Against the Brotherhood (21 page)

At the baker’s cart, I selected four pastries, two of them filled with soft, sweet cheese and a berry comfit that looked delicious. At any other time I would have bought some for myself, but my appetite had not truly returned, and though it was early afternoon, I could not think of eating without feeling queasy. I paid for the pastries with a flourish, and then wondered if anyone was watching me.

What was Zimmerman telling McMillian? And what difference could it make to me? I began to walk back in the direction of the private waiting room, pastries wrapped in paper.

I halted at the beginning of the corridor, realizing that I was witness to something important. The stationmaster was standing just outside the closed door of the private waiting room, head slightly inclined for concentrated listening. I had no idea how long he had been there and what, if anything, he had overheard. The notion that one of the Brotherhood had information I could not obtain troubled me greatly. Remembering his watch fob, I hesitated, trying to decide what would be the most truly Jeffries thing to do. Should I challenge the man, or appear to ignore what I had seen? The decision was made for me.

A whistle sounded from outside the station, and the stationmaster raised his head, like an animal testing the wind. He saw me then, and had the temerity to nod at me as he made his way to the front of the station to greet the new arrival.

Watching the stationmaster walk away from the door, I caught a glimpse of a woman in the crowd, a slight, young woman with light-colored hair that reminded me briefly of Penelope Gatspy, though with so many fair women about, it was odd that she should have worked such a powerful response from me. For an instant, I wondered how she was doing with her brother, for surely she had reached him by now. Then I made myself think of more pressing matters. Then I turned my thoughts to Elizabeth, and tried to imagine how I would tell her of all I had done. It struck me then that I might not be permitted to tell her anything of my experiences, which would be bound to displease her. I reminded myself philosophically that I could not deal with the future when the present was so precarious.

I made my way back to the private waiting room and held out the paper with the pastries to McMillian. “I hope these are satisfactory, sir,” I said. “I purchased four in case you wished to offer one to Herr Zimmerman.”

“Why would I want to do that?” asked McMillian sharply, his attitude suggesting I had taken leave of my good manners if not my senses. “And do not think you can tell me that you don’t want one for yourself.”

“I have had mine,” I lied. “They are excellent.”

“You need a taster, do you?” challenged Zimmerman, whose face was redder now than when he had first arrived. “Not that I blame a man for being careful of enemies; you have many to be wary of.”

“Meaning that you are one?” suggested McMillian. “Perhaps when all this is over you and I will have leisure to enjoy our animosity.”

“It is a shame that so much depends on a man like you,” said Zimmerman with no apology for his insult. He rose, bowed stiffly and all but clicked his heels. “I will leave you,
mein Herr.”

“At last,” said McMillian with a studied, languid manner. He had looked at the pastries and then set them aside as Zimmerman departed. “Jeffries, my coffee.”

As I went to do McMillian’s bidding, I kept wondering how—or if—I would get him to tell me of Zimmerman’s errand.

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS:

Information is expected from Germany momentarily. What M.H. intends to do regarding travel is not yet apparent, but he has asked that the Mercury train which brought him to Germany be sent back to Paris, but held there in readiness against any sudden need. The Mercury train has performed extremely well, according to M.H. The real trouble is the quality of track over which it travels, for it limits the speeds the train can reach safely.

Edmund Sutton has reported that three men have asked for M.H. at the Diogenes Club, which causes him some trepidation. He fears that some of M.H.’s enemies may suspect his use of a double and are hoping to find out the truth of the matter for themselves.

Word brought from the Admiralty indicates that the matter of pilfering is now wholly concluded and the scandal is averted.

I am once again called to hospital. The signs are grave.

IT WAS THIRTY
minutes later that the stationmaster summoned McMillian to take his place in the private compartment, with the assurance that the compartments on either side would be empty, and the railroad guards would ensure our protection. I looked at his Egyptian eye watch fob, and could place little trust in his assertion.

“That is fine,” said McMillian, motioning me to hold his greatcoat for him, which I did. “We will have a pleasant autumn day, at least, now that the fog is gone. Nothing is so dismal as looking at river fog, mile after mile.”

“It is pretty country,” I allowed, thinking that were it not for the danger around me, I should probably enjoy all I saw.

The stationmaster waited impatiently. “It is the third car, immediately after the baggage cars, the middle compartment.”

“The Germans are very sentimental about nature,” said McMillian, ignoring the stationmaster. “Forever prosing on about it.”

I made sure everything of his was gathered up, and went to hold the door open for him, suspecting that such attentions were demanded by him.

He regarded these acts with a lack of concern, which only confirmed my suspicion that he expected them. “And which is our compartment?” he asked as we entered the corridor.

“Third car, middle compartment,” I said, repeating what the stationmaster had just said.

“Middle compartment. There are five compartments, I presume?” He looked out toward the platform. “And who is that, going into the fourth car?”

“That is the private car,” said the stationmaster in a cold tone.

“King Ludwig’s crony,” said McMillian, shrugging as he started across the platform toward the waiting train. “I will want my luggage in my compartment. It should not go into the baggage cars.”

