

“Indeed,” said Holmes. “I should think, given the nature of the murder, that it is highly likely that the body was gone long before it was missed. What intrigues me is the attempt to delay the recognition of its disappearance.” He sat forward. “When did you receive word of this?”

“Shortly after six, sir,” said Inspector Featherstone. “I came on duty and the report was the first one handed me.”

“I see. And did you go to Saint Elizabeth’s?” He was clearly trying to establish times for these events.

“Almost at once. I arrived there shortly before seven. I was pleased that the staff that had been on duty—with one exception—had remained after their shift ended.” The Inspector shook his head. “I still have not spoken to the late-night morgue attendant.”

“Do you know where to find him?” asked Mycroft Holmes sharply.

“He is said to lodge at the
Spotted Dog,
two blocks from Saint Elizabeth’s,” said Inspector Featherstone. “I called there on my way here, but the landlord claimed his room was empty. I will stop back there later today to see if I can find him.”

“Do so, by all means,” said Mycroft Holmes, “but I doubt you will find him. I predict he will have disappeared, as well. Did you happen to learn how long he had his post at the morgue?”

“Yes. He was recently hired, on”—he consulted his notebook”—November fifth. They tell me that men do not stay long in that position. Their two day-time attendants have worked in that capacity for more than a year, the man taking the afternoon shift having been there for nearly four years.” He closed his notebook again. “Not the kind of work most would like to do, I’d think.”

“Very likely,” said Holmes. “But your night-man will be gone, I tell you.”

“Perhaps,” Inspector Featherstone allowed. “I will still go to the
Spotted Dog
this afternoon, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ve nothing against your doing that,” said Holmes.

“Why do you suppose the man is gone?” the Inspector could not resist asking.

“He had served his purpose. Now it is in the best interests of his true employers to have him out of the city.” Holmes sat back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. “When a check is made on him, he will be found to be a non-entity, a man without a history. He is probably the man who took away whatever had been used to give the appearance of the body being under the sheet, although he is not the only one who had such an opportunity. I am convinced that the body was removed yesterday afternoon, so that Halil Kerem could take it with him on his departing ship.”

“You mean his brother stole the body to take it home?” Inspector Featherstone asked.

“Halil Kerem was no more that poor lad’s brother than I am,” scoffed Holmes. “Kerem was sent to claim the evidence and get rid of it. His story was almost plausible enough to permit him to do this without question. We do not usually suppose that a man would come on a long voyage for no purpose but to dispose of a body.”

“He did not expect to find a body,” said Inspector Featherstone. “He wanted to find his brother.”

“So he said,” Mycroft Holmes agreed. “And he set out from Turkey some time before the lad was killed.”

“Yes,” said Featherstone, his eyes brightening. “Just so.”

“But he arrived prepared to take a body with him, according to Inspector Alexander’s Customs report; he filed an application to ship a body to Istanbul,” Holmes said, unctuous as a cat.

I was engrossed in this account; I knew Mycroft Holmes had such an assumption, but I did not realize he had taken the time to pursue it, or to support his thesis.

“Why do you say that?” Inspector Featherstone wanted to know. He took out his notebook again, and a blunt pencil, and began to make terse memoranda to himself as Mycroft Holmes explained.

“The first mistake he made came when he arranged to transport a coffin one day after his arrival. The second mistake—more egregious than the first—was his claim that the tattoo on the young man was an old one, when it was patently newly done. He soon understood his error and he knew he had to get the body out of the morgue and out of England before the inquiry went any further. He urged me to help him gain its release, as a means of accounting for his intense interest. He wanted to appear at the mercy of English whim, so that we should discount him as a suspect.” Holmes spread his hands as if this were obvious.

“Then the story of the ... the prostitution ring of young foreign men was a fabrication?” said Inspector Featherstone.

“On, no; that is quite real. And I would suppose Halil Kerem is one of its suppliers. I assume it was he who provided the Turkish lad to the panderers here in England. But I gather the boy learned more than he should, either about the ring itself, or its ... clientele, and had to be disposed of.” Holmes took a deep breath. “A lad of that sort is all but invisible at the best of times. In a case such as this one, he vanishes, figuratively and literally.”

Inspector Featherstone sat staring at Mycroft Holmes. “You can’t be serious.”

