The Flying Scotsman (17 page)

“Not with this excellent schematic,” said Inspector Carew. “Don’t worry about the aesthetics,” he advised me. “Just a sketch with the pertinent information is needed. Otherwise we’ll be here for hours more, and the North Eastern would not be best pleased.” He made a quick gesture. “If we’re given the go-ahead from London, we will ride along to the next stop. That way we may be certain no one leaves the train, and we can anticipate being met by a proper escort for the victim.” He patted the breast of his hacking jacket and drew out a brass case from which he removed a long, thin cigar. “If anyone wishes to smoke, I find it makes the air less oppressive.” He indicated the body.

A few of the passengers hastened to take advantage of this kind offer. Pipes and cigars and a few pouches of tobacco and papers were brought out, prepared, and set alight.

“I’m a trifle nervous,” I said, vastly understating the case. “I doubt the work will be very good.”

“Very good isn’t necessary,” Inspector Carew assured me. “Barely adequate will suffice.” He studied Mister Jardine’s position intently, then stepped back, tapping Rollins on the shoulder indicating he should give me access to the corpse.

A number of passengers in the lounge made a great display of trying not to watch what I did, all the while struggling covertly to observe me at work. I took out the pencils Sutton had showed me how to use only hours ago—how I wished I had a stick of charcoal instead!—chose a clean sheet of paper, and using the back of my portfolio to steady the paper, I did what I could to sketch the end divan, the table, and Mister Jardine fallen between the two, one hand still to his chest, the other flung out as if to seize something in his rigid fingers. I looked at what I was doing and thought it woefully disappointing, but kept gamely on, knowing that until I had achieved some semblance of accuracy, Inspector Carew would cordially-but-inexorably keep me at this task.

“That will do well enough for my purposes,” said the Inspector after what seemed an eternity. “We will be underway again in a minute or two.”

As if to confirm this there was a hiss from the front of the train, and the cars gave a kind of shudder, as if readying themselves to resume our journey. The men in the lounge car looked about uneasily, as if they thought something intrusively dramatic were about to happen. Several of them gulped down their drinks and one of them went so far as to put his just-lit cigar out in the last of his stout.

“Do we ride along?” Rollins asked, his voice low and rumbling, not at all the kind of sound one would suppose could come from such an unprepossessing chap.

“Yes, Rollins, we do,” said Inspector Carew. “And we remain with the body until it is removed. God willing, we will depart with our culprit in tow.” He sighed, looking through the paper Mycroft Holmes had given him. “I shall review these. Any of you gents need the necessary room, use the one in this car at the end of the corridor beside the baggage compartment once the train has left the station. There’ll be constables at both platforms, so don’t try anything foolish.” He took hold of the edge of the bar as the train heaved itself forward a few inches.

“Once the train is moving, may we go to our compartments once again?” Mycroft Holmes asked. “I am traveling with a Viennese gentleman, Herr Schere, who is unwell. I have left him in the care of a nurse, and I would like to see how he is faring.”

“A very reasonable request,” said Inspector Carew after he had given it some consideration. “I will do myself the pleasure of accompanying you to inquire into the condition of your Viennese traveling companion.” He smiled with no trace of warmth. “Will that suit you?”

The train was moving again, going more slowly than was usual. I had a moment of panic when I realized we were leaving Bedford without sending or receiving telegrams. Undoubtedly Tyers had one waiting in the station telegraph office, but it might as well have been on the moon; I could not reach it.

Just north of Bedford we passed another train pulled off on the siding in order to allow us to go on undelayed; I thought how intricate a task it was to keep trains in motion without more catastrophes than we had. I had to reassure myself that the North Eastern line did not often make mistakes in adjusting their schedules—I hoped this would be another such successful run. We had more than enough to worry about without wondering if the North Eastern were doing their part of the work.

“Tell me, Guthrie,” Holmes said in a low voice as I made my way back to where he stood at the end of the bar. “What do you think Mister Jardine did that made someone willing to kill him?” He began to toy with his watch-fob. “This is more my brother’s area of expertise than mine, but let us apply his methods.”

