The Flying Scotsman (14 page)

James Loughlan was delighted to be distracted by the waiter. He managed a nod that was quite cordial, then pretended Mycroft Holmes had vanished like a conjuring trick.

“I see nothing worrisome,” said Prince Oscar, clearing his throat as if against pain.

“Ah, Herr Schere, if we could see it, it would not be worrisome,” Mycroft Holmes agreed, making a sign of approval to our patient waiter as he served the other two bowls of soup and offered to open the wine.

“Good idea,” Holmes said as if it were a novel one. “Wine does better when it’s opened awhile, just as stew is always better the second day.” As the waiter took out his corkscrew, Holmes went on, “Custard needs to set a bit before you eat it, too.”

“So they say,” the waiter agreed as he drew the cork and handed it to Holmes, who, wholly unlike himself, pocketed it instead of sniffing it or examining it for dryness.

“Let me have a taste of it,” Mycroft Holmes requested, holding out his glass and watching as the waiter poured a bit into it. He drank it straightaway, without looking for color or legs or sniffing its bouquet. “It’ll do,” he announced. “Give it ten minutes and serve it.” He winked—actually winked—at Prince Oscar, saying slyly to the waiter, “Can’t have the Viennese think we’re complete savages, now can we?”

“No, sir,” said the waiter woodenly, and went about his duties as the dining car continued to fill.

“How’s the mulligatawny?” Holmes asked when I had tasted mine.

“Very good,” I said, thinking they had done a good job, although the intensity of the flavors had been lessened to accommodate English tastes. “It could use a bit less salt.”

Across the aisle, Mister Heath was jostling uncomfortably in his chair, exchanging uneasy looks with the taciturn Mister Jardine. Mister Dunmuir seemed oblivious to it all, sipping his Scotch Broth and occasionally looking out the window at the passing scenery. At one point Jardine said something under his breath, and Heath’s color mounted in his face to a shade of plum I knew could not be healthy.

Our soup bowls were removed and our main courses brought. I was pleased to see side-dishes of potatoes with minced onions and green peas in butter; and as soon as all three of us had been served, I settled down to my meal, realizing for the first time I was famished. I noticed that Prince Oscar appeared slightly perplexed when neither Mycroft Holmes nor I waited for him to begin, but then he recalled his role and fell to, taking as much pleasure in our food as the rest of the passengers.

Shortly before we were finished, an abrupt oath uttered sotto voce came from the table across from us. Mister Jardine pushed to his feet and stumped out of the dining car in the direction of the lounge. Mister Heath squared his shoulders and watched the fellow go; while Mister Dunmuir paid no attention whatever but continued to enjoy his cod.

“Oh, dear,” said Missus Loughlan behind us.

Her husband did his best to make light of the unpleasantness. “We might as well be in Texas,” he said, and chuckled.

“As you say,” his wife agreed. She pointed out the window. “Oh, look Saint Albans. A mail drop, isn’t it?”

Prince Oscar remembered to cough and beg pardon for doing it, while Mycroft Holmes poured out the last of the wine.

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

I have had two notes returned to me in response to the memoranda that MH had dispatched this morning, and I am not sanguine of their results. I cannot help but believe that this investigation is more hazardous than any of us supposed. The police have closed ranks, which is to be expected; but in their solidarity, they are protecting a criminal whose purpose is the ruin of them all.

I must shortly prepare my first telegram to send to MH to be received at Bedford.

Sutton is about his impersonation, remaining in the parlor with papers spread around him, which only he and I know are pages of a play he is memorizing. I have already been treated to his animadversions on Henry Irving’s unfair and unreasonable dislike of Mister Ibsen’s work, and his own conviction that the plays of Ibsen will one day number among the classics. Fortunately his next part is in an English play. The role he is currently learning is in Volpone by Ben Jonson, a far remove from the work of Mister Ibsen, in which Sutton is to play Mosca, a character who assists Volpone in his machinations. Mosca, Sutton tells me means “fly·” Volpone means “fox.”

I cannot say I will regret having to leave Sutton to his task while I carry out MH’s instructions. I find my capacity for Mister Jonson’s humor is less than his provision of it. Still, during these difficult times, I am grateful to be able to laugh now and again ...

“I THOUGHT
that went
rather well,” said Prince Oscar as we crowded into Mycroft Holmes’ compartment after lunch. His fresh, open face was so full of optimism that I did not know how Mycroft Holmes would have the courage to tell him otherwise.

“If you mean we were not set upon by assassins in the middle of the dining car, yes, I would concur,” Holmes told him. He did not let the Prince’s downcast air keep him from going on. “I am still trying to decide if the contretemps we witnessed at the table across from us was intended as a distraction or was really nothing more than what it seemed—not that that is readily determined.” He rubbed his chin. “Guthrie!” He rounded on me. “Find out more about that trio, if you will. It may send you back to the lounge, but do it. I will follow you in a short while.”

“And I? Shall I come, too?” Prince Oscar asked eagerly.

Mycroft Holmes shook his head. “Until we know more, it would be best if you remain here. I am sorry, Herr Schere, but I do not want to tempt fate.”

