The Flying Scotsman (32 page)

“We’ll be in Edinburgh in a few minutes, Sir Cameron,” the valet went on in his attempt to placate the outraged knight. “You’ll want to make haste.”

“I’ll make what I damned well please!” Sir Cameron roared.

It might have been a signal, for the loud report of a pistol punctuated Sir Cameron’s outburst, which now became a bellow of rage. I stumbled toward the door, only to find Miss Gatspy a step ahead of me. As she slid the door open, she looked back at me. I noticed she carried something in her hand—I assumed she had brought her pistol in her purse and was planning to use it.

“Well, one of us had to do something, Guthrie,” she said before she shoved past Sir Cameron’s valet and toward the door to her compartment.

“Penelope!” I cried, just at that instant more apprehensive on her behalf than anyone else on the train. Then I stopped as I saw Sir Cameron sprawled in the narrow confines of the corridor, half-leaning against the wall, cursing steadily and loudly, his hand wrapped around his shoulder which was already wet with blood. I hesitated for a heartbeat only—and I curse myself for doing so—then plunged after Miss Gatspy, who had placed herself in front of the shattered door to compartment five. I saw Sir Cameron’s valet fumble in an attempt to aid his employer, and I had to be agile to avoid either man.

A figure hurtled our of compartment five striking Miss Gatspy a sharp blow on the side of her head, and then firing again in the direction of Sir Cameron. The shot went wild, but in the confusion the man bolted for the lav, got inside and slammed the door.

“We have him!” shouted the valet, abandoning the infuriated Sir Cameron to launch himself at the lav door.

I was about to echo his sentiments when I recalled that broken window and wondered if we had been too quick to assume the criminal was trapped. My worst fears were realized at the sound of splintering glass, and another shot.

“Good Lord, what is he doing?” Miss Gatspy murmured, her hand to her head, her marvelous eyes glazed. Their wavering glance struck me as no bullet could.

I dropped to my knees beside her, pulling her against me. I did not care that the valet stared at me. “Promise me you are not hurt, Miss Gatspy.”

“I ... will be all right. But he is getting away, Paterson; stop him.” She had rallied enough to upbraid me, and I was happy to hear it.

“He can only reach the roof of the train from the window,” I said. “And he will not be able to go far from there,” I soothed her, recalling my own time on the roof of the train.

“If he reaches the engineers, we have trouble,” said Sir Cameron’s valet, with more purpose than I had seen him display yet.

Mycroft Holmes appeared in the corridor, a pistol in his hand. “Is there anything I can do, Guthrie?” He appeared utterly urbane, bur I could discern a note of apprehension in his deep voice.

“Sir Cameron has been shot,” said his valet coolly. “I don’t think it is serious, but he will need attention.” He managed to kick the lav door open. “Leftenant-Commander Thomas Ames, at your service, Mister Holmes,” he added with a salute. “I’ll be the escort to take your person to his ship.”

“I’ll need more than a word in the middle of trouble, Ames,” said Holmes so brusquely that I knew he was seriously annoyed. “In the meantime, Whitfield is getting away.”

“And that could be difficult,” said Ames. “I will make my way to the engineers to help them. I have—”

“Am I to bleed to death?” demanded Sir Cameron in stentorian tones.

“The cad shot me!”

“I shall present my credentials when we both have leisure for it,” Ames said, and headed for the front of the car. “We are near the station, and time is precious.”

“Then hurry. I will see to Sir Cameron,” said Mycroft Holmes in a tone of ill-usage. “Guthrie, make sure Miss Gatspy is not seriously injured, then ready yourself for the chase, for it is my belief that Whitfield will try to make his escape as we enter the station at Edinburgh, which is not far ahead.

The view from the train had changed rather abruptly from rough hills to brick-and-shingle buildings growing ever closer together. We were entering the Portabello curve at a much more reasonable speed than when my employer was a passenger during the race. To one side was the wide expanse of the Duddington Road, during the day filled with carts, wagons, and traffic of all sorts, now all but deserted. After crossing a steel bridge over another busy way, the proximity of the station was apparent by the increasing number of tracks visible to both sides of our car. Beyond these iron rails and up a small slope sat a line of tightly packed four-story residences, their walls stained with soot and coal dust. At irregular intervals an even more darkly stained chimney made of the same dark stone as the building’s walls shoved into the night sky. I turned away from the window to face Miss Gatsby.

“I am quite able to manage for myself,” announced Miss Gatspy, trying to move out of my protective hold. “My head is ringing, but I am not ill.”

