The Scottish Ploy

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Because of those letters?” I did not quite see how this was to be accomplished.

  “In large part, yes. We are now on the alert for these men; we are not in disarray, as it is obvious they supposed we would be, and that gives us an advantage.” He reached out to the bell-pull to summon Tyers. “I doubt they believed we would both be persuaded by these vicious ramblings, but I think they anticipated that they would create enough doubt in one or the other of us, that there would be a diminution of trust, and that could be used to keep you and me from participating fully in our various ventures.”

  “That did occur to me,” I said, not mentioning that it had been after two in the morning.

  Mycroft Holmes sighed. “And so, I think I had best account for the mark on my wrist, so that anything hinted at in that letter may be answered fully, at least in that regard.”

  I looked away in confusion; I had to admit that the mark in question had roused my curiosity from the time I entered Mycroft Holmes’ employ and learned about the Brotherhood. Until now he had not done so much as mention it. I coughed. “It isn’t necessary, sir.”

  “But it is, Guthrie, it is,” said Holmes, and glanced up as Tyers came into the library. “We could use tea now and breakfast in half an hour. Sirloin and eggs, I think, and a baked apple in cream.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Tyers. “I shall get to work at once.”

  “And Tyers, who is watching us this morning?” Holmes added as if unconcerned.

  Tyers answered at once and without sign of being alarmed. “There is a man from the Golden Lodge in a buggy at the end of the service alley, and one in Pall Mall as well. I have not noticed anyone else, although there was an ironmonger’s cart pulled up at the end of the alley a while ago. I did not recognize the name and I have not seen the cart before.”

  “To which house did this ironmonger go?” Mycroft Holmes inquired.

  “To the home of Missus Helmstone, the old woman on the first floor, opposite, at the end, who is bed-ridden,” said Tyers.

  “Oh, yes,” said Holmes, smiling slightly; it was not a pleasant smile.

  “She is in the care of a nurse and her nephew,” said Tyers as if reporting on the weather.

  “I think,” said Holmes, “it is time we inquired after Missus Helmstone. A pity Sutton isn’t here this morning, but perhaps we can call upon Miss Gatspy when she arrives.”

  At the mention of her name, I looked around at Holmes, much astonished. “Did you invite her to join us?” I asked, rather more bluntly than I had intended.

  “No; but I suppose she will make an appearance sometime this morning,” said Holmes at his most bland.

  “Oh.” I was somewhat nonplused. I thought I should offer some remark, but none came to mind.

  “It is consistent with her previous actions,” Mycroft Holmes added, wicked amusement in his eyes.

  “If you are joking me, sir, I will do my utmost to be amused,” I told him; he continued to assume some attachment existed between Miss Gatspy and me—for such a perspicacious man, I was hard-put to understand how he could reach so ludicrous a conclusion.

  “Oh, don’t cut up rough, Guthrie. I mean you—or Miss Gatspy—no disrespect.” He waved Tyers away. “Now, about this mark on my wrist. Draw your chair a bit closer, Guthrie, so you can see more clearly. You will observe,” he said, rolling back his sleeve, “that it is a discolored scar about the size of a farthing.”

  I leaned forward to examine the area in question. “Yes. There is a bluish cast to the skin, almost like a perpetual bruise, and the scar would seem to be from a burn.”

  “Very good,” Mycroft Holmes exclaimed. “It is a burn-scar. I received it when I was cast out of the Brotherhood.”

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

  This morning continues raining, and there is no sign of it abating. Sid Hastings has gone along to the Thistle to avoid being out in the rain. He will call back here in an hour to find out when MH needs him, and will keep himself in readiness for that time ...

  The ironmongers cart has returned, and is once again in the same position it occupied earlier. I have taken the opportunity of observing Missus Helmstone’s rear windows twice in the last hour, but I have discerned nothing to indicate what may or may not be happening in that place. Perhaps the Golden Lodge observers have had more success in monitoring what is taking place there.