“As serious as I ever was in my life,” Mycroft Holmes responded. “That new tattoo is the mark of a nefarious organization that has done much to corrupt the leadership of all Europe. Its appearance in England is a warning to us all.”

“So you believe the lad is in a coffin on his way back to Turkey?” Inspector Featherstone pursued. “Might we wire Turkish Customs to deal with him when he lands?”

“There is someone in the coffin, no doubt. But I expect the boy will be got rid of at sea, so that no more questions can be asked of him.” Mycroft Holmes looked over at Inspector Featherstone. “I wouldn’t be amazed to learn the morgue attendant lies in a Turkish grave, one day.”

The Inspector blanched. “No. Surely you cannot think they would do anything so ... so ...”

“I know this organization of old, Inspector, and there is no atrocity of which they are not capable.” Holmes’ expression was granite-like.

“Then how is this case to be solved?” Inspector Featherstone asked.

“I shouldn’t think it could be,” Holmes told him, and reached out to pour him a cup of tea.

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

I have returned from carrying the messages for MH, and brought back a note from CI Pryce, which I have handed to MH. Inspector Featherstone left some twenty minutes since, still very much distressed by what he has learned here.

I will prepare supper to have it ready upon Sutton’s return, which should be within the half hour ...

“DO YOU
really think Mister Kerem is the villain you described to Inspector Featherstone?” I asked as I finished making a list of Turkey-bound ships; the Inspector had been gone for more than an hour and I had been occupied with the task Mycroft Holmes had set for me earlier in the day.

“Most certainly I do: don’t you?” Mycroft Holmes said as he stood up and stretched. “You have been in that part of the world recently. Do you suppose the degeneration of the government is due entirely to the Turks? I know the touch of the Brotherhood when I see it. You said yourself that there were foreign influences in the Ottoman world that contributed to the venality you so deplored.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” I said. “But it troubles me that the Brotherhood has made such inroads, if that is what has happened,” I added the last conscientiously.

“It is,” Holmes declared. “Jacobbus Braaten was not in Istanbul for his health.” He shook his head. “You cannot ignore the villainy he represents. I must suppose he has used coercion, blackmail, extortion, and every other kind of despicable act in order to advance the goals of the Brotherhood. He has certainly used intimidation and bribery, as you have seen for yourself. I doubt he would stop at any act, no matter how heinous.”

“Including running the prostitution ring you depicted? Or did you choose that as an example, not a direct—?” I got no further.

“Of course I meant it specifically. I have had information to hand for almost a month that depicted the activities of that reprehensible trade; I had not found the means to bring it to the attention of the authorities without exposing the men who have done their utmost to inform me on this scheme, or I should have urged action against them before now, a course I am persuaded would serve only to alert the Brotherhood to our awareness, and thereby give them an opportunity to dismantle their criminal ring here and relocate it elsewhere, where we may not as easily surveil them.” He stared at the fireplace. “I have no desire to put any of my agents at risk, not if there are means to protect them: the Brotherhood uses traitors ferociously, as an example.”

I recalled what he had told me about his time in the Brotherhood as an agent of the government, and that he still had not told me how he managed to escape their vengeance. “This is from experience, is it not?”

“Yes, Guthrie, it is,” said Holmes drily. “I am not willing to put anyone at hazard, not with the Brotherhood, which I would do if I divulge the names of those who have helped me.” He took the sheets I handed him. “I will need to review the passenger lists for these ships, but I will wager that Mister Kerem is not on any of them.”

“But he told us he had reserved space on a ship leaving yesterday,” I reminded him.

“And you believed him?” Holmes asked incredulously. “Guthrie, I thought you had a better measure of that man. He had every reason to lie, and no reason to be truthful.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “No. I am afraid we have lost Halil Kerem—if that is his name.”

I shook my head. “I shall go round to the shipping companies myself, if you like, and make inquiry.”

“No. I have more need of you here. I will send one of the young officers from the Admiralty; the shipping companies will pay more attention to such a messenger than they would to you, in any case,” he said bluntly. He was about to go on when there was a loud rap on the rear door and Tyers went to answer the energetic summons. “Sutton returns,” Holmes said to me.

“In good time,” I said, looking up at the clock next to the French secretary: it read ten minutes before two.

