“Where is Vickers?” I asked, as if I cared to know. Just speaking his name left a bad taste in my mouth. “I should have thought he would be with you.”
“He left as you arrived,” said Braaten, spitting to show his contempt. “He is as ambitious as he is foolish. Suffice it to say he is gone to another place.” He sighed with false sympathy and came a step farther into the shower-room. “Which you will never find because you—and Mister Holmes—will be dead.”
I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I curled my lip. I wondered if I could reach my pistol and fire it before he killed me? It didn’t seem likely. It was hard to believe that I had only minutes to live.
At my feet, Sutton groaned and rolled onto his side.
“Tomorrow was to be his full treatment of galvanic shock,” said Jacobbus Braaten. “Today it was just a taste, with morphia to lessen the impact. Tomorrow—well, tomorrow, he would have glowed by the end of the day, and no morphia to deaden the treatment.” He aimed his pistol at Sutton. “A pity there won’t be time to reap the contents of that wonderful mind. Had you not come, he would have lived a while longer—little as he might want to.”
I felt Sutton move, his arm flung out, and I feared he would hasten the lethal moment; Sutton shook, then went limp.
Braaten took another step forward. “I want to see the life go out of your—” His dire words ended on a yelp as he stepped on the film of undiluted liquid soap Sutton had managed to put in his path. His pistol discharged into the pipes and water sprayed down on us. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my pistol, aimed, and fired. I had the satisfaction of seeing Braaten fall to his knees, his hand clasped to the side of his chest, his pistol fallen to the tiles, his thinning hair plastered to his skull by the cold water.
More howls and laughter greeted this noise; inwardly I felt a kinship with their distress, for my sense of approbation was rapidly fading as I watched Braaten’s suffering. I did not know if I could remain standing over him, waiting for him to die, without some qualm moving me to pity. I did my utmost to maintain my resolve, trying to observe him with indifference although I was unnerved. I might have tried to render Braaten some wholly useless assistance, but in less than three minutes, I heard Mycroft Holmes calling my name through the cacophony.
“At the end of the rear hall!” I shouted back, in competition with the general uproar. “In the shower-room.”
“Are you all right?” His voice was nearer and I could heard the sound of his steady running. “Guthrie! Answer me!”
“A bit shaken, but well enough,” I answered. “Sutton is here. So is Jacobbus Braaten.” As I spoke this last name, I leveled my pistol at him. “Stay where you are.”
Braaten had fallen onto his uninjured side and was pulling into a tight ball. Frothy blood welled from where my bullet had struck. He attempted to speak, then began to cough; his sputum was bloody.
Mycroft Holmes came through the door, his pistol in hand, his expression fixed in an aggressive snarl. He hesitated in the doorway, but only to take stock of the room. Seeing Sutton, he started forward to help him.
“Mind the soap,” I cautioned him, just as he slid on the tiles. His arms sawed the air, but he contrived somehow to remain on his feet long enough to regain his balance. Then he dropped to his knees beside Sutton. Water continued to pour down on us.
“Are you all right, dear boy?” Mycroft Holmes asked as he laid his hand on Sutton’s shoulder. “Tell me. My word, Sutton, what have they done to you?” he asked as he started to move his double; he could not conceal the horror he felt. He swore, and strove to lift Sutton to his feet.
“I’ll ... man ... ath,” said Sutton, trying to help, but losing his balance. “I’m dithy ...”
“Small wonder,” I said, my pistol still aimed at Braaten. “Do you remove him, Holmes,” I recommended. “I’ll keep guard on Braaten here—”
Mycroft Holmes stared. “Is that Jacobbus Braaten? By Jove; you’re right!” He shook his head. “Age hasn’t been kind to him; I shouldn’t have known him on a superficial glance. He is very seriously hurt, I see now I come to look at him.” He paused to scrutinize the man as best he could from his current vantage-point. “It seems you’ve punctured his lung, Guthrie.”
“I believe so,” I said, feeling a bit sick for all it was Braaten I had shot. “I don’t think he’ll last long.”
“Very likely not. But take no chances.” Holmes was half-carrying, half-dragging Sutton out of the shower-room. “I’ll see if I can turn off the water.”
“Much appreciated,” I responded.