“Will someone take care of my shoulder?” Sir Cameron held up his blood-stained hand. “Must I—”

Mycroft Holmes came a few steps nearer. “Let me help you up, Sir Cameron.” He was able to lever the wounded man to his feet, supporting him with his shoulder.

“Damn, Holmes, what are you doing here?” Sir Cameron said, his voice shaky but much more sober than before he was shot; it was just such outbursts as this one that had caused us to be so careful in regard to the Scot.

“Taking care of you, it would seem,” he answered drily. “Guthrie, see to Miss Gatspy, and then be ready.”

“Of course,” I said, feeling a pang of conscience, for I had been enjoying this opportunity to hold Miss Gatspy. I helped her to stand on her own as Mycroft Holmes took his unwelcome charge to his compartment. “You had best go to my compartment.”

“I think rather I should go to ... Herr Schere,” she said to me, as she leaned on my arm. “Someone should be with him.”

“Excellent notion,” approved Mycroft Holmes just before he shoved Sir Cameron into his compartment. “Tend to it, Guthrie.”

I was not entirely pleased with this notion, but I had none better to offer, and there was some urgency. I had an unpleasant moment as I thought that it was very strange that Prince Oscar had not set foot outside his compartment in all this excitement. As I reached for the door, I faltered, afraid that in the turmoil of the last two minutes he might have come to some harm. It was just as well that I hesitated, for Prince Oscar himself pulled the door open, greeting Miss Gatspy and me with a drawn pistol.

“Guthrie!” cried he, lowering his weapon at once. “Miss Gatspy. For goodness sake—” He broke off to say something under his breath in what I supposed must be Swedish, for it sounded something like German. “Hurry.”

Miss Gatspy suddenly leaned a bit more heavily against me. “Yes. Do get me in, Guthrie,” she said, in a thready voice. “I fear I am ... somewhat weak after all.”

“Oh, Good Lord,” I expostulated, and swept her into my arms to carry her into Prince Oscar’s compartment; a sweeter burden I had never borne, and I was saddened to put her down on the Prince’s daybed.

“Was it Loki?” Prince Oscar asked, sounding very calm for a man who had narrowly escaped assassination.

“It was Whitfield,” said Miss Gatspy faintly. “Whether or not he is Loki is uncertain.”

“Don’t tax yourself, Miss Gatspy,” I recommended, holding her hand to assure myself she was not unwell. “I must excuse myself. You will watch after her for me, won’t you?” I did not think it inappropriate to entrust the care of Miss Gatspy to the Prince.

“Certainly. Off you go, Guthrie,” said Prince Oscar, adding as he gestured toward the window, “We are nearing the station.”

Ordinarily I would not like being summarily dismissed in that manner, but I knew Mycroft Holmes was depending upon me. “I will return for her once all is safe.”

“Very good,” said Prince Oscar as I hastened to the door. The corridor was empty, and I noticed the train was slowing down. The outlines of darkened houses went past, no longer a blur, but distinguishable. I hurried toward the front of the car, unconcerned about attracting the attention of Sir Cameron. I stepped onto the half-platform connecting the first car to the collier just behind the engine. I stood there in the thickening mist, ready to do anything I might to assist Ames in apprehending Whitfield.

The tracks curved, beginning the two-mile-long approach to the station at Edinburgh. I squinted into the darkness and wind, hoping to discover the whereabouts of either Whitfield or the self-announced Leftenant-Commander Ames. I became aware that my hip was aching once again, but it was not sufficient to keep me from my duty. The train slowed still more, to less than ten miles per hour, and I reckoned that if Whitfield were to make a move, he would make it now, when he might have a hope of getting off the train without killing himself.

I heard a shout above me, from the roof of the first-class car. I swung about and looked up and made out the shadowy outline of a man crouched on the lip of the roof, poised as if to climb down the ladder on the outside of the car. I could not see which man it was and so I was not certain what I should do. I tried to move to find a better vantage-point, trying to make the most of the occasional lamp illuminating the tracks leading into the station, which was now less than a mile ahead in the night.

The man on the roof could no longer wait. He dropped onto the ladder and began his descent, moving quickly and in so furtive a manner that I became wary of him. Holding onto the metal railing I leaned out as far as I could to look at the man, and had to draw back as a kick was sharply directed at my head.

I was certain this was Whitfield, and I resolved to capture him. Gathering myself, I launched myself out and around, confining the hips and legs of the man on the ladder. He tried to kick me, but I clung to the ladder rung I had seized, refusing to budge in spite of the blows the fellow directed at my bruised head.

