The Flying Scotsman (5 page)

When supper is on the table, I will prepare a full report of my errands and the two men who followed me. MH will want it in his hands before he retires.

CHIEF INSPECTOR
Calvin Somerford
set down his sherry, the pony still half-full. “If I drink any more of that, I won’t be able to think during dinner.” He offered a small deprecatory nod. “I don’t have a head for wine?” His habitual upward inflection made it seem he had doubts about it.

“No matter, Chief Inspector,” said Mycroft Holmes, as if remarking on a minor blemish. “Not all coppers have to be hard drinkers.”

“If you ask me,” said Somerford, “too many of them are? You can’t do your work when you’re foxed.”

The old-fashioned expression took my attention. “That’s what my old grandmother would call it,” I told him, glancing at my employer as I spoke.

“So did mine,” said the Chief Inspector. “I think it describes the state of slight intoxication very well, don’t you?”

“It does create an impression,” I said, noticing out of the corner of my eye that Mycroft Holmes was encouraging these observations.

“Yes. So many of the old expressions are so vivid? Foxed. Disguised. Bosky. Swallowed a spider?” He shook his head. “No. That means got into debt, as I recall.”

“Like being in the River Tick,” said Mycroft Holmes, unctuous as a cat.

“I believe so,” I agreed, curious why Mister Holmes would want us to have such a discussion, for plainly he did, encouraging it in his oblique way and signaling me covertly to continue. “I’d reckon those phrases change quickly to keep in the mode.” It was a safe observation and one that would open more doors to language, if that was what my employer was seeking. “Those phrases serve as a kind of code, to give information to those who have need to know it.”

“Yes, the cant will do that, and occasionally they use it to obfuscate,” said the Chief Inspector. “So many of the terms used by the criminal classes are intended to mislead anyone overhearing them?” He pursed his lips. “That is one of the reason our spies are so useful—they understand what they hear?”

“So you do use spies,” said Mycroft Holmes, as if this revelation were astonishing.

“Of course. We sometimes use other words for it, but that’s what it comes down to? They are men—and very occasionally women—of the criminal class, who are willing to help us in order to preserve themselves; Commander Winslowe has said that we must make the most of any aid we can, and that includes the use of spies. What else would you call them?” He rocked back on his heels, looking more than ever like a lecturer in a good school. “Anyone in my position must find dependable men who can ferret out answers for me where I cannot go?”

For an instant the porcelain prettiness of Penelope Gatspy crossed my mind, and I remembered how well she did her work. I owed her my life, a debt that I began to think I would never repay. Indeed, after that one shameful lapse of three years ago, I doubted she would ever be willing to give me the opportunity to do so, for she lived in that dangerous twilight world of spies and assassins, embracing a life most women did not know existed. My tongue felt like flannel in my mouth, and I could not speak the words that jangled in my thoughts.

“A prudent approach, I would think,” said Mycroft Holmes in remote approval. “And have your ... ah ... ferrets told you anything about the killing today?” His bluntness brought Chief Inspector Somerford up short. “I would think you would have every spy you have ever used on the hunt for this man.”

“I haven’t had time to speak to them all yet, but the word is out, the word is out,” said Chief Inspector Somerford.

“What word is that?” Mister Holmes asked, his attitude courteous without showing inappropriate interest.

“Oh, that we want this criminal, who is not your usual killer. This isn’t some outraged husband, or vengeful rival, or a depraved maniac, or someone seeking to advance his political cause, or an ambitious and greedy fellow, or even a desperate brigand. We have let it be known that this man is the agent of a foreign and hostile power, whose aims are to create trouble for Britain all over the world? That’s a fairly strong argument to use with most of the practiced organizations for crime in London. Most of our criminals are patriots, in their way, and will not help such a man to escape.” A smile slipped over his face. “It is true. Many criminals are very proud to be British? They look down on criminals in other countries.”

“I have heard something of the sort. It
strikes me as odd,” said Mycroft Holmes with an hauteur that would have been more appropriate to a Royal Duke.

