The Flying Scotsman (8 page)

THREE
muffled chimes marked
the hour as Mycroft Holmes looked down at the maps spread out on the study table. “Gentlemen, it is late and yesterday was eventful.” He stretched, joints cracking audibly. “Time to get some sleep. Guthrie, you need not return until eight. I need you rested and fresh.”

“Much appreciated, sir,” I said, rising from my chair and preparing to depart.

“Dress for a formal business meeting.” It was an order; he and I both knew it.

“That I will. Thank you, sir,” I said from the doorway.

“Very good,” said Mycroft Holmes as he bent over the sheets of paper with their endless scrawling. “I’ll need you to copy these when you first arrive, while I breakfast. Make sure you allow enough time to do it well.”

“Certainly, sir,” I said, trying to decide if I should come half an hour earlier; Mycroft Holmes’ specific instructions in regard to the hour made me decide that I had better arrive at the time he stipulated or risk interfering with some other aspect of his plans. As I reached for my coat, which was only slightly less damp than the last time I had worn it, I said, “Do you know where I might flag a cab? With the police about—”

“The Admiralty should have a trap across the street, not elegant but utilitarian enough to serve.” He yawned. “Our trials are not yet over, my lad. I rely on you to continue your splendid efforts.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” I told him as I let myself out of the flat. Descending the stairs, I thought of Tyers, who would be up before six, which now seemed barely half an hour away. As I stepped onto the pavement, I saw the trap waiting in the service alley beside the Diogenes Club, a fellow in a heavy naval cloak sitting on the driving box. I waved to him as I crossed the street and noticed four constables emerging from their posts in the shadows. “Mycroft Holmes tells me you’ll drive me to Curzon Street,” I called out, a bit too loudly to be polite at this hour.

“Yes. I know about you,” said the driver from the depths of his muffler and cloak; his voice, I supposed, was gruff from waiting in this inclement weather.

Climbing into the trap, I thought, but for the voice, he might have been anyone under that mass of clothing—he might have been a bear. “Sorry to keep you up so late.”

“Nothing to worry about,” he responded, and gave his chestnut the office.

I sat still for the journey, trying to find some obvious flaw in Mycroft Holmes’ plans; he had taught me to do this almost eight years ago and I continued the practice ever since. I was too worn out to think clearly, so most of the exercise was in vain, but at least it kept me awake until we reached Curzon Street. As I got out of the trap, I managed to thank the driver.

“Duty, sir,” he explained. “Your usual driver will fetch you tomorrow morning.” With that he kissed the air noisily and his chestnut walked on.

I made my way up to my rooms and all but staggered to my bed. Fatigue had made my muscles taut from my long hours of forcing myself to remain awake and attentive. As I undressed my hands trembled, a sure sign I was past my limit. Once my clothes were hung up, I found my nightshirt, drew it on, washed my face and toweled my hair and then got into bed, certain I would not relax enough to fall asleep for some time. I heard the clock in the parlor beneath me ring the half hour, but nothing more until an urgent pounding on my door brought me awake just as the night sky was beginning to lighten with the promise of dawn. I must have been dreaming, for I was momentarily disoriented, my thoughts back in Bavaria that was also Constantinople, and the members of the Brotherhood were preparing to burn down the Houses of Parliament, which was also in this fantastical dream-landscape.

“Mister Guthrie!” I recognized the voice of Mycroft Holmes’ jarvey. I flung back the blankets and rushed to the door, imagining the worst had happened. I unlocked the door and pulled it open so quickly that I nearly overbalanced Sid Hastings as he strove to rouse me.

“Sid!” I exclaimed. “What is the matter?”

“Mister Holmes wants you at once,” he declared in a tone that did not encourage dawdling, or many questions.

“I’ll get dressed,” I promised him, making an effort to open my armoire to retrieve my clothes. “What time is it?” I had not intended to ask, knowing whatever he told me, I would dislike his answer. I felt groggy and faintly dizzy, a sure sign I had not slept enough to relieve my fatigue.

