The Flying Scotsman (25 page)

“You see that man with the nose? He’s been asking about you and Mister Holcomb. Just thought you ought to know.” Quest moved back quickly and easily, once again suggesting a degree of athletic prowess.

I gazed over my right shoulder in the direction Quest had indicated, and saw that Arthur Burley was deep in conversation with an elderly man who might be a solicitor or a schoolmaster. “What the devil?” How had he got onto the train? He had said he was leaving at Sheffield, and here he was, riding on to Leeds. I supposed he must have been ordered to stay aboard, or had taken it upon himself to remain in the hope of finding more information. I wanted to curse, for I knew Mycroft Holmes would be annoyed to learn of this. Perhaps, I thought, the man would leave the train at Leeds, having got as much as he could on the murder. He would still be able to catch the Lancaster-to-Bristol night train and be back in Sheffield around midnight. It was a comforting thought, but I knew better than to rely upon it.

“I trust you will not mind my saying to you that you have done a very great service to the peace of this country,” said a man who had come up on my left side. I turned rather suddenly and saw a well-setup fellow of about my own age; I recalled him from our earlier encounter when Inspector Carew was conducting his inquiries. The man’s name was Jeffers, or something similar to that.

“I think you overestimate what I have done,” I said, studying his face in the hope of discovering any guile he might reveal. “In my position you would have done the same.”

“Shortly before you came in, I said as much to Burley there. Can’t have those newspaper johnnies carrying on as they do about the lack of duty that is becoming rife in these modern days.” He looked at my glass. “I’ll be pleased to stand you another.”

“Thanks,” I said. “No need. This is my limit before supper. It is kind of you to—” I did my best to look grateful for his offer, but I could tell he was mildly annoyed that I would not accept his hospitality. I tried to undo any poor impression I might have made by my refusal. “It has been a trying day, and I suspect much more drink would go to my head. You know how it is; Old Scratch fiddles on a drunken tongue. Can’t have that when there will be a lady at the table with Mister Holcomb, Herr Schere, and me.”

“Indeed,” said the fellow, and turned away.

“Don’t mind him being huffy,” said Quest, who had overheard the exchange. “You know how these former army types can be.”

“Former army?” I asked. “Why do you say that?” I supposed the man might have had a military background; I thought it more likely his father might have been an officer. I waited for what Quest might say.

“Stands like he’s got a broom up his bum,” the barkeep said, commonly and succinctly. “He has a very good opinion of his own judgment as well.”

“Very likely,” I agreed, balancing the glass on my portfolio as I adjusted my fingers on it.

“Takes all kinds, they say. Still, stuffy sorts are not as pleasant as those that likes a good time.” His attention was demanded by another passenger, whose ruddy cheeks revealed his mild intoxication.

I continued to take small, burning sips of my black-tea-and-rum while I did my best to listen without seeming to be listening.

“ ... too late for the coachman. I’ll have to walk the two miles ...”

“How can I explain to my wife about the killing? She’s been asking questions. She’s a delicate creature ...”

“ ... thirteen or fourteen hours to Edinburgh! Scandalous, I tell you. I shall demand a refund of my fare.”

“ ... left in the baggage, so I cannot reach it ...”

“ ... since my man of business advises against it.”

“The most marvelous whores in London, give you my oath ...”

“ ... prices on cotton from America ...”

“The whole village came out for it, made an occasion of it ...”

“Not that you could expect anything else from the Americans ...”

“ ... in terms of settlements, of course, I could not advise anyone to agree to such terms, let alone a friendless widow ...”

“ ... but I wouldn’t want my name in your paper ...”

“ ... against regulations, they told me, to let a passenger into the baggage compartment while the train is in motion; they don’t want to ...”

“Just what I was telling you. The fellow will be in custody by now ...” This was the military chap whose name I recalled as Jeffers.

“ ... the lad’s at school, of course, and will go on to Brasenose in ...”

“ ... hardly something for the Prince of Wales to deal with—more along Cecil’s line, I should have thought ...”

“ ... and a sweet omelette to finish ...”

“Nothing to do with me, old man, but if my daughter ...”

“ ... another scheme for the Norfolk broads ...” I recognized Arthur Burley’s voice, very smooth and plausible, as if he were steadying a skittish horse.

“If I left my bags at the station, the coachman could fetch them tomorrow ...”

Nothing caught my attention as requiring my immediate concern. I took a bit larger sip of my drink, burning the roof of my mouth as I swallowed.