“Oh, yes,” Chief Inspector Somerford declared, “criminals have pride, just as any man with a trade does?” He put a finger to his lips. “Too much sherry.”

“Would you like something else?” Mycroft Holmes asked, as solicitous as if he entertained royalty. I was growing more and more puzzled. “A glass of porter? A cup of tea?”

Chief Inspector Somerford shook his head. “No. Thank you, what I want, Mister Holmes, is a spot of food. That will do the trick?” He smiled a bit, though it took concentration.

“I will see if Tyers will put the soup on now,” said Mycroft Holmes, and to my amazement left the room to speak with Tyers. What on earth was he playing at? I did my best to mask my confusion as I studied Chief Inspector Somerford, continuing our conversation as best I could. “About your spies? Can you tell me anything about them?” I was beginning to sound like him, every statement an implied question.

“I can’t. Not very much? They are engaged in dangerous work, don’t you know? Not at all like what you and Mister Holmes do.” He made a sloppy wink. “I told Superintendent Spencer himself that we are too trusting of our informants, but when one works on the streets, one sees things others do not.”

“I would think it must be dangerous,” I said, hoping he would vouchsafe more information.

“Well, it is,” said Chief Inspector Somerford. “We lost one of our ... spies earlier today, in fact?” His face was drawn and he was white around the mouth.

“Oh, dear. On top of the trouble at Saint Paul’s. How dreadful for you.” I realized that he was very upset, and for the first time I suspected that his distress was as much a part of his sudden drunkenness as the sherry was. “I would imagine this has been difficult, dealing with so much.”

“That it has,” said Chief Inspector Somerford flatly. “We could not afford to lose this one. Well, we can’t afford to lose any of them, but this one ...” He shook his head repeatedly.

“I am sorry to hear it,” I told him with feeling. “If you depended upon him, it must be doubly hard to have him go.”

“It was.” He steadied himself. “He was found drifting? in the Thames not far from Blackfriar’s Bridge. His ... his fingers were burned to blackened sticks and ... and they’d blinded him? The eyes were gone?” He turned away, his hand covering his face. “I’m sorry,” he said after a long moment.

“No need,” I assured him. “When something like that happens, anyone might be knocked off his pins.” Without intending to, I touched my face where the footman’s blood had spattered. I would have offered him the rest of his sherry, but I supposed he would refuse it; as it was, I tossed down the last of my own, mentally drinking to Penelope Gatspy, wherever the Golden Lodge had sent her.

“I’ll be myself again in a moment?” he said, his voice muffled. Then, abruptly, he raised his head and looked at me; his face was a mask of pain. “There. You see? I’m over my funk.”

“Whatever you say, dear fellow,” I said at once, hoping that my employer would appear again quickly, for I knew I was floundering in my dealings with this man, what with the resurgence of the blood spatters this morning making me feel a trifle ill. Right then I would have rather been rushing down that alley in Constantinople with the four Turks after me than sitting here with this distraught policeman.

He made a visible effort to steady himself. “You’re supposed to grow accustomed to these things, being a copper? But I never have.”

I noticed a spot of blood on his cuff—not unlike the ones on my own clothes from the morning—and I suppressed a shudder. “The attempt on the Prince and the discovery of that body all in one day. I don’t see how anyone would get used to it.” My voice shook a bit, too, and I made no apology for it.

Whatever Chief Inspector Somerford might have said was stopped when Mycroft Holmes came to the door and announced that supper was served in the parlor. His manner was so obsequious he would have done the most important butler proud. “The soup is hot and Tyers is bringing it just now. We may have to wait a bit for the lamb, but I am certain none of us will mind.” He led the way grandly, and we tagged along behind him like schoolboys trying to be as grown-up as the master.

The parlor was set up for dining, the drop-leaves of the table having been raised and a cut-work linen tablecloth I did not know Mycroft Holmes possessed laid upon it. The service was bone china and the glasses were cut crystal, the napery fine linen. The lay-out was worthy of a diplomatic retreat; and though Mycroft Holmes could be a stickler for form when required, he rarely demanded such punctiliousness in his ordinary conduct. Why was my employer trying to overwhelm this Chief Inspector of police? As we took our seats, Tyers came in and put the tureen in the center of the table, between the two silver candelabra. He proceeded to ladle out the soup in silence while we settled ourselves in place.