“It’s gone half-five, sir. Sun’ll be up in a couple of ticks.” He turned around so I could get out of my nightshirt without embarrassment.

I poured water from the ewer to the basin and managed a cursory wash before I began to shave, doing the work by touch more than anything my mirror revealed. It was moments like this one that made me long for a burnoose and a beard. I ended up nicking myself once, but got the job done and then pulled on my singlet and my shirt over that. Remembering Mister Holmes’ admonition from the night before, I chose clothes a thought more formal than those I usually wore to work. As I fixed my collar in place, I noticed the room brighten as the clouds in the east became luminous; Sid had been right about the sun. I finished dressing more handily now that I could see what I was doing, trousers on before socks and shoes. In less than four minutes I had my tie in place and my waistcoat buttoned. I pulled on my jacket, and swung around to Sid. “All right. I’m ready,” I told him.

“Then let’s be about it,” said Sid, holding my door for me, and waiting on the landing while I secured the lock.

The streets were far from empty at this early hour; delivery-wagons and vans made their way with everything from milk and cheese to live chickens and fresh fish. I wrapped myself in the rug Sid provided, hoping to preserve my collar and tie from the weather, but not at all certain I had taken sufficient precautions. The rain had slacked off but the morning was dampish, and the paving was slicked with mud, spattering as wheels went through it. The pace everywhere was urgent so that the brisk pace Sid Hastings set was not noticeable amongst the rest of the vehicles. As we drew up in front of Mycroft Holmes’ building, I saw the clutch of constables had moved from the door of the Diogenes Club to the front of the building from where the assassin had shot. Puzzled, I remarked on this as Sid let the steps down for me.

“Sad, that is,” he said, his Cockney accent making the words more brusk than they already were. As I stepped free of his cab, he touched the brim of his hat and moved away toward Charles II Street, where he would wait for my employer to send for him.

Knowing that something had gone very wrong, I hastened up the stairs to Mycroft Holmes’ flat on the top floor, my imagination working faster than my feet. Only the knowledge that Prince Oscar was safe in Baker Street kept me from losing heart. Trying to overcome the residue of sleep that held me, I rapped on the door with my knuckles and two breaths later was admitted to the flat by Tyers, who looked fresh enough but for the circles under his eyes. His clothing was impeccable and he greeted me as if this were a usual morning. “Good morning, Tyers,” I said as I stepped inside. I saw that it was just after six, and trusted I had been timely enough to suit my employer.

“And to you, Mister Guthrie,” said Tyers in unflappable calm.

“Mister Holmes—” I pointed to the corridor.

“—is in the study. He’s expecting you,” said Tyers as he secured the front door once again.

I left my topcoat on the rack behind the door and went along to the study. I rapped on the door, which was ajar, and said, “Mister Holmes—”

“Do come in, Guthrie, dear boy,” he called out from within. “We’re about to have some tea and scones. Heaven knows we need something.” He was standing near the fire, dressed as if for a day at the Admiralty. His features looked glum, making him appear older than his fifty-three years.

Sitting beside him, Edmund Sutton seemed as always a paler, younger echo of him. “It’s too bad,” he said, as if I had not yet discerned this.

“It’s damnable,” said Mycroft Holmes. “It is also most ... appalling.”

“Dear God,” I exclaimed, horrible possibilities forming a catastrophic parade in my thoughts. Surely there had not been an assassination at the Diogenes Club? Had some important member been shot? Had there been—I made myself stop. “Tell me.”

“The constable—Childes, his name was—guarding the roof where the assassin waited was found murdered this morning.” Holmes sighed heavily. “He was shot at close range, high in the back. There is no sign of a struggle.”

“It must have been very sudden,” I said, shocked to disbelief. I made myself speak the ideas that swarmed my brain. “The devil must have hidden somewhere on the roof, or hung over the side, like Amoud, in Constantinople.”

