The Scottish Ploy

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Much better, Guthrie,” he approved as I came into the room. “It appears the Baron is distressed at Sir Cameron’s sudden intention to return to his Scottish estates for the next fortnight. I am about to reassure him that this is a very good thing.”

  “And what reason have you given for that?” I asked as I sat down and accepted a cup of Lady Grey tea from Tyers.

  “I am explaining to him that with the police investigation in full swing, it would hardly be possible to receive Lady MacMillian in the manner she deserves, and that a delay is preferable to embarrassment. I expect the Baron will agree when he thinks it over. His position is awkward enough without Lady MacMillian being present.” He signed the note, folded it and stuffed it into an envelope. “Another missive for Hastings to deliver.”

  “He will tend to it as soon as you like,” said Tyers, as he took the envelope and prepared to leave the room.

  “And the police—what about them?” I asked as I tasted the tea; it was still hot enough to scald, and I set the cup down again.

  “I will have notes for them, and for Chief Inspector Alexander of Customs; I will also send word to Inspector Strange for his opinion of our most recent developments.” He saw me look at him in some confusion, and he explained, “I have a question or two about Lionel Featherstone’s investigation, and Customs should be able to bring me abreast of matters.”

  “Is this something Inspector Strange recommends?” I asked.

  “In part,” said Holmes, volunteering nothing more on that head, but adding, “I am aware that there are more issues here than those we have discerned so far. If I can review all the opinions held by the police and others, I might be able to make some sense of it all.”

  “You are going to put them against one another,” I said, as much warning him as describing his tactics. “You will have more of Scotland Yard distressed than Inspector Wallace.”

  “Had Wallace kept to his work, he would have had nothing to fear from me; he was slipshod and took too much for granted,” said Holmes, dismissing my concern without more than a slight frown. “Let his fellow-officers learn from him.”

  I knew there was nothing more to say that would soften his sense of the police. “Do you think you will have a quick response?”

  “I had better.” Mycroft Holmes took out another sheet of paper and began to write on it.

  I tried my tea again and was just able to swallow it. “What would you like me to do, sir?” I asked when I had drunk half a cup.

  “For the moment, I would like you to review the sailings for yesterday and today, from the London docks.” He nodded to a stack of papers that were under the seal of the Admiralty. “I want to know what ships have departed, or are scheduled to depart.”

  “Departures?” I repeated, surprised at the request.

  “Yes. I will need to have that information to hand shortly, think,” he said as he continued writing. “This is to Inspector Featherstone, and I hope it will bring us information at once.” He put the note in the envelope, sealed and addressed it. “This is to Chief Inspector Pryce; I am informing him of Sir Cameron’s imminent journey to Scotland. This, too, should elicit a swift response.” When he finished writing this note, he made its envelope ready for delivery, then began another note for Chief Inspector Alexander of Customs. “As soon as these are in the hands for which they are intended, I shall expect a flurry of developments. I will weigh what I am told against the information Inspector Strange provides me.” He began another note, writing swiftly, and he addressed another envelope, then he sat back and looked at what he had done; there was a hard amusement in his grey eyes. “You will see how quickly these men will spring into action.”

  “And if they do not?” I inquired.

  “That, in itself, will tell a tale,” said Holmes. He completed his notes, rose, and took them to Tyers in the kitchen.

  I sat drinking the last of my tea, trying to put behind me the sensation that there had been a change that made us more closely involved in these complicated cases. I put my teacup down and did my best to anticipate all that I might be called upon to do. There were so many avenues I might explore that I was nearly overwhelmed by them all. I was reviewing what we had been told of Jacobbus Braaten’s arrival in England over the last several days, when there came a sharp knock on the door. I rose automatically, prepared to answer the summons if Tyers should still be with Mycroft Holmes; it wasn’t necessary, for Tyers hastened down the corridor and Holmes strolled back into the study.

  “I admit I am curious,” he said, acknowledging the knocking from the front door.

  “Do you have any notion who it might be?” I asked.

  “I have guesses, not notions,” said Mycroft Holmes, sitting down and pouring more tea into his cup. “Here, Guthrie. Have another cup.”

  I did as he required, listening all the while to the urgent sound of the caller. I could not make out the words, but the tone of voice was unmistakably concerned.

  A minute or two later Tyers came to the study door and said, “Inspector Lionel Featherstone to see you, sir.”

  “And he hasn’t yet received my note—impressive, to be so beforehand,” said Holmes. “His errand must be pressing, indeed. Send him in, Tyers.”

  “Shall I remain?” I asked.

  “Of course, dear boy. I rely upon you to pay close attention to all we hear.” He stood up again as if performing a necessary duty, and prepared to greet Inspector Featherstone.

  I, too, rose, and a moment later, Inspector Featherstone bustled into the study, his face flushed, his hair damp, and his expression dismayed.

  “Inspector Featherstone. What am I to do for you?” Holmes asked, indicating one of the straight-backed chairs that stood about the study.

