The Flying Scotsman (18 page)

“So we must,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Mister Jardine’s death is still a mystery.”

I understood the meaning of that last remark; I hefted the tray and prepared to leave the compartment.

The train was still traveling at a reduced speed, no more than thirty miles an hour, and it rocked like a smack in fresh seas. I used my elbows to steady myself against the walls and windows of the car as I made my way to compartment one. I tapped the door with my foot. “Brandy,” I called, hoping that the screw of paper in my pocket was not as visible as I feared it was.

The valet opened the door; I could see the distinct impression of a palm on the side of his face. Sir Cameron had not improved his conduct toward his servants since those few, wretched days more than eight years ago when I had served him as valet. “Thank God,” said the valet with genuine piety.

“I’ll bring it in, if you like, and help you get it open. From what I heard, you’ve had something of a ruckus here.” I thought my intentions must be completely transparent, but apparently they were not.

“Oh, thank you, sir, thank you so much. Do come in.” He pulled the door open for me and I had my first clear look at Sir Cameron MacMillian; I strove to avert my face without being too obvious about it.

“At last,” he said, from where he sprawled on his day-bed, for his compartment was made up very much as Prince Oscar’s was, but in far greater disarray. “Do something about this place,” he ordered his valet. “The compartment is a shambles.”

I pulled out the table from its niche in the wall, set the tray upon it and went about opening the brandy. “Have a look at it, if you like,” I said, holding out the bottle.

The valet was busy picking up boots, two valises and a pillow from the floor; he paid no attention to me. Sir Cameron inspected the label on the bottle, scowling before signaling his grudging approval. I took advantage of the moment to pull the screw of paper from my pocket and empty its contents into the snifter. I wondered, as I did, if it had any taste. Miss Gatspy had not mentioned any, but with so determined a sot as Sir Cameron, any slight change would be detectible. I took hold of the bottle and poured out a generous amount, swirling the snifter in the approved method of warming the brandy, only to have Sir Cameron snatch it away. “Never mind that,” he growled. Then he grew very still, staring at me.

My courage all but deserted me as I endured his scrutiny. “What is it?” I asked, expecting to have him denounce me.

“I thought I saw aright. Left eye blue, right eye green. Most unusual.” Sir Cameron made a gesture to ward off misfortune, then lifted the snifter. “Not the best they make, but well enough.” And with that, he took a long swallow.

The valet had stowed the items he had collected in the overhead rack, and he said, “Thank you. You’ve been most kind.”

“A pleasure to help a fellow-traveler,” I said with what I hoped sounded like automatic courtesy.

“He isn’t often so ... so demanding,” the valet went on. “He has been so much in the lime-light, even in the company of royalty, that he is now despondent. To hear him now, you would think that he and the Prince of Sweden-and-Norway are bosom chums.”

“All this travel and official functions can put a strain on a man.” I did my best not to sound too sarcastic, and I supposed I had done a fairly good job, since the valet said nothing more.

Sir Cameron took another swallow, not so large as the last, and squinted at me again. “Damme, you look like someone ... I’ll bring his name to mind in a minute. A scoundrel, as I recall ...”

It would not be wise to leave too hurriedly, I knew, so I spoke to the valet again. “If there is anything more you need, I will lend you whatever assistance I can.” I held out my hand—an egalitarian gesture that made the valet blink.

“Much appreciated, sir, I’m sure.” He edged me toward the door.

I had no wish to linger; I took myself off, pleased that the danger Sir Cameron could represent had been successfully reduced. As I was reassuring myself that all was well, I stepped back into Prince Oscar’s compartment. “He took it,” I said, and saw that this was of little or no concern to anyone in the place.

“—if you think that the two sitting with him at lunch murdered him, whether or not Heath is a printer,” Inspector Carew was saying, taking issue with something Mycroft Holmes had said. “How can they be associates? You have no reason to think they are.”

Mycroft Holmes leaned back against the windowframe, blocking out the glowing afternoon light. “If I did not, I would not say so,” he informed the Inspector. “I suspect that Heath is a bookie—the ink on his hand, the chalk on his sleeve, and the fact that he has been reading about that scandal at the races—”

“As have half the men on this train,” Inspector Carew interjected.

“—and has been in the company of a horse-trainer. Mister Dunmuir has quite a reputation for training champions,” Holmes said emphatically. “You’ve heard of him; you simply did not associate him with the precise Mister Dunmuir. If you will take the time to review the various accounts of winning races, you will see his face in many reports on winning horses.”

I watched in some surprise. I was unaware that Mycroft Holmes had any interest whatsoever in horse-racing; he had an eye to a good animal, and when he rode, he had a good seat; but he had never so much as mentioned any of the races, famous or not. “Why do you think Mister Heath is not a grocer, chalking his prices? Or a ... a ...” I began to flounder.