Ahead of us, Edinburgh Station gaped, a dark, open maw. If I could maintain my grip for another minute or so we would be near the station platform, and I would be able to tumble us both onto the boards without much risk of serious injury. But as Whitfield tried to grasp and tear off my ear, and I whipped my head about to prevent him, the station seemed very far off.

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

Sid Hastings has left for King’s Cross to send another telegram, with instructions he is not to return until he has confirmation that the
Flying Scotsman
has at last arrived in Edinburgh. It is my hope that the Directors were correct in their estimation and that the
Flying Scotsman
will shortly arrive, thus ending the apprehension that has marked this night.

Too overwrought to sleep, Sutton is working on Mosca’s lines; I shall know that part by heart before the night is over.

Still no word from or regarding CI Somerford, which troubles me a great deal. I cannot rid myself of the conviction that through the investigation I have supervised he has come to grief, but whether through vice or virtue I cannot yet determine. When MH returns in two days, if there has been no contact from the man, we must presume the worst—his death or his flight—and do what we may to repair the damage resulting from it.

Word from the Admiralty has finally identified the agent they have put on the train as Sir Cameron MacMillian’s valet, a Leftenant-Commander named Ames. He is the hand-picked aide of Commander Winslowe and comes with encomiums from many high-ranking officers. It would seem that Sir Cameron provided the perfect cover, and so was put aboard the train to account for the Leftenant-Commander’s presence. Their information is provided tardily, but I am told that MH will find confirmation of the agent’s identity waiting in Edinburgh, to facilitate handing HHPO over to the Navy’s care.

On a less reassuring note there has been another message from Yvgeny Tschersky, warning that he has discovered intelligence that suggests an attempt may be made on MH’s life in Edinburgh if HHPO is not killed before he is taken into the care of the Royal Navy. I doubt I will have sufficient time to warn MH of this before he is in danger; and since there are so few particulars in Tschersky’s information, I do not think my concern would do more than add to the anxiety that MH must deal with. Rumors can be most useful tools; but when they are as insubstantial as this one, I am not easy in my mind about adding to the anxieties of MH and the others, no matter how reliable Tschersky is. Had I specific information, I would make every effort to provide it with all dispatch; but with nothing to offer but a rumor, and a hint of a rumor at that, I am inclined to wait. I trust I have not erred in my judgment in this regard.

HANGING
onto the side
of the first-class car, I struggled with my adversary, my grasp upon him all but failing as the train braked again and again. Finally I took hold of the man himself, anchoring myself as well as I could by hooking my feet under the lowest rung. I felt stretched like a racehorse’s girth, but I was able to stop his attempts to poke out my eyes or mutilate me in some other way. I clung to him like grim death as the station grew closer and closer, and the train shuddered from the brakes being applied, causing Whitfield and me to bow outward from the side of the car. I felt my shoulders strain and my thigh quiver with effort.

We were fifty yards or so from the station platform when one lurch proved too much: Whitfield let go and, as I had no purchase but the one upon him, the two of us tumbled back off the train onto the gravel between the various tracks that fed into the station. We hit the ground hard; I knew I was dazed by the spangles before my eyes, though the shock of the fall did not hit me then. For a half-dozen heartbeats I could not move, and then I felt Whitfield try to wrench out of my grip. He managed to get one leg free enough to kick me in the abdomen.

I released him and doubled over, rolling onto my side as he scrambled to his feet and began to race across the tracks, making for the freight warehouse next to the passenger platform, just inside the station. I forced myself onto my knees, and then to my feet, and started after him, wheezing like a grampus as I went. The mist made my footing treacherous, and I took what comfort I could in the realization that my adversary did no better than I in that regard. Behind me, I heard a shout, which I thought must come from Ames, for it seemed to originate high above me. I kept on steadily, taking as much consolation as I could in the observation that Whitfield was limping. Belatedly shock was making me cold, so I strove to keep moving, if only to stay warm. While the
Flying Scotsman
pulled into its Edinburgh platform at last, I continued my pursuit of Whitfield.

As we neared the station itself, I began to see how vast it was; I felt fear welling in me, fear that once Whitfield reached the station, I would have little chance of catching or detaining him, which would crown this long journey of mischances with a disgrace I could not endure. If I failed to apprehend Whitfield, I knew beyond all doubt I would attaint myself in my employer’s eyes and dishonor myself in Miss Gatspy’s. With these melancholy reflections to goad me on, I redoubled my efforts, ignoring the stitch in my side and the throb in my hip. I was shortly rewarded by visibly closing the gap between me and Whitfield. I summoned up reserves from depths that would have alarmed me had I not been so desperate. With a last effort I plunged ahead, finally reaching the tail of Whitfield’s coat. I stopped and pulled on it with all my might and the very last of my flagging strength.