“All right,” I said as I watched Inspector Carew begin to pour over the plan I had done of the lounge, occasionally consulting the statements Mycroft Holmes had prepared for him. I had no doubt that beneath that aloof facade, the man was thorough and dogged.

“Ah, yes,” Holmes said following my gaze, “Inspector Jasper Carew. You would think that he saw corpses on every train coming through Bedford for all the response he has made. Too cool by half, if you ask me.” He folded his arms and braced his shoulders against the wall, accommodating the movement of the car. At this reduced speed, we swayed and jostled more than we had done at our earlier, faster pace. “He bears watching. And, of course, he is watching us.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m aware of that.”

“Good for you, Guthrie. You have learned to hide your awareness, which is a very great advantage in our work.” He glanced toward Mister Dunmuir, who was staring out the window, nothing in his demeanor to suggest he was upset. “I wish I knew more about that man.”

“Why? Why Dunmuir more than another?” I asked a touch more sharply than was called for. I did not like to see fellow-Scots accused or even suspected of criminal activities.

Mycroft Holmes answer was bland. “Because he had a greater chance to observe Jardine than most of us did.”

“I suppose he did,” I allowed, recognizing how accurate his statement was. “That is assuming he paid any more attention than necessary. You saw how they were during lunch—Dunmuir and Heath exchanged perhaps a dozen words with Jardine, most of them about salt and pepper.” I was not going to be put off my guard quite so easily. I swayed as the train pulled around the long, gentle, westerly curve leading to the straightaway into Wellingborough and Kettering beyond.

“They were not very expressive,” Holmes agreed. “I cannot help but find it puzzling.” He twirled his watch-fob some more, like one of those eastern mystics with his prayer wheel. “Why did they sit together at lunch if they had nothing to talk about.”

“Perhaps they preferred solitary—” I broke off as Inspector Carew got to his feet and came toward Mycroft Holmes.

“You did a very good job, Mister Holcomb—a very good job. Which still puzzles me, but let that pass.” He turned toward Rollins. “How much longer do you need with the body?”

“Five more minutes and then he can be placed in the baggage compartment,” Rollins answered.

Behind the bar, Whitfield looked up sharply. “I’d better go and make sure there’s room for him. We can’t have him rolling about on the passengers’ cases.” He slapped his palm down on the bar. “Closed for ten minutes, gents.” He bent down and picked up one of his crates, then made for the inner door into the luggage compartment where his supplies were also stored.

“Conscientious,” said Inspector Carew. “Don’t see that too often nowadays.” He held up the papers. “Rollins, will you keep these with you? That’s a good fellow.” He handed the papers to Rollins then regarded Mycroft Holmes. “Shall we deal with your sick friend? You will have to run the gamut in terms of questions from other passengers. If you would prefer to wait until after Leicester, I can well understand.”

“I think it would be best to look in on Herr Schere,” said Mycroft Holmes crisply. “He is in charge of the Vienna office. I wouldn’t want him thinking I was lax in my duty to Satchel’s by neglecting him.”

“Is he aware there is a body in the lounge?” Inspector Carew inquired.

“I suppose he must do,” Holmes answered, frowning. “I trust he will not develop a dislike of travel in England because of this.” He shouldered his way to the door. “Inspector, if you will be good enough to come with me. Guthrie?”

“At once, Mister Holcomb.” I clutched my portfolio and followed after the two taller men, going past the constable on the platform to the dining car. I found the wonderful odors of roasting capon unappealing as I made my way between the tables, trying not to disturb the waiters who were changing napery and glasses; the second bartender was alone at his table, the last of his meal before him. The second-class carriage was oddly quiet, the occupants of the various compartments busying themselves with reading papers or other private activities. I wondered what the constable said that had had so daunting an impact on them all.

