The Flying Scotsman (24 page)

May the
Flying Scotsman
not become a moving cage, trapping MH, G, and HHPO as surely as any snare made for game.

Not more than half an hour ago, Sutton reiterated his concern that there may be more than one assassin in this plot, in which case I should warn MH to continue on his guard no matter what the Admiralty may tell him. I was pleased to inform him that I had already sent such a warning to MH, and that when next he retrieved his messages—at Sheffield, we must anticipate—he would find that supposition numbered among the various inferences that might be made when their potential risks are assessed ...

“I LOOK
forward to
Tschersky’s response to my telegram; given our current speed, he should have more than enough time to send it,” Mycroft Holmes said as he came into my compartment; his tone reflected his exasperation with still more delays. The train was once again proceeding more slowly than usual due to other trains ahead of us on the track. “I cannot but hope he will be able to fit a few more pieces of the puzzle for us.” He was looking a trifle tired, and his voice was a bit rough. I decided that his heartiness with the other passengers was catching up with him.

“Why should he know what you cannot discover for yourself?” I had not yet reached a point where I felt I could repose any real trust in the handsome Russian in spite of his usefulness in past years.

“Because he has knowledge of parts of the world where our inquiries would be conspicuous. His experiences have given him access to certain persons and organizations that are beyond our reach. He has made it a point to learn the activities of many rogues—not of the same cut as those my brother pursues, for Tschersky’s interests are more political, which suits my purpose admirably. Fortunately, I have served much the same function for him from time to time, and he is sufficiently in my debt to be inclined to extend himself on our behalf.” He held out three of the telegrams. “Read these, Guthrie, and tell me what you think when you have done.”

I took the flimsy sheets and stared down at them. “Which shall I start with?”

“The first is from Tyers. Read that one, if you will.” He managed to pace, while the train rattled on through the gathering dusk.

I adjusted the lamp over my settee, squinting to make out the faint letters. I had to remind myself of our code phrases, but once I had done that, I was able to get through the message without difficulty. “Two assassins? Is that likely? Could the Brotherhood have sent more than one, anticipating just such a play as we have undertaken?”

“I have thought it possible that we had to deal with more than one foe, but I did not allow for the possibility that they would be acting in concert. It is bad enough to have two men wanting to harm Herr Schere—that they have coordinated their efforts is far worse. That is most distressing in its ramifications.” He waited while I read the next, from Commander Winslowe, informing MH of the disaster with Prince Oscar’s double. “What perturbs me most in regard to Commander Winslowe’s message is not just the shooting, but the fact that he knew our ploy and was well enough to be able to reach us means that someone is talking about this tactic of ours far more than he ought. By all rights, he should have notified Tyers and allowed him to pass such news on to us.” He clapped his big hands and locked them together. “If I could discover who told him, then we might be in a fair way to unmasking the traitor.”

“Traitor? Isn’t that rather strong language?” I had been thinking of external opposition and enemies, not foes within.

“What else can I call it?” He looked distressed. “Read on, dear boy. There is more for you to see.”

Dutifully I examined the telegram from Superintendent Spencer, and I noticed that he was aware of the delays of the train, seeing sinister intent in this as well as what he represented as conclusive proof that his police were beyond suspicion in the danger to Prince Oscar, whom he insisted on calling “the foreigner,” as if such a designation were a sufficient disguise. “Not very encouraging,” I said when I put it down. “If he will not look to his men, where are we?”

“We will find a way,” said Holmes with great determination. “And late though we are, it may prove to our benefit if our enemies are not wholly aware of our new schedule, which may yet be subject to change again.”

“Do you suppose such a thing will happen?” I asked. “Why should we be delayed?”

