“Bravo, Guthrie,” said Mycroft Holmes. “It will be difficult enough with Sir Cameron in the mix, but it is possible that with a little care we may keep our diplomatic considerations out of the police investigation.” He paused, looked back, then said, “Two horsemen.”
“Not again,” moaned Sid Hastings in exasperation. “I thought I had lost them when I took Mister Sutton to the theatre.”
“It would seem not,” said Holmes. “Take a circuitous route back to Pall Mall, say, by way of Piccadilly, Coventry, and Haymarket. If they are truly following us, we will have some opportunity to verify it, and to observe them.”
“If that is what you want, Mister Holmes, it is what I shall do,” said Sid Hastings, going straight down Berkeley Street toward Piccadilly.
I wanted to swing around in my seat and stare out behind us, to see these two horsemen. I did not think I could recognize them—not if Mycroft Holmes had failed to do so—but I hoped I could discern something of their demeanor, and through it, their purpose in watching us.
“They are not fools, Guthrie,” said Holmes with a philosophical shrug. “They are careful to fall back once they have been spotted.”
In another, less acute man, I would have supposed that he had allowed his apprehension to take visual form, and that the two horsemen were nothing more than the product of a lively imagination. But my years with Mycroft Holmes—now numbering six—had taught me the greatest respect for his cognizance, and this was no exception. If he said the horsemen were there, then I could be certain they were, whether I saw them or not.
Piccadilly was crowded, a kind of melee going on among the carriages, cabs, coaches, vans, and all manner of other vehicles, with horsemen and crossing-sweepers added to the general confusion. I thought that any number of desperate persons might be in this mass and would go totally unnoticed. I was about to remark upon this to Mycroft Holmes when he ducked down in his seat and tugged on my arm so that I should do the same.
“What on earth?” I exclaimed as I did my utmost to comply with his urging.
“Look.” He pointed to a new groove in the wood by the door.
“Whoever shot was standing on the sidewalk or in the street itself. You may see the bullet traveled up from below, so it came from the street. But where? And who?” He glared as another shot popped; had I not been alerted to it, I should have never have recognized the sound for what it was. “Small caliber pistol, I should think, and coming from the left.” He raised his voice slightly. “Hastings. Are you all right?”
“There’s a hole in my sleeve that wasn’t there before, but it didn’t touch the flesh, nor the bone.” He seemed remarkably calm for a man in such an exposed position. “We’re almost to the Circus,” he went on. “There’s too many people there for the shooter to risk it. Too many coppers, too,” he added, chuckling. “He’d be a right fool to try anything there.”
We went a little farther on without incident, and finally Mycroft Holmes sat upright once more; he released my arm. “There you go, my boy.”
I straightened up and smoothed the front of my coat. “That was most unnerving,” I said, trying to sound as jaunty as a man may under such circumstances.
“Wasn’t it just?” Holmes agreed with a kind of sudden playfulness I found puzzling. “One would almost think that we are not intended to be hurt, only frightened.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked, and added, “If it will please the shooter to be satisfied with fright, I will gladly tell him I am petrified.”
“I say that the intention is to frighten because the shooter has been at pains not to hit the horse.” Mycroft Holmes waited a moment, allowing me to take in what he had said. “If killing us was his intention, he could shoot the horse, or at least wound him enough to stop us, and then pick us off at his leisure.” He shook his head. “But he chooses busy streets and he aims for the cab, not for us. We are being warned, Guthrie.”
“I can see why you might think so,” I admitted. “But what about the courier? What about the graze on your face.”
“Ah, that was a different shooter altogether. That one used a rifle and was shooting to kill. Not the shooter now. And possibly not before in the cab.” He settled back as we entered the traffic of Piccadilly Circus, then entered Coventry Street. “We have been shot at by someone on foot, not on horseback, or in a window. That in itself is most peculiar. But that there has been no attempt to interrupt our progress, I must look beyond my first assumptions for an explanation.”
“Have you any idea as to what may be at work in this?” I was baffled by what Mycroft Holmes said, although I realized it made a kind of sense. “Who would do this?”
“That is more difficult to discern,” Mycroft Holmes said. “I have been mulling the whole, and have not progressed much further than to realize there are two groups, not one, with whom we are dealing.”
“Three, counting the Turks,” I said somewhat lightly.
“Oh, the Turks are part of it—at least Halil Kerem is. I thought you realized that,” said Holmes as we turned down Haymarket toward Pall Mall.
“How do you mean?” I asked, then answered for myself. “The tattoo.”
“Yes. The tattoo. It was not old, as Mister Kerem said; it was quite new. The colors were still vivid and there was a slight swelling under the thing itself. It could not have been more than a month since the young man was given it.” He gave me a quizzical look.
“But why would Mister Kerem lie?” I asked, watching the activity in the street with close attention.
“Exactly. He said the lad had a tattoo, and he gave a description of it to the police, although he could not possibly have seen it, not if his brother was kidnapped when Mister Kerem says he was, and Mister Kerem has been searching for him unsuccessfully as he claims.” He pulled at his lower lip. “So I must ask myself: when did he see his brother—if the dead youth is his brother—for the last time, and why did he lie about it?”