  “The boy’s body is missing, and the Turk is gone,” the Inspector announced without any introductory remarks or even a greeting.

  “Good gracious,” said Mycroft Holmes, not nearly so astonished as I was. “And when was this discovered?”

  I realized now why Holmes wanted to know about the sailings from London docks yesterday and today; I wondered when he had realized something of this sort might happen.

  “The body must have been taken last night, very late, as far as I have been able to determine,” said Inspector Featherstone. “I can’t put an exact hour on it, but the morgue attendant who came on duty at six in the morning said he discovered it was gone. I made a thorough search of the morgue myself, to be sure the body had not been misplaced, but that was not the case; the corpse has vanished. The night morgue attendant must not have noticed anything unusual, for he said nothing to the orderly who brought a new body down shortly after midnight, but I believe the late-night attendant slept half his shift, if what I have been told about him is true.” Having laid out so much, he sat down. “I have questioned the other attendants, but no one at Saint Elizabeth’s saw anything to rouse their suspicions, or so they claim. I have surmised that the theft was planned carefully. So the body was most likely removed between three and six, when activity is at its lowest.”

  Mycroft Holmes touched the tips of his fingers together. “Did you happen to ask if a patient left in a wheeled-chair, or a body in a coffin?”

  “No, not as such, and yes, I did make such inquiries as soon as the loss was reported to me,” said Inspector Featherstone. “But there is no record of such, or of a hearse coming to the carriage-entrance during the night, and only two cabs were summoned between midnight and five. I have the attendant’s statement on the incidents and the times. I have also made inquiries among our informants who know about the working of body-snatchers. Nothing from any of them so far.” He pulled his notebook from his waistcoat pocket. “One cab departed at two forty-eight, the other at three twenty-one. The first carried a woman whose father had succumbed an hour earlier, the second was summoned by a surgeon. The desk attendant say
s that no one entered Saint Elizabeth’s from one-thirty-two to five-oh-six.”

  “So it might be possible that the body was removed earlier, and some misleading bundles were put under the sheet and were not removed until last night,” said Mycroft Holmes. “You may want to ask which of the various attendants actually checked on the bodies. If no close review was made, the body of the young man might have been missing for more than twelve hours before its loss was reported.” He regarded Inspector Featherstone with interest. “Don’t tell me such a possibility has not occurred to you.”

  “Well, yes, I have thought it might have happened that way,” said Featherstone.

  “Indeed,” said Holmes. “I should think, given the nature of the murder, that it is highly likely that the body was gone long before it was missed. What intrigues me is the attempt to delay the recognition of its disappearance.” He sat forward. “When did you receive word of this?”

  “Shortly after six, sir,” said Inspector Featherstone. “I came on duty and the report was the first one handed me.”

  “I see. And did you go to Saint Elizabeth’s?” He was clearly trying to establish times for these events.

  “Almost at once. I arrived there shortly before seven. I was pleased that the staff that had been on duty—with one exception—had remained after their shift ended.” The Inspector shook his head. “I still have not spoken to the late-night morgue attendant.”

  “Do you know where to find him?” asked Mycroft Holmes sharply.

  “He is said to lodge at the Spotted Dog, two blocks from Saint Elizabeth’s,” said Inspector Featherstone. “I called there on my way here, but the landlord claimed his room was empty. I will stop back there later today to see if I can find him.”

  “Do so, by all means,” said Mycroft Holmes, “but I doubt you will find him. I predict he will have disappeared, as well. Did you happen to learn how long he had his post at the morgue?”

  “Yes. He was recently hired, on”—he consulted his notebook”—November fifth. They tell me that men do not stay long in that position. Their two day-time attendants have worked in that capacity for more than a year, the man taking the afternoon shift having been there for nearly four years.” He closed his notebook again. “Not the kind of work most would like to do, I’d think.”

  “Very likely,” said Holmes. “But your night-man will be gone, I tell you.”

  “Perhaps,” Inspector Featherstone allowed. “I will still go to the Spotted Dog this afternoon, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’ve nothing against your doing that,” said Holmes.

  “Why do you suppose the man is gone?” the Inspector could not resist asking.

  “He had served his purpose. Now it is in the best interests of his true employers to have him out of the city.” Holmes sat back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. “When a check is made on him, he will be found to be a non-entity, a man without a history. He is probably the man who took away whatever had been used to give the appearance of the body being under the sheet, although he is not the only one who had such an opportunity. I am convinced that the body was removed yesterday afternoon, so that Halil Kerem could take it with him on his departing ship.”

  “You mean his brother stole the body to take it home?” Inspector Featherstone asked.

  “Halil Kerem was no more that poor lad’s brother than I am,” scoffed Holmes. “Kerem was sent to claim the evidence and get rid of it. His story was almost plausible enough to permit him to do this without question. We do not usually suppose that a man would come on a long voyage for no purpose but to dispose of a body.”