“Is it to your liking?” Quest asked, trying to appear concerned for my good opinion.

“It is very good,” I told him, more out of courtesy than any sense of the quality of the drink. “Thank you.”

“Not the sort of thing often asked for; I shall remember your tipple, sir, that I will.” He thumped the bar with his knuckles to register the promise with the old Druid oak-gods. A summons from the other end of the bar from the fellow who had been talking about his son who would be going to Oxford demanded Quest’s attention, and he went to replenish the drink.

I went back to listening, hoping to learn something of use, but not at all sanguine that I would, or that I would know it when I heard it.

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

The telegrams have been sent and Sid Hastings is standing by at King’s Cross to receive any communication from MH, which he will deliver to me at once.

I am still much perplexed by the stance taken by Superintendent Spencer regarding the investigation of his men. Nothing I have communicated to him has shaken his conviction that there can be no member of the police willing to compromise the rest of the force in this way. If he is being willfully blind, I can only marvel at his assumptions and his ability to view the world on terms that are so influenced by his own loyalty. He insists he is satisfied that no police have knowingly helped enemies of Britain or her people. This impasse is at a most inopportune time, for I cannot partake of his belief without signally failing in my duty—a duty that S Spencer sees as unforgivable. I do not wish to occupy myself with disputes involving this most well-meaning man, but I am committed to do the task MH has given me.

Sutton is at the Diogenes Club, fulfilling MH’s habitual daily visit. He offered to have a word with Commander Winslowe, who is also a member, but upon reflection decided it might be risky to speak with someone who has worked with MH, no matter how superficially. Sutton believes we must identify the Admiralty spy aboard the train, not only to provide MH the identity of a possible ally in time of difficulty, but to inform him what passenger has been sent with instructions to observe him. I concur, but I would like to have more confirmation of this before I add it to the other information that must cause anxiety to MH when he learns the whole. With so many unexpected intrusions upon a fairly simple plan, I can see no good coming from adding unnecessary apprehension to the mix. I will wait until I have more solid information to impart.

No further word from CI Somerford, which does not give me the comfort it ought. I may be too superstitious about these matters, but his absence at this time strikes an ominous note within me; and although I can give no rational account for it, I fear that the explanation for his silence may have sinister implications ...

Hastings has just arrived. I’ll continue when I have seen what he has brought to me ...

SIR CAMERON
had started
singing again; I could hear him as soon as I entered the first car, and I shuddered at the sound he made. I wondered if he intended to visit the dining car for the second seating, in which case the maître d’ should be warned of what his staff might have to accommodate. Passing compartment five, I realized I had not seen its interior. Not that I should have done, since Miss Gatspy occupied it; but with Prince Oscar in the compartment ahead of her, I could not help but be concerned.

The valet appeared in the door of Sir Cameron’s compartment, his skimpy hair disordered, his face filled with repugnance and dismay. “I’ll try ... to arrange ...” he stammered to Sir Cameron, then hurried in my direction. “I won’t be more than five minutes, Sir Cameron.” He faltered as he neared me; I took sympathy upon him.

“Not an easy employer, by the sound of it.” And as I knew from experience.

“Just so, just so.” The valet glanced nervously back over his shoulder. “I should have been suspicious,” he added.

“Should have been suspicious about what?” I inquired, doing my best to detain him without actually laying hold of him.

“The salary was very good. Too good. I needed the money, you see, and my former employer had died six months since, so I accepted this post as an interim one,” he muttered before he broke away from me and hurried away toward the rear of the train. I watched him go with curiosity, hoping to make sense of what he had only now told me. He was not a long-time servant of Sir Cameron’s—and I doubted Sir Cameron had many of those—but what of his circumstances of employment might be significant, I could not tell.

Leeds was not far ahead; another twenty minutes and we should be on the platform. I would have to sprint to the telegraph office, collect the messages that had arrived, send those my employer wanted sent, and return to the train without attracting the attention of whomever was tracking our progress. I trusted the platform would be well-lit, enabling me to see everyone who left the train for whatever reason. If it turned out to be dark, I should have a much more difficult time of it. That the same would be true of the assassin gave me scant comfort.

Sir Cameron’s messy attempts at “Sweetheart, Remember” finally trailed away in a wailing cadenza. I thought the valet would be pleased to return to find his charge had fallen asleep once more. As I knocked on the door of compartment two, I thought it was fortunate that Mycroft Holmes did not have to listen for such a small sound against all that bellowing.

“Come in, Guthrie,” he called.