  I must get to work on breakfast for MH and G. Then I must bring up another load of wood for the fires and my cooker ...

  I SAT dumbfounded, certain I had not heard Mycroft Holmes correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I was expelled from the Brotherhood, many years ago,” said Holmes calmly, rolling down his sleeve and putting his cuff in place once more. “They found out I was spying on them. I was lucky to escape with only the burn and the gouge on my neck—I know you have seen that scar, too. By all rights I should have died on that foolhardy venture.” He looked at me in mild surprise. “Guthrie: surely you have guessed that I once was more active in the field than I am today?”

  I brought my astonishment under control. “Well, yes,” I allowed. I had not thought he had done anything as hazardous as penetrate the Brotherhood. The enormity of his revelation all but took my breath away.

  “I was very like all those fine young men we have sent out on missions the world over—you being one of them upon occasion—when I was in my twenties. And in that capacity I was expected to infiltrate many organizations whose purposes were to harm Britain.” He put his elbows on his knees. “I was twenty-four—hard to believe now that I was ever so young, or so reckless—and I had been assigned to the Continent, to search for European organizations that might prove dangerous to British security. The Brotherhood had not been identified, specifically, but we had discovered that there was an underground establishment that was revolutionary in purpose and I discerned that its activities could become a threat to this country. I was authorized to pursue the matter, and so, unaware of the cutthroat nature of the Brotherhood, I posed as an idealistic young scholar in search of social reform.” His laugh was rueful. “That wasn’t so far off the mark back then. Most of my ideals had not yet been tested. That changed.” As Tyers brought in the tea, Mycroft Holmes rose and went to the fire to lay another log on it. “Days like this, the damp gets into the bones.”

  “And the chill cuts deep as a knife,” I said, following his conversational lead. “With winter coming, it will be worse.”

  Tyers shook his head. “Telling him about the old days, are you? About bloody time, if you ask me. He’s been loyal for six years.” With that he turned on his heel and left the room.

  Holmes lifted his big shoulders. “Tyers is awake to everything,” he told me as he came back to pour the tea. “Ah. Gunpowder. He will have his jest, I suppose.”

  I managed to smile. “If it was deliberate.”

  “You may rest assured that it was,” said Holmes. “Here.” He handed a cup of gunpowder tea to me then poured his own. “Yes. I stumbled upon the Brotherhood in Belgium, and over several months I attended various meetings they sponsored and listened with rapt attention to all they said. They were impressed by my apparent enthusiasm; as time passed I fell in with them. I never imagined how vast an organization they were, or how old. I thought at first that they were radical sorts of Freemasons, and I almost turned away from them, under the impression that they were an off-shoot of the more traditional semi-mystical lodges with political aspirations; I thought that they were theorists, and that could not be dangerous to England. I had all but removed myself from the case and gone on to other seemingly more pressing assignments when I met Vickers. He had just come down from Cambridge, and was full of zeal; at the time I did not comprehend the extent of it, or appreciate what it meant. He convinced me to stay, for he announced his intention to bring the Brotherhood to England. He said he would
need a lieutenant and decided I would suit his purposes to admiration; I thought this was an excellent opportunity to obtain crucial information, so I notified the Admiralty—secretly, I thought—of these developments, and I promised Vickers to do all in my power to aid him.” His brow darkened. “I was in too deeply, but I didn’t know it.”

  “So all that you have told me about the Brotherhood is not the result of reports and research,” I said, and took a sip of my tea.