“There might be any number of causes, all perfectly natural: there has been considerable rain in the last few weeks; as a result I would not be surprised if there are numerous washouts under tracks, which continue to appear solid but bend or give when the locomotive passes over them. There is also the chance of a tree down, or mudslide blocking the track farther up the line. I was once delayed because a bull had gotten loose and chose to try its horns on the locomotive engine itself. The train might have continued on without delay, but pride and concern for the good opinion of the passengers required most of the carnage be removed before the next station. And, of course, there is always the possibility that someone left a gate open for a large herd of sheep to amble slowly across the tracks in front of another train farther ahead of us. As to wrecks and other mischance, we are rather more familiar with the possibilities, from a crash to a sleeping switchman. The companies rarely choose to announce their mistakes.”

“I take it you have no plans of informing either Superintendent Spencer or Commander Winslowe of any changes of arrival times?” I handed him the telegrams.

“No. I will leave it to the Director of the North Eastern to do that, or so I shall say if I am questioned in this regard. They are the ones responsible for the safety of their passengers, and they have stated they place safety above speed.” He rubbed his chin. “These are the places where we must be diligent. If we are to assume that we were undiscovered until we boarded, then the run to the first station must be safe because there is no way to board before then. I anticipate the locations where we stop may be hazardous, Leeds and Sheffield the more so as we will be taking on water, sand, and coal, which will lengthen our halt.”

“We will be hard-put to observe all who come aboard, or leave,” I remarked.

Mycroft Holmes nodded. “In addition, there are those curves where the train must slow dramatically. One is very close to Edinburgh and Waverly Station; that may be turned to our advantage. But there are a series of curves after Leicester and more some distance before Edinburgh that will force a reduction in speed that could allow access to the train by anyone waiting nearby and determined enough to risk the jump.”

“That would be a desperate act, sir,” I said.

“Our enemies are desperate men, Guthrie.” He went on, as if thinking aloud. “We must assume that at some point we will be faced with opposition in the train itself. That is, if there is not already an assassin on board. Within the confines of the train we must be alert to any disturbance or distraction. There is no way to know what ruse may be employed to distract us and allow the killer to reach his quarry.”

I did not want to remind him that in the person of Miss Gatspy we already had an assassin on board. “I hope it will not come to that,” I said as I touched my stick-pin to be sure it was properly in place.

“No more than I,” Mycroft Holmes admitted with a hard sigh. “And there is supper, as well. We must be careful when we dine.”

“If you think we must, we shall be,” I said, sorry not to have any opportunity to enjoy the meal waiting for us. “I should think that given Jardine’s murder, poison would not be the method of choice for killing us.”

“Ah, but Guthrie, consider: the poisoner was another passenger, not one of the staff, and poison can be subtle as a knife or a gun cannot; often the victim of poisoning is unaware of what has happened until it is too late, which danger increases when a physician is not available. That is a consideration we must acknowledge. Between Leeds and Carlisle there are precious few stops where first-class medical care may be found; after Carlisle the possibilities are fewer still, and often what care is available must be summoned from a distance, all of which means the victim has a high likelihood of death. Poison is what we must guard against, although we must be alert to all means of attack.” Mycroft Holmes went to stand by the window. “At this speed, reduced as it is, we have little to worry about from an assassin on the ground.”

“Except when we are stopped or slowed to a walking speed,” I added for him, to acknowledge I understood his anxiety in that regard.

“Yes.” he cleared his throat. “I must go. You will have another spate of telegrams to send at Leeds; there may be ones to collect as well.” He lowered his voice. “I’m sorry to keep you on the run, but I fear I must.”

“No such thing, sir,” I said. “I welcome the activity.” It was no more than the truth—all these hours cooped up in a compartment, no matter how handsome, weighed upon me; my hip was no longer sore and I was as eager as a race-horse for a good run. I marveled that Prince Oscar could endure this enforced inactivity so well. I had to stifle the uncharitable recognition that he had Miss Gatspy to occupy his attention as unworthy of either the Prince or Miss Gatspy.

“Then, Guthrie, bestir yourself and see how Whitfield is doing in the lounge.” He went to the door. “And have a look at the first seating in the dining car. If anything strikes a wrong note with you, I want to know of it.”