Prince Oscar did his best to conceal his disappointment. “I understand.”

“What should I look for?” I asked, wondering what I had missed.

My employer gave a sigh of exasperation. “To begin with, I should like to know why Mister Heath is lying about his occupation; he is no more a printer than I am.”

“He is not a printer?” the Prince exclaimed.

“What makes you say so?” I asked in almost the same instant.

“You observed the ink on his fingers—well, you were supposed to see it. But you will notice it was only on his right hand, and the color was dark blue, such as one might find in any inkwell in the country. Printers have ink on all their fingers, not just on one hand, for they must touch their machines with both hands; and traditionally it is black, not blue. Also, no ink was apparent under his nails or on his cuticles. His sleeve on his right arm has a slight dusting of what I suppose must be chalk, for which few printers find use. Therefore I must assume the man is lying about his occupation.” He was standing and had to reach out to steady himself on the luggage rack as the train swung around a bend in the track. “We’re increasing speed,” said Holmes dispassionately. “We’ll reach Bedford shortly. I’ll put a message together for you, Guthrie, and you will send it from the telegraph office and retrieve any sent from Tyers or anyone else who may require my attention.”

“Of course,” I said, reaching for my portfolio. “Do you need me further or shall I—?”

“Back to the lounge car with you, and keep your eye on Messieurs Heath, Jardine, and Dunmuir. There is something going on there that I do not like.” Mycroft Holmes glanced down at the Prince. “If Guthrie discovers nothing troubling, then in a while we should go along to the lounge car, as well. You will have to continue your performance, sir.”

“I will enjoy it,” said Prince Oscar, enthused at the prospect. “This is most instructional, traveling this way.”

“I should think so,” Mycroft Holmes said without a trace of irony.

“Very well, sir,” I said to my employer as I rose and picked up my portfolio, patting it just below my embossed initials. “My faithful companion and I will go see what is happening in the lounge. And I will leave the train at Bedford to send along our initial report.” With a nod, I let myself out into the corridor and started along it in the direction of the lounge car. I had traversed the second-class car and was in the platform connecting it to the dining car when the door opened from the other direction and a trim woman in a most fetching traveling ensemble in dark, steel-blue twill came through. I started to stand aside, and wished I had worn my hat in order to tip it, when the woman took hold of my elbow. Surprised, I supposed she was unsteady on her feet, but as I looked her fully in her face, I knew I had erred.

“Guthrie,” said Miss Penelope Gatspy without preamble, “what on earth are you and Mycroft Holmes up to this time?”

My breath stopped in my throat and I must have blushed, recalling our last encounter two years since. How could she behave as if none of that had happened? Not that I was ungrateful, for to experience the castigation I most certainly deserved would not have helped our mission. “That is no concern of yours,” I said as if it were only a day or two ago when I had last seen her. No doubt the woman would demand an explanation of me in due time and an apology that I should certainly offer.

“Oh, Guthrie, of
course
it is my business. I shouldn’t be here if it were not.” Her laughter did more than an accusation would have done to convince me I was not hallucinating the whole episode.

Delayed shock coursed through me. I discovered I was unable to speak. I stared into her mesmerizing blue eyes and remembered how she had looked the first time I had met her; we had been on a train then, too. I was in a compartment that she, too, occupied. I had not realized then that our meeting was far from chance. In the intervening years since that first encounter, I had come to regard any association with her with ambivalence; for although she was a most lovely and self-possessed young woman, she was also an agent in the Golden Lodge, whose purposes were ambiguous at best. Our last encounter was still vivid in my memory, to my chagrin. Finally I said, “Miss Gatspy. It
is
you. I suppose I should not be surprised.”

“No, Mister Guthrie,” she said with purpose. “You should not.”

“How am I to respond to that?” I asked, feeling stupid for challenging her.

“You are usually a sensible man, Mister Guthrie,” she said impatiently. “You know that the Brotherhood seeks to place Prince Oscar’s brother, Karl Gustav, on the throne. Why should it astound you if the Golden Lodge takes an interest in Prince Oscar’s welfare? Particularly now that your English police have a highly placed agent of the Brotherhood among their numbers?”

“Good God,” I swore without apology. “How do you come to—”

“Guthrie, we haven’t time for this. We might be discovered at any moment. Tell Mister Holmes that I am traveling as a nurse, should he need someone to help with protecting Prince Oscar. Or should I say Herr Schere?” She smiled winsomely at me and went on her way, opposite to mine, pausing once the door closed to turn back and wave to me.

I stood on the swaying platform for the greater part of a minute, trying to order my thoughts. Miss Gatspy often had that effect on me, and I told myself I should be accustomed to it by now. But with every attempt at reassurance, new questions arose, so that what should have led to my comfort in fact resulted in more turmoil. I made myself turn and continue on through the dining car—now nearly emptied of diners, one of whom was the second bartender—and into the lounge where nine passengers were seated taking advantage of the friendly air of the place.

“How’re you doing?” The barkeep glanced at me with concern that went beyond the demands of his service; if having his partner gone was an imposition, he showed no discomfort because of it. “Not my place to say it, but you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I suppose I have,” I said blankly, and gave myself a mental shake. “Nothing to worry about, though. Not that kind of a ghost.”