  “Of course not. I would never have known where to begin had I not experienced directly the full malice of the Brotherhood firsthand. Having been privy to their inner sanctum, I know their intentions and what they are capable of doing.” He passed a hand over his eyes as if to wipe away an unbearable memory. “When I was initiated, as part of the rite they killed a man they called a traitor. You have seen for yourself, in Bavaria, what they do. I was aghast at what I witnessed, but had to conceal my feelings, for I finally comprehended the nature of the organization into which I had insinuated myself.” He looked away from me, his face now in profile to me, and hard to read. “On the instruction of my superiors, I remained in the organization for almost a year, passing on everything I learned about the Brotherhood. I was convinced I was undetectable. Then someone at the Admiralty said something to someone else and somehow it got back to Vickers. To this day, I do not know who the person was who compromised me, or why he did it, but Vickers used the information to the fullest; he denounced me and I was brought before their council—I believe you have met a few of them—and they proposed to make an example of me.”

  I felt myself breathing hard, for although I knew he must have escaped, my knowledge of the Brotherhood was enough to make my pulse race. “But you escaped. Of course.”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Holmes said obliquely. His next words were interrupted by a ring from the bell in the front. “Ah. I conjecture your Miss Gatspy has arrived.” He looked somewhat relieved as he rose to open the library door, to find, not Penelope Gatspy, but Mister Kerem standing expectantly before him; he had pushed past Tyers, and come directly to the library.

  “Mister Kerem,” said Mycroft Holmes, recovering from his surprise.

  “Mister Holmes, I come to ask your assistance yet again,” he said without any of the conversational arabesques that are often a mark of Turkish good manners. “I trust I do not intrude.” He stepped into the library, his raincoat over his arm, dripping on the carpet. “I am loath to disturb you, but I can think of no one else to whom I might apply for help.”

  In the hallway, Tyers shrugged to show he had been unable to stop Mister Kerem even long enough to take his coat.

  “Dear me,” said Holmes, admitting Mister Kerem and closing the door. “What is the matter?”

  “I have just come from the police and they have told me that I cannot take my brother’s body home just yet.” His distress was so obvious that I wondered how it could possibly be wholly genuine.

  “I am sorry to hear it,” said Holmes sympathetically. “I must suppose the police have reason to keep the body.”

  “They claim they need to examine it again. They told me that there are a few problems they have encountered in dealing with it. I have appealed to them, but they are adamant.” He shook his head and stared down at his galoshes. “What am I to do, Mister Holmes? I must have his body aboard the ship by this afternoon or I must make arrangements yet again to carry the body to Turkey; the next ship does not depart until Thursday, and that is a long time to store a body.”

  “Indeed it is,” said Mycroft Holmes. “But if the police require it to complete their inquiries, I should think you would want them to carry on. How else are they to find his killer?”

  Mister Kerem sighed heavily. “It is a difficult matter, and one that it may be hard for an Englishman to understand. It dishonors my brother not to bury him quickly. The longer I must delay taking him home, the more the family will be shamed by it.”

  “The voyage will cause a delay in itself,” said Holmes as delicately as he could. “Surely your family want your brother’s killer discovered and his death avenged?”

  There was a longish pause while Mister Kerem wrestled with these possibilities. “It is going to be most difficult to explain all this,” he said slowly. “It is not how these things are handled in my country when such a crime has been committed.” I was observing Mister Kerem closely, and I thought I saw an expression of cunning cross his features then, a kind of slyness that was gone so quickly I hardly knew if I had properly seen it, or if it had been nothing more than a trick of the light.

  “Yes; that is the problem with dying on foreign soil,” said Mycroft Holmes. “If it would make your situation easier, I could see if we can arrange to embalm him. That would lessen the ... difficulty of transportation.” He held up his hand. “I realize this may be at odds with your religion, but under the circumstances, it is the wiser course.”

  “Of course. I do understand that.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I cannot think what to do. I must appeal to you.”

  “I will do what I can, Mister Kerem, but I fear it may not be much. If the police have issued the order, it is they you must address for action.” He bowed slightly. “You should ask the police to advance their investigation.”

  “I have done so. I have told them about the ship. They do not listen to me. I am only a foreigner,” he said bitterly. “They do not want to waste time on me. They would listen to you.” He put such pathetic hope into his voice that I was sincerely embarrassed for him.