“How was the ... concert?” I asked, as I stepped through the door, jerking my thumb in the direction of compartment one.

“Don’t be cheeky, my boy. It doesn’t become you,” said Mycroft Holmes with a faint smile. The light from the lamps had softened his features so that he looked more like Sutton than was generally the case. “He only started about five minutes ago.” He had a small pile of papers in front of him. “I want to go over one or two things with you before you send these off. One, you will see, is to Yvgeny Tschersky. If there is a telegram from him, send this. If there is none, do not send it.” He indicated I should pull out the stool and sit. “This one to Tyers is obvious. This to the Admiralty must be handled very carefully. We do not want the telegraph operator puzzled by a journalist for
Satchel’s
sending information to such an august body as the Admiralty, so this salutation of ‘Dear Uncle’ is crucial, as is the wording. I know you are always conscientious, Guthrie, but in this instance you must be doubly so, for it is my intention to unveil a traitor if we can. The same strictures accompany the telegram to Superintendent Spencer. We have to make an effort to discover which service is the source of the duplicity we have seen in action.”

“Hence the various telegrams,” I said, indicating the papers he had prepared.

“Obviously. I have a notion that with the right prodding, I can unearth the culprit,” he said with that quiet confidence that marked all his actions.

“Rather like poking a stick into a wasps’ nest, I should think,” I ventured.

“It may be, or it may be more a badger’s earth, and my opponent will make himself known in an obvious and belligerent manner.” The satisfaction he felt at this prospect would have unnerved me a year ago; now it only made me wince a bit.

“Have you formed some opinion upon it?” I asked, trying to imagine what scraps of information he had pieced together, if this were the case.

“I would be foolish to do so, Guthrie. I am well-aware that, like it or not, I must take the cautious approach and be doubly certain of all my facts before I draw any conclusions. At present, facts are in short supply, a situation that these telegrams are intended to correct. So ready yourself for a hectic ten minutes. I,
for one, will be glad of a short respite while you are about your labors.” He yawned as if to prove he meant it.

I took the papers he proffered. “Other than Tyers and Tschersky. what other responses are you expecting?”

“I am
expecting
none; I am envisioning two or three different possibilities, which is another matter entirely.” Mycroft Holmes sighed heavily. “If we were not on this train, matters could be handled very differently indeed. But we are here and here we must stay, so I will deal with our problems within the limitations imposed upon us.” He fiddled with his watch-fob. “How is our ... our invalid?”

“I did not stop in compartment four returning from the lounge. I must assume it is much the same as before.” I heard that stuffy note come back into my voice again and was about to apologize when Mycroft Holmes stopped me.

“Don’t fash yourself, dear boy. The lady is safe as houses.” He beamed at me. At another time I might have questioned his motive, but on this occasion I did not, for I was convinced of his kindly intentions.

“Yes; I understand that.” I had to steady myself as the train began to brake.

“Good. By the way, what news from the lounge?” He gave me his polite attention.

“Nothing that seems of bearing on our work,” I said, and outlined what I had overheard.

“Um. Just as well.” He clapped his hands together. “We’ll be in Leeds Station shortly. Make yourself ready, Guthrie. This may prove to be our most crucial stop.”

“Very well,” I said, and readied myself by putting the texts for the telegrams into my portfolio.

“Damned useful thing, that portfolio of yours,” Mycroft Holmes remarked. “So very obvious it is unobvious.” He gestured me to the door and put his hand to his forehead. “I am more than ready for my supper; I admit it readily.”

I had little appetite but I knew it would be prudent to eat, so I nodded. “The second seating will begin shortly after we leave Leeds. I will take Miss Gatspy’s place as soon as I have delivered the telegrams to you,” I reminded him.

“Yes, yes.” He looked toward the windows where houses and undecipherable buildings flashed by, some showing well-lit windows, some dark as tombs.

I felt the train continue to slow and heard the signal bells as we approached the station, now going quite slowly. I swung around toward the door. “I am ready, sir.”

“That you are, my boy, that you are,” said Mycroft Holmes looking far more relaxed and confident than I would have thought possible. “We’ll have a pleasant time at supper, no doubt of it.” With that he motioned to me to leave his compartment.

I complied at once, sensing that he was filled with more concerns than he would impart to me until he had read the next installments of telegrams. I had come to know when he was holding himself in readiness and saw that now was just such an instance. As the lights of the station platform struck me, I saw that a number of policemen were waiting, apparently for the arrival of the
Flying Scotsman,
for as the train braked itself at last, I saw two of the uniformed constables move forward, one of them carrying a truncheon. What on earth required such preparation? I was puzzled, for I supposed that the police were finished with the passengers. Then a more sinister possibility struck me—if the police were here to intervene in Prince Oscar’s journey, there was clearly something very much amiss.