I caught Whitfield on his weak leg and he went down with an oath so vile I was appalled. I landed upon him, pummeling him in the side of the head with all my might; I had never felt rage as I did then, and in truth it frightened me as I became aware that I was trying to beat him to death. Shaken, exhausted, and sore from my head to the soles of my feet, I got to my feet, then dragged him erect, finishing by landing my fist at his waist with all the strength I could summon, in payment for the kick he had delivered me. I was panting as I took hold of his collar and made him straighten up once more. “Come,” I ordered him, half-dragging, half-prodding him toward the steps leading up toward the platform where the train had at last come to rest. The stairs proved as difficult to scale as a mountain crag, but I persevered, making Whitfield climb with me, though he cursed and coughed and tried twice to lash out at me. I was very pleased to see Leftenant-Commander Ames waiting, pistol in hand, for us at the head of the porters’ stairs.

“Very fine work, Mister Guthrie,” said Ames, leveling his pistol at Whitfield.

Looking at Whitfield now I saw almost none of the ingratiating barkeep who had made such an effort to provide good service. There was no trace of that eager good-will that he had shown as he set up drinks for the passengers. His features were harder than I had earlier thought they were, and his demeanor, even beaten and captive, was contemptuous and defiant.

“You’ll not keep me. Make the most of your chance, for I will be gone before you are back in London. Mister Vickers protects his own.” He spat at me. “Tell Mycroft Holmes he is a fool.”

At the mention of Vickers’ name, I felt my hands clench at my sides, for I was still somewhat over-wrought. I did not trust myself to speak.

“Come along, you,” said Ames, motioning Whitfield to move ahead of him. “You’ll lose that sneer soon enough.” He looked back in my direction for a moment. “Quite impressive, you were.”

“Thanks,” I said, certain I deserved no praise. I had done what I had for pride and wrath, which made me feel a sham to accept his compliment. My legs felt watery, and I had to resist the urge to sit down and put my head between my knees and be sick. Now that the immediate danger was over, I felt strangely empty.

“Mister Holmes will tell you the same.” He pointed toward the train that was now actually stopped, the conductors letting down the stairs for the passengers.

“Are you so certain of that?” I asked, unwilling to accept him at his word. I had had my fill of people with double and triple purposes about them, and identities that were as fallacious as the claims of horse-dealers.

“Yes. I have proof of identity in my pocket, if you would care to retrieve it.” He indicated with his elbow which pocket contained his credentials. Tired though I was, I took it out and examined it, determined not to be deprived of a victory that had cost me so dearly. Finally I nodded. “Leftenant-Commander Ames. Under other circumstances I would say it is a pleasure.” I returned his billfold to his pocket while he continued to hold Whitfield with his pistol.

“Quite so, Mister Guthrie. So if you do not mind, I will be about my assignment and deliver this fellow to the proper authorities?” He inclined his head slightly.

This simple reminder gave me the determination to keep to my task. “Be careful with him. He is a very dangerous man, and in the employ of dangerous men,” I said, perhaps unnecessarily.

“Do not bother yourself on that account,” Ames assured me. “He will rue this night for many long years, unless he is hanged as a murderer.” He continued on his way with his prisoner, going off toward a side-door to the station.

I plodded on toward the train, looking at the station as if I had never seen it before. Waverley Station was designed in the still modern and appealing classical style; its light stone walls would have fit well among the ancient buildings of Athens: The train bay was long and deep, with room for over twelve trains to load simultaneously. The ceiling above was partially closed in, protecting the trains and platforms, but not trapping in all the smoke and steam. It was a thoroughly modern design including all of the latest conveniences. A large, glass dome dominated the ceiling over the interior of the station, the light from this being supplemented by a number of flat skylights. This meant that even on a cloudy day, of which there are so many in Scotland, the interior of the station remained well-lit. I wished it were daylight so I could see how pleasant the platform could be.

The walls of the station were of the same golden stone that comprised the walls of so many of the larger buildings in Edinburgh. This stone was accented by areas of eggshell blue and gold with the occasional touch of gilt. From the entrance I could see the shuttered fronts of several restaurants, shops, and pubs that served the hundreds of travelers who passed through the station daily. On the far wall, tall arches marked the location of the brass-and-glass doors. Beyond one door I could just make out the beginning of the famous Waverley steps that lead to the High Street.