Arriving at Prince Oscar’s compartment in the first-class car, I held back as Mycroft Holmes knocked on the door. “Herr Schere? It is Micah Holcomb come to see how you are doing.”

The door slid open and Miss Gatspy appeared. “Good afternoon, Mister Holcomb,” she said with a demureness I knew was not hers. “Herr Schere is resting. If you must speak to him, then let me make him more comfortable.” With that she closed the door again, leaving the three of us standing in the narrow corridor.

“A most personable woman,” said Inspector Carew with a speculative shine in his eyes.

I bridled in her defense; luckily no one saw me. “Nurse Gatspy is most capable,” I said, trying to sound approving and coming off pompous.

“Guthrie is right,” said Mycroft Holmes with a slight smile. “Her skills are beyond question. That she is fair and conducts herself well recommends her the more.” He looked back at the door as Miss Gatspy opened it again. Obedient to her signal we crowded into the compartment.

Prince Oscar lay on the wide bench that had been made up as a day-bed. He wore his smoking jacket, surrounded by pillows. On the pull-out table was a tray with a teapot and the rest of the service for tea, as well as a small bottle of Benedictine that had only just been opened. The Prince waved languidly to us. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I am sorry I cannot rise to shake your hands.”

“How are you feeling, Herr Schere?” Mycroft Holmes asked. “May I present Inspector Jasper Carew? Herr Osrich Schere of
Satchel’s Guides,
Vienna.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Inspector. As you can see, Mister Holcomb, I am the better for Miss Gatspy’s help,” he replied, with such a look at her that I longed to tell him how offensive I found his behavior. Perhaps Princes were allowed such liberty, but no man of good character would so compromise the—

“Guthrie has been assisting Inspector Carew here deal with the dead man in the lounge,” said Mycroft Holmes, laying his hand warningly on my shoulder.

“Oh, bravo, Mister Guthrie,” said Miss Gatspy, her blue eyes alight with mischief. “I should like to see your efforts.”

“And so you shall,” Holmes promised her before giving his attention to Prince Oscar once more. “Herr Schere, I fear we may be delayed; our arrival in Edinburgh will be later than we expected. I trust you will not be too inconvenienced?”

“I presume you can make alternate arrangements for me?” His brows were pale so the lift he gave them was not so noticeable as it would have been had they been dark. “I am sure you will work out something.”

“Of course,” said Mycroft Holmes heartily. “We can’t have the publisher of Satchel’s Vienna left to fend for himself like a tradesman.”

Inspector Carew seemed satisfied. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I hope you make a full recovery.”

Prince Oscar remembered to cough. “I think Miss Gatspy has made me better already,” he said with another of his knowing glances; I recalled again that the Prince had gone carousing with Sir Cameron during his stay in London, and I had to force myself to listen with composure. “Still, I think it is best if I remain here in my compartment, under her care, for the rest of the journey.”

Miss Gatspy’s smile could only be called a smirk. “Why, thank you, Herr Schere; you’re much too kind.” She shot a glance at me from under her lashes that made me want to throw something. I reminded myself this was an excellent way to guard Prince Oscar now that this unfortunate murder had taken place, and that Miss Gatspy was helping us, but it made little difference to my conviction that she was deliberately provoking me.

A loud bellow from the front of the car claimed all our attention, and a moment later we heard a timid voice raised in dismay, “But Sir Cameron, I
can’t!”

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

Word should have come from Bedford by now, but no telegram has been delivered. I have said nothing to Sutton regarding my concern, but he can read the clock as well as anyone and he knows it is past time that a telegram should have come. Which leads to two questions: has a telegram been sent and intercepted, or has no telegram been sent? If intercepted, by whom, and in which direction? Was mine purloined, or was MH’s? If the telegram was never sent, why was it not? Both possibilities are troublesome, but both in very different ways.

Without the telegram from MH, I do not know which of his instructions to follow, which is especially distressing now, for one or the other plan must be put into effect soon or we will lose what little advantage we have secured for ourselves.

