The Scottish Ploy (27 page)

“It is better than having nothing to go on,” she said.

“Only if it is correct,” I told her. I did not want to argue the point with her, so I said, “Do you suppose Sir Marmion knows Mycroft Holmes has a brother? I cannot for the life of me remember if anything was said on that point.”

“He must do,” said Miss Gatspy. “He is interested in accomplished men; he said so. It stands to reason that he will know about Holmes’ brother.”

I remained silent; I was too much on edge to be sanguine about our current situation. We had improvised many times in the past, but this time there was much more to lose, and we were in greater London, which somehow made our position more precarious. It was not long before Hastings’ cab came back from the gates and pulled to a stop in front of us.

Holmes opened the front of the cab. “Hastings did very well. You shall have proof of my thanks,” he called up to the box. He had shed his whiskers and replaced his German military tunic with a sensible hacking jacket half-covered by a coachman’s cloak.

“Not necessary, sir,” said Hastings.

“He went and rang for the attendant, then told him he had Mycroft Holmes’ brother in the cab, and that he was anxious to talk to Sir Marmion. Didn’t you, Hastings?” Holmes prompted.

“Just as we practiced it,” said Hastings, almost smugly.

“The attendant said that Sir Marmion does not remain at Hawtrees at night, that he would return tomorrow morning at ten, and he begins his rounds at eleven and treatments are given after one: did I want to make an appointment?” Holmes reported. “I said it was important that I speak with him as soon as possible; I would appreciate having a quarter hour of Sir Marmion’s time in the morning, and that there was some urgency to the matter.”

“The fellow on the other side of the gate said it would be arranged.” Hastings took up the narrative. “He advise us to arrive at half-ten, in order to see Sir Marmion before he begins his rounds. I said we would be here.”

“So it appears that the night is clear, at least as far as Sir Marmion is concerned,” Holmes finished, then straightened up as a man on horseback approached; his hand went under his cloak to the pistol I knew he carried.

Miss Gatspy held out her hand. “No, Mister Holmes. That’s Bury.”

“One of your Golden Lodge men,” said Mycroft Holmes, easing back in his seat. “Yes. Welcome, sir. I am glad of your arrival.”

Bury inclined his head but did not speak; he was wrapped in a nautical cloak and deep-brimmed hat that kept out the rain and made him as anonymous as any man could hope to be. He brought his horse alongside Miss Gatspy’s sylphide. “What shall I do?” His voice had a faint Dorset twang to it, but nothing so obvious that he could be readily identified.

“You must watch this lane for anyone going to the asylum. If anyone attempts to enter after we have gone in, you must stop him by whatever means you must, short of murder.” Miss Gatspy glanced at Mycroft Holmes as she said this, as if making a concession to him. “Then, at ten-thirty, when the attendants go off-duty, you are to climb into the oak-tree around on the west side of the wall. Take a stout rope with you and wait until Guthrie and I, and another man, come to you. Then you must help us climb out, and accompany us back to Pall Mall.”

If any of this struck Bury as odd, he gave no indication of it. “I will. How long must I wait for you?”

“Until we come, or until sunrise,” said Miss Gatspy. “If we are not out by sunrise, you must return to Mister Holmes and inform him of what has happened.” She noticed Holmes’ grim little nod. “Once we are inside, I want you to take my carriage around to the livery stable near the pub—you passed the place shortly before you turned off the high-road.”

“I noticed it,” said Bury.

“See my mare is watered and given warm gruel and two hours of rest. Then bring her and the sylphide back to the base of the tree.” Miss Gatspy could see the hesitation in Mycroft Holmes’ reaction. “We must have the carriage ready to go,” she pointed out. “We do not know what condition your friend will be in when we get him out.”

“A sensible plan,” said Holmes reluctantly. “Go on.”

“We will come to Pall Mall if we are not pursued. If we are, we will go to a house the Golden Lodge maintain near the region of Sudbury and Harrow,” said Miss Gatspy, very pointedly being unspecific. “We will send word to you if we are forced to go there.”

