The Flying Scotsman (20 page)

“My travels are not nearly as extensive, but I agree with Mister Holcomb.” I did my best to be amiable, but I was beginning to feel some exasperation as well. “Before you ask, I am a Scot, as you probably can hear in my voice, though I have called London my home for nine years and more. My mother is a widow with other children, so when I could, I went out to earn my own way in the world.” It was true enough for broad strokes, although it conveyed an impression that was not accurate, as I intended it should.

“Have you encountered any trouble with poisons in your travels?” His inquiry was so bald that I spoke in haste.

“In Constantinople, some time ago, a fellow slipped one of those devilish Chinese rice-sprouts in a tiny bag into my food. It would have sliced my guts to ribbons had I eaten it. That might not be a classic poison, but it is close enough for me,” I said, the burr in my words stronger than usual, clear indication of my emotions. Even thinking of that ghastly moment when the tiny bag was discovered had the capacity to make me unpleasantly giddy. “What Mister Holcomb tells you is true.”

“Would Herr Schere say the same thing, I wonder,” the Inspector ventured, his eyes dreamy.

“I should think so,” said Mycroft Holmes at once. “He has the Balkans near enough to make him cognizant of the risks as well as the benefits of travel.”

“Um,” said Inspector Carew, indicating he was withholding judgment for a time.

“And if you have anything more you would like to ask us, why not do so directly? Mister Guthrie and I understand how important it is for you to do this, and we will gladly answer your questions.” He put his empty pony back on the bar; Whitfield took it at once.

“I am satisfied. For the moment.” He looked over his shoulder. “I am still surprised that you should be able to discern so much from such minuscule amounts of information.”

“The trained reporter’s eye, Inspector. I daresay you would have seen as much yourself, had you been in Guthrie’s position, or in mine.” Holmes pointed to my portfolio. “Remember that those who illustrate must see before they can draw. And observing the men through luncheon persuaded me that something was amiss among them.”

“You’ve made that very clear, Mister Holcomb. You need not repeat it for my bene—” He broke off as a loud crash and the sound of splintering glass came from the rear of the car, followed at once by a loud cry from Constable Washbourne. Inspector Carew was in motion almost before the sounds had died in the rattle of the train.

Mycroft Holmes was barely a step behind him, and I followed after him, shoving my way through the men who had gathered in the narrow entrance to the corridor that led past the baggage compartment to the lavatory. Shouts of consternation came from Constable Snow on the platform beyond, compounding the confusion around us.

By the time we reached the lavatory, Constable Washbourne had opened the door and gone in; the Inspector stood in the doorway. “Best fetch Rollins from the luggage compartment,” he said heavily.

Looking over Mycroft Holmes’ large, square shoulder I could see the window of the lav had been broken. As my employer took a step forward, I saw that Mister Kermit Heath was crumpled on the floor, a great, bloody welt on the side of his head. Blood had run from his nose and ears; it was apparent he was dead.

Constable Washbourne rose from the side of the body and muttered, “Excuse me, sir,” to Holmes as he went to bring the medical man to view the corpse.

“Dreadful, quite dreadful,” said Holmes with feeling. “I gather Dunmuir has escaped?”

“Constable Snow says he threw himself out the window; he saw him land on the embankment, but nothing more.” Inspector Carew indicated the door onto the platform. “I sent him back out. He was about to be sick.”

“Small wonder,” I said as I stared at the body.

“What was his weapon? Such a blow could hardly come from his hand,” Mycroft Holmes remarked as he approached the remains of Mister Heath.

“I must suppose he had some weapon secreted about his person we did not find.” It was clear from the tone of his voice that he held himself responsible for Heath’s death.

Holmes was close enough to bend over the body. “Something small, I should think. One of those shot-loaded saps, perhaps, or—” He stopped and scowled. “What a bloody fool I’ve been!” Since he rarely swore, this strong language surprised me.

“In what sense?” Inspector Carew asked wearily, rising as Rollins came through the door.

“It was right under our noses all the time,” Mycroft Holmes exclaimed. “The pouch of tobacco. It was larger than most and left a heavy bulge in his pocket. I took this as a sign of long use, but that was not the cause; it was the weight of the sap concealed beneath the tobacco!”

