The Scottish Ploy

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  I recalled what he had told me about his time in the Brotherhood as an agent of the government, and that he still had not told me how he managed to escape their vengeance. “This is from experience, is it not?”

  “Yes, Guthrie, it is,” said Holmes drily. “I am not willing to put anyone at hazard, not with the Brotherhood, which I would do if I divulge the names of those who have helped me.” He took the sheets I handed him. “I will need to review the passenger lists for these ships, but I will wager that Mister Kerem is not on any of them.”

  “But he told us he had reserved space on a ship leaving yesterday,” I reminded him.

  “And you believed him?” Holmes asked incredulously. “Guthrie, I thought you had a better measure of that man. He had every reason to lie, and no reason to be truthful.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “No. I am afraid we have lost Halil Kerem—if that is his name.”

  I shook my head. “I shall go round to the shipping companies myself, if you like, and make inquiry.”

  “No. I have more need of you here. I will send one of the young officers from the Admiralty; the shipping companies will pay more attention to such a messenger than they would to you, in any case,” he said bluntly. He was about to go on when there was a loud rap on the rear door and Tyers went to answer the energetic summons. “Sutton returns,” Holmes said to me.

  “In good time,” I said, looking up at the clock next to the French secretary: it read ten minutes before two.

  As if to confirm his arrival, I heard Sutton announce to the air, “Beatrice Motherwell is a termagant.”

  Holmes rose and went to the study door. “And why is that, dear boy?” he called.

  “She wants to change the Sleepwalking Scene to allow her to add lines of her own—lines of her own!” The enormity of this outrage made Sutton speak as if he were addressing the uppermost seats in the gallery.

  “Dear me,” said Holmes, trying to keep a serious demeanor.

  “Oh, you may laugh, sir,” said Sutton as he came striding into the study. “But this is not some paltry fustian by Colly Cibber or Van Brough. This is Shakespeare, and one of his best-known plays. No matter what she may think, Beatrice Motherwell cannot improve upon the lines, or make the audience think her invention is equal to Shakespeare’s.” He dropped down into his favorite chair. “You should have heard her when our director refused. A fishwife would have been shocked.”

  “Well, the run is almost over,” Mycroft Holmes said by way of sympathizing.

  “Yes, and I don’t want it said that our last performances were marred by a Lady MacBeth who ad-libbed the best-known scene of her character.” He flung up his hands. “We have done so well, and now this! What worse may befall us, I ask you? No wonder they say the play’s cursed.”

  “You must not be over-set by this, Edmund,” Mycroft Holmes advised in that tranquil manner of his that is often enough to make one want to pull hair. “You have secured the recognition you deserve, and not even the rambunction of your leading lady can cast any shadow upon you.”

  “I would like to think so,” said Sutton. “But a play is not the talent and effort of one, it is the sum of all.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “I would like a brandy, if you don’t mind.”

  “Certainly,” said Holmes, going to fetch a snifter and to fill it from the decanter in the sitting room. When he returned, he handed the generous libation to Sutton, saying as he did, “Here you are. It will ease you.”

  “Thank you,” said Sutton, straightening up and taking the snifter in his hand, swirling the brandy to warm it. “You’re very good. I know I should not let this discompose me, but all has been going so well, and I was in a fair way to thinking the worst was past.” He took a pull on the brandy.

  “You are not the only one to fall into such error,” said Mycroft Holmes. “We have had a similar comeuppance to deal with in our investigations.” He did his best to look self-deprecating but only managed to look as if he had been sucking lemons.

  “Oh? Have there been developments?” Sutton was genuinely curious, and he regarded us with undisguised interest.

  “A morning’s worth,” said Holmes, and recounted what had happened since we called at Sir Cameron’s leased house in Deanery Mews; halfway through his account, Sutton began to chuckle, and by the time Holmes had reached the account of the corpse’s disappearance, Sutton was into whoops. Holmes finished his report stiffly. “And why any of this should amuse you, I cannot think.”