There were a few bags already removed from the baggage- compartment, the porters hurrying to do their work; with the hour so late, most of them were tired. I passed them, dragging my feet with every step. I could see most of the train was emptying. The waiters were gone from the dining car, and only the maître d’ remained to give his report to the Stationmaster. Finally I climbed aboard at the first-class passenger car and found Mycroft Holmes waiting for me, his pistol at the ready. Behind him, Prince Oscar was lending his arm to Miss Gatspy, who was still a trifle unsteady on her feet. I could see dismay mount in Holmes’ deep-grey eyes, and I thought I must truly look a fright now, with new bruises forming on those that were a few hours old.

“Guthrie. What happened?” His simple question nearly unmanned me. “You look a sight, dear boy,” he added, giving me time to get a grip on myself.

“Ames has Whitfield in hand,” I said. My voice was not as steady as I would have liked. I coughed and tried again. “I kept him from making his getaway.”

“I knew you would,” Holmes said heartily, belatedly putting his pistol in his pocket. “We will have a short wait for our escort. You can tell me ...
us
all about it until the Navy comes.”

There did not seem to be much for me to say. “Well, Whitfield did his best to vanish before we arrived in the station and I made sure he did not. Leftenant-Commander Ames has him in hand now. I saw his papers. He is who he claims to be.” As I spoke my gaze kept drifting from Mycroft Holmes to Miss Gatspy, who was listening with such intent that it seemed almost painful. The soft spill of light from the station platform struck her fair hair, lending it a lunar shine. “Are you going to be all right?”

“Yes,” she said calmly. “Are
you?”
The bruise on the side of her head had developed a pronounced lump and I saw that she was still pale.

I nodded heavily. “I must be a dreadful sight.”

“Never mind that,” Holmes interrupted as a porter came onto the train, going to compartment one, which Sir Cameron MacMillian had occupied.

Knowing Mycroft Holmes intended us to reveal nothing, I obeyed at once. “I trust you will not need me ready at seven in the morning?” I remarked as the porter carried away Sir Cameron’s luggage, carefully showing no curiosity at all as he completed his task. “Where is Sir Cameron?”

“He left as soon as we stopped; he demanded the services of a physician on the grounds that he had averted a dangerous criminal from taking over control of the train,” said Holmes drily.

“That is a self-serving fabrication,” said Prince Oscar indignantly. He had his valise beside him, ready to depart as soon as the Navy officers came. “I shall tell the world how mendacious he is.”

Holmes sighed, “I wish you would not, Your Highness, for it would do Britain no service to have the events of this journey known. Let everyone think Sir Cameron routed a bandit—well and good, for it preserves our mission’s secrecy.” He looked directly at the Prince, his long face remarkably candid.

Miss Gatspy added her support. “He’s right, Your Highness. One of the proofs of success for Mister Holmes—and how good it is to use that name again—is that it remains unknown to all but those few for whom it is crucial.” She gave me a warm smile. “Think of what Guthrie has been through, and keep your knowledge to yourself.”

Prince Oscar thought over what we had said. “All right, I will. But it galls me to think of that sot posturing his way through the world as a hero.”

“It does not precisely cause me joy, either,” Holmes said, and smiled faintly.

“It is the nature of our work,” said Miss Gatspy, a bit more emphatically than before. “If we draw attention to what we do, we can no longer do it well. Keep that in mind when dealing with the Brotherhood—if they are exposed, they lose much of their power.”

“True enough,” said Mycroft Holmes, and glanced up as four naval officers appeared on the platform. “Ah, Your Highness, your escort has arrived.” He bowed slightly. “I will wish you bon voyage, for I doubt we shall meet again before you sail.”

“I am grateful to you, Mister Holmes. I have learned much in the last two days that will stand me in good stead in times to come. For all the danger, this was a most enlightening journey, and I thank you for looking after me so well.” He removed Miss Gatspy’s hand from his arm. “You have been an enchanting nurse. If ever I am truly ill, I will hope for as gracious a woman as you to look after me.”

Miss Gatspy flushed a little and bobbed a curtsy. “It was my pleasure,” she said, and allowed Prince Oscar to kiss her hand.

A middle-aged man in a Captain’s uniform appeared at the end of the corridor. He spoke directly to Prince Oscar. “Captain James Hollyrood, Your Majesty. At your service.” His bow was correct to a fault.

Prince Oscar acknowledged the bow with the automatic hauteur of his position, and I could see he would miss Herr Osrich Schere more than any of the rest of us. “Then let us be gone, Captain.” He favored Mycroft Holmes with another nod. “Thank you for all you have done to ensure my safety.” With that he handed his valise to Captain Hollyrood and prepared to follow him out of the train. After all we had been through, his departure felt anti-climactic, but that was probably all to the good.