The Scottish Ploy (26 page)

“Which he did not provide you until now?” I was perplexed by this reticence on Inspector Strange’s part.

“He considers his information dangerous—and he is right to do so—and would rather offer briefs than the material itself. In a case such as this, however, he was willing to allow me access to the files themselves. I had to give my word to examine only those records that bore on our current cases, and to look at no others.” He looked around. “Is Tyers going to provide us with dinner soon?”

“I should think so,” I said. “Tell us what you discovered, sir. We have been on tenterhooks.”

“Oh, I think you can rest assured that we have the key at last.” He rose and went to the day charts. “It is all right here, if only you know how to look.”

“I am willing to believe that,” I said, mustering my patience. “You say it is obvious, but we have not seen it. The only person we have—” I stopped. “Sir Marmion Hazeltine,” I said.

“Bravo, Guthrie,” said Mycroft Holmes.

Miss Gatspy, for once, looked surprised. “What?” She put down her tea-cup and went to stand beside Holmes; she scrutinized the time and events associated with his name. “It is far from obvious.”

“If you don’t know what you are seeing,” said Mycroft Holmes. “As it was intended we should not.”

I looked at the charts, trying to make out what Holmes meant.

“I have made some interesting discoveries in regard to Sir Marmion,” said Holmes in a steely voice. “I am ashamed that it took me so long to realize that he had a role to play in all this.” He made this confession with difficulty. “Had I not so many other—” He broke off. “That is no excuse.”

“Excuse or not,” I said, “it was the same for all of us.” I went to my summaries and began to skim the pages, looking for mentions of Sir Marmion’s name.

“That may be,” said Holmes, “but our blindness has cost us dearly.” He went back to his chair. “I dislike being played for a fool.”

Miss Gatspy shook her head. “No one does; but you should let them believe you haven’t figured this out yet, so they will not be on guard against you. Remember that they do not know you are hunting them. They assume they have stopped you. This is very much to your advantage. Even if they should suspect otherwise, it would be more strategic to let them assume you are unaware of how they have deceived you, so that they may become sloppy, and make it easier for you to find Sutton, and perhaps to bring Braaten and Vickers to justice.”

“You have a most persuasive argument, Miss Gatspy,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Galling thought it is, I concur. They must still suppose they have captured me, and not Sutton, which is, as you say, also to our advantage. I see the value in not giving up our slightly improved understanding.” He coughed diplomatically. “I have a theory regarding Sutton.”

“Oh?” said Miss Gatspy; I listened intently.

“I believe that he was taken in that hospital-van to Hawtrees, Sir Marmion’s asylum. What better place to hide a captive than to lock him away, beyond help? And how like the Brotherhood. No doubt they have locked him up, and no doubt they have isolated him.” Mycroft Holmes gestured impatiently. “I found out at Saint Elizabeth’s that such vans are used to transport patients who have become violently overset from hospital to asylum. No policeman would be likely to stop such a van, nor would they want to examine what it carried, be it corpses, the crippled, or the mad.” He held up his hand. “You may say I have insufficient evidence to make this assumption, but I can think of nothing else, and I must take action on what I have rather than delay in the hope that I will learn more. I would do this under other circumstances, but with Sutton’s life in the balance, I cannot wait any longer.”

“And why are you so sure you will find him at Hawtrees?” I asked, not wanting to question him too closely, but wanting to be assured on this crucial point. “If we go charging in there, and it turns out he is not there, we will never have such an opportunity again.”

“Then we must be right,” said Holmes. “And consider. If Sutton claims he is anyone, whether he identifies himself, or says he is Mycroft Holmes, who will believe him, in an asylum. No doubt there are other residents who say they are Napoleon or Caesar or Moses, and they are not believed. The more I consider the possibilities, the more likely it seems to me that that is where he has been taken. Sir Marmion practices galvanic therapy there. He has used it most successfully on the most extreme cases. If he administers such shocks to a healthy brain, who knows what damage it would do?”

I could hear the anxiety in his voice, and I shared it. “You don’t think he would do such a thing, do you?”

“I am certain he would,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Out of scientific curiosity, if not out of his desire to show his worth to the Brotherhood.”

“Then you are satisfied he is a member?” Miss Gatspy asked. “Have you proof, or it is supposition?”

“I have some minor proof, and every reason to suppose; I know I can lay the death of the courier at his door, beyond cavil,” said Holmes. “I want to have the opportunity to reveal his perfidy to the medical community, but only after I have Sutton back and safe.” He looked at the clock. “It is approaching two. Where is dinner?”

I started toward the door, hoping Tyers would be there, ready to set out the meal. The corridor was empty. I went down to the kitchen, and discovered Tyers just coming in from the back. “Mister Holmes is eager for his dinner,” I told Tyers, who laughed aloud, not unkindly, and made a gesture of compliance.