“And what answers do you give yourself?” I asked, eager to be out of the cab and up the stairs into Holmes’ flat.
“I have three explanations that suit the circumstances as I know them. I must suppose one of them is right, unless I have incorrect information to go on. I make allowances for the fact that I most certainly have insufficient evidence to suit my purposes. Therefore, little as I may like it, we must improvise.” He did his best to look out the back in as unobvious a way as possible. “I can’t tell if they are still behind us. The street is too busy; if it were daylight, I might manage rather better, but—” He settled into his seat again. “I think it would be wise for Sutton to provide Hastings with a number of hats and caps, so that as he travels, he may change his appearance.”
I could not help but smile. “How would you disguise the cab?”
“Fortunately all cabs look very much alike, and their anonymity is a disguise in itself. If I can provide Hastings with a dark coachman’s coat, a change of cap should be as useful a device as more elaborate measures.” He regarded me seriously. “How often do you look at the face of a jarvy?”
“Perhaps half the time,” I confessed.
“And that is considerably more than most,” said Mycroft Holmes. “You understand that for most Londoners one jarvy is the same as another.” He shook his head in ironic amusement. “Most passengers of cabs are more likely to remember the horse than the jarvy.”
I had to admit this was true. “Yes,” I said. “I think I should know Lance anywhere.”
“Very likely,” said Holmes. “So a cap or a hat will serve our purposes very well, I think. What do you say, Hastings? Are you willing to change your headgear from time to time?”
“If it’s what you want, Mister Holmes, I shall do it.” He sounded wholly unperturbed by this request, and he added a little later, “Nothing outlandish-like, though.”
“Certainly not,” sai
d Mycroft Holmes. “That would defeat our whole purpose.”
“Then tell me what you want me to wear and I will.” He drew in as a house-removal van lumbered by, two Suffolk Punches leaning into their collars. “Come to think of it, I don’t pay much attention to drivers myself, not unless I know them, like One-Eyed Taffy Snow.”
“My very point, thank you, Hastings.” Holmes leaned back a little, securing the lap-rug with the weight of his hands. “This has been a most fatiguing day, Guthrie. I am heartily glad it is almost over.”
“Very good, sir,” I said, holding on to my portfolio. “Do you expect me to come round tomorrow?”
“If you would, Guthrie. It’s a frightful bore, but we owe Chief Inspector Pryce that much.” He noticed a constable walking along the street. “There’s another invisible sort, as Hastings has already demonstrated.”
“When would you like me to arrive?” I asked, thinking I would take the time to have a look at Sir Cameron’s house before wending my way to Pall Mall.
“Oh, ten o’clock would be about right, I should think. If you plan to attend services, there should be early ones that will answer your needs.” Holmes looked up at the overcast sky. “There will be rain before midnight.”
“You do not often attend holy services, do you, sir,” I observed, knowing the answer already.
“When it is necessary I do. Otherwise, I prefer to keep my dealings with the Almighty on the clandestine side.” He sat forward as we approached Pall Mall. “Traffic is still fairly thick,” he remarked.
“It’s Saturday night, isn’t it?” said Sid Hastings. “Lots going on in London on a Saturday night.”
“No doubt,” said Mycroft Holmes as we neared his building. “Thank you, Hastings. I will have hats for you come Monday. Give my regards to your family, if you would be so kind.”
“Right you are, sir,” said Hastings, drawing Lance to a halt. “If you have need of me tomorrow, send me word. Otherwise I shall plan to be at your door first thing Monday morning.”
“I appreciate your dedication,” said Mycroft Holmes. “And I shall bear it in mind.”
We climbed out of the cab; I resisted the urge to bolt for the stairs while Mycroft Holmes made his way toward them, his walk unhurried, his demeanor calm and at ease. To see him no one would suppose he had so much besetting him as he had now. I went up behind him, reminding myself that next year he would be fifty, and marveling at the activity he was able to sustain at such an age. A great many men of his age were used up, exhausted, whereas Mycroft Holmes seemed to have gained a second wind and was showing more endurance and stamina than men half his age.
“Good evening, sir,” said Tyers as he opened the door. “I hope I see you well?”
“You do, Tyers. In spite of the unsettling events at Herr Amsel’s house—I assume someone informed you of it?” Holmes shed his cloak and handed it to Tyers. “I am longing for a brandy and a proper meal. Those German sausage-and-cheese sandwiches aren’t fit for sick cats.”
“Just so,” Tyers agreed. “I have a pork loin with baked apples, green beans, and potatoes au gratin. That should revive you.”
“And a bottle of claret, I should hope,” said Mycroft Holmes. “I knew I could rely on you, Tyers.”
“For pudding, I have a meringue with fruit compote. For now, there is brandy in the study.” Tyers paused. “Will you and Guthrie be working late?”
“I hardly know yet,” said Holmes, with an apologetic sigh. “I hope it won’t come to that.”
“And I,” I said, feeling somewhat guilty for saying it.