Mycroft Holmes was not entirely satisfied with these arrangements, but he was aware that he could expect nothing better, given the short amount of time we had to accomplish our goal. “Very well,” he said in concession. “I will remain here until fifteen minutes before six, when I must leave.” He made an abrupt motion with his arm. “If only we could bring him out now,” he sighed.

“Do you want to try?” asked Miss Gatspy, mischief back in her face.

“If I thought we had a chance ...” Mycroft Holmes said, unwilling to add that it was impossible.

Then Miss Gatspy said four words that filled me with dread: “I have an idea.”

“What would it be?” I asked, although I doubted I wanted to know.

Holmes regarded her appreciatively, his grey eyes shining in a way I found ominous. “Tell me,” he said.

Miss Gatspy was ready to explicate. “You have already posed as Mister Holmes’ brother. We know Sir Marmion is absent from the place, and we know the longer we wait, the greater our chance of discovery.”

“Yes?” Holmes said, by way of encouragement.

“What if we were to go in now. Say that Guthrie is Mister Holmes’—Sutton’s—solicitor, and must remove him at once. If there is any resistance, we can cause a ruckus. I will say I am Holmes’ betrothed, and have an interest in his well-being.” She was positively grinning now—the way a fox grins at the sight of chickens.

“Dear me,” said Mycroft Holmes speculatively, a faint upward turn of his mouth hinting at his emotions. “Dear me.”

I could see both of them were intrigued by this mad course. “We would need pistols,” I pointed out, hoping this might lessen their burgeoning ebullience.

“I have brought mine, and Hastings is armed,” said Holmes, dismissing my concern. “Miss Gatspy? And Mister Bury?”

“I have my pistol,” said Miss Gatspy. “So has Bury. And I know you have a pistol in your valise, Guthrie,” she added.

“It is a reckless, impetuous thing to do,” Mycroft Holmes said merrily.

“And for that reason, it is not what they expect. The Brotherhood think they have you, and they might expect some effort on Guthrie’s part to rescue him, they are most likely not prepared for a blatant attack,” Miss Gatspy said. “Our immediate risks are greater, but our chance of success is also better than if we carry through our other plan. Bury will remain here, on guard, in case we are forced to make a hasty retreat and need someone to cover our backs.” She looked his way and saw his confirming half-salute. “We won’t have a chance for such a surprise again.”

“You are most persuasive,” said Holmes, nodding. “All right. How do you propose we manage this?”

“Up to the gate and summon the warden,” said Miss Gatspy. “Indignation is the order of the day. You must make it very clear that you are not going to leave without your brother. Threaten to send for the police, if you must.”

“I am for it,” said Mycroft Holmes. “But we must be out before half-six.” His despondency had fallen away completely, as had his obvious apprehension. “Let us get on with it,” he declared, and climbed back into the cab, remaining standing as Hastings put Lance into motion. “Up to the gate again, Hastings!
Once more unto the breach!”

Miss Gatspy actually chortled as she drew her sylphide behind the cab and we all drove up the avenue at a crisp trot; neither the rain nor the increasing darkness deterred our advance. “Get out your pistol, Guthrie. Make sure you have it with you.”

“That I will,” I said, for now that we were embarked on this escapade, I saw no reason not to use every weapon at our disposal. I pulled my valise from under the seat, opened it, and rummaged in it for my pistol; I was careful, for I knew it was loaded. I found it and slipped it into my pocket. “Where is your pistol, Miss Gatspy?” I asked as we neared the gate.

“In my muff, of course,” she said, as if it were the obvious place to keep it.

“Oh,” I said as I put my valise back under the seat just as we drew to a halt.

Mycroft Holmes was out of the cab and facing the gate, calling out loudly. “If I must summon the police, you will answer for it!”