“In fifteen minutes, in the sitting room,” he told me, and put down the loaves of fresh bread he had just fetched from the bakeshop.

“Very good,” I said, and went back to the library with this news.

“Excellent,” said Holmes. “As I was saying to Miss Gatspy, I have stumbled upon information that links Sir Marmion to the courier’s death. It was really quite brazen.” He paused to be sure he had my full attention. “He told us he intended to stop by the hospital to see the courier. Later that day the young man died. What I discovered was that Sir Marmion remained with the courier for almost half an hour, at the end of which time, he reported the courier was having trouble breathing. Sir Marmion departed, and the physicians strove to restore the young man’s lungs, but could not. The autopsy notes indicate that the courier’s fingers were bluish in tinge, and his skin had a grey cast, all consistent with failing lungs. It is also consistent with certain poisons.”

“Which you now suspect Sir Marmion may have administered to him,” I said, comprehending the nature of his remarks.

“Which I
know
someone gave to him, for I recommended tests be made for poisons; the test came back with indications for cyanide. There is no doubt he was poisoned, and the only person who had such an opportunity, other than the nurses, is Sir Marmion.” Mycroft Holmes all but pounced on the name.

“Isn’t there a distinctive odor to cyanide?” asked Miss Gatspy.

“There is, and there is also a distinctive odor to hospitals, rather more overpowering. The courier was being treated for infection, and that also had an overpowering smell. I do not fault anyone for failing to diagnose the problem.” He lowered his head, as if preparing to butt his way through the wall. “I do think it unfortunate that no one thought to question Sir Marmion before now; I include myself in the ranks of those who failed in that capacity.”

I coughed gently. “Will you be able to gather sufficient evidence to charge him with that crime?”

“Not yet,” Mycroft Holmes allowed. “But by the time we have Sutton back, there should be no difficulty in bringing him before the bench.”

“If we can find him tonight and get him out of the asylum without harm,” I said.

“Precisely what you must do,” agreed Holmes before heading toward the door and his dinner.

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

It is all arranged; MH will travel with Hastings, and G will travel with Miss Gatspy to the asylum, and once they arrive, they will study the place. They have agreed upon a ruse to gain entrance, which is for G and Miss Gatspy to do, for MH will have to return to the theatre to perform in Sutton 5 stead. I will remain here, although I would truly relish seeing MH perform.

The rain is heavier again, and the traffic is slowed because of it. The Times today reported a sinking in the Channel of a Portuguese merchantman. Nine of the crew were saved, but all the cargo was lost ...

THE CLOCKS
were striking three when we descended to our various vehicles, all of us carrying such equipment as we thought we might need to effect the rescue we had undertaken. Mycroft Holmes, who went down the front stairs, had donned an impressive set of side-whiskers and a uniform of a General in the Austrian army; he walked with a limp for which he carried a cane with a sword concealed within it. He complained loudly about the English who coddle themselves, and swore to return.

Miss Gatspy and I went down the rear to her sylphide. She took a little time to explain to her Golden Lodge colleagues what we were about, although with no particulars as to Sutton’s function in Holmes’ life. They all agreed that the two on horseback would follow us, so that one could go with Holmes and one remain with us at Hawtrees if it proved necessary; then she buckled the Albermarle on her horse. That done, we got into the small carriage, she backed her horse expertly, and swung out toward the road. I stowed my valise under the seat and did my best to sit in some manner that would not bring us into constant contact, for I knew it would be presumptuous of me to do anything that might interfere with her driving. I was acutely aware of her nearness, for all I did my best to ignore it.

We headed west, going along Piccadilly to Park Lane, then to the left again into the Bayswater Road. For almost half an hour we kept silent, Miss Gatspy concentrating on the traffic, I trying to anticipate any problems that lay ahead of us. Then, as Bayswater Road became Notting Hill Gate, she spoke up.

“Do you think we’ll be able to get him out as readily as Mister Holmes says we will?” There was little nervousness in her voice, only an eagerness to be getting on with it. “I have been thinking about the plan, and I am not as certain as Mister Holmes is of its success. Too many things could go wrong. If we bungle this, we lose more than our element of surprise.”

“Do you have anything else in mind?” I asked, at once curious and determined to stand by Mycroft Holmes’ scheme.

“Not yet, but I cannot rid myself of the fear that we have made the whole too complicated, and that we are depending too much on all elements being perfectly executed.” She gave a slight tug on the rein to check the mare’s pulling. “Do you believe we can actually carry out the whole?”

“I hope we may do,” I said, and could not keep from adding, “I still don’t like the idea of having you inside such a place as that.”

