The Scottish Ploy

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  She turned to me, and although I could not see her features, I knew she was startled. “Vickers and Braaten in England?” she repeated, as if trying to learn a phrase in a foreign language. “Why would you think that?”

  “There are some indications that suggest that—” I began.

  “In other words, you aren’t going to tell me why Mister Holmes has such suspicious, only that he does have them.” She sighed in exasperation. “All right. I’ll make inquiries, but I don’t know if I can promise any results before Tuesday.”

  “That you are willing to help is most ... most generous of you,” I said, trying to find words to express my gratitude without saying anything my employer would not approve. “We have been unable to evaluate the conflicting reports we have, and—”

  “You needn’t bother, Guthrie,” she said, not unkindly. “You have an obligation to Mister Holmes to keep his confidences. I understand that, for I find myself in the same quandary.” She peered out at the street. “The turn for Clarges and Half Moon Streets should be along here.”

  “Take either one,” I said, feeling I should contribute something to her efforts.

  “I rather like Half Moon Street,” she said, and held the reins more tightly. “Sit back, Guthrie. You will be home in a few minutes.”

  “Much sooner than if I had walked,” I told her. “And much drier.”

  She shook her head. “You have a very odd idea of gallantry,” she remarked, and turned the horse into Half Moon Street.

  “I had not intended to be gallant,” I protested.

  “Yes,” she replied, “I know.”

  We went the rest of the way in uneasy silence. As we reached Missus Coopersmith’s house in Curzon Street and Miss Gatspy drew the sylphide up to the kerb, I tried to think of an appropriate way to thank her for providing me with his safe journey. “It was most accommodating of you to provide me this ride tonight, Miss Gatspy.”

  “It was, wasn’t it?” she agreed archly as she lifted the screen so I could step down. “Guthrie,” she said when I was out of her vehicle, “be careful. You may have had a lucky escape, but you cannot continue to do so.”

  “I will endeavor to keep that in mind, Miss Gatspy,” I said; she pulled away from me before I was half-done, and swung her carriage about, then set off back toward Half Moon Street. I watched her go until I could not see the sylphide any more, then I slowly trod up the steps to Missus Coopersmith’s front door.

  “Mister Guthrie,” said my landlady as I let myself in; she was seated in the withdrawing room just off the entrance hall. “It was good of you to send that note that you would not be dining with the house.”

  “I am sorry I could not join you,” I said, shaking the rain from my shoulders and hanging my coat on the peg near the door.

  “One would think you were a military man, the hours and duties that are set for you,” she said, not quite complaining. She was a comfortable woman of middle years who was regarded as a widow although her husband was still very much alive and living up-country in India with a native wife and any number of half-caste children of his own; he had provided handsomely for my landlady, deeding this house to her before abandoning her, and his country, for his life on a tea plantation. “The government ask a great deal of their staff.” She smiled as Rigby jumped into her lap and began industriously to knead her thigh through the folds of her skirt.

  “So they do, Missus Coopersmith,” I said in agreement; I wondered what her purpose was in this impromptu inquisition.

  “I would not have stayed up, but there was a letter brought here by a man in uniform, to be given to you as soon as you returned.” She lifted her brows in an expression of critical curiosity. “I pledged to put it into your hands myself.” Saying that, she set Rigby aside, rose and came toward me, an envelope in her hand. “Now I have discharged my promise, I will seek my bed. I suppose you will break your fast with your employer in the morning?”

  “Yes, Ma’am, I will,” I said, taking the envelope and looking at it, noticing that it was entirely plain but for my name on the front. The flap had been double-sealed with a device I did not recognize.

  “Well, thank you for your care, Missus Coopersmith,” I said, as I noticed her tendency to linger. “I apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you.”

  Reluctantly she went past me toward the corridor that led to her portion of the house; I was reasonably sure she would try to discover in future days what the enveloped contained. I resolved to think of an answer that would satisfy her without necessarily giving away any secret that could put me at a disadvantage. With this thought to accompany me, I climbed the stairs and went to my rooms; she had two other lodgers, all of us occupying the first floor: I supposed I was the last one in on this night.

  My rooms were much as I had left them, which I found reassuring after such a day as I had had; after conducting a cursory search of the two rooms I occupied, I returned to my sitting room and turned up the gaslight in order to read the letter in the envelope. Using my pen-knife, I cut the end of the envelope so that the seals would remain intact, in case I should want to know more about them. A single sheet of cream-laid paper slid out into my hand, properly folded. I put the envelope down and opened the letter.

  To Mister Paterson Erskine Guthrie,

  the letter began in a sloping, Continental hand.

  This is to warn you that you are in grave danger. You have been duped and that may lead to your disgrace and ruin. Your close association with Mycroft Holmes cannot be to your advantage, for Mister Holmes is shortly to be revealed as an enemy of the state. There can be no question but that this will happen, and sooner rather than later. You, and those who work with him, will be indicted with him if you do not immediately sever all connections with this most dangerous man.