“Travel can do it to you,” said the barkeep and poured a brandy-and-soda for me. “A lot of you artist-types like this.” He accepted his payment and tip with a quick smile, and I saw him put the brandy bottle down in the carton behind the bar, although it was less than half empty. There were four other partially filled bottles in the carton as well. He noticed my attention and said, “I always like to hold a little back, you know how it is—looks better to some if the bottles are fairly full.”

“Ah,” I said, supposing he knew what he was talking about. It was his profession after all.

“How do you think we’re doing? Are we making good time?” It was a common enough question on a train famous for its speed.

The barkeep glanced out the window and then at the clock behind the bar. “About average. We won’t break any records on this run, not at this rate.” He gave the polished surface of the bar another wipe-down, frowning either at the gloss or the speed we were traveling.

I was about to make a remark on how fast English trains were when Mister Jardine, who was sitting alone at the end of the lounge, lurched to his feet, clutched his neck, took two horrid gasps as if through a severed throat, and fell heavily onto his side.

There was consternation in the lounge car almost at once; oaths and outcry competed with the shriek of brakes and the clank of couplings as the train slowed in answer to the barkeep’s tug on the emergency cord, which brought the train to a shuddering halt.

Almost before the train was stopped, three conductors converged on the lounge ready to berate the barkeep for his actions, and all fell silent at the sight of Mister Jardine, now lying dead with an unquestionably cyanotic tinge to his distorted features.

“Oh, my God,” said the eldest of the conductors, and he did not intend this profanely. “What happened?”

Knowing what was expected of me as Mycroft Holmes’ secretary, I stepped forward. “The man appears to have been poisoned,” I said as calmly as I could. “He died swiftly, and his coloring suggests it.”

“Are you a physician?” one of the conductors asked me sharply.

“No, but I have seen a man done to death this way before,” I answered carefully and offered no other qualification.

“Poison,” the youngest of the conductors scoffed. “How could he have been poisoned?”

The passengers in the lounge car had gone suddenly very quiet, listening to this as if it were news from the front. Two of them set their drinks aside; another swallowed his whole.

“That, I suppose, is a matter for the police,” I said. “And the sooner they are notified the better.” I realized some of my drink had splashed onto the arm of my suitcoat, and I daubed at it with my pocket handkerchief.

The barkeep nodded twice. “He’s right. When any suspicious event takes place aboard a North Eastern train, the authorities are to be summoned at once.” He saw that the conductors were nodding in response to his recitation.

“Then I suppose we’d better put him in the luggage compartment for the time being,” said the senior conductor, and was about to reach for the body when I intervened.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to disturb the body when a crime’s been committed,” I said. “The police usually want to examine the scene as it is.” My tone was deferential, but my determination was apparent. I put myself between the conductors and the corpse. “I have been called upon to draw crime scenes before, and always the police have emphasized the importance of leaving the site undisturbed.”

“That’s true enough,” said one of the passengers whose name I did not know. “Coppers want things left alone. Not that I want to drink with
that
for company,” he added and was given a grumble of support from a few of the rest.

The conductors hesitated, and it was while they were muttering among themselves that Mycroft Holmes came into the lounge car.

“I say there, Guthrie? What is this all about?” He sounded more inconvenienced than worried, which I knew was far from the truth.

I stood back. “As you see,” I told him, indicating the body.

“Gracious!” he declared, and went toward the fallen man; such was the force of his presence that no one attempted to hinder him. He stopped a foot or so from the body and bent down to examine him. “This man has been poisoned,” he said calmly. “You must inform the police at once.”

The senior conductor was willing to agree now. “Just what I thought myself. We must make a full halt at Bedford and wait for the authorities to tell us what next to do.”

“You should also secure this car,” Mycroft Holmes went on. “If not, the murderer might well be able to escape.”

This brought a buzz of consternation from the other passengers, one of them calling out, “You don’t think any of us did it?”

“No,” said Mycroft Holmes bluntly. “But neither do I know that all of you did not.” He let the implications of his remark sink in before continuing. “Until the police tell us otherwise, I should think you would all want to wait for them to do their job. You would not want suspicion to fall upon you by mistake, would you?”

A few of the men exchanged uneasy glances, and then Mister Dunmuir spoke up. “I don’t like the dead for company, but I’m willing to let the constables do their work.” His reasonable tone was enough to persuade most of the rest to comply with this requirement.

“Bedford is not far, and once the police have finished with this unfortunate occurrence, I am sure we will be on our way again quite handily,” said Mycroft Holmes, looking at the conductors for agreement. “I don’t know how we do this, gentlemen. One of you should surely remain here, and I am certain one should notify the engineer of what has happened, and one should probably make whatever arrangements are necessary for when the police come aboard.” He looked about. “I will be glad to keep order here, with my illustrator Guthrie, and help in any way we can.”

“But Herr Schere?” I protested, knowing we would be leaving the Prince exposed. For all we knew this was a diversionary tactic to leave the Prince unguarded.