  “Oh, don’t take umbrage, pray,” said Sutton, bringing his mirth under control. “It is so like the popular dramas, full of incidents in an ever-increasing avalanche of events.” He looked at Holmes and saw that our employer did not share his amusement. “I know it is a serious matter to you, and I do not mean to belittle what you have done, but as an actor, I can only say that your life, since last Friday, would play as a great adventure.”

  Somewhat mollified, Holmes was able to smile ruefully. “No doubt you are right. If it took place in South America, it would be worthy of Professor Challenger.”

  “My point exactly,” said Sutton, in an uncanny imitation of Holmes’ voice and manner. He was about to enlarge on his observation when Tyers announced that dinner was served in the sitting room, and we obligingly made our way to that chamber for the veal stuffed with sage and cheese, and roast onions, followed by a salad of winter vegetables cooked in cream. There was fresh bread and new butter, and a fine Côtes du Rhone to wash it down.

  “An excellent repast,” Holmes declared as he passed round the port and Stilton at the end of the meal.

  “That it is,” said Sutton; equanimity had been restored between them and both were about to light up cigars.

  I did not join them in smoking; it is one taste I have not acquired, although from time to time I am not adverse to lighting a pipe. I was content to sip at my port and enjoy the drawing in of the afternoon.

  “I’ll do the club, of course,” Sutton said after a companionable silence. “You said you had to speak to Baron von Schattenberg again, am I right?”

  “Yes,” said Holmes. “I am sorry I shall miss your performance tomorrow night. Ordinarily I would be at theatre but—” He shrugged. “I am afraid tomorrow night I will be otherwise occupied.”

  “It isn’t as if you haven’t seen the production. So long as you can spare Hastings to bring me back here, all will be well. And I will use this evening, upon my return from the club, to review my blocking one last time.” Sutton smiled at Holmes’ evident consternation.

  “You memorized that weeks ago,” Holmes reminded him. “And you have played it for the whole of your run.”

  “So I have. All the more reason to go over it again, so I do not become stale.” He made a theatrical gesture. “Oh, come. You did not mind having me pace out every scene as I was learning the part; why should one more go at it trouble you?”

  “You’re right, of course. It isn’t you I am disgruntled with—that’s terrible grammar but a true emotion, nonetheless. I am aware that I am not as much caught up with the Brotherhood’s machinations as I hoped I would be; I had hoped that by now we would have turned the tide. I am aggravated that Mister Kerem has managed to escape when I thought the delays of Customs would be sufficient to keep him in London for a few more days. I am annoyed that Vickers and Braaten have probably found a way to reach England and may, in fact, be here now. I should have anticipated such a ruse, but I failed to perceive it.” He spun the stem of his port-glass in his fingers, watching the dark liquid swirl. “I had thought that by tonight at least one of the criminals would be in gaol, and that we would be in a fair way to getting Vickers or Braaten behind bars. But I have botched that as well.”

  “You do know the nature of the trouble you face,” said Sutton. “Many times you have said that is more than half the battle.”

  “I know, and ordi
narily I would feel a certain satisfaction, but ...” He let his words trail off.

  “You have expectations of yourself that the rest of us do not share,” said Sutton. “And if you want to spend the next hour or so finding fault with yourself, I will excuse myself and have a short lie-down. I don’t like to see my friends abused, particularly by themselves.” He got to his feet, saying in a more relaxed voice, “Fortunately my MacBeth make-up is not too different from my make-up to look like you, or I would have a rush to go from the club to the theatre. As it is, all I need do is emphasize what is already begun.” His expression lost its jocularity. “You ought not berate yourself. It is a waste of time and it does nothing more than blunt your sensibilities, as you have reminded me when I have been unflatteringly reviewed.”

  Holmes sighed and leaned back. “You’re right; I know you’re right. If I could see my way through the whole of this muddle, I would not be so disheartened. I thought this morning we were in a fair way to taking the lead in this damnable game. But this has been such an exhausting several days, I begin to think I am at my limit.”