  You may not wish to believe this, for you have been misled by his protestations of love of country, but it is all part of a subtle deception that has for years been the source of dissension and strife throughout the Empire. It is his purpose to destroy the very institutions he purports to defend. So successful has he been that only in the last few days has the full sum of the damage he has done been known, and it will not redound to your credit if you continue to support him in his fell purpose. You have already had some indication of his true allegiance. You have seen the mark on his wrist that is in the same place as Brotherhood initiates have theirs. You cannot think this is an accident, no matter how adroitly he may have accounted for its existence. Surely you must have wondered before now what the meaning of it may be, and surely you know the answer.

  His mask of patriotism hides secrets of such perfidy that they cannot be mentioned here. Suffice it to tell you that this treason is beyond question, which you may discover for yourself if you will but search out the Admiralty intelligence officer Angus McDonald and see what his efforts have uncovered. You will be given irrefutable proof that your self-proclaimed devoted civil servant is more dangerous than any number of spies. The activities of Mycroft Holmes are beyond question the result of deliberate treachery, and you will know this for the truth when you evaluate the material McDonald had gathered in this regard.

  The loyalty you have reposed in this man has been misplaced. You have been the tool of a cynical, ruthless enemy, and because of him, you will be forced to share his ignominy unless you turn against him at once and demonstrate your character as a true subject of Her Majesty by revealing all you know of this man s activities to the officer who shall call upon you Monday evening at eight in the evening.

  If you confide any of this to Mycroft Holmes, you will be known as his accomplice and nothing you do or say will spare you from sharing his fate, if he does not decide to be rid of you himself.

  Believe me

  One who is your friend

  I must have read the letter three or four times, and yet it still made no sense to me.
I thought of all Mycroft Holmes and I had discussed earlier that evening, and suddenly our recognitions became more sinister. Not that I doubted him—far from it—l was struck by the desperation of this attempt to subvert my dedication to my employer and all his work. “What a farrago of lies,” I expostulated at last. Even as I spoke, I began to ask myself if the writer intended I should believe, or if it was supposed to be an obvious trap, for the accusations were so overstated, surely it could not be expected by anyone that I would be convinced of their veracity? I began to mull the possibilities: the culprit actually planned that I would accept this passel of prevarications—that did not seem likely. Then was it assumed I would tell Holmes about this denunciation? That might be part of the plan, a way to draw him into a tangle of deception and peril that would surely hamper his ability to deal with the current list of obstacles in his path. If I decided not to tell him, to act on my own, what then? Might I not become mired in the same bog as it was hoped Mycroft Holmes would fall into? If I met with this Angus McDonald, what would I learn? Or was there an Angus McDonald at all? Might he not be a fiction created to lure an unsuspecting Scot into a trap that would end in ruining his employer’s career? The more I wrestled with the possibilities, the more confused I became. This I attributed to fatigue, and ordered myself to wash and go to bed, in the hope that a night’s sleep would restore the tone of my mind and sharpen my wits, so with these many unappealing hypotheses for company, I bathed, drew on my nightshirt, and got into bed, where I lay, fretting, for three hours and more, until exhaustion finally bludgeoned me into restless slumber.

  I wakened no wiser than when I had closed my eyes. The one encouraging note of the morning was that the wind had abated, although it was still raining. I rose and shaved, doing my best not to think of the letter that had so disrupted my sleep. While I dressed, I finally resolved to show the letter to Mycroft Holmes first thing this morning, and to follow his advice regarding it. My decision did not do much to shore up my state of mind, but it did ease my apprehension to have come to a decision—any decision. I left the house promptly when it was lacking fifteen minutes of seven, my umbrella and portfolio in hand, and I was relieved to find Sid Hastings pulled up to the kerb to take me to Pall Mall. It was still raining, but in a steady, misty way; the wind had died down, and most of the street-lamps were still alight, and would be for another half hour.

  “Morning, Mister Guthrie,” Hastings said as he let down the steps for me.

  “Morning to you, Hastings,” I replied as I settled back.

  “Better day than yesterday,” he remarked as he signaled Lance to walk on.

  “The storm has passed,” I agreed, for to me it was not much of an improvement on the previous day, not with that pernicious letter in my portfolio, seeming to me to be afire.

  We drew up at the rear of Mycroft Holmes’ building, Hastings telling me that Holmes preferred I entered that way today; this was not so remarkable that it troubled me, for I had often arrived at Holmes’ flat by many and varied routes. I got out of the cab and nodded to Hastings, then climbed up the three double-flights to the second floor, where I knocked, then waited for Tyers to come to the door.

  “Mister Holmes is in his library, Guthrie,” Tyers informed me, giving me a glance that seemed dubious to me. I told myself I was being suspicious for no reason, and I did my best to smile at him.

  “Thank you.” I closed my umbrella and took off my over-coat, handing them to Tyers, and this time I had no doubt that he was troubled about my presence. “Is anything the matter?” I asked, confused by his manner.

  “That is for Mister Holmes to say,” responded Tyers in a kind of stiff courtesy that alerted me more cogently than ever that something was indeed very much amiss.