... I suppose I should prepare telegrams for Leicester and pray they are received. If nothing occurs to hurry me, I will try to hold off taking any action until my second round of instructions arrives ...

“OH, GOOD LORD!”
Mycroft
Holmes exclaimed over a renewed outburst from compartment one, “Sir Cameron MacMillian.”

Inspector Carew was immediately interested, more in our reaction than in the altercation in compartment one. “How do you know that?”

“Well, how do you think?” Mycroft Holmes demanded impatiently. “I have seen him before, of course—”

“Yes. He does like to have himself before the public eye,” said Prince Oscar, with a fastidious expression that eloquently displayed his disgust of such antics.

“That he does,” Holmes seconded, adding, “I saw him come aboard this morning,” he told the Inspector. “He was not what you would call sober, and he demanded more drink at once.”

“Can’t think how he can stomach it, on a moving train and all,” I added.

“Guthrie, don’t be cheeky.” Mycroft Holmes swung around. “For the sake of Herr Schere’s health, would you be good enough to go down and see what is wrong?”

I was astonished that Holmes would suggest such a thing, for it was possible that Sir Cameron would recognize me and put an end to our subterfuge. I was about to protest when a new, louder roar was set up. “Oh, all right. I only wish I had a quarterstaff,” I said.

Miss Gatspy spoke unexpectedly. “I have something that will work as well,” she said, adding, “I’ll just go along to my compartment. I shan’t be long.” She did not wait for permission but slipped out of the room.

“Excellent nurse,” Prince Oscar approved and I wondered if I saw something sly in the way he praised her. It was distressing to think that the Prince might use his high position to take advantage of her.

“Yes; that is our understanding,” said Mycroft Holmes. “She would probably blush to hear us praise her so.”

From what I knew of Miss Gatspy, blushing was the last thing she would do; her demure manner was a calculated performance, and her porcelain skin and limpid blue eyes created an impression that was far from the truth. I knew Holmes expected me to say something to support his observation, so I said, “She is not often given all the credit she deserves.”

“Nor, I suspect, would she take it if it were offered.” I knew my employer was enjoying himself hugely; I hoped that Inspector Carew would not become suspicious.

Prince Oscar spared us all any more awkwardness by saying, “I reckon it would be a wise precaution to have nurses on all trains.”

“A most novel idea,” said Inspector Carew, his expression lightening. “There are physicians on ships, aren’t there? A nurse on a train might be a good safety measure.”

“Tell the railroads, if you think it would be useful,” Holmes recommended as the door slid open and Miss Gatspy returned, a screw of paper in her hand.

“I’m sorry this took so long, gentlemen; I had to measure from a bottle, and on a moving train, this is not easily done.” She managed a shy smile and went on, “This is a compound that causes lethargy. Those who have indulged as Sir Cameron has tend to sleep long and soundly under its influence.” She put the screw of paper in my hand. “If you add it to his drink, he will be snoring in twenty minutes.”

Inspector Carew regarded her in mystification. “Do you always travel with medical supplies, Miss Gatspy?”

“Why, yes, of course,” she said as if hers was the most ordinary conduct in the world. “I find I need to be prepared. Nurses are often more readily to hand than physicians in emergencies, don’t you think?”

“True enough,” said Mycroft Holmes, swinging around to look at me. “Well, Guthrie, good luck. If there is anything we can do to assist, you have only to inform us.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, dreading facing Sir Cameron again.

Inspector Carew spoke up. “You have had experience with this woman before? You have reason to trust her?”

“We have met on our travels and seen her deal with more than one emergency,” was the last thing I heard as I left the Prince’s compartment and went along down the corridor to Sir Cameron’s. I knocked on the door only to have it nearly skin my knuckles as it was opened with considerable force.

The valet, his face quite pale, stood ready, it seemed, to apologize. He did his best to block the way into the compartment, but over his shoulder I could see the place was in disarray. I could just make out Sir Cameron’s shoulder, hunched as if to hide, near the window. “The trouble is, Sir Cameron wants another bottle of brandy, but the constables won’t allow it.” His long, narrow face had all the features crowded into the middle, seeking the shelter of his long, prominent nose, the only distinctive feature he possessed.