“Isn’t the aroma wonderful?” Mycroft Holmes asked no one in particular, as he inhaled the fragrant steam rising from his bowl.

Chief Inspector Somerford allowed that it smelled delicious and did not wait for Mister Holmes to take a first spoonful. He reached for a French crescent roll, broke it in half, and thrust the larger piece into the soup, then, when some of the savory liquid was sopped up by the roll, bit it gratefully. “Excellent,” he said as he chewed.

If Mycroft Holmes thought this gauche, he said nothing of it. He used his spoon very correctly, sat as if he were in attendance at Windsor, and punctuated his performance by making wry comments on the change in the weather.

“They say we can expect another storm in a day or two, but who can tell?” Mycroft Holmes said as if this were significant information. “I have always thought the spring to be a most changeable time of year.”

Trying to behave as he wished, I did my best to pick up this conversational ball. “So it is,” I agreed. “It can make planning difficult.” I was given a quick smile of encouragement, so I went on. “They say the signs are for a wet spring.”

“Ah,” said Mister Holmes, “that would account for it.”

Somerford had finished his crescent roll and was almost finished with his soup. “Sorry. I’m not much good at small-talk at the best of times, and today I can’t manage it at all?”

Again Mycroft Holmes nodded sagely. What was he playing at? I continued to wonder. He was as bad as the most hidebound bureaucrat in Whitehall. “Not in the police requirements, I suppose.”

“Small-talk? Not usually, no,” said the Chief Inspector. “It’s not what we’re about.” He saw that Tyers was about to pour claret into his wine-glass, and he put his hand over it. “No, thanks. I’m half-sprung as it is.” Another one of the phrases from seventy years ago. “Water will do me.”

“Would you like some more soup?” my employer inquired. “There is a bit more in the tureen, and our supper isn’t lavish.”

Chief Inspector Somerford shook his head as if recalling himself from unwelcome thoughts. “No. It
would be wasted on me? I have had a most taxing day and the night isn’t yet over, is it?” He allowed Tyers to fill his goblet with water. “I have a meeting later tonight? I should be alert for it.” He took another crescent roll from the covered bread basket. “These are very good?”

“Thank you. They come from that little French bakery three streets away. Tyers fetches them fresh in the morning.” Mycroft Holmes spoke so smoothly that had I not known it to be a lie, I would have believed him utterly.

“I know the one you mean,” said Chief Inspector Somerford. “If this is any sample of their wares, they must be very good?” He broke the roll into two parts and buttered the stub of one end. “Strange, how danger can increase and decrease hunger at the same instant.”

“I suppose that is true of many things,” Mycroft Holmes agreed, his hand moving slightly to signal me to speak.

“Yes, indeed,” I said, hoping I would find the words I needed. “Exhaustion can be like that—it sharpens hunger as quickly as it takes hunger away.”

“True enough,” said Chief Inspector Somerset. He moved so that Tyers could remove the soup bowls and chargers, leaving our dinner plates unencumbered. “I miss the simple pleasure of dining with one’s family.”

“You are unmarried, are you not, Chief Inspector?” Mycroft Holmes observed.

“I am a widower,” he answered, “and my work has become as demanding as a mistress?” He chuckled at what I supposed was an old joke with him. His face became more somber. “I don’t envy you your present task, speaking of demands. You must be working through the night, looking for safe passage home for Prince Oscar.”

“The coordination of various steamship lines is a headache,” Mycroft Holmes confessed, saying much more than I would have thought prudent, even to a Chief Inspector of police.

Tyers put the platter of lamb on the table, the standing rack looking like temptation itself, the smell reminiscent of Constantinople. A relish of apples and onions had been put in the center of the roast and was turning pink from the juices of the meat. “Mister Holmes,” he said, presenting the carving knife and fork to his employer. “I’ll bring the rest.”