I could just make out a man approaching with a lantern in his hand. He came to the gate. “It is against our policy to admit anyone after Sir Marmion has gone for the day,” he informed Mycroft Holmes as if that would settle it.

“Just a moment, fellow,” said Holmes imperiously. “You have my brother in there, and he is there without the authorization of any of his family, for reasons none of us have been told. Now, I am here with his fiancée and his solicitor to determine if his detention here is appropriate. I know my brother, sir, and I cannot believe that this is necessary, nor have I any report from his physician or any officer of the court that he is incompetent to attend to himself. So I insist you admit me, and these good people. If you do not, I shall be forced to ask the police to—”

The warden had taken a step back, preparing to retreat. “I—”

“You will not depart, sir. You will admit us, or you will answer me in court to account for your actions,” Mycroft Holmes announced. “Your employers will also have to answer, all for your want of conduct.”

This last appeared to have the desired impact on the warden, who came back to the gate. “This is most irregular,” he complained as he turned the key in the massive lock.

“Confining someone without just cause is most irregular,” said Holmes, pushing the gate open as soon as the key was withdrawn. “Come,” he said to us, and swung his arm to direct us through the gate. “Hastings, you’ll remain with our vehicles. The rest of you, as soon as we reach the asylum itself, keep with me. We must not go wandering around the grounds. We don’t want to cause any disturbance.”

The warden, walking beside the cab, laughed harshly. “Such a way you have of showing it.”

“Not at all,” said Holmes. “Had you brought my brother to me, none of this would have been necessary.” He led us directly up to the door of the fine brick house that had once been a royal hide-away but now housed the mad. It was a large building, built on the noble lines of the Regency period, very well-maintained and elegant. The front door was standing half-open, and the warden went to stand in it, as if hoping to keep us away without incident, a tactic that Holmes treated with the contempt it deserved.

As I helped Miss Gatspy down from the sylphide—a gesture she would ordinarily have refused—I said, “Be very alert.”

“Of course,” she said, slipping her hands into her muff as we started toward the open door.

I could not entirely subdue a shudder as we crossed the threshold into the wood-paneled entry-hall that faced a graceful double-staircase leading up to a gallery and the wings of the house. The air was filled with moans and cries and other scarcely human noises, so mixed as to sound like the storm-driven sea.

The warden put his foot on the first step, preparing to ascend to the first floor when there was a muffled pop and the man collapsed, clutching his chest from which blood was spurting, sending regular geysers spraying over the paneling, the stairs, and, as the warden turned, ourselves. Scampering footsteps from behind the staircase indicated the murderer was in flight.

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

Word has just arrived from CI Pryce that I Featherstone has been found shot in his office, an apparent suicide. I am told he left an account of his activities that led to this development, and very distressing they are. CI Pryce was very much shocked to learn the extent to which Featherstone had been caught up in illegal and subversive activities, and said he will provide a foil copy of this document to MH by tomorrow. It appears that, among other things, Featherstone arranged for the removal of the body from the morgue and turned it over to Mister Kerem, whom he helped to leave the country. There are other aspects of Featherstone’s work that have bearing on Braaten and Vickers, and how they got to London. “You may tell Mister Holmes that he shall see it as Featherstone wrote it,” he assured me, which is most encouraging. “I will not deliver a gutted carcase for him to ponder. He will have all that Featherstone said, as he said it, for I know Mister Holmes is a discreet man, and the government trust him implicitly.”

I have given my word that MH will be available to discuss the information by Friday, and suggested that CI Pryce stop around for sherry at six, which invitation he has accepted.

There is no word from MH or G yet, and it is not late enough to trouble me, but I cannot rid myself of certain uneasy thoughts. That plan they made is a precarious one, and if it should not succeed in every point, it is possible that the Brotherhood will have more than Sutton in their hands ...

“GET THE KEYS!”
Mycroft Holmes shouted down to me as he sprang up the stairs. “We must hurry!