“Would you buy so much as a vegetable marrow from that man?” Mycroft Holmes inquired sweetly. “No. He has the manner of a bookie, and if he is not carrying betting slips, you may call me an idiot.”

“Then we shall see which of us is more deserving of the name,” said Inspector Carew. He motioned to Holmes. “Shall we put your notion to the test? If you can convince me that there truly is an association among those men, that would provide motive for a murder.”

Prince Oscar’s eyes were shining; under other circumstances he would have followed us out of his compartment and back through the train to the lounge. But for the sake of his disguise, as well as his safety, he had to remain closeted with Miss Gatspy. Had it been possible to do so without earning Miss Gatspy’s scorn, I would have remained with her and the Prince.

“Hurry up, Guthrie,” Holmes said impatiently as we passed through the second-class car. “Your observations may be crucial. Can’t have you lagging behind now.”

“No, sir,” I said, lengthening my stride and clasping my portfolio while Mycroft Holmes summed up his thoughts to Inspector Carew.

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

Still no word from MH or G. I do not know whether I should report this to anyone, for with MH’s suspicions, it may play directly into the hands of the conspirators to inform the police of this development. The devil of it is, I cannot reach MH either, and so I cannot inform him that one of the two decoys used for Prince Oscar has been shot as he reached Dover. The second double remains unharmed, at least so far. This only confirms MH’s certainty that HHPO is in danger and is likely to remain so.

Sutton has suggested that we keep on as we were instructed. He will go to the Diogenes Club on schedule, and maintain the illusion that MH is following his habitual routine. Sutton believes if anyone is party to the conspiracy, he will betray himself when MH appears to be keeping to his routine. I do not know that I am wholly in accord with Sutton; but as I cannot yet determine what is best to do, I will run along to King’s Cross and see if I can learn anything about the Flying Scotsman. There may have been word received at the station, and if there is, I will discover it.

The shooting of the double worries me, for it suggests that the assassin is still at large. The only consolation I have is that so long as the shooting took place in Dover, the assassin cannot possibly be on the train to Edinburgh. I wish I could so inform MH. It would not be much assurance, but at such a time, it would undoubtedly be welcome news.

WHITFIELD
was looking white
around the gills when we came into the lounge car. He greeted Mycroft Holmes like a long-lost friend, holding up
a pony of sherry as a kind of welcome. “It’s the best we have—shooting sherry. Dark as a nut.” He glanced at the men in the lounge car and the ominous vacancy where Mister Jardine had lain.

Mycroft Holmes accepted the sherry and sipped it, making a sign of approval. “Good of you, Whitfield,” he said.

“Ta, sir. It’s been thirsty work.” He held out a drink to Inspector Carew, a glass of pale, wheaten ale. “I’ve taken the liberty of giving Mister Rollins a brandy—riding alone with a corpse and a compartment full of baggage cannot be”—he made a gesture to show how little the notion appealed to him—“I am sorry we have not kept order as much as you might want,” he said more quietly. “I must tell you, Inspector,” he went on, unable to lower his voice much due to the noise of the train, “some of these men are taking a nasty turn, surly-like.”

“Hardly surprising,” said Inspector Carew, his white hair shining like a halo as the light struck it. “Have the constables been able to maintain order?”

“Yes; now that the passengers are free to use the necessary room. That was becoming something of a problem.” Whitfield did his best to look amused at his own feeble wit.

“Just so,” said Inspector Carew. “Well, perhaps we can liven things up. It appears Mister Holcomb has a theory about how Jardine came to die. You must all want to hear what it is, mustn’t you?”

There was a general sighing from the men at the bar, by the look of them I would have thought this was the last thing on their minds, but then, who was I to cast aspersions upon them? I sat down on one of the upholstered stools near the window, opened my portfolio and drew out my notebook, as Mycroft Holmes had instructed me to do as we went through the dining car.

“How is it that you listen to that windbag from Satchel’s and not to any of us who have done as you’ve told us to and not pressed for advantage?” This came from a man named Albert Whipple, who was a property agent from Sheffield; he was plainly much distressed by the delay as by the murder.

“I have listened to him because he was willing to do the work I should have done had I been here at the time of the murder,” said the Inspector bluntly. “You would do well to take a lesson from him instead of carping at the slights you imagine.” He nodded in Mycroft Holmes’ direction. “So, if you would like to listen while he propounds his theories, I will listen along with you, to discover what I can. It may prove useful.” He went and ordered a whisky, saying, once he had his drink in hand, “You may begin, Mister Holcomb.”