  “He did not expect to find a body,” said Inspector Featherstone. “He wanted to find his brother.”

  “So he said,” Mycroft Holmes agreed. “And he set out from Turkey some time before the lad was killed.”

  “Yes,” said Featherstone, his eyes brightening. “Just so.”

  “But he arrived prepared to take a body with him, according to Inspector Alexander’s Customs report; he filed an application to ship a body to Istanbul,” Holmes said, unctuous as a cat.

  I was engrossed in this account; I knew Mycroft Holmes had such an assumption, but I did not realize he had taken the time to pursue it, or to support his thesis.

  “Why do you say that?” Inspector Featherstone wanted to know. He took out his notebook again, and a blunt pencil, and began to make terse memoranda to himself as Mycroft Holmes explained.

  “The first mistake he made came when he arranged to transport a coffin one day after his arrival. The second mistake—more egregious than the first—was his claim that the tattoo on the young man was an old one, when it was patently newly done. He soon understood his error and he knew he had to get the body out of the morgue and out of England before the inquiry went any further. He urged me to help him gain its release, as a means of accounting for his intense interest. He wanted to appear at the mercy of English whim, so that we should discount him as a suspect.” Holmes spread his hands as if this were obvious.

  “Then the story of the ... the prostitution ring of young foreign men was a fabrication?” said Inspector Featherstone.

  “On, no; that is quite real. And I would suppose Halil Kerem is one of its suppliers. I assume it was he who provided the Turkish lad to the panderers here in England. But I gather the boy learned more than he should, either about the ring itself, or its ... clientele, and had to be disposed of.” Holmes took a deep breath. “A lad of that sort is all but invisible at the best of times. In a case such as this one, he vanishes, figuratively and literally.”

  Inspector Featherstone sat staring at Mycroft Holmes. “You can’t be serious.”

  “As serious as I ever was in my life,” Mycroft Holmes responded. “That new tattoo is the mark of a nefarious organization that has done much to corrupt the leadership of all Europe. Its appearance in England is a warning to us all.”

  “So you believe the lad is in a coffin on his way back to Turkey?” Inspector Featherstone pursued. “Might we wire Turkish Customs to deal with him when he lands?”

  “There is someone in the coffin, no doubt. But I expect the boy will be got rid of at sea, so that no more questions can be asked of him.” Mycroft Holmes looked over at Inspector Featherstone. “I wouldn’t be amazed to learn the morgue attendant lies in a Turkish grave, one day.”

  The Inspector blanched. “No. Surely you cannot think they would do anything so ... so ...”

  “I know this organization of old, Inspector, and there is no atrocity of which they are not capable.” Holmes’ expression was granite-like.

  “Then how is this case to be solved?” Inspector Featherstone asked.

  “I shouldn’t think it could be,” Holmes told him, and reached out to pour him a cup of tea.

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

  I have returned from carrying the messages for MH, and brought back a note from CI Pryce, which I have handed to MH. Inspector Featherstone left some twenty minutes since, still very much distressed by what he has learned here.

  I will prepare supper to have it ready upon Sutton’s return, which should be within the half hour ...

  “DO YOU really think Mister Kerem is the villain you described to Inspector Featherstone?” I asked as I finished making a list of Turkey-bound ships; the Inspector had been gone for more than an hour and I had been occupied with the task Mycroft Holmes had set for me earlier in the day.

  “Most certainly I do: don’t you?” Mycroft Holmes said as he stood up and stretched. “You have been in that part of the world recently. Do you suppose the degeneration of the government is due entirely to the Turks? I know the touch of the Brotherhood when I see it. You said yourself that there were foreign influences in the Ottoman world that contributed to the venality you so deplored.”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” I sai
d. “But it troubles me that the Brotherhood has made such inroads, if that is what has happened,” I added the last conscientiously.

  “It is,” Holmes declared. “Jacobbus Braaten was not in Istanbul for his health.” He shook his head. “You cannot ignore the villainy he represents. I must suppose he has used coercion, blackmail, extortion, and every other kind of despicable act in order to advance the goals of the Brotherhood. He has certainly used intimidation and bribery, as you have seen for yourself. I doubt he would stop at any act, no matter how heinous.”

  “Including running the prostitution ring you depicted? Or did you choose that as an example, not a direct—?” I got no further.

  “Of course I meant it specifically. I have had information to hand for almost a month that depicted the activities of that reprehensible trade; I had not found the means to bring it to the attention of the authorities without exposing the men who have done their utmost to inform me on this scheme, or I should have urged action against them before now, a course I am persuaded would serve only to alert the Brotherhood to our awareness, and thereby give them an opportunity to dismantle their criminal ring here and relocate it elsewhere, where we may not as easily surveil them.” He stared at the fireplace. “I have no desire to put any of my agents at risk, not if there are means to protect them: the Brotherhood uses traitors ferociously, as an example.”