“I am not delighted myself. But I do not believe it is our only chance to succeed; if we fail now, they will know they have the wrong man, and I fear Sutton will pay the price,” she said as she passed a lumbering coach with two positions and two footmen, all bedraggled in the rain; Miss Gatspy had the advantage with the smaller, lighter carriage, which was far more maneuverable than the cumbersome covered landau.

“Sadly, I have no better recommendation to make,” I admitted. “It is most unfortunate. I have tried to think of an alternative, but none comes to mind.”

“You are the one who will be most at risk, not I. You must make them believe you are mad, and trust that they will treat you as Sir Marmion claims those in his charge are treated. All I have to do is present the picture of a sorrowing, devoted wife. If I droop and weep, no one will pay any attention to me. They expect wives to languish when their husbands are confined.” She achieved a seraphic smile. “You cannot imagine how relieved I was that Mister Holmes had a suitable ring for me to wear. It lends just the right touch: two small diamonds and a minuscule ruby.”

“All that is Sutton’s doing,” I said, feeling more edgy at the mention of our missing friend. “He has two boxes of various rings, bracelets, necklaces, and the like.”

“Well, bravo Sutton,” she said, and drew in as the traffic became more congested as we neared Shepherd’s Bush. “It’s the Uxbridge Road we want, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” I had taken the time to study the map before we set out. “There is a great deal of cross-traffic here.”

“Hardly surprising,” said Miss Gatspy as she muttered at a house removal van not far ahead of us; one of the leaders was tangled in the traces and the driver had stopped to tend to the horse and harness. Any number of drivers were shouting imprecations or offering advice to the poor man, who, by the look of him, was soaked through and ready to fight anyone foolish enough to speak to him unhelpfully.

“He can’t very well pull to the side under the circumstances,” I said, hoping to ease her distress.

“You aren’t to take his part, Guthrie,” she said sternly. “You mustn’t.”

“That wasn’t my intention, Miss Gatspy,” I said in hasty apology. “I only meant that he is as helpless as we are in this situation. There. You see? He has put matters to rights. He will soon be underway again. And so will we.”

As we commenced moving, she said, looking straight ahead at the road, “Guthrie, I know you want to keep my spirits up, and to cheer me on, but I must tell you, I don’t need that. You are kindness itself to attempt this for me, but I do not stand in need of your assaults on my morale. You should know me well enough by now to realize that I am always within myself before undertaking any new venture. It is not a sign of weakness, it is only the nature of my character.”

“I have no wish to cause you distraint,” I said, a bit curtly because I was somewhat affronted by her remark.

“Distraint? You have not,” she said. “But you will if you continue your efforts to cheer me.” She guided her sylphide toward the confluence of Holland Park Avenue—which Notting Hill Gate had become—with Holland Road, Shepherd’s Bush Green, Uxbridge Road, and West Latimer Road. The round-about there was in constant confusion, today much like any other.

I did my best to keep silent while she negotiated the difficult course, steering around any number of carriages, and even an occasional motor-car; I saw a number of horses balk at the noisy machines, and I could not blame them for their reaction. One man in a Benz single-seater was trying to drive around an old-fashioned tilbury pulled by a fractious Welsh pony and driven by an elderly gentleman both of whom audibly disapproved of the invention, the pony neighing and the man berating the motoring enthusiast with his opinion of such nonsense. Miss Gatspy’s horse had better manners, but not a much better response to the motor-car than the pony, and minced around the two vehicles, making for the Uxbridge Road at a slow trot, but wanting to gallop.

“Have you ever ridden in a motor-car?” Miss Gatspy asked as soon as we were clear of the round-about.

“No! I am grateful I have never had to.” I looked back and saw the carriage and the motor-car were still in the same position.

“I have,” said Miss Gatspy, actually smiling. “It was quite wonderful. I actually drove it for several miles.”

“I daresay,” I told her, having to say something; I could not picture her bowling along in one of those ridiculous contraptions, but I held my tongue on that account; I did not want to know where this had taken place, either.

She sensed my disapproval in my silence. “Oh, Guthrie,” she said in mock condolence, “not you, too?”

“I fear so,” I said, doing my utmost to look contrite. “I can see no earthly use for those inventions. I cannot think they are anything more than a passing fancy.”

“You may be right; any number of distinguished men think as you do,” she said, a bit wistfully, it seemed to me. “But if they were faster and, oh, more reliable, if they could carry heavier loads, then there might be use for them.”

“Those are a great many ‘ifs,’ Miss Gatspy,” I pointed out, and then shrugged deliberately. “We shall see.”

“We shall,” she agreed, and guided her vehicle through another knot of carriages and wagons.