“But shouldn’t we stop ... ?” I cried, even as I went to the mortally wounded man and wrenched the keys from his belt; he was hardly breathing and his face, even in the glow of the gas-lights, was pasty; his wretched state was accentuated by an incoherent chorus of shouts and other noises of distress coming from the rooms above us as the inmates of this place gave voice to their apprehensions.

“Not for him, and not for the shooter. Bury will tend to him. Come!” He ran to the gallery, and looked down the halls; shouts, curses, laments, and laughter all had erupted at the sound of the shot and rose in crescendo as we hurried to do what we had come to do.

I took the keys—and there were a great many of them—and went up the stairs two at a time to Mister Holmes. “Here,” I said.

From the foot of the stairs, Miss Gatspy called out, “I am going to remain here, as guard. It appears we need one. Carry on, gentlemen.”

I was torn between endorsing her good sense and wanting to spare her any more distressing incidents; I ended up saying, “Mind the doors inside as well as out.”

“I’m not a complete novice, Guthrie,” she reminded me, and waved me on about my task.

“Take the northern wing, Guthrie,” Holmes said. “And the cross-corridors. Look in each room. If you find Sutton, yell for me, as I shall for you. Keep your pistol ready.” He was already turning toward the southern wing of the building, holding his pistol in one hand, the keys in the other.

“That I will,” I said, and tightened my grip on the little weapon as I went into the corridor. I wondered where the attendants were, since I saw none of them about. The first chamber I looked into was occupied by an emaciated man, dressed only in an old shirt, who stood in the corner making hooting sounds; he paid no attention to the tray of food on the floor beside his bed. As I peered in at him, he bent down and defecated as if to express his disgust with his circumstances. I concluded this was not one of Sir Marmion’s successes and I quickly passed on to the next room where a young man was industriously struggling to arrange matchboxes on the floor in a pattern of his own devising; he occasionally raised his head and uttered a shriek as if of mortal terror, then went back to his arrangement of matchboxes.

I had got to the end of the corridor and had turned into its L when I came to a room in which there was a great deal of very modern equipment, including a galvanic-current monitor and a shallow zinc tub in which, I supposed from the many covered wires leading to and from it, was where treatment was given. At another time, I would have been curious to examine this most ingenious machine, but I could not linger. I could see a shower-room beyond the treatment room, and was about to pass it, when I decided it would be prudent to check on it.

There was cold water dripping from the enameled pipes overhead, and the light was dim, so that I did not at first see the crumpled body in the far corner, or if I did, I mistook it for a pile of sheets. But the figure moaned, and I rushed to it, taking care not to slide on the slippery tiles; I thrust my pistol back in my pocket so there would be no chance of an accidental discharge.

“Hang on, man,” I said, as I felt the clammy skin. “I’ll get you out of here.” I tried to listen to nothing but the sound of his voice, over the babble and clamor in the rooms beyond these.

The man’s face was swollen on one side, red as butcher’s meat where it was not darkening with bruising. One eye was swollen shut, and the other blinked unbelievingly. “Guth ... wie?” he asked through distended lips.

“Egad!” I exclaimed. “Sutton. Sutton! What the devil have they done to you?” I tried to lift him, but he was too heavy for me.

“Gafe me ... mow ... phia,” he said painfully.

“It doesn’t matter. We’re here now, Sutton. We’ll get you out of here in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” I was still trying to wedge my upper body under him to get him onto his feet, at least enough to get him out of the shower-room. “I’ll call to Holmes as soon as I get you out of those soaked clothes and wrapped in a towel.” I could feel that he was beginning to tremble from cold. I was struggling with Sutton, my boots sliding on the slick floor, so I was not paying attention to the door. When I heard the sound of footfall not far behind me, I hardly turned, assuming I was in the company of Mycroft Holmes and this capricious venture was almost at an end. “You’ve come in good time.”