Mister Rollins knelt down beside the corpse. “A sap is very likely,” he agreed after a cursory examination of the wound. “The skull is broken right at the temple. The skull is thin there and more readily cracked. The killer knew his business.” He put his hand on the dead man’s face. “Probably happened too quickly for him to feel it.”

“Small comfort,” said Inspector Carew. “Still, I suppose it meant something to Heath.”

“He had no notion what he was caught up in. At least Dunmuir understood,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Which was why he fled.”

Inspector Carew leaned over Rollins to look out the shattered window. “We should be able to have police after him as soon as we arrive in Leicester. He’s on foot. They’ll snap him up before the dawn.”

“Possibly,” said Holmes, his voice sounding fatigued.

“But—” Inspector Carew began.

“You don’t know whether or not he had other accomplices. He had dragged Heath and Jardine into his coils—why should they be the only ones?” Mycroft Holmes moved back to the lavatory door where I stood. “Set your hounds after him, by all means, Inspector, but do not be dismayed if they cannot find him.”

Inspector Carew’s light blue eyes narrowed. “Do you know more than you are telling me, Holcomb?”

“Undoubtedly,” was Holmes’ answer. “But none of it pertains to this case.”

The nod that Inspector Carew gave had more than a bit of skepticism in it. “I will want to know how to find you. I may require your testimony in court.” It was a facile-enough explanation, but his intent was plain—he intended to check up on the fictional Mister Micah Holcomb.

“Satchel’s will always know where I am. And where Guthrie is, for that matter,” said Holmes easily.

Rollins got to his feet. “We’d best put this one in with the other,” he advised. “I’ll stay in the compartment until we reach Leicester.”

“That shouldn’t be too much longer,” said Inspector Carew. “That’s Market Harborough up ahead. Once past it, we have less than twenty miles to Leicester. Even following another train, we should be in Leicester within the hour.” He stood aside for his two constables, who were set to carry the body into the baggage compartment. “Mind how you go,” he advised his men as they struggled with the large, inert mass that had been Mister Heath.

As Mycroft Holmes and I moved out of the way for the men, Holmes said to me, “The police will probably not detain us for very long at Leicester. They have their work cut out for them, hunting Angus Dunmuir. The man is a greater scoundrel than they know at present; I am convinced of it. No doubt my brother could tell us more of the man, were we able to inquire of him. I imagine that a careful examination of his life would reveal some very troubling things.”

“Then you were suspicious of him from the start?” I had been unaware of it, had that been the case.

“Alas, no. I was too concerned about Herr Schere to pay much attention to Dunmuir. In retrospect I can point to many signs that would have excited my notice at another time.” He glanced behind him to see James Loughlan peering at the constables bearing the body of Kermit Heath, Norton Rollins completing the cortege. “A little respect, man, if you will.”

Loughlan withdrew at once, to be replaced by Olwin and the print editor still clutching his portfolio. The whole thing struck me as shabby and sad.

“Move back there!” Inspector Carew ordered, and this time the men obeyed, retreating to their chairs and stools and places at the bar, a few with the demeanor of schoolboys caught peeking into the master’s study.

Mycroft Holmes swung around to look at the Inspector. “Are the passengers restricted in their movements still?”

Inspector Carew thought it over a short while. “No,” he said finally, the suggestion of a sigh in his voice, “I suppose there is no reason.” He faltered. “I—I’ll make an announcement. That should ease them all somewhat.”

“And what are your instructions for Leicester?” Holmes continued. “Some of the passengers will be leaving the train there—”

“My men have their names,” said Carew.

“And some—like myself—have messages to send and to retrieve.” He stared directly at the Inspector.

“Once the bodies have been removed and the constables have checked the train, you will have a short time to send necessary messages. You are not the only one who will have to make alternate arrangements for travel.” He appeared mildly annoyed by these minor inconveniences. “For example, I will have to arrange to get the constables and myself back to Bedford.”

“At least you can return with the satisfaction of having completed your investigation,” said Holmes by way of encouragement.

