The Scottish Ploy

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Yes. Your records agree with mine.” He began to twiddle his watch-fob. “And yet, he told me he is taking a dangerous murderer into his care. He implied the man’s a maniac.”

  “And so he might,” said Miss Gatspy. “He has done so in the past. Why should this be of interest to you?”

  “True enough; he has treated other criminals. And yet, you know, I am perplexed. You see, whenever a perpetrator of a capital crime is moved in this country, for any reason, I am informed of it, and I have received no report in regard to this criminal. I have gone over my records, and I can find no mention of such a man, nor of any decision to put him into Sir Marmion’s care. Very few people know I receive this report; it is the sort of information one does not want bruited about, so it is not astonishing Sir Marmion was unaware of it. That, Miss Gatspy, gives me to wonder.”

  She was engrossed in what he said. “Can there have been a delay in providing you the information?”

  “It is possible, but highly unlikely. And I have never seen any mention of any such a proposed transfer to Hawtrees, this year, of a murderer or any other criminal. I find this most baffling. So I ask myself, what is the purpose of telling me about this fictitious criminal?” He cocked his head as he glanced from Miss Gatspy to me and back again. “What is he seeking to hide? For he has no reason to boast of this to me.”

  “I should think not,” I said to Mycroft Holmes.

  “You must have some preliminary theses on the question,” said Miss Gatspy, ready to listen.

  “That I do,” he admitted, and went on slowly, thinking aloud. “I think there is some reason Sir Marmion does not want me to visit Hawtrees before Friday. He cannot or will not tell me the real reason. This suggests to me that something is happening there he is not eager to have discovered, or he has someone on the premises he must conceal for the next few days. That would make my arrival inopportune, and so Sir Marmion wishes to discourage me.”

  “But he does not want you to know that your visit would be awkward,” said Miss Gatspy.

  “That seems to be a part of it. Why is that? Does he have an inmate who does not want his presence known? But who could be there?” Mycroft Holmes raised his hand. “Someone I would recognize, perhaps? Someone who is not supposed to be there.”

  “You mean Brotherhood men,” I said before Miss Gatspy could speak.

  “I may be jumping at shadows, but it seems to me that if I wished to hide with impunity, a madhouse might be an excellent place to do it. Odd behavior would not be commented upon, and most persons are inclined to ignore the mentally afflicted.” Mycroft Holmes rubbed his chin, his eyes fixed on the middle distance. “I had hoped that the Golden Lodge could shed more light on this.”

  “You suspect a possible connection between Sir Marmion and the Brotherhood?” said Miss Gatspy.

  “Yes. Or any similar affiliation.” Holmes dropped his watch-fob and shook his head. “I would like to make some headway somewhere in this mare’s nest.” He sighed. “It is like one of those infernal Russian dolls, each containing another until the very heart of the matter is revealed.”

  I ventured to say, “A mixed metaphor, sir,” in the hope of amusing him.

  “My dear Guthrie, I do not aspire to persiflage, only to the apprehension of criminals, and enemies of Britain,” he said with awful hauteur.

  Miss Gatspy seconded him. “I cannot blame you for your misgiving. You may have discerned something we”—by which she meant the Golden Lodge—“have not. I will ask our members to turn their attention to that possibility, if you like.”

  “It may be helpful, but only if it can be accomplished in a day, two days at most. By then I fear the damage—whatever it may be—will be done. I have the ... the pricking thumbs of MacBeth warning me that whatever is planned, it must happen soon. Do not tell me that I am succumbing to superstition, for that is not the case; I hope I have more intellectual rigor than that.” Holmes got out of his chair and began to pace. “If Lady MacMillian reaches London, again to mix the metaphor, the genie will be out of the bottle.”

  “How is that metaphor mixed?” Miss Gatspy inquired, dimples appearing in her cheeks.