“I wish I could say the same of you,” said Jacobbus Braaten, motioning me to rise with the barrel of his pistol. He had lost flesh since I had last seen him and the lines of dissipation in his face were etched more deeply, yet he still had that powerful, malign energy about him that so many found attractive enough to be drawn to him. He wore a dust-colored smock over his regular clothes, marking him as a part of the staff.

I released Sutton in my effort to right myself; I would apologize later, I thought, if I had the chance. “I should have known you would be here,” I said, knowing it was expected of me, and aware that as long as I could keep him talking, he would not shoot us. “A madhouse is an excellent place for you.”

“I would be insulted were it not for the fact that I have the pistol,” said Braaten, as coolly as a banker calculating interest. “Bravado doesn’t become you, Guthrie.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I said, hoping my nerve wouldn’t desert me. “No doubt you will exact a price for my failure.”

“That, and your damaging my leg.” He glared as if the explosion had just occurred. “Vickers and I had it so well-arranged. We have been taking the night shift here for Sir Marmion. The cooks and the warden leave at half-ten, giving us until seven in the morning to tend to our own projects. It was going so well. Then Holmes had to thrust his oar in.”

I realized that he was unaware that it was Sutton lying on the floor, which gave me what I hoped would be an advantage. “Sir Marmion came to Mister Holmes,” I reminded him. “Through no office of yours.”

“Ha! He came to do my bidding, to make Holmes want to come here, to whet his curiosity, to intrigue him, to sound him out,” said Braaten angrily. “To find out what he was doing in regard to Lady MacMillian. We knew Holmes was the cause for the delay in her visit, and it was intolerable. If he had just been forthcoming—” He put his free hand to his mouth. “I should not tell you any of this. I should just shoot you. It is what Vickers would do.”

“Where
is
Vickers?” I asked, as if I cared to know. Just speaking his name left a bad taste in my mouth. “I should have thought he would be with you.”

“He left as you arrived,” said Braaten, spitting to show his contempt. “He is as ambitious as he is foolish. Suffice it to say he is gone to another place.” He sighed with false sympathy and came a step farther into the shower-room. “Which you will never find because you—and Mister Holmes—will be dead.”

I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I curled my lip. I wondered if I could reach my pistol and fire it before he killed me? It didn’t seem likely. It was hard to believe that I had only minutes to live.

At my feet, Sutton groaned and rolled onto his side.

“Tomorrow was to be his full treatment of galvanic shock,” said Jacobbus Braaten. “Today it was just a taste, with morphia to lessen the impact. Tomorrow—well, tomorrow, he would have glowed by the end of the day, and no morphia to deaden the treatment.” He aimed his pistol at Sutton. “A pity there won’t be time to reap the contents of that wonderful mind. Had you not come, he would have lived a while longer—little as he might want to.”

I felt Sutton move, his arm flung out, and I feared he would hasten the lethal moment; Sutton shook, then went limp.

Braaten took another step forward. “I want to see the life go out of your—” His dire words ended on a yelp as he stepped on the film of undiluted liquid soap Sutton had managed to put in his path. His pistol discharged into the pipes and water sprayed down on us. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my pistol, aimed, and fired. I had the satisfaction of seeing Braaten fall to his knees, his hand clasped to the side of his chest, his pistol fallen to the tiles, his thinning hair plastered to his skull by the cold water.

More howls and laughter greeted this noise; inwardly I felt a kinship with their distress, for my sense of approbation was rapidly fading as I watched Braaten’s suffering. I did not know if I could remain standing over him, waiting for him to die, without some qualm moving me to pity. I did my utmost to maintain my resolve, trying to observe him with indifference although I was unnerved. I might have tried to render Braaten some wholly useless assistance, but in less than three minutes, I heard Mycroft Holmes calling my name through the cacophony.

“At the end of the rear hall!” I shouted back, in competition with the general uproar. “In the shower-room.”

“Are you all right?” His voice was nearer and I could heard the sound of his steady running. “Guthrie! Answer me!”