  Sutton chuckled. “Never. You are despondent, and who can blame you for that? But you have not yet put your strength to the test.” He put down his empty port-glass. “You are discouraged, but that will pass. Won’t it, Guthrie?”

  I was shocked to hear my name called, and it took me a moment to recover myself enough to make a good response. “We shall all come about, sir, you’ll see. This is only a lull before our next attack.”

  “No doubt you’re right, Guthrie,” said Mycroft Holmes, putting his port aside and stubbing out his cigar. “I will be the better for activity. I must change for my return to Herr Amsel’s house, and my next discussion with Baron von Schattenberg. I don’t suppose this time it will go too well, not with Herr Kriede’s killer still unapprehended, and Lady MacMillian’s arrival postponed yet again. Although I am glad that we have managed to delay her arrival; that is something in our favor.” He rose, and glanced at Sutton. “Go have your lie-down in the withdrawing room. And thank you for doing my stint at the Diogenes Club.”

  “My pleasure,” said Sutton. “It is preferable to waiting in my rooms to discover if I have been cast in Volpone or not.” He bowed as if to hearty applause, and left the sitting room.

  “He’s right, I know,” said Mycroft Holmes. “I should not be down-cast.”

  “No,” I said. “You should not.”

  Holmes looked down at me; he deliberately did not comment on my remark. “You’ll do well enough dressed as you are.”

  “But you intend to change,” I said, knowing he would want to set the right tone for the meeting, which was likely to be difficult.

  “Yes. Nothing too grand, for the Baron and his aides will be in mourning, I should think.” He strolled to the door. “Half an hour, Guthrie. Have a cup of tea, if you like.”

  “I think I will,” I said, for though I enjoyed the port, on a cold wet evening, tea would do me more good. There was enough left in the pot that I didn’t bother Tyers to make another. The tea was very strong and had a bitter taste, but that, too, was not unwelcome. I drank slowly, trying to prepare myself for this next venture.

  Mycroft Holmes achieved a nice balance between formal evening wear and dress for diplomatic occasions. His coat, though black, had a velvet collar of deep-grey, just the proper touch. His waistcoat was a deep-grey shadow stripe, setting the right note. He stood in the doorway. “It is time we were off,” he said. “Hastings will be waiting.”

  “I suppose I should bring my portfolio,” I said, preparing to take up this object from where I had put it down hours ago.

  “No; I think your leather-covered notebook would be most appropriate. We will not be making any finalized agreements, I should think, and we do not want the Baron to think we are keeping track of his every word—even if we are.” He called to Tyers for our overcoats and umbrellas, which were still in the kitchen.

  “Here you are, sir,” said Tyers as he brought the garments and umbrellas to us. “It is going to be very cold tonight. You may want to carry a lap-rug for your return.” He had one, all folded and put in an oilskin pocket. “If you give this to Hastings, he’ll have it for you.”

  “Excellent,” said Holmes, taking the pocket. “And now, out into the rain.”

  The day was closing in fast, most of the light had faded from the sky, leaving only leaden clouds beyond the rain. Sid Hastings was waiting at the rear of the building in the service alley, perched on his box in his engulfing oilskins, apparently impervious to the weather; Mycroft Holmes and I scrambled into his cab and sat back.

  “To the German’s house?” Hastings said, to be certain.

  “In Berkeley Mews,” Holmes said as we left the service alley and started westward.

  “Are we being followed?” I asked Holmes when we had turned north.

  “I believe we have one of the Golden Lodge guards behind us in a covered milord. The other must be on duty at the flat still.” He pursed his lips. “I suppose the Golden Lodge could provide useful information, if I were willing to impart what I have learned.”

  “You are still uncertain about them,” I said. “In spite of all they have done.”