“Is Sir Cameron without ... without anything to drink?” I asked, recalling his demand for brandy as we departed King’s Cross. He had been a sot when I had encountered him in Germany, he had been a sot in London five years ago, and he continued a sot in the years since; but it appeared that his vice had worsened.

The valet nodded and whispered, “It was the wedding, sir—at Saint Paul’s?—there were four receptions and a few more occasions Sir Cameron was moved to attend. He became caught up in things, and, as you see ...” He dared not finish his thoughts.

“I see he is fairly far gone,” I said, quietly but bluntly. “Do you think he should drink anything more?”

Before the valet could answer, Sir Cameron surged up energetically if unsteadily and hove himself around to face the door. His features, always ruddy, were now florid; and his ginger mutton-chop whiskers bristled like a tomcat’s; his hair, I noticed with ungracious satisfaction, was all but gone on his pate, and the pouches under his eyes were more pronounced. He squinted in my direction. “Who the bloody hell is that, then?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir; we were wondering if anything were wrong?” I knew Sir Cameron well enough to know it was folly to suggest anything was actually amiss. “We heard shouting, and considering there has been a murder on this train, we thought it best to check. Inspector Carew is with us, the officer in charge of the investigation.”

“No murder here, no murder here,” said Sir Cameron. “But there might soon be if I cannot get some brandy.” He directed a fulminating gaze at his hapless valet.

“You see how it is, sir,” the valet said quietly. “Sir Cameron—he’ll be better once he is home, if you understand me.”

“I certainly do,” I said, and added a bit more loudly, “I’ll talk to Inspector Carew, to see what we can arrange.” With that promise I took a step back, the screw of paper in my pocket feeling as if it were afire.

“Well?” said Mycroft Holmes when I went into the Prince’s compartment once more.

“He wants brandy,” I said. “The constables will not allow his valet to get any; he would have to go to the lounge car for it.” I shrugged. “He will start yelling again soon, I fear.”

Inspector Carew scratched at his cheek; it was clearly a nervous gesture. “What if I arrange for him to have his brandy—what then?”

“I think we can get Miss Gatspy’s powder into it. He will sleep all the way to Edinburgh.” Mycroft Holmes made a gesture to show he did not want anything to do with Sir Cameron.

Inspector Carew made a snort of agreement. “I will get the brandy, and a snifter for him. Then Guthrie here can take it to him, all prepared, as it were.” He made a polite nod to Miss Gatspy which Prince Oscar answered with a curt one of his own just as the Inspector closed the door; I hoped he had not seen Prince Oscar’s response, for it might set him to thinking in ways that could not help our mission.

“So, tell me about this murder?” Prince Oscar tried not to look too curious.

As quickly as possible, Mycroft Holmes summed up the events in the lounge car, choosing his words with care so as not to alarm the Prince unduly. When he was finished, he added, “The police will remove the body at Leicester, and I hope we may be allowed to leave the train there in order to send and receive messages. I fear if we do not find the murderer, we will be detained on this blasted thing until we reach Scotland.”

“Well, then we will have nothing to fear from other assassins,” said Prince Oscar.

“You assume there is no new culprit aboard,” Holmes corrected him, doing his best to show respect although he was becoming impatient. “We have not received Tyers’ report from London.” It was a significant admission for Mycroft Holmes to make, and I could not help but feel sympathy for him.

Miss Gatspy, who had listened in close attention, said, “I can tell you a thing or two that may help you.”

“And what might that be?” asked Mycroft Holmes sharply.

“My ... my organization,” she said, apparently deciding not to mention the Golden Lodge by name, “has some information on assassins that might prove interesting to you. We assembled it when we learned about some of Prince Karl Gustav’s new supporters.” She looked in Prince Oscar’s direction. “I do not mean to offend you in saying any of this, Your Highness.”