  “I shall go to him directly,” I said, and made my way through the rear of the flat to the kitchen and thence to the hall and the library. I knocked, wanting to be punctilious in my actions, and said, “It’s Guthrie, sir.”

  “Come in, my boy. Come in,” he invited, his voice heavy.

  I did as he told me, and saw as I entered that he was standing in front of the small fireplace that gave heat to the room, his attention apparently wholly on the flames. “What has happened?” I asked, aware that something must be very much amiss for him to behave in this way.

  Mycroft Holmes turned to face me. “I have had a most disturbing communication, one that I do not believe, but which others may do.” He held out a sheet of paper to me. I took it, and saw the same, slanting Continental hand as marked the letter I carried.

  Mister Holmes,

  Too long have you bestowed misplaced trust in Paterson Erskine Guthrie. The dedication he has shown you is sham, a deliberate deception to permit him to be privy to state secrets that are to be used by his true comrades against the interests of Britain. If you do not now act immediately to reveal his dissimulation, you may well be tainted by his downfall.

  It would be folly to hesitate in taking action, thinking that you must give him a chance to show his loyalty and prove that this letter is nothing more than a misinterpretation of certain crucial facts that will be made available to you by noon. When you have seen for yourself what we have uncovered, you will share our appal. It is impossible for these incriminating disclosures to be kept from the public for long; unless you are swift in your denunciation of this man, you will not be able to preserve your reputation. You will bring embarrassment to the government and you will compromise the position of Britain in the world

  Do not reveal what you know to Guthrie, for he is a most dangerous man. You will be subject to every danger that a man of his ruthlessness can display. For your own sake, say nothing to him, and do not allow him access to you, or the consequences may be dire for you and your manservant. The police will know what is best to do, and the Admiralty, if given an opportunity to act quickly, will remove Guthrie from any position where he might be able to do you and your reputation any lasting harm. Let me assure you that this accusation is not made without foundation, as you will see when the corroborating materials are given to you.

  You are known for your intellect. Do not fail to employ it now.

  One who is your friend

  My hand was shaking as I finished reading. Without a word, I opened my portfolio and brought out the letter I had received and handed it to Mycroft Holmes.

  “Well,” he said when he had finished. “Hardly inventive, is he?” He chuckled. “What utter poppycock.”

  “Just so, sir,” I said, a bit stiffly.

  “Oh, don’t look so glum, Guthrie. I would never be convinced by such a denouncement as this, nor would you. But we should be grateful that our enemies seem to think we could be. It would appear they have overplayed their hand at last.” He gave a sigh of satisfaction that confused me.

  “With such pernicious—” I stopped. “What do you mean, overplayed their hand?”

  Mycroft Holmes took the two letters and laid them on the end-table beside his chair. “They have made two mistakes in sending these. First, they have admitted they are in London. Second, they have used the same hand for both.”

  “Why is that significant?” I asked; I was still in turmoil and could not readily follow his thinking.

  “Because it means that these so-called denouncements originate at the same source, and that, in turn, points the finger in one direction and one direction only.” He picked up the letters again. “I know Vickers’ hand, and this is not it. But as it is Continental, I would suppose that our odious Jacobbus Braaten wrote the letter, possibly to Vickers’ dictation; the use of English suggests a native-speaker. But you can see that the style of the fist is European, can you not?”

  I was astonished at his composure, and said so. “I hardly slept last night, for apprehension. You see this ... this ominous letter, and receive one of your own, and you are very nearly satisfied with them. Have you no concern for what the A
dmiralty will say when they read these implications and charges?”

  Mycroft Holmes actually chuckled. “My dear Guthrie, you cannot imagine the number of anonymous denunciations the Admiralty receive every month, claiming to prove that various government ministers, military commanders, and men such as myself, are involved in scandalous activities. Once in a very rare while, there is a reasonable cause to investigate, but for the most part, such ravings are put into files and kept for the purpose of comparing them to other such inflammatory effusions.” He sat down. “I will, naturally, send these along, with a note about Angus McDonald, for it may be that he has truly been dragged into this, or he may have taken part willingly.”

  “And what of the papers?” I asked. “The Times would not stoop so low ... but there are less reputable journals that might—”

  “There are laws that even the yellowest of sheets dare not transgress,” said Holmes, a steely shine in his grey eyes. “Do not think they are unaware of the consequences of printing any accusation that might be detrimental to the Admiralty. They also know that if their credibility is destroyed in the courts, they will be unable to continue in business, for those publications survive on innuendo and veiled reports: ‘Lord M has been seen abroad with a young dancer from the ballet; is he doing more than patronizing her art?,’ ‘What has the Member from H been doing in the gambling hells of Paris?,’ ‘Atrocious murder in Drury Lane—actor in custody,’ ‘What did Sir R’s butler witness that earned him a dismissal?’ That sort of thing. They would be mad to try to expose someone less in the public eye than most of those about whom they print titillating tidbits, for the public would not care and the courts would.” He rubbed his big, long-fingered hands together. “No, I think this time the Brotherhood’s arrogance will serve to bring them down at last. In England, at least,” he added, frowning.