  “Pricking thumbs have no commonality with genies,” said Mycroft Holmes, dismissing the question with a wave of his hand. “Do not bother me with these trivial considerations. I have too much on my mind.” He stared at her, his expression polite but unrevealing. “You need not remind me that I brought it up. I am aware of it. When I am much pressed, my thoughts spring every which way, like hares in March. And pray do not bring up Professor Dodgeson’s cunning little satire.”

  “Then I shall remain mum on the subject,” said Miss Gatspy at her most obliging. She got up from the chair; I rose with her. “If there is nothing more, I must go and send my superiors word of your need for information in regard to Sir Marmion’s background. Is there anything other than his possible ties to the Brotherhood that you would like us to examine?”

  Mycroft Holmes stood still for nearly five seconds. “Yes,” he said. “If you would, review the titles of his published papers. There may be something there that we have overlooked.”

  “All right,” she assured him. “I will. For whatever your reason may be, I will do this. And I will bid you good-day until tomorrow, gentlemen,” she said as she went to the door. “Don’t fear. Tyers will see me out.”

  I watched the door close behind her, and listened while her footsteps faded down the corridor to the entry-hall. Only when she had left the flat did I sit down again.

  “A most illuminating twenty minutes,” Mycroft Holmes approved. “If only all my colleagues would be so succinct. I am glad to have all the help I can on this, providing it is genuine and not deliberately misleading.”

  “Why would she provide you with inaccurate information?” I asked, unable to think that Miss Gatspy would do anything so reprehensible in this precarious situation.

  “I have no idea. That doesn’t mean she would not do it, particularly if her superiors instructed her to do so. She is their lieutenant, Guthrie, not ours, and she must answer to them, not to us.” Holmes went to the shuttered window and peered out through the narrow gap between them. “The courier. The Turk. The police. Sir Cameron. Baron von Schattenberg. Herr Kriede. Lady MacMillian’s uncles. Sir Marmion. It is all a muddle, and deliberately made so.”

  “Small wonder it rankles,” I said. “Put like that, and no one could make sense of it.”

  “But there must be sense in it, somewhere,” Mycroft Holmes said emphatically. “As deceptive as the Brotherhood can be, I must believe that there is a uniting purpose in all this. I know their ways and I recognize their methods here. What eludes me—infuriating as it is—is what they seek to accomplish in all this confusion. I am certain that we will shortly have to take the brunt of their machinations.”

  “More pricking thumbs?” I suggested.

  “No. Or at least not entirely. I have had over twenty years of opposing them,” he said bluntly. “The Brotherhood knows if ever they are to gain a foothold in England again, they must confuse and mislead me so that I cannot recognize their presence. All this confounding of incidents and information is clearly their work, and to the end of allowing Braaten and Vickers to enter the country undetected. Once they have the support of Lady MacMillian’s uncles, removing them becomes a most ticklish operation.” He slapped his hands together. “It is not easy to know where to begin, but I do not wish to wait for them to act again. Next time they may try something more deadly than attempting to ambush you in Green Park.” He sighed. “If a Hungarian hunting pistol were the weapon used, then I would know where we stand.”

  “No doubt; but that might have had a more fatal conclusion if Miss Gatspy had not—” I said, only to be interrupted.

  “I will vouch for her pluck and her self-possession, Guthrie. You need not fly to her defense.” He pointed t
o the file that contained the two letters. “In your reading, keep a watch for phrases like the ones used in the letters. They may point the way to our opponents.”

  “You did suggest that Vickers might have dictated them to Braaten,” I reminded him.

  “And I still think it is not unlikely. But until I have more proof than intuition, I want to use deduction and logic wherever possible.” He took another sheet of paper and cleaned the nib of his pen. “I must send a note round to Inspector Featherstone, one to Chief Inspector Pryce, one to Inspector Strange—a second imposition for him. There are far too many police in these matters, and they are caught up in the deception, beyond doubt. But who among them is doing the damage? To what purpose is he doing it? And how?”