“Yes. I want you alert and clear-headed for tomorrow,” said Holmes as he opened the door to the study in which was laid out a setting for our supper. “Have a seat Guthrie, while I pour the brandy.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, taking my accustomed place and putting down my portfolio. “It has been unusually active, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, indeed. I think our adventures today almost rival those that Sutton essays in MacBeth. There are bodies in plenty, men vying for power, and one ambitious woman in the middle.” He brought two snifters back to the table, offered me one and sat down in his accustomed chair. “Now, about Mister Kerem. I believe I mentioned various ways to account for the inconsistencies in his story.”
“That you did,” I said, prepared to listen to the whole of it.
“Well then; if the tattoo is as new as it appears—and the examination will help in determining that—we must assume either that Mister Kerem was told about the tattoo in his search for the lad, and said he had seen it to lend veracity to his description. If that is the case, those who provided the description intended to use Mister Kerem to draw English officials into the search, and to that end gave Kerem enough to spur him on, but not so much that he could unravel the clues himself. That is one possibility. The second possibility is that information was provided to Mister Kerem after his arrival here, as a lure and a goad to his search. He may have been given a sketch or even a photograph of the tattoo. Again, it would make it far more likely that Mister Kerem would take whatever measures he could to bring the police and others into his search.” He drank a sip of the brandy. “That is the second possibility.”
“And the third?” I asked when Mycroft Holmes continued to stare into his snifter.
When he answered, his voice was remote. “The third possibility is that Mister Kerem arranged for the tattoo to be put on, which also means he arranged for the lad to die.”
FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS
MH and G are back from Berkeley Mews, both of them looking worn to the bone. I will presently give them the supper I have cooking for them, and will reserve a portion of the meal for Sutton, who will arrive here some time after midnight ...
Inspector Featherstone sent his card around, saying he would like to call on MH tomorrow in the afternoon. I have sent him word that I will confirm or recommend another time for the appointment before noon. I trust Inspector Featherstone will be willing to visit at this flat rather than require MH to come to Scotland Yard. It is not wise for MH to spend too much time in such places, for who knows what criminals may see him, or policemen who are not as upright as they are sworn to be.
It appears that Lady MacMillian is preparing to leave Holland on the Monday crossing. Unless we can secure the assistance of Baron von Schattenberg, it will not be possible to turn back her uncles when she is admitted to the country. There is as yet no real proof of their mission here, but perhaps there will be enough doubt to make it possible to refuse them entry to England without causing the Germans too much official distress. With the tragedy earlier this evening, such support may prove difficult to secure ...
MH has requested that tomorrow I send an inquiry to the Admiralty in regard to the courier who was shot in his attempt to deliver his dispatch. I will prepare the note before retiring tonight, and see that it is given to a Navy messenger at noon ...
CHURCH BELLS awakened me. I lay in the state half-way between sleep and rising, aware of my sheets and blankets bur still haunted by the last vestige of my dream. The steady whisper of rain augmented the call of the bells and gave me a sense of being suspended in space, which I relished for as long as I could persuade myself to indulge my torpor. Finally I rid myself of the last of my woolgathering and sat up in bed. It was not quite seven in the morning and the sky was just beginning to lighten, lending the clouds a cast of tarnished silver. As I got out of bed, I sighed at the luxury of six hours’ actual slumber—a rare event for anyone in the employ of Mycroft Holmes.
I washed and dressed, making as little noise as possible, for I was aware that Missus Coopersmith had not yet wakened; she would be up soon enough, readying herself for her weekly spiritual exercises. I held off donning my boots until I was almost ready to depart. Then I gathered up my over-coat, my portfolio, and my umbrella and went down the s
tairs as quietly as I was able. Once on the street, I opened my umbrella and set out at a steady clip for Pall Mall.
Turning from Half Moon Street into Piccadilly, I became aware of someone behind me in the rain, someone on a dark horse that kept a steady pace with me. I told myself my rush of fear was nonsense, that I had no reason to assume I was being followed. But I fought the urge to run. I could rush across the street to the Green Park and force the rider to come after me. I could confront him there, challenge him, demand to know why I was being followed. No sooner had this notion formed in my mind but I put it into action, racing across the thoroughfare, and wishing, for once, that there was much more traffic than was on the street this rainy Sunday morning.
The horse and rider came after me, and I began to wonder if the rider carried a weapon, in which case my impulse was far from useful as anything I might do. I dashed along the neat path toward a clump of bushes, with a vague notion of slipping into the protection of its many branches, when the horse broke into a canter and in a matter of seconds cut me off and brought me to a halt. I wished now that I had brought my pistol, or had a knife ready to hand. I crouched, prepared to do battle.
“Oh, Guthrie, don’t be a goose,” said a familiar voice, and a moment later, Miss Penelope Gatspy dropped out of the saddle, one hand on the rein, the other holding the brim of her elegant little hat; I am afraid I must have goggled at her, for she went off in a peal of delicious laughter. “I can’t be so much a disappointment as that,” she said.
“No. Not a disappointment. Not at all. Nothing of the sort.” I made myself stop. “I thought you might be ... someone else?”
The Scottish Ploy Page 15