As if to confirm his arrival, I heard Sutton announce to the air, “Beatrice Motherwell is a termagant.”

Holmes rose and went to the study door. “And why is that, dear boy?” he called.

“She wants to change the Sleepwalking Scene to allow her to add lines of her own
—lines of her own!”
The enormity of this outrage made Sutton speak as if he were addressing the uppermost seats in the gallery.

“Dear me,” said Holmes, trying to keep a serious demeanor.

“Oh, you may laugh, sir,” said Sutton as he came striding into the study. “But this is not some paltry fustian by Colly Cibber or Van Brough. This is Shakespeare, and one of his best-known plays. No matter what she may think, Beatrice Motherwell cannot improve upon the lines, or make the audience think her invention is equal to Shakespeare’s.” He dropped down into his favorite chair. “You should have heard her when our director refused. A fishwife would have been shocked.”

“Well, the run is almost over,” Mycroft Holmes said by way of sympathizing.

“Yes, and I don’t want it said that our last performances were marred by a Lady MacBeth who ad-libbed the best-known scene of her character.” He flung up his hands. “We have done so well, and now this! What worse may befall us, I ask you? No wonder they say the play’s cursed.”

“You must not be over-set by this, Edmund,” Mycroft Holmes advised in that tranquil manner of his that is often enough to make one want to pull hair. “You have secured the recognition you deserve, and not even the rambunction of your leading lady can cast any shadow upon you.”

“I would like to think so,” said Sutton. “But a play is not the talent and effort of one, it is the sum of all.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “I would like a brandy, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly,” said Holmes, going to fetch a snifter and to fill it from the decanter in the sitting room. When he returned, he handed the generous libation to Sutton, saying as he did, “Here you are. It will ease you.”

“Thank you,” said Sutton, straightening up and taking the snifter in his hand, swirling the brandy to warm it. “You’re very good. I know I should not let this discompose me, but all has been going so well, and I was in a fair way to thinking the worst was past.” He took a pull on the brandy.

“You are not the only one to fall into such error,” said Mycroft Holmes. “We have had a similar comeuppance to deal with in our investigations.” He did his best to look self-deprecating but only managed to look as if he had been sucking lemons.

“Oh? Have there been developments?” Sutton was genuinely curious, and he regarded us with undisguised interest.

“A morning’s worth,” said Holmes, and recounted what had happened since we called at Sir Cameron’s leased house in Deanery Mews; halfway through his account, Sutton began to chuckle, and by the time Holmes had reached the account of the corpse’s disappearance, Sutton was into whoops. Holmes finished his report stiffly. “And why any of this should amuse you, I cannot think.”

“Oh, don’t take umbrage, pray,” said Sutton, bringing his mirth under control. “It is so like the popular dramas, full of incidents in an ever-increasing avalanche of events.” He looked at Holmes and saw that our employer did not share his amusement. “I know it is a serious matter to you, and I do not mean to belittle what you have done, but as an actor, I can only say that your life, since last Friday, would play as a great adventure.”

Somewhat mollified, Holmes was able to smile ruefully. “No doubt you are right. If it took place in South America, it would be worthy of Professor Challenger.”

“My point exactly,” said Sutton, in an uncanny imitation of Holmes’ voice and manner. He was about to enlarge on his observation when Tyers announced that dinner was served in the sitting room, and we obligingly made our way to that chamber for the veal stuffed with sage and cheese, and roast onions, followed by a salad of winter vegetables cooked in cream. There was fresh bread and new butter, and a fine Côtes du Rhone to wash it down.

“An excellent repast,” Holmes declared as he passed round the port and Stilton at the end of the meal.

“That it is,” said Sutton; equanimity had been restored between them and both were about to light up cigars.

I did not join them in smoking; it is one taste I have not acquired, although from time to time I am not adverse to lighting a pipe. I was content to sip at my port and enjoy the drawing in of the afternoon.

“I’ll do the club, of course,” Sutton said after a companionable silence. “You said you had to speak to Baron von Schattenberg again, am I right?”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “I am sorry I shall miss your performance tomorrow night. Ordinarily I would be at theatre but—” He shrugged. “I am afraid tomorrow night I will be otherwise occupied.”