“Carry on,” he said indulgently. “What does Herr Schere care about such things?” It was a gallant attempt to conceal his dismay and it very nearly succeeded, but his hands trembled as he reached for his cup of cold tea.

“What have you learned?” Mycroft Holmes demanded.

“That there are, in fact, two assassins working, each using the same methods so that you will assume it is one person.” She spoke with little emotion beyond a trace of exasperation, yet I could sense the indignation that seethed beneath her calm exterior; the pale line around her lovely mouth gave her away. “The Brotherhood does this as a common device—they train two to behave as one, and then assign them to act in such a way that it is impossible to connect the crimes, or to determine the correct times for the crimes, since one person cannot be in the same place at once.”

“I’ve heard about that device,” said Mycroft Holmes, sounding a bit down-cast. “They did that in Prague, didn’t they?”

“And in Constantinople,” said Miss Gatspy with a nod in my direction.

“Good Lord!” I expostulated. “Then
that
was how—” I saw Mycroft Holmes’ warning gesture and fell silent.

“How can you be certain that this is what is going on in this instance?” Mycroft Holmes asked Miss Gatspy; he had lost his Fleet Street accent and now he looked very odd to me, dressed as he was.

“Because one of our sources was killed before he could report to us. He was assigned to look for breaches in the Prince’s protection. He was supposed to meet with me yesterday morning, as soon as he was relieved of duty.” Her blue eyes grew very cold. “I am certain he knew who the second assassin is.”

“Was that Constable Childes?” I asked, suddenly convinced I could not be wrong.

She looked down at her hands, her expression sufficient confirmation. “He was trying to find out how many of the police have fallen under the influence of the Brotherhood. We knew that some of the men were, but we did not know who or what positions they occupied.”

“Are you suggesting that one of the assassins may be a policeman?” I demanded, and felt Holmes big hand close on my lower arm. I swung around and stared at him. “My God! That
is
what you’re suggesting isn’t it?” I glanced at Miss Gatspy. “I’m sorry if my language offended—”

“Oh, Guthrie,” she said in exasperation. “As if language means anything at a time like this.”

“Then what about Inspector Carew?” I demanded. “What are we to think of him?”

We heard Sir Cameron swear loudly from compartment one, and a distinct bang as something of moderate size and weight—such as a boot—struck the wall.

Mycroft Holmes pointedly ignored this interruption. “For the nonce, dear boy, we must be very careful with Inspector Carew. Even if he is wholly blameless and honorable to a fault, he may inadvertently let slip something to one of his colleagues that could have dire repercussions for our efforts now.” He patted my shoulder. “Keep your wits about you, Guthrie.” This last remark was spoken in the journalist’s accent, and for a moment I was jarred.

“I’ll do my utmost, sir,” I assured him.

“I am certain of it,” he said, and cocked his head in Prince Oscar’s direction. “You will have to be very careful with Inspector Carew. If he even suspects that there is any deception being practiced, he will most assuredly proceed to investigate our mission, which could be disastrous. It is bad enough that our arrival in Edinburgh is delayed, we must—” He broke off as the door opened and Inspector Carew came back into the room with a tray in hand, a sealed bottle of brandy and a snifter set upon it.

“What about the Edinburgh delay?” he asked nonchalantly, as he handed the tray to me. “I thought it best that the valet should see the bottle sealed, so that he will suspect nothing when his employer falls asleep and cannot be wakened.”

“A sensible precaution,” Mycroft Holmes approved, adding, “With Herr Schere not feeling well and his connection to the Continent lost, we will have to make arrangements for him to have special accommodations. As we are going to arrive later than scheduled, that may be difficult.” His explanation was glib and had I not known Holmes as well as I did, I would have been convinced, as I hoped Inspector Carew was.

“Most inconvenient,” he agreed. “Even if Herr Schere were feeling well.” He looked at me as if he was surprised I was still in the compartment. “Well, get on with it. We have to return to the lounge car as soon as possible.”