“I will have the porter tend to it,” said the stationmaster, making it obvious he was glad to see the last of Cameron McMillian.

Now that I was boarding the train, I wished I had been able to have one more word with Mycroft Holmes before I undertook this phase of my assignment. I wanted to know where he would be, and how I could contact him if it came to that.

“Look!” McMillian’s sharp command cut through my reflections. He was pointing to a hunched figure in a wheeled chair attended by a young man in a cadet’s uniform. So wrapped and blanketed was the invalid that it was impossible to discern either the age or the sex of the person, or the cause of his condition, if it indeed was a he, and not some ancient
Grafin
or
Marschallin
being accorded this distinction.

I saw that the chair was being pushed toward our train, the cadet moving hastily under the instruction of his charge.

“That is King Ludwig’s guest,” exclaimed McMillian as two porters struggled to carry the wheeled chair and its tenant into the private car. “If that man has anything infectious, I will hold King Ludwig responsible for any illness I contract.”

“It may be that the reason the King ordered the private car was to prevent any contact with other passengers, if the person is ill and not suffering from some other malady,” I suggested, thinking that such care was unlikely, but wanting to keep McMillian from fretting.

“You give King Ludwig a great deal more credit than he deserves,” said McMillian as we reached the steps up into our car. “If he thinks of his people at all, it is only as decorations for his buildings. Having any regard for someone in poor health, or the health of others, would not be deemed important by him.”

The center compartment was not unlike other private compartments: a settee that became a bed at night, a little dressing room, a large, curtained window, a small closet.

“You can put my luggage in the adjoining compartments so that I will not be any more crowded in
here than necessary,” McMillian announced. “I will want the keys when you lock the doors.”

“Naturally, sir,” said the senior guard who had been given the task of watching this car. He saluted smartly and went to follow McMillian’s orders.

“The washroom is just there,” said the conductor as he came by the compartment. “At the end of the car. You change at Karlsruhe for Mainz. I will summon you when we are thirty minutes from Karlsruhe, to allow you time to make ready.”

“Yes,” said McMillian. “And inform my man an hour ahead, so that I will not have to wait for him.” He indicated the door. “Where are the valets’ compartments?”

“Next to the washroom,” said the conductor, who touched the bill of his cap and left.

“You will put your things in order and arrange for the evening meal.” As he said this he scowled. “You will have to pass through the private car to reach the kitchen. That is a bad thing. Perhaps at one of the stops the waiter could bring my food up to me, walking on the platform, to decrease the risk of infection.” He waited for me to help him remove his greatcoat and put it away in the closet. “I leave that up to you.”

This sudden concern for infection struck me as odd in a man who had spent the previous night licking champagne off a prostitute. “Perhaps I should ascertain what the nature of the invalid’s complaint is before resorting to so awkward an arrangement,” I said, hoping that this would meet with his approval. I wanted to discover for myself who it was who traveled immediately behind us.

“So long as you wash your hands and face thoroughly after speaking to the creature, well enough. Do not bring any contamination into me. And when you have seen him, I will want to know how serious you think his condition is.” He had made himself as comfortable as possible on the settee, and seemed inclined to remain there for the afternoon.

“I will, sir,” I told him, and backed out of the compartment, recommending as I closed the door that he lock it from the inside. “Better too cautious than too sorry,” I reminded him, sounding very like my mother.

“Yes,” he agreed, and I heard him move. A moment later the bolt was pressed home and the door was as secure as it could possibly be.

In one of the two valets’ compartments on the car, I saw my carpetbag, and the hat I had worn earlier this day. I slipped into the tiny chamber, which was little more than half the size of McMillian’s compartment. And while there were two woolen blankets, it was obvious that the unupholstered wooden bench could not be made into a bed.

I was distressed to see that the door lacked an inside lock, for I was apprehensive about the notebooks I carried. I tried to see if there was some manner in which I might improvise one, when the train gave an experimental lurch and I found myself clinging to the doorframe to keep from falling.

As the train groaned and came to life, I made my way back to the bench and hung on, waiting until we had rattled and huffed out of the station and had begun to pick up speed. Rising, I saw that McMillian had been right—it was a beautiful autumn day in Bavaria now that the fog had lifted. I reminded myself of my duty and started off in the direction of the private car, wondering as I did why it was so strangely placed in the train. Most private cars were put first or next-to-last of the cars, to keep them private, but this one was oddly situated. I made my way, swaying with the train, to the private car, taking care to knock before I opened the door.

The young cadet faced me in the open door, his fresh face so clean and boyish that it was hard to imagine he was a devoted student of war. He gave me a salute and stood aside.

At the far end of the private car there was a long couch with a high back which faced the enameled-iron stove. The wheeled chair stood abandoned, and on the couch, in a fine English suit topped off with a muffler of cocoon-like proportions, sat Mycroft Holmes, legs stretched out the length of the couch. “Guthrie, do come in. I didn’t expect you quite so soon. The chill hasn’t quite gone off yet, but be comfortable, do. It will be warmer shortly.”