  “I will do what I can, Mister Kerem,” Holmes assured him. “But I am afraid it may not be enough to let you depart today.”

  “I must!” he declared. “If I remain much longer, I will disgrace my family and the memory of ... of my murdered relative.”

  I wondered if Mister Kerem had forgotten what he had claimed was the lad’s name and their degree of relationship, or if there was a Turkish tradition that forbade speaking of the dead by name. It struck me that given what Mycroft Holmes suspected, in the case of Mister Kerem, the former was more likely than the latter.

  “You will have whatever poor aid I am able to give you, Mister Kerem. I regret to say it may not be much.” He had achieved that ineffective manner again, one that hinted at a love of magnifying trivia as a means of lending power to his own position.

  “I would appreciate anything, Mister Holmes.” His shoulders sagged. “I must take him home.”

  “And so you shall,” said Holmes. “I will do what I can to make that possible for today. So much must be the decision of the police. You must see my hands are tied if the police are not willing to release the body.”

  “I see that you are not eager to help me,” said Mister Kerem bitterly.

  “Who would be, on such a very awkward errand?” Mycroft Holmes Countered. “I assumed all was in readiness before. I had not anticipated this change. What man wants to plow the same field twice?”

  “Truly I do not,” said Mister Kerem.

  “No more do I, Mister Kerem. But I will do as much as I am able, and quickly.” He nodded in a way that indicated their discussion was at an end. “I will send you word when I have something to report. Tell my man Tyers where you may be found this morning.”

  Mister Kerem drew himself up, insulted to be given such short shrift. “I am sorry to have bothered you. I am a desperate man.”

  “Your apology is accepted,” said Holmes. “But if I am going to be useful to you, I must set to work at once. Forgive my hastiness, but I must immediately contact the police.”

  At once Mister Kerem was all approval. “Yes. Of course. You will notify the police of my wishes. I will not linger.” He pulled on his coat for himself. “I will return to my hotel and await word from you. I thank you, Mister Holmes.”

  “I have not deserved your thanks yet,” Mycroft Holmes answered, a grim note in his self-effacing
manner.

  “I am sure you will; until I hear from you, a very good morning,” said Mister Kerem as he turned and went out of the library and down the hall to the front door, not waiting for Tyers to let him out.

  “What other diversions shall we encounter today?” Holmes mused as he stared out the door into the hallway.

  “Well, you did say you would try to help him,” I pointed out.

  “It is called setting a trap, dear boy,” Holmes corrected me quietly. “I hope this may mean the police have begun to do their work as they ought. If Mister Kerem persists, they will not be able to detain the poor lad’s body much longer, more’s the pity.”

  I was puzzled by his remark. “You mean the tattoo?”

  “Among other things, yes,” said Holmes, and took his chair. “It’s bad enough having to let the Germans send Kriede home: that we cannot delay. But this is another matter, and we must make the most of the opportunity we have.”

  I remained silent a short while, then asked, “Are you going to send word to Scotland Yard?”

  “I am going to prepare a note to be carried round to Inspector Strange. I want his opinion on the whole situation before I go one step on Mister Kerem’s behalf.” He pulled open a drawer in the end-table and took out a sheet of paper and an envelope. He then retrieved pen and ink, trimmed the pen, and wrote a few quick lines before putting Inspector Strange’s direction on the envelope. “I will have Hastings take this round at once. I will tell him to wait for the answer.”

  “And what will you do about the body?” I knew my employer to be a very capable man, but I doubted even he could order a corpse away from the police while they were still busy with investigating it.

  “I will try to arrange for the release, as I said I would; I will also try to discover what it is that they are searching for, that they must keep the body here,” Holmes told me. “I will also send a note to the morgue asking what the condition of the body is, and tell them that the family are waiting to bury their dead.”