  “Have you any theories on that head?” I asked him, aware that he was troubled by the layers of questions he had to consider in his work.

  “I have one or two, but they are not fully supported yet, and I will no longer allow them to force my hand.” He dipped his pen in the inkwell and wrote quickly. “I’ll have Tyers carry these. Hastings can drive him.”

  I was already concentrating on the material I was to review, but I said, “Do you think Mister Kerem will be able to have his brother’s body released?”

  “I hope not,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Once it is gone, we will have no chance of finding out who butchered that unfortunate boy. Whom I suspect is not his brother.”

  “So you have said,” I muttered.

  “Yes, and I am persuaded it is the truth,” he declared, continuing to write. “There is too much that makes no sense on the face of it if he is supposed to be a relative. If he is not who he claims to be, then some of his actions make more sense. They are also more sinister. Go back to your review, Guthrie. The sooner it is completed, the sooner we may begin to stop the miscreants at their own game.”

  I gave myself to my task, reading with attention and occasionally setting a page aside for closer scrutiny. Mycroft Holmes completed his letters and summoned Tyers.

  “The direction for each is on the envelope. Have Hastings run you round to these places. Wait for a reply.” He gave the envelopes to Tyers. “I am sorry to send you out in this weather, but this must be attended to.”

  “I will leave in ten minutes,” said Tyers, taking the envelopes handed to him. “I must be sure the fire in the cooker is properly banked before I leave.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Holmes approved. “It would not do to start a fire.”

  “My very thoughts,” said Tyers, and left us alone again.

  “I trust you are not finding the day too dull, Guthrie,” Mycroft Holmes said as he went to take two volumes from the shelves. “I fear we will need hours and hours of meticulous review before we accomplish our task.”

  “I prefer it to being shot at,” I said, hoping again to amuse him.

  “No doubt,” he said, pursing his lips with distaste.

  I put my attention to the pages, and hardly moved but to turn them for the next few hours. I was dimly aware when Tyers returned and handed Mycroft Holmes two notes, and I accepted the cup of hot tea that was brought in at about half-two. By the time Holmes dressed for his walk across Pall Mall to his club, I had completed all but the last half-dozen pages, and was ready to take a turn about the room to clear my head. I had just risen to my feet when I heard Sutton arrive at the rear door. Little as I wanted to admit it, I was glad the actor had returned to bear me company.

  “Hello, Guthrie,” he said as he came into the library, casually but elegantly attired in a cut-away coat and silk gloves. “I thought you and Holmes were to have gone to the asylum today, and I was to visit the club.”

  “Sir Marmion has asked that we reschedule the meeting,” I told him, and proceeded to sum up the purpose of his visit.

  “So Holmes is going to the club; just as well,” said Sutton. “I hope I may get my tea out of this.” It was a gentle jibe, not intended to wound; Mycroft Holmes heard it from the door and answered him.

  “You may get your supper as well, if you are minded to wait for it.” He was almost ready to leave. “How did the audition go, dear boy?”

  “It went well, I thought. I have been asked to come round next week to read with the cast, and then we shall see. I am encouraged.” He smiled broadly. “My recent favorable notices have stood me in good stead.”

  “Excellent,” Holmes approved. “I know you are capable of delivering a fine performance. I wish I could provide you with a letter of reference, but ...” He shrugged.

  “No doubt the director would not know what to make of such work,” Sutton said lightly. “I am grateful to you for your offer.”

  Mycroft Holmes laid his hand on Sutton’s shoulder. “There are few actors who can claim that their performances have saved lives, even helped to preserve Britain from her enemies.”

  “You praise me too much,” said Sutton, a little color mounting in his cheeks. “I have done the work for which you hired me.”

  “And modest, to boot,” Holmes said as he started toward the front of the flat. “How is it out there? Any slacking in the rain?”

  “Not yet,” said Sutton. “They say it will be another day or two before we see the sun again.” He came over to the reading-chair and dropped into it.