  “Guthrie, I do not subscribe to that aphorism that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. The trouble with such thinking is that one can end up in very rum company indeed if it is followed too strictly.” He looked out into the streaming sepia sunset, his countenance set in ruminative lines. “I will allow that just at present, the Golden Lodge has been most useful, most helpful, but I am aware that could change in an instant. I do not mind providing them such information as must be immediately useful to them and to us, but I will not open the whole of my files to their scrutiny, nor will I volunteer one iota of intelligence beyond what is needed to secure their present support.”

  “We have benefitted from their presence,” I said.

  “And that has included Miss Gatspy.” He held up his hand. “Don’t bother disclaiming any interest in her. You have insisted upon that point any number of times. You will allow that you have been glad of her attendance.”

  “I should say so,” I exclaimed. “She has probably saved my life.”

  “And has before, and may do so again,” said Mycroft Holmes as if this were expected of her.

  “Are you implying that she does not deserve my gratitude?” I demanded.

  “Nothing of the sort. But I do hope you are aware if she has saved you, it is not just for your beaux yeux.” His faint smile almost took the sting out of his cautionary reminder.

  “I am aware of that, sir,” I said.

  “Oh, don’t cut up stiff, my boy. I do not mean to impugn her motives, only to say they are not simply sprung from concern for you. She is an agent of the Golden Lodge first and foremost.” He made a gesture of dismissal; I knew he would not discuss it any longer, for which I was relieved. “When we get to Berkeley Mews, I would appreciate it if you would take a little time to talk to Eisenfeld and ... Farb—whatever his name is.”

  “Farbschlagen,” I supplied, surprised that Holmes was too preoccupied to remember; most of the time he had all names readily available.

  “Yes. Paul Farbschlagen. I am curious to know how they are dealing with the death of their fellow-aide. I am especially interested because, as I recall, on the afternoon he died, Herr Kriede was nervous. I would like to know why.” Holmes had become more business-like, and I took my tone from him.

  “Is there anything in particular you would like to know?” I asked.

  “No. But I am curious about the fellow. If he had trouble in his life, it might account for his apprehension. It may be wholly unconnected to this case, but I need to know that, so that I will not have to pursue the matter. Unless, of course, it is connected to the cause of his death, in which case I will need to know everything you can f
ind out. I rely on your good judgment to gauge the business appropriately.” He shook his head, a self-deprecating smile flicking at the corners of his eyes. “This is so much more the sort of case my brother deals with than I am used to.”

  “Do you think so?” I asked, not wholly in agreement with him.

  “Well, murders in London are a speciality of his,” Mycroft Holmes observed. “Conduit Street. We are nearly there.”

  I rubbed the steam from the lozenge-shaped window at my shoulder and looked out. There were blurs of light around us, and steadily moving traffic. Nothing proceeded in a hurry, but no one stopped for very long, either. Those walking were huddled into their coats and ducked under their umbrellas. “A dreadful night to be out,” I said.

  “Isn’t it?” Mycroft Holmes concurred. “Well, at least we will be indoors.” He fell silent, and so did I.

  “I’ll be back in a hour, sir,” said Hastings as he pulled up in Berkeley Mews. “I’m going along to get a pastie, and a pint o’ bitters, but I’ll be here again in an hour, for as long as you need me.”

  “Thank you, Hastings. That should be satisfactory; I’ve left a lap-rug in the cab, for our return.” said Mycroft Holmes as we got out of the cab; Hastings touched the brim of his cap in acknowledgment before he gave Lance the order to walk on. Holmes and I trod up the steps to the front door and knocked.

  The butler opened the door without haste, and brought us inside. “The Baron is in the library, Mister Holmes. I will announce you and Mister Guthrie,” he said when we had surrendered our coats and umbrellas.

  “Thank you,” said Holmes, very much at his ease; he followed the butler down the same corridor we had walked before, to the library door. The butler presented us as he opened the door, and withdrew at once.

  Baron von Schattenberg looked much older than the last time we had seen him. In the last two days, the shadows had taken charge of his face, and he stood as if supporting an immense weight. “Mister Holmes,” he said, with no more greeting than that. “My aides will join us shortly.”