“Very good, sir,” I said, thinking that while this recommendation was prudent, I did not entirely look forward to reciting the details of Jardine’s death yet again.

“Of course, you know better than to make your scrutiny obvious,” Holmes added as he let himself out of the door.

“Of course,” I said, rising and turning the lamp down low—I was not about to leave my compartment in darkness. I picked up my portfolio, neatened my tie, wishing as I did that I had brought a spare collar with me, for the points on this one were sadly wilted. We were nearly five hours behind schedule now, and no one who had boarded the train in London was looking entirely fresh. Had we been on time, we would have passed Carlisle by now and been on the last, fastest leg of our journey; as it was, there were hours ahead of us still.

The second-class car was not much occupied, the reason for which became apparent when I entered the dining car to find it filled to capacity with any number of passengers, including one family of seven that occupied two tables, one parent at each, trying to deal with tired children whose ages ran from two or three to thirteen or fourteen. As I made my way along the aisle between the ranks of tables, a few of the diners greeted me; having no desire to enter into any discussion of the deaths, I nodded my reply and kept moving, trying to present an air of cordiality as I did. Nothing struck me as inappropriate to the place, nor did I feel any inclination to question anyone I saw. Relieved, I went across the platform linking the cars. The lounge car was hazy with smoke from cigars, cigarettes, and pipes produced by a bit more than a dozen men. Making my way to the bar, I saw someone who was not Whitfield tending.

“He’s off shift,” said the new man, remarkable only for his astonishing ordinariness. Nothing about him was attractive, or odd, or notable: his height was average, his hair was medium brown, his features regular, his demeanor appropriate. Were he not behind the bar, I should never have noticed him. “He works until the first seating for dinner, and then he has four hours off. The name’s Quest; you’ll be that illustrator fellow, Guthrie. The train’s still agog at what you and that Mister Hol—comb did.” He held out his hand.

“Pleasure,” I said, and noticed how powerful a grip the fellow had; I also noticed that he had stumbled over Holmes’ assumed name—was it a slip of the tongue or something worse? Regarding the fellow as closely as I dared, I could not believe that the chap was athletic, but the strength of his hand suggested otherwise. “These long delays must be aggravating to you,” I went on.

“Not a bit of it,” he replied. “The longer we have to travel, the better business is here. It is inconvenient, to be sure, but thr’pence here and there makes up for it.” His reference to the tip he usually received when a passenger left the car made sense to me. “It helps that we don’t have to close in the afternoon, as we would if we were stationary. But there you are, then. What’s your choice?”

I considered a moment, then said, “I’ll have Assam laced with rum, if you can make it? In a glass.”

“Sounds Russian,” said Quest. “Wanting it in a glass.”

“If you had vodka, it would be,” I agreed with a laugh.

“Been there, have you?” Quest asked over his shoulder, tending to the kettle that steamed over a small gas ring.

“To the Crimea, very briefly,” I said; I had been there hardly thirty-six hours before I managed to get aboard an Italian merchant ship bound—thank goodness—for home.

“They say the women are passionate in Russia,” Quest prompted.

I could not help but smile. “Foreign women are always passionate. In Rome or Cairo or Moscow they probably say the same thing about Englishwomen.”

Quest chuckled. “Point taken,” he said, and put a strainer filled with black tea in the mouth of a good-sized glass and then gingerly poured in the near-boiling water. “Dark or light rum?”

“Dark, I think,” I said as he finished making the drink for me; he filled a jigger with dark rum and poured it through the tea leaves before removing the strainer from the glass. I could smell it across the bar and was relieved that the heat would burn off a little of the alcohol. “There you are,” he said, using his polishing rag to place it in front of me.

“Smells wonderful,” I said, and was about to move away from the bar so I could eavesdrop on the various conversations in the lounge when Quest motioned to me.