I stared at him, thinking I should have realized he would not leave me to flail about on my own. “I’m relieved to see you, sir,” I said as I dropped into the armchair.

“As I am,” my employer confessed. “I was not sure this arrangement could be made so quickly, things being as they are in Bavaria.” He coughed delicately. “And I do not simply mean about King Ludwig. It is difficult to work around the Brotherhood. Von Metz has his fingers in a great many pies, and we have yet to discover the whole of them.” His expression of disgust revealed more than his tone of voice. “But I was fortunate. Von Schallensee was able to arrange all this on extremely short notice.”

“Von Schallensee?” I asked, not recalling the name from any of the work I had done for Mycroft Holmes back in London.

This was acknowledged with a nod. He spoke more loudly as if he intended to be overheard. “Von Schallensee is a man who works very much as I do, quietly, for the benefit of all Germany, as I try my poor best to consider all of Britain’s Empire in what I do. Von Schallensee is the man who first identified von Metz for me, and provided the information necessary to bridge the gap between Vickers and von Metz. He was able to delay the train long enough to procure this car—it is one of his own, incidentally—and to arrange for its placement in the order of cars, which, as I understand, was more difficult than procuring the car itself.” He waved to the cadet. “Kreutzer, pour some brandy for Guthrie here. And be sure the fire is taking hold as it should.”

The cadet nodded at once, and opened the cabinet where a number of bottles and glasses waited. “And for you, sir?”

Mycroft Holmes pulled at his lower lip. “I think I’ll have the same.”

“Very good,” said Kreutzer, and set about pouring generous tots into two balloon snifters. He brought these to us, giving a stiff, military bow as he did. “Your brandy, sir.”

“Thank you, Kreutzer,” said Mycroft Holmes, making a single gesture to dismiss the lad. “I will probably need you later. Before we transfer to the next train.”

“Of course, sir,” said Kreutzer, and retired to the far side of the car after checking the stove and adding another quarter-cut section of log.

“He is one of von Schallensee’s men,” Holmes explained with a slight smile.

It had to be something like that, I knew, for the cadet to be here. “You trust him.”

“With my life, which I mean quite literally,” said Mycroft Holmes after taking a little sip of brandy. “And given the dangers at the station, he served me well. Tell me how it is going with McMillian.”

But I was not going to be fobbed off so easily. “What dangers at the station?” I asked, recalling Zimmerman.

“There were five watchers there, three in railroad uniforms which they must have been provided by those belonging to the Brotherhood.” My employer took out a cigar and snipped its end, preparing to light it. “Surely you were aware of them, Guthrie?”

“No, sir, I don’t think so,” I said. “I was more concerned with McMillian than with station guards.”

“Not surprising,” agreed Holmes as he took a deep pull on his cigar. “Well, you will have to accept my word that they were there. They did not wear the correct shoes, and one of them was foolish enough to wear his signet ring. To have the right uniforms and the wrong shoes! It’s oversights like that” —he took another lungful of smoke—“which cause me to lose all respect for von Metz’s underlings.”

“That accounts for three of the men. What of the other two?” I asked, wondering what details I had not noticed.

“Oh, you saw the man with the Prussian accent, didn’t you? Tall fellow with brindled whiskers and a stiff arm? No?” He had recourse to his cigar again. “Well, he was pretending to claim baggage at the end of the platform, but it was all sham. He addressed all his remarks to one of the false guards, and he carried two pistols under his coat and perhaps a third in his sleeve.” He tapped the ash into a saucer Kreutzer had provided. “The last was the woman in gray, with the very attractive hat and veil. They do deign to use women, now and again.” He shrugged. “Tell me about—”

“McMillian,” I finished for him. “You know everything up to when I packed his things.” I recounted the events from the last time I had seen him at Madame Isolde’s to my arrival at the door to this private car. I made my report as succinct as possible, including noticing the Egyptian eye on the stationmaster’s watch fob, and the private visit of Zimmerman. I ended by saying I did not want to be away from McMillian too long. “So we are now bound for Belgium, and McMillian thinks all the spies of Europe are after him.”

“As well he might” was Holmes’ answer.

“Is he in much danger?” I asked, finally tasting the brandy.

“Well, there are many factors to consider: if McMillian is killed, a more competent messenger could be appointed. Unfortunately, his death is apt to herald the theft of the treaty, which must, of course, be avoided. I am concerned that our Scot is making a public nuisance of himself. He is demanding too much attention and he is choosing his company badly. England is not the only government keeping close watch on the Brotherhood. If the Germans suspect what McMillian is carrying, then we will be in the unenviable position of having to deal with them in their own country. There is also the continuing presence of the Golden Lodge, and I am not yet satisfied if we are being aided, observed, or used by them, nor to what ends. It behooves us not to become complacent about them. It may be that McMillian’s very ineptness will serve as a shield. Some may assume that a man who careers from brothel to brothel boasting of his great secret mission must be a decoy.” He blew a cloud of smoke into the air. “It would be circumspect to assume we have two deadly and antipathetic groups who are determined to obtain the treaty at any cost whatsoever.”