“It rained last night, Guthrie,” said Mycroft Holmes quietly.

“Yes?” I spoke more harshly than I had intended.

“He could not have hung over the side of the building. Everything was slick. And the roof was thoroughly searched.” He shook his head. “No. Unsettling as it is, we can come to only one conclusion: the constable knew his killer, and trusted him enough to allow him to stand behind him.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to say “her,” as Penelope Gatspy’s lovely countenance filled my mind’s eye. I shut such useless thoughts away. “Because he came so close? How close is that?”

“There were burns on the constable’s clothes. The killer may have muffled the report with the constable’s cloak.” He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “His relief found him at five.”

“How long had he been dead?” I was astonished at how quickly I fell into the habits of inquiry Mycroft Holmes himself had taught me. My distress would have to wait or the constable would not be avenged.

“I would say no more than two hours, given the state of the body.” He coughed. “I should not have been so sanguine about this whole operation. I have made the mistake of assuming I had assessed the whole, and clearly I have not. I thought because Prince Oscar was safe that we had nothing more to worry about. I hoped we would trap the assassin while delivering the Prince from all harm, and nothing to pay for it.” He began to pace, his head sunk down on his chest.

“He’s been like this for the past hour,” said Sutton, sympathy and exasperation nicely mixed in his delivery. “Holmes, you couldn’t have known you were dealing with a bent copper.”

I rarely heard Edmund Sutton use such slang and it struck me all the more because of it. “What does he mean, a ‘bent copper’?”

“I think the meaning is obvious,” said Mycroft Holmes gravely. “You think a policeman did this?” I wanted to be more stunned by this supposition than I was.

“Who else?” Mister Holmes asked, his demeanor bleak. “One of the police assigned to this case is in league with the assassin, and—we cannot ignore the possibility, can we?—the Brotherhood.” He put the tips of his fingers together and pressed his index fingers to his lower lip.

“Do you have any notion yet? Who is the ... er ... bent copper?”

“There are three possibilities that I can see.” He was preparing to enumerate his suspects when Tyers arrived with the butler’s tray laden with tea, scones, butter, and a brandied fruit compote as well as a few slices of cold, rare sirloin.

As he put this down, he said, “I have a pot of shepherd’s cheese warming, and diced potatoes browning with the bacon. They will be ready shortly.” He offered a quick smile, handing out plates to each of us. “This will serve as breakfast.”

“Excellently,” said Edmund Sutton, and turned to Holmes. “Come. You’ll feel more the thing when you’ve had something to eat. You’re tired and hungry. Nothing ever puts me so off my performance as being tired and hungry.”

Mycroft Holmes was about to shake his head in refusal, then saw the sharp look in Tyers’ eyes. “Oh, very well. You’re probably right.” He came back to his chair and tugged the occasional table around to a more convenient angle. “Tea first. I must wake up and clear my thoughts.”

“Very good,” said Tyers, beginning to prepare a plate for our employer. Edmund Sutton motioned to me to sit down; I complied at once, and not because I was hungry. When Tyers poured tea for me, he put in sugar but no milk, as I liked it in the morning. “If there is anything more you want?”

“Not just at present, thanks,” I said, my attention more on Mycroft Holmes than on Tyers.

“It is a very troubling development,” said Mycroft Holmes after his first sip of tea. “I cannot but wonder how deep the rot goes.”

“And who can root it out,” added Edmund Sutton. “You do not want to trust anyone who might be in the other camp.” He took his cup of tea with a nod of acknowledgment.

“Precisely,” said Mycroft Holmes, some of his usual purpose returning to his visage.

“You will have to learn who the turncoat is,” I said. “If he has accomplices, you will have to unearth them as well.”

“Very true, and without putting Prince Oscar at any more risk than we already have,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Which means we must have not one but two doubles, sent on two different ships, with two different sets of guards. And it all must be arranged today.”

I sat bolt upright so quickly I very nearly overset my tea. “Today? Why today?”