The conductor bawled out the name of the station from the platform between cars; the engine hissed and billowed masses of white steam into the evening air, and the sound of opening doors was heard throughout the train.

As soon as the steps were down, I was off the train and moving quickly to the telegraph office. I did not run, for I knew it would draw attention to me in a way I would find most inconvenient. It was an effort not to watch the progress of the constables over my shoulder, but I managed.

“Guthrie?” said the telegraph operator with a stunning lack of attention; he was a pudding-faced man nearing forty and grown lackadaisical. “No, I don’t think I—”

“Look again, man,” I said sharply. The last thing I wanted was to deal with a clerk who was slipshod in his work. My first impression of this fellow was that he was just such a one. “Guthrie. P. E. Guthrie,” I repeated, leaning on the high counter between us.

He shrugged to show his lack of concern, but went through the motions of looking, and this time feigned surprise when he put his hand on four telegrams. “This will be what you want, then?” He held them out to me, plainly waiting for a tip for his service.

I took the telegrams and glanced at the various returns on them, and selected the appropriate message for Tschersky. “Thank you,” I said absently.

“You’re a busy lad, having so much to do.” He tapped his finger like a musician warming up.

I ignored his implied slight. “I have a few to be sent,” I said sharply, handing him the papers Mycroft Holmes had just entrusted to me. “Put them on your wire at once. The train is badly behind schedule and there are those in London who must be notified of our delay.”

“Patience is a virtue,” the man said with a show of unconcern that annoyed me.

“And sloth is a vice,” I added for him as I put the telegrams into my portfolio. “Your superiors would not like to receive complaints of you, I am sure.”

His posture grew straighter. “You have no cause to do that.”

“Not if you set out to send the telegrams at once,” I said, ignoring his look of ill-usage. As the man began to work his key, I said, “Plenty of constables about.”

“Oh, aye. They’re here at the behest of some brass-buttons in Bedford. They’re looking for a barman from the train. Something about a murder on the train. But you’d know more about that than I, I suppose.” He was glad of this interruption and would have taken more advantage of it if I had not made a point of pulling out a five-pound note and holding it where he could see it. He sighed and went on with his task.

The policemen were milling about now, and one of them began to rap out orders I could not hear. The constables were clearly distressed about some aspect of what they had discovered. In a short while, the Sergeant came into the station and went toward the Stationmaster’s office, closing the door forcefully.

“I wonder what that is about?” the telegraph operator said speculatively. He glanced in my direction, but I did nothing to encourage him.

“I haven’t a notion,” I said, hoping I did not sound as curious as I, in fact, was. “Keep on with your work.”

The fellow scowled, and I did my best to ignore his evident displeasure. Only when he had keyed the last of the messages did I pay him for his efforts. I then prepared to return to the train only to hear the Stationmaster announce that the train would be delayed for twenty minutes while the police conducted a thorough search of the cars for the other barman.

So Whitfield was missing, I thought, and decided it alarmed me to hear this. I decided Mycroft Holmes needed to be informed of this at once. With that intention in mind, I went back across the platform and climbed aboard the train once again.

Mycroft Holmes was pacing the confined space of compartment two. For a man of his height and size, the compartment provided very little room for an outlet of his strain. I paused in the doorway until Holmes came to a halt. “I have telegrams, sir,” I said, patting my portfolio just above my gold initials.

“Good.” He held out his hand for them even before I had closed the door behind me. “How many?”

“Four. Tyers, Commander Winslowe, Superintendent Spencer, and Tschersky. Nothing from anyone at the Admiralty,” I said as I gave them to him.

“Too many, with or without the Admiralty; we might as well head a parade,” he grumbled. “Well, let’s have a look at them.” He opened the first, from Tyers, and read through it swiftly. “Damn,” he said conversationally.

“What?” I asked nervously; he was apprehensive, and I caught it from him.

“There seems to have been a problem.” He sat down and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“How ... how bad is it?” I did not want to add to his distress, but I could not deny my apprehension. “What does Tyers say?”

Mycroft Holmes did not answer at once. “I must assume that Tyers has kept this to himself. Otherwise I am certain we would not be—” He stopped and looked up at me. “Guthrie, we must have a word with Miss Gatspy.”