“A bit shaken, but well enough,” I answered. “Sutton is here. So is Jacobbus Braaten.” As I spoke this last name, I leveled my pistol at him. “Stay where you are.”

Braaten had fallen onto his uninjured side and was pulling into a tight ball. Frothy blood welled from where my bullet had struck. He attempted to speak, then began to cough; his sputum was bloody.

Mycroft Holmes came through the door, his pistol in hand, his expression fixed in an aggressive snarl. He hesitated in the doorway, but only to take stock of the room. Seeing Sutton, he started forward to help him.

“Mind the soap,” I cautioned him, just as he slid on the tiles. His arms sawed the air, but he contrived somehow to remain on his feet long enough to regain his balance. Then he dropped to his knees beside Sutton. Water continued to pour down on us.

“Are you all right, dear boy?” Mycroft Holmes asked as he laid his hand on Sutton’s shoulder. “Tell me. My word, Sutton, what have they done to you?” he asked as he started to move his double; he could not conceal the horror he felt. He swore, and strove to lift Sutton to his feet.

“I’ll ... man ... ath,” said Sutton, trying to help, but losing his balance. “I’m dithy ...”

“Small wonder,” I said, my pistol still aimed at Braaten. “Do you remove him, Holmes,” I recommended. “I’ll keep guard on Braaten here—”

Mycroft Holmes stared. “Is that Jacobbus Braaten? By Jove; you’re right!” He shook his head. “Age hasn’t been kind to him; I shouldn’t have known him on a superficial glance. He is very seriously hurt, I see now I come to look at him.” He paused to scrutinize the man as best he could from his current vantage-point. “It seems you’ve punctured his lung, Guthrie.”

“I believe so,” I said, feeling a bit sick for all it was Braaten I had shot. “I don’t think he’ll last long.”

“Very likely not. But take no chances.” Holmes was half-carrying, half-dragging Sutton out of the shower-room. “I’ll see if I can turn off the water.”

“Much appreciated,” I responded.

“I’ll ready Sutton to leave,” he said, as if his actions had to be explained.

“You’ll need dry clothes,” I pointed out.

“So will you, Guthrie,” said Holmes as he finally got out of the room. “So will you.”

I had to admit it was true. I was wet to the skin, and I was alone with my enemy. I had a pistol in my hand. For some little time I considered firing a second shot. But that would be murder, and I knew if I condemned Jacobbus Braaten for committing such a crime, I oughtn’t to do it, no matter how great the temptation he presented. As I wrestled with my conscience, the water finally trickled, then stopped, and the last of it ran, red, down the drain.

A series of spasms went through Jacobbus Braaten, and then he lay limp at my feet, all the tension gone out of him along with his breath; the blood, which had foamed out of his wound, no longer flowed, and his eyes were half-open and unfocused. I went out of the shower-room to fetch a sheet to put over him. That done, I got a towel and began to blot. There was a roll-top pull-over in my valise—which was in Miss Gatspy’s sylphide. I would have to change into it or end up with sore muscles and a cold. I made my way down to the ground floor, where Miss Gatspy was waiting. The body of the warden had been pulled aside, but the spatters of blood were still everywhere.

“You look a sight,” she said, taking stock of my appearance. Then she became more serious. “What about Braaten?”

“He’s dead. This time I waited until I was sure.” I dropped the towel I was holding onto the stairs. “I wanted to be glad of killing him, but I wasn’t.”

“Poor Guthrie,” said Miss Gatspy with genuine sympathy. “It is never an easy thing to do.”

“I shouldn’t want it to become easy,” I said, oddly pleased that my hands weren’t shaking. “Is Holmes—”

“Putting Sutton into Hastings’ cab. He has a number of blankets to keep him warm. We are to await his signal before going outside.” She glanced at me again. “You might do with a blanket or two as well.”

“I have something in my valise that will help, if you will allow me to change my coat and shirt.” It was an awkward thing to speak of such personal matters to her.