“It isn’t as if you haven’t seen the production. So long as you can spare Hastings to bring me back here, all will be well. And I will use this evening, upon my return from the club, to review my blocking one last time.” Sutton smiled at Holmes’ evident consternation.

“You memorized that weeks ago,” Holmes reminded him. “And you have played it for the whole of your run.”

“So I have. All the more reason to go over it again, so I do not become stale.” He made a theatrical gesture. “Oh, come. You did not mind having me pace out every scene as I was learning the part; why should one more go at it trouble you?”

“You’re right, of course. It isn’t you I am disgruntled with—that’s terrible grammar but a true emotion, nonetheless. I am aware that I am not as much caught up with the Brotherhood’s machinations as I hoped I would be; I had hoped that by now we would have turned the tide. I am aggravated that Mister Kerem has managed to escape when I thought the delays of Customs would be sufficient to keep him in London for a few more days. I am annoyed that Vickers and Braaten have probably found a way to reach England and may, in fact, be here now. I should have anticipated such a ruse, but I failed to perceive it.” He spun the stem of his port-glass in his fingers, watching the dark liquid swirl. “I had thought that by tonight at least one of the criminals would be in gaol, and that we would be in a fair way to getting Vickers or Braaten behind bars. But I have botched that as well.”

“You do know the nature of the trouble you face,” said Sutton. “Many times you have said that is more than half the battle.”

“I know, and ordinarily I would feel a certain satisfaction, but ...” He let his words trail off.

“You have expectations of yourself that the rest of us do not share,” said Sutton. “And if you want to spend the next hour or so finding fault with yourself, I will excuse myself and have a short lie-down. I don’t like to see my friends abused, particularly by themselves.” He got to his feet, saying in a more relaxed voice, “Fortunately my MacBeth make-up is not too different from my make-up to look like you, or I would have a rush to go from the club to the theatre. As it is, all I need do is emphasize what is already begun.” His expression lost its jocularity. “You ought not berate yourself. It is a waste of time and it does nothing more than blunt your sensibilities, as you have reminded me when I have been unflatteringly reviewed.”

Holmes sighed and leaned back. “You’re right; I know you’re right. If I could see my way through the whole of this muddle, I would not be so disheartened. I thought this morning we were in a fair way to taking the lead in this damnable game. But this has been such an exhausting several days, I begin to think I am at my limit.”

Sutton chuckled. “Never. You are despondent, and who can blame you for that? But you have not yet put your strength to the test.” He put down his empty port-glass. “You are discouraged, but that will pass. Won’t it, Guthrie?”

I was shocked to hear my name called, and it took me a moment to recover myself enough to make a good response. “We shall all come about, sir, you’ll see. This is only a lull before our next attack.”

“No doubt you’re right, Guthrie,” said Mycroft Holmes, putting his port aside and stubbing out his cigar. “I will be the better for activity. I must change for my return to Herr Amsel’s house, and my next discussion with Baron von Schattenberg. I don’t suppose this time it will go too well, not with Herr Kriede’s killer still unapprehended, and Lady MacMillian’s arrival postponed yet again. Although I am glad that we have managed to delay her arrival; that is something in our favor.” He rose, and glanced at Sutton. “Go have your lie-down in the withdrawing room. And thank you for doing my stint at the Diogenes Club.”

“My pleasure,” said Sutton. “It is preferable to waiting in my rooms to discover if I have been cast in
Volpone
or not.” He bowed as if to hearty applause, and left the sitting room.

“He’s right, I know,” said Mycroft Holmes. “I should not be down-cast.”

“No,” I said. “You should not.”

Holmes looked down at me; he deliberately did not comment on my remark. “You’ll do well enough dressed as you are.”

“But you intend to change,” I said, knowing he would want to set the right tone for the meeting, which was likely to be difficult.

“Yes. Nothing too grand, for the Baron and his aides will be in mourning, I should think.” He strolled to the door. “Half an hour, Guthrie. Have a cup of tea, if you like.”

“I think I will,” I said, for though I enjoyed the port, on a cold wet evening, tea would do me more good. There was enough left in the pot that I didn’t bother Tyers to make another. The tea was very strong and had a bitter taste, but that, too, was not unwelcome. I drank slowly, trying to prepare myself for this next venture.