Mycroft Holmes strode two steps forward to the center of the lounge. “I have my illustrator, Guthrie, to thank for the observations I made. He came into the lounge before luncheon was served and he had occasion to see Mister Jardine, Mister Heath and Mister Dunmuir. He had the impression that Mister Heath and Mister Dunmuir, who sat together—where?”

I pointed out the table the two men had occupied. “They spoke occasionally, as strangers will when traveling. Mister Jardine arrived after I did and seemed disinclined to seek any society but his own. His accent and his demeanor were Glaswegian.”

“And he sat in roughly the same location where he died, did he not?” Holmes asked as if to punctuate the manner in which Mister Jardine had continued his self-imposed isolation.

“At the far bend in the angled settee, yes,” I said, and saw Whitfield nodding in anxious agreement.

“Are you certain he sat there the whole of the time?” asked Inspector Carew. I could see he was paying keen attention, and had formed a few notions of his own. This was his means of measuring his deductions against those of Mycroft Holmes.

“Certainly it was his only place before luncheon,” I said, and heard Mister Heath clear his throat.

“I had little occasion to regard him, and the end of the bar prevented a direct look at him, but I am quite certain that he did not rise from that place. I should have seen it.” His cheeks were ruddy, and a certain roughness had come into his speech, but he was quite presentable.

“Mister Whitfield,” Mycroft Holmes said to the barkeep, “does this tally with what you saw?”

“Yes, it truly does,” said Cecil Whitfield. “The dead man sat there by himself and making no sign of wanting any company but his own.” He looked about the bar and said, “Had more of you gents been in here then, I might not have noticed so clearly, but with only the four, his behavior was easily discerned.” He seemed proud of himself for knowing so impressive a word.

“So,” said Mycroft Holmes. “We have four men in this lounge before luncheon—Mister Dunmuir, Mister Heath, Mister Guthrie, and, shortly after, Mister Jardine. None of them behaved as if they were acquainted. When the chime rang for luncheon, they all went into the dining car, where Mister Jardine was seated with Mister Dunmuir and Mister Heath across the aisle from Guthrie, Herr Schere of Vienna, and myself. They spoke little during their meal. When I introduced myself to them, Mister Heath was the most voluble of the three, displaying a good deal of bonhomie not shared by the other two at the table.”

“Well,” said Mister Olwin, “two of them are Scots, aren’t they?” His cheeky wit gave everyone in the lounge an excuse to laugh.

“Camus Jardine was more than taciturn, from what I saw at luncheon,” said Mycroft Holmes, cutting off the laughter. “He was a very frightened man. It
would appear he had good cause to be.”

At this announcement, Inspector Carew leaned forward, his attention sharply focused on Mycroft Holmes. “Why should you think that?”

“For one thing, he stank of it. He wore country clothes, to be sure, but the odor that came from him was fear, not the stable. That, and the nature of his silence, which was not unlike a hare hiding in a bush while a fox is prowling.” Holmes looked at each passenger in turn as he continued. “No, gentlemen, there can be no doubt; the man was terrified of something—something near at hand.”

“Or someone,” said Mister Loughlan, who was looking tired; I could hardly blame him.

“True enough. Or someone,” Mycroft Holmes concurred. “But what should so frighten this man? Who was he and what had he done, to be so distressed?”

“I have an answer to that,” said the Inspector. “Camus Jardine was a horse—”

“A horse-trainer,” said Holmes at the same time. “Yes. His riding boots were well-worn, with stirrup chafes on the inside of the leg, yet the heels were worn down from walking; therefore a trainer or a game-warden. If he were a game-warden, he would have worn other clothes than the ones he had on, whereas a trainer would have excellent reason to dress for the stables while traveling. There was a bulge in his jacket pocket and a bit of oat-chaff clinging to the fabric, where he kept his rewards for the animals he was training. He wore a cap such as stablemen wear; therefore I must suppose that he had been in London, or near London, to work with one of the horses he had trained.”

“That seems a bit of a leap to me,” said Mister Olwin, folding his arms to emphasize his skepticism.

“Not at all,” Holmes said in amiable contradiction. “Think about this, if you will. This man, who was clearly more at home in a stable than a train, was returning home from some event in a state of great agitation. Losing a race would be cause for disappointment, not terror. Assuming he lost.”

“Unless there was more at stake than winning,” said the man with the Yorkshire accent.

“Exactly,” Holmes agreed. “If he had more at risk than the race. As a trainer, what would that be? What could a horse-trainer do that would make him so frightened?”

Whitfield had an answer. “He could try to fix the race.” He looked about, proud of his answer.

“Very astute, Mister Whitfield,” said Mycroft Holmes. “You have hit upon a most promising line of inquiry. Wouldn’t you say so, Inspector?”