“Perhaps. I would be better satisfied if we had Dunmuir in hand as well.” He tugged at the lobe of his ear. “I must alert all the constabularies in this vicinity.”

“Still, you have done excellent work, Inspector Carew,” Mycroft Holmes told him.

The Inspector laughed once. “You would think so.”

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

Still no word from MH. I am informed the train will arrive in Leicester shortly; I will have to send my telegrams at once if all my information is to be available when the train arrives. If I do not have communication from MH then, I will have to alert the Admiralty.

Poor Sutton is nervous, but he does his best not to show it. I know this is a struggle for him. He is getting ready to assume the persona of MH and pay his habitual visit to the Diogenes Club across the street, although he has plenty of time before he will be called upon for that service.

No further word from the police, either in regard to the assault on the double or to the trouble within their ranks. There is also no additional word about the assassin, which is the most troubling development of all. I had hoped to have more to impart, but that may have to wait for Sheffield ...

THREE
telegrams from Tyers!”
I exclaimed as I entered Mycroft Holmes’ compartment in the first car of the train. “And only one a copy of the one he sent to Bedford.”

“Matters must be moving more swiftly than I anticipated,” Holmes said, worry making his face more serious.

“Or they are more confusing than anyone anticipated,” I added.

“And you sent—” Holmes said as he took the messages I retrieved from my portfolio and held out to him.

“Everything you gave me, and my own report as well. The telegraph operator asked questions about a few of the phrases. I said it had to do with business dealings. I don’t know whether or not he believed me. I asked him to forward any more messages to the Sheffield and Leeds Stations. Cost me nearly three pounds.” This outrageous sum would have been inexcusable under less hazardous circumstances.

“A tidy amount,” said Holmes as he began to read the first. “How appalling,” he said as he perused the account of the assassin’s work on Prince Oscar’s double. “The information given to the assassin comes from a very well-placed source, one whom we must assume has some knowledge of our plans. The corruption goes higher than I feared.” He slapped the flimsy yellow message down on the seat. “I should have managed this better, Guthrie, had I known—” He stopped himself. “Well, there is nothing to be done now. I suppose I must resign myself to dealing with Herr Schere first, and settling the rest of it later.”

“Are you planning to tell Herr Schere?” I asked with an uneasy glance in the direction of his compartment. Miss Gatspy was still with him, maintaining the stratagem of his indisposition to make his isolation in his compartment unremarkable. I understood the necessity of this, but still thought it unseemly.

“Not just yet. I see no point in upsetting him,” said Holmes as he went on to the second telegram. “So. Tyers says another spent casing has been found on the roof of the building where Constable Childes was killed, a casing matching the one from the site of the first assassination attempt. How very ... convenient. I can understand an assassin being clumsy once, and leaving behind a casing, but twice?” He read the message through a second time. “Well, put this back in your portfolio, Guthrie. I will want to review it on our journey back to London, when I can give it my full attention.”

“Do you expect you will find something—” I began only to be interrupted by my employer.

“It’s all so
pat.
That’s what bothers me; it is set out like a trail of crumbs in the forest, a trail that is never disturbed, and leads inevitably to the very thing I am intended to find.” He laced his long fingers together and extended his arms. “This assassin is supposed to be very clever, capable of vanishing as if he had magical powers. Yet he twice leaves an important clue behind. This suggests to me that this may not be a clue at all. He would seem to disappear in a puff of smoke. Which is patently impossible. Therefore he is doing what magicians have always done—he is misdirecting our efforts, making us search where he wishes us to search, not where he is.”

“How do you intend to go about finding him, then?” I asked, for although I was by now familiar with Holmes’ methods, I did not see how he would apply them in this instance.

“The best way,” my employer reminded me, “to detect such a man is to look for someone doing a normal thing in an abnormal place or way. We must see who doesn’t fit, whose pattern of actions is slightly different from the usual, while appearing to be the most normal. Guthrie, my lad, we must never forget that this is a killer; he is not an ordinary man. When placed in the appropriate situation, he will kill, whatever the pose he has assumed. And that is supposing that we are dealing with a male assassin, which I believe to be the case now due to the absence of women at the earlier attempts, the selection of weapons, and the physical strength he demonstrated when killing the unfortunate policeman.”