We were getting nearer to Hawtrees, and I could not deny the excitement that had been building within me. I wanted to look around, to see if Hastings was far behind us—he had not been ahead of us—and, if I could see him, try to reckon how long it would be until we met for our shared mission. I heard an unmelodious church-bell sound four o’clock and remarked, “We have made very good time.”

“Seven miles an hour is about the best we can do,” agreed Miss Gatspy. “We should be at Hawtrees in about ten minutes.” She let her horse slow a bit. “It won’t do to exhaust her, will it?”

“No. We may need her very fresh indeed,” I said as I contemplated what we had planned to do.

“Then we may allow her a short time to recover. I hope she may have water and a little gruel while we are at our work.” She frowned a bit as we passed a neat pub—Georgian by the look of it—with a livery stable beside it. “Perhaps we should leave it here.”

“It is still half a mile at least to Hawtrees, and we do not know what condition Sutton may be in when we get him out. It is still raining, and that will slow us down. We will not want any delays, particularly for—”

She stopped me. “You’re right, Guthrie. Perhaps I will ask Bury to bring the sylphide and mare back here once we are underway in our efforts.”

I had not heard her mention her colleague by name, and it startled me that she should. “Will he do it?”

“I can’t think why he wouldn’t,” she said. “He can leave the horse and carriage for an hour, and bring them round to the place we specify ...” Her voice trailed off. “I think that is the turn we want,” she said, pointing to a long avenue beside a tall, well-trimmed boxwood hedge that appeared to run for some distance.

“Yes,” I said, noticing how dim the light had become. “I can’t make out the road-sign, but it is in the right place.”

“Then let us turn,” said Miss Gatspy, and put her words into action. We entered a pleasant avenue with handsome cottages set well back from the road to the right of us, and the hedge to the left. About a quarter mile along from the turn, a high brick fence replaced the hedge, a narrow lane running between them, isolating the brick wall.

“Hawtrees,” I said, recalling the description we had been given. “That wall is a good ten feet tall.”

“So it is,” said Miss Gatspy. “We must look for a break in it.” She kept her sylphide moving, and admonished me, “Keep a look-out, Guthrie. We will have to know how to get out.”

“I will,” I said. “But given the nature of the place, I doubt it has easy access at any point.” We were almost to the main gates: they were wrought-iron, elaborate and imposing. “We couldn’t get through those.”

“Not even unclothed and soaped,” Miss Gatspy seconded; I felt myself blush in response to her remark. “Oh, Guthrie. You needn’t color up that way.”

“I’m not,” I said, and felt it grow worse for my white lie.

We reached the end of the road, and turned left along the brick fence, still hoping for a breach we could later use to our advantage. I hoped we would find a means of escape that would not involve increasing our risk. As we rounded the next corner, I saw a tree, a massive old oak, its branches spreading over the fence.

Miss Gatspy saw it at the same time. “You’re right,” she said as I began to speak. “I think Bury could be persuaded to climb into the branches and hoist us out.”

“That seems a bit ... problematic. If he is discovered, then what would we do?” I asked her, not wanting to take so great a chance as she proposed.

“It may be the best we can hope for; I see no other way out but the gate, and Mister Holmes’ plan depends upon us getting beyond the wall,” she said as we continued on around the property, only to see Hastings drawn up at the beginning of the avenue. “I suppose we should go and consult with Mister Holmes.” She turned her sylphide to the right before I could say anything one way or the other.

“What do you think?” Mycroft Holmes was standing outside Hastings’ cab, waiting for us at the foot of the lane, waiting for us, he was smoking a cigar as if to account for his stopping in this place.

“There is a tree-limb that may serve as our means of escape,” said Miss Gatspy. “So long as we have help to get into the tree.”

Mycroft Holmes gave this his consideration. “If you take care that there is no hint of such a possibility as the help you describe, it may work. Your aid cannot be discovered before you make good your escape. Still.” For punctuation he dropped his cigar and ground it out with his heel. “We must make the most of what is immediately to hand.” He rocked back on his heels. “I wish I did not have to be at the theatre at seven. I will have to leave here at fifteen minutes of six in order to arrive on time or our efforts are for naught.”

“You do not have to wait with us,” I said, aware that he was not unknown to Sir Marmion. Nor, for that matter, was I.

“I will determine if Sir Marmion is at the asylum. If he is, we will have to find the means to lure him out.” Holmes folded his arms. “Well, let us get it done, Hastings. Let’s go up to the gate to make inquiry.”

“Right you are, sir,” said Hastings without a trace of hesitation. He waited while Holmes climbed aboard, and then started Lance down the long avenue, all but vanishing in the misty dusk.

“I hope the ploy works,” I said to Miss Gatspy as I fought my own forebodings.

“If Sir Marmion is away, it should,” she said. “He ought to have left for the day, and should not be back until tomorrow.”

“Or so we suppose, from what information we have,” I added.