Inspector Carew had been following this in thoughtful attention, and he finally made a gesture with his hand. “Assuming everything you have said thus far has any basis in fact.”

“Oh, Inspector, I never assume. In my travels I have learned that assumptions are far more trouble than they’re worth.” Holmes lowered his eyes, making it apparent he did not want to become engaged in a dispute. “Let me continue along these lines if I may?”

“Please do,” said Inspector Carew.

I watched this intellectual sparring with some trepidation. Holmes was making himself very visible and could attract more questions than would be easy to answer, but if I tried to communicate my apprehensions to my employer, I would tend to worsen the very problem I sought to correct. So I made notes in a desultory fashion and hoped nothing would happen to make the two men confront one another more directly.

“If Mister Jardine had agreed to do something to change the outcome of a race, then those with the greatest interest in the race—an owner or a bookie, for example—might feel moved to demand compensation from the man.” Mycroft Holmes glanced about the lounge. “Poison is a sly weapon, not a passionate one. It is a weapon of deliberate malice, a weapon of clear intent. A man seeking revenge might well use it.” He chuckled unpleasantly. “And, as we all know, its use and source can be hard to detect.”

“But I poured the drink for Jardine, and he carried it himself,” said Whitfield, no longer as sure of himself as he had been.

“Ah, you are assuming the poison was in the drink he obtained here,” said Holmes. “Yet he had just come from the dining car, and had eaten and drunk immediately before. If the poison required a short while to act, or was taken in a form that needed a little time to become potent, then the drink here is the least of our worries. I have heard ...” He let the provocative tone of his voice make its impact. “I have heard that there are many ways to disguise poisons, to slow or hasten their action, usually with food and drink.”

Inspector Carew nodded slowly. “I think I’ll have one of the constables go along to the kitchen of the dining room.”

“All the dishes are probably washed by now,” said Whitfield.

“But probably not the napery,” said the Inspector. “That could tell us a thing or two, if we can find the napkin and the tablecloth from Jardine’s meal.” He looked directly at Holmes. “I am impressed, Holcomb. Who would have thought a man from Satchel’s would turn out to be so keen an observer?”

“Observation is an essential part of my work,” said Holmes in what seemed a modest manner. “No one who travels as I do can afford to be unobservant.”

“As soon as I return, you may carry on with your theory,” Inspector Carew informed my employer. “Gentlemen, I am afraid I must ask you to remain in the lounge for a short while longer. Rollins,” he said, signaling to his coroner, “you can help find the—”

“Napery,” the fellow finished for him. “I am coming.” And so saying, he followed the Inspector out of the car to the platform leading to the dining car.

“At least we’ll soon have that body gone. It’s bad luck to travel with a corpse,” Olwin declared. “Kettering is a mail drop, and then we’re on a straight course for Leicester. I leave the train at Leicester.” He looked at the place Inspector Carew had stood.

Mycroft Holmes did not argue. “All the more reason to settle this here and now. None of us wants this nagging after him. Unsolved murders leave the police in a bad light. They pursue murderers diligently, and this case is no exception.” Holmes saw the men exchange glances.

“They never caught the Ripper, did they?” Mister Heath countered.

Holmes was unflustered. “No, they did not. But this is not a Ripper killing; it is a murder aboard a moving train, which means that there are a specific number of possible killers, for the murderer must be aboard.” He paused to let the men in the lounge consider this in all its possibilities.

“How do you mean?” asked James Loughlan, suddenly more apprehensive. “Surely they cannot think any of us would do this.”

“Well,
someone
killed him,” I ventured. “Those in his company are the ones most likely to be investigated.”

“Gracious!” Mister Olwin looked genuinely shocked at the suggestion. “You can’t think that we would have done anything to that poor man.”

“Well, he is certainly dead,” Mycroft Holmes pointed out.

“What about suicide?” Mister Heath looked nervous as he suggested this, as if it were a lapse in taste.

“Then why should he be frightened?” asked Whitfield.

Before an argument could erupt, Mycroft Holmes interrupted. “I believe it is wise for the police to err on the side of murder, for whom among us would like a such a killing to go undetected and unpunished?” As the men in the lounge exchanged uneasy glances, Holmes went on. “Poison is, as I have said, a sly weapon. Perhaps the most insidious thing about many poisons is that their effect is remarkably difficult to detect.”

“Do you think this was such a murder?” Whitfield was looking more frightened, and his voice had risen.

“It would certainly seem so,” said Mycroft Holmes. “But we must keep in mind the victim and how he came to be poisoned.” He cleared his throat and rocked back on his heels. “Poisons are not all alike; there are a number of poisons that simulate heart failure or apoplectic collapse that no method known to science can detect. Those are the favorites of the true professionals.”