I could not help but feel a jolt of relief on behalf of Miss Gatspy.

Mycroft Holmes paused and looked out the window at the passing countryside. “Sadly, the most likely opportunity to expose this assassin is when he makes his next attempt on the Prince’s life. If we can prevent its success, then we will have him. He believes he has made no mistakes, which is the greatest mistake of all.”

I put my hand to my eyes and said, “Then you think he will try to strike again?”

“If he has the chance.” He steadied himself for a moment as the train rocked with unusual vigor. “I think we must also prepare ourselves for the possibility that the assassin has an accomplice.”

“Do you mean among the police?” I asked.

“Unfortunately, I do,” he said. “Someone is helping him. How should he have gained access to those rooftops without the contrivance of the police? How else did he—or his accomplice—know about the movements of the double? And once the assassin learns he has failed to kill his target, where will he strike next?” He sat down, his face glum. “At least the police are no longer on this train, for which I am profoundly grateful. We may now act without regard for their scrutiny.” He fell silent as there came a knock on the door. “Yes?”

“Mister Holcomb? Will you be wanting tea?” The waiter’s voice was automatically servile. “There is a choice of China or India, green or black, and scones, biscuits, cheese, or cake with clotted cream, compote, or preserves. And there’re watercress-and-cucumber sandwiches.” He had repeated this so often that he rattled it off almost too quickly to make sense of it.

Mycroft Holmes pondered a moment, then replied, “My illustrator, Mister Guthrie, is conferring with me; we will both take our tea in this compartment. I will have China, black, and my illustrator India green—gunpowder, if you have it.”

“We do,” the waiter declared. “And the rest?”

“Scones, biscuits, cheese, and compote, I think,” he ordered, glancing at me for my approval, which I promptly gave. “Oh, and two baked eggs, if you would be so good. I’ll pay the three shillings extra for the special service.”

“Of course, sir,” said the waiter. “Your tray will be brought in fifteen minutes.”

When he was gone, I said, “I must confess, sir, that I have no appetite.”

“That does not mean you do not need something to eat. Come, Guthrie. Remember how difficult it is to try to think when the body is famished. You have said yourself that hunger impinges on thought more than fatigue.” He gestured toward the window. “At this rate we shan’t be in Sheffield much before dark. And the reason we took this train was its speed! Any villain on the London to York train could readily overtake us at the rate we are moving.” He began to play with his watchfob. “I don’t know what to say to Herr Schere. We are entrusted with his safety, and thus far all occasions contrive to compromise it.”

“Then we must find ways to restore it once again,” I said, with full awareness that I had only the vaguest notion of how this was to be done.

“So we must.” He cleared his throat. “I hope you are not too distressed by my employing your Miss Gatspy as Herr Schere’s guard? It seems a dreadful waste to have a woman of her talents available to us at this time and not to make use of her to the fullest. I trust you understand.”

“I have told you often and often that she is not
my
Miss Gatspy. You hardly need my permission to employ her in this or any other capacity you see fitting. I only hope she will not deceive us as to her purpose.” I heard how stiff I sounded; I tried to laugh in order to mitigate this severity. It came out more of a bark than I had intended, but it would have to suffice. “As an agent of the Golden Lodge, she must surely be watched; for the aims of the Golden Lodge, and hence Miss Gatspy’s do not always march with ours. Still, if the Brotherhood are behind these misfortunes, then she is the staunchest ally we can find, and for that reason alone I am certain we can rely on her to protect ... Herr Schere.”

“That was most impressive,” said Holmes. “I would almost suppose you had prepared it ahead of time.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “No, dear boy, do not bristle at me. I only want you to know that I am not insensible to your feelings in this instance, and I regard them as much as our predicament permits.” He fell silent as a kind of roar erupted from the first compartment of the car. “Oh, dear. Why did the waiter have to assume Sir Cameron wants tea?” he asked the air.

“—bloody arse! Bring me brandy, not your damned cat-lap!” There was a bang from the compartment door sliding closed. An instant later the door opened again. “And scones with clotted cream.” Then it slammed shut once more.