  “We shall all be growing fungus by then,” Holmes complained. “Still, I should think it would be prudent to keep my rain-gear to hand.” He went back to his dressing-room and emerged a short while later ready to depart. “I shall be back at the usual time; you might show Sutton the work we are doing. I would like his opinion when I return,” he said, and went out the front.

  “I take it matters have worsened since I last saw you,” Sutton said in his best languorous air.

  “Yes, they have,” I said, and did my best to explain recent events to him in as clear a fashion as I could. When I had finished, I said, “So you see why Mister Holmes is perturbed.”

  “Perturbed? I would understand if he were raving; I would be,” Sutton responded. He had listened with abstracted attention, staring up at the ceiling and hardly moving; now he sat forward and clasped his hands together. “I should think dealing with Sir Cameron may be one way to address the problem now.”

  “Why should we do that?” I asked, wanting to have as little as possible to do with Sir Cameron.

  “Because he is a pig-headed, self-centered lout who is accustomed to using bullying and sullens to get his own way,” said Sutton. “If you want to buy a little time, persuade him he is being taken advantage of, and let him take on the uncles and Baron von Schattenberg. He doesn’t care a fig for diplomacy, and he has a reputation for making his own way. If you cannot turn that to advantage, you are not the man I know you to be.”

  I stared at him, the sense of his recommendation so overwhelmingly obvious that I chided myself for not seeing it before now. “I think it could work,” I said at last.

  Sutton grinned. “Of course it could work. And it would give you not one but two fewer problems to deal with: Sir Cameron would be aiding rather than thwarting you, and the Germans would have to make their arrangements with him instead of using Holmes as the negotiator.”

  “I doubt Holmes would accept that,” I said, a bit regretfully.

  “Then you must point out the benefits of such a ploy—at least for the next few days. From what you say, that is the crucial period, isn’t it?” Sutton exuded confidence and optimism.

  “It seems so,” I said carefully.

  “And since that is all you have to go on,” Sutton said, “it may be as well to plan around what you actually know than around conjecture.” He got up abruptly. “I am famished. Do you suppose that Tyers could make me a sandwich to tide me over until supper?”

  “I don’t see why not. Ask him,” I recommended as I began to put my mind to the best way to convince Mycroft Holmes to take Sutto
n’s advice in regard to Sir Cameron.

  Sutton was almost out the door when Tyers came in, pale as new cheese, a note in his hand. “What the devil—?” Sutton exclaimed.

  I got to my feet and went to Tyers. “What has happened? You look dreadful.” I had a momentary impression of Miss Gatspy lying in a pool of her own blood, and a chill went through me. Then I made myself listen to Tyers.

  “This was sent from hospital,” said Tyers, holding out the note. “The courier died.”

  I stood very still, my mind struggling to grasp what I had just heard. “What did you say?” I asked as I seized the note and read it.

  Dear Mister Holmes,

  As per your instructions, I am regretfully informing you that the Admiralty courier brought to us for treatment of a gunshot wound took a turn for the worse at about one in the afternoon. It was not the expected outcome, for he had been improving steadily until this. His fever, which had been diminishing, suddenly shot up, his lungs became congested, and in spite of our best efforts he died at eleven minutes past four. A notice has been sent by messenger to the Admiralty.

  Most sincerely,

  Yr svt,

  Humphrey Johnathon Albert Rawlins, physician, FRCS

  “He was recovering,” said Tyers. “Our report yesterday was so encouraging.” His shock was lessening, which relieved me.

  “Bullet wounds are unpredictable,” I reminded him. “If there was a sudden increase in infection, no one could have saved him.”

  “Yes,” said Tyers, shaking his head. “I do not know how I shall tell Mister Holmes.”

  Sutton took over. “Leave that to us. You go put a spot of brandy in your tea and do what you can to steady yourself.” He all but guided Tyers from the room, then came back to me. “He’s knocked all to pieces. Do you know why?”