“Where is his valet?” I asked, thinking sympathetically of the poor man.

“Probably getting a brandy of his own. He probably thought Sir Cameron would not waken yet. As, I confess, did I.” Mycroft Holmes sighed and paced the limited confines of the compartment. “I must hope we have no more trouble from Sir Cameron. Perhaps he will doze after he eats. Brandy with scones and clotted cream should send anyone into the arms of Morpheus in a matter of seconds, although we cannot be certain in his case.”

“He sounded sleepy; that’s in our favor,” I said. “I don’t think we can drug him again, not without injuring him.”

“There is a certain temptation in that,” Mycroft Holmes confessed.

I had to concede him the point. “Yes. There is.” I did my best to put a good face on our situation. “If he has more to drink, he will probably go back to sleep.”

Holmes nodded distantly. “If he keeps on this way, he will never see sixty.”

“If he ruins our mission, he might not see tomorrow,” I reminded him. “If he should recognize you—”

“He didn’t recognize you,” Holmes said, as if this was encouraging.

“When you sent me to look after him and his treaty in Germany, I was in disguise and wearing an eye patch. The times I have encountered him since, I was nothing more than a functionary, and therefore invisible. If he ever made the association, we—”

Holmes interrupted me again. “In his current state I should think we have little to fear; I doubt such cognition is within his capabilities just now.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “This is jumping at phantoms. I should rather put my attention on the real troubles we face and leave Sir Cameron to his own devices.”

The tap on the door this time was more authoritative. “Mister Holcomb? It’s Inspector Carew. Might you spare me a moment of your time?”

Mycroft Holmes thrust his telegrams into his valise. “Certainly, Inspector. Guthrie and I were just trying to work out how to deal with this delay.” He offered a slight smile as the Inspector entered the compartment.

“Very good of you to see me, Mister Holcomb. I have come to thank you for all you did to make my work here less protracted. I confess I still cannot follow how you came to suspect Dunmuir on what seems such minor considerations, but I am grateful that you did. I have dispatched telegrams to all the constabularies up and down the line as well as those in the towns to be on the look-out for the fellow. I have no doubt that he will be in hand by tomorrow morning.”

“I hope you may be right, Inspector,” said Holmes, extending his hand and gripping Inspector Carew’s firmly. “I would like to ask you to send me word of how it all turns out. A note to Satchel’s in London will reach me wherever my work has taken me.”

“Under the circumstances, I should think it is the least I can do.” Inspector Carew then extended his hand to me. “You were most helpful also, Mister Guthrie. I never thought I should be grateful for an illustrator, but your efforts were most welcome.”

“Pleasure to have been of help,” I said.

“Well, I am going to release the train. The North Eastern line will be glad to have the
Scotsman
flying again.” He chuckled at his own humor. “They say the train will pick up speed after Loughborough and the turn-off to Nottingham and Lincoln; and after Leeds, it will move at its usual pace.” He gave Holmes a side-ways look. “I will not be filing my reports until morning, I think. The copies will not reach London until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Indeed,” said Mycroft Holmes as if he did not care.

Inspector Carew smiled thinly. “Well, I hope your journey will be unencumbered, Mister Holcomb. You may still reach Edinburgh before midnight.”

“I should hope so. But there are other trains on the tracks. Not like the old days when half the trains stopped at sundown,” said Mycroft Holmes as if he missed those times.

“No, not anymore.” He sketched a salute in our direction. “If only other Englishmen were as willing to do what England Expects,” he said, grinning at his own wit. Then he was out the door and gone.

“Finally,” said Mycroft Holmes. “If he is right, we should do well the rest of the way.”

“If he is right,” I echoed.

“Oh, Guthrie, such pessimism,” Holmes chided. “One would think you anticipate the worst.”

“If I do,” I said, “it is only because I have learned, in your employ, that the worst happens.” I heard the waiter pass in the hall and knock on Sir Cameron’s door.

“The Inspector knows more is going on than the crime he investigated,” Holmes was saying. “Which is why he told me when his report would be filed. If only I knew what he suspects, I—”