“I’ll ready Sutton to leave,” he said, as if his actions had to be explained.
“You’ll need dry clothes,” I pointed out.
“So will you, Guthrie,” said Holmes as he finally got out of the room. “So will you.”
I had to admit it was true. I was wet to the skin, and I was alone with my enemy. I had a pistol in my hand. For some little time I considered firing a second shot. But that would be murder, and I knew if I condemned Jacobbus Braaten for committing such a crime, I oughtn’t to do it, no matter how great the temptation he presented. As I wrestled with my conscience, the water finally trickled, then stopped, and the last of it ran, red, down the drain.
A series of spasms went through Jacobbus Braaten, and then he lay limp at my feet, all the tension gone out of him along with his breath; the blood, which had foamed out of his wound, no longer flowed, and his eyes were half-open and unfocused. I went out of the shower-room to fetch a sheet to put over him. That done, I got a towel and began to blot. There was a roll-top pull-over in my valise—which was in Miss Gatspy’s sylphide. I would have to change into it or end up with sore muscles and a cold. I made my way down to the ground floor, where Miss Gatspy was waiting. The body of the warden had been pulled aside, but the spatters of blood were still everywhere.
“You look a sight,” she said, taking stock of my appearance. Then she became more serious. “What about Braaten?”
“He’s dead. This time I waited until I was sure.” I dropped the towel I was holding onto the stairs. “I wanted to be glad of killing him, but I wasn’t.”
“Poor Guthrie,” said Miss Gatspy with genuine sympathy. “It is never an easy thing to do.”
“I shouldn’t want it to become easy,” I said, oddly pleased that my hands weren’t shaking. “Is Holmes—”
“Putting Sutton into Hastings’ cab. He has a number of blankets to keep him warm. We are to await his signal before going outside.” She glanced at me again. “You might do with a blanket or two as well.”
“I have something in my valise that will help, if you will allow me to change my coat and shirt.” It was an awkward thing to speak of such personal matters to her.
“You can do that while we drive back. I promise you I won’t look,” she added as I stared at her. “We must leave as soon as possible. I am worried that Vickers may still escape.”
“Was it he who shot the warden, do you think?” I asked, nodding in the body’s direction. “Did Holmes venture an opinion?”
“It seems a reasonable conclusion to reach,” said Miss Gatspy. “He is probably still on the grounds somewhere, hiding.”
“Or setting a trap,” I suggested uneasily. “He is not one to accept defeat or to be willing to retreat in any circumstances.”
“I will have Bury remain, to watch for him,” said Miss Gatspy as matter-of-factly as she might send a man to fetch a pound of bacon from the butcher.
“You might expose him to danger,” I reminded her, thinking of what I had done not a quarter of an hour ago.
“Which guarding you is not?” she countered, her demeanor incredulous. “He is part of the Golden Lodge, and he—”
“—eats grizzly bears for lunch, as the Americans say,” I interjected. I hoped Mycroft Holmes would summon us quickly;
I was not minded to sustain another rebuke from Penelope Gatspy.
There was the flash of a lantern in the dark, and I sighed with relief, going toward the door, Miss Gatspy a step or two ahead of me.
“Guthrie!” Holmes shouted as we stepped out of the door. “What are you doing?”
Before I had a chance to answer, the lanterns flashed again, then came a volley of gunfire and the sound of a motor car coming from the rear of the property toward the gate: a Daimler vis-a-vis was coming across the lawn at a good clip. Two trunks occupied the front seats, and Vickers sat in the rear, one hand steering the vehicle, the other firing a long-barreled pistol.
Hastings dropped down from his box, and I feared as I watched that he had been shot, but then I realized he had gone to quieten his horse while Mycroft Holmes stood over Sutton on the far side of the cab, protecting him from any stray bullets. Bury was occupied trying to keep Miss Gatspy’s mare from bolting, and so could not go after Vickers.
The shooting stopped abruptly—I supposed he had run out of cartridges and would have to reload before he could fire more—shortly before he reached the gate, where he leaped down from his motor-car, flung the gates wide, then climbed back into the Daimler and swung out into the avenue, the two lanterns marking his progress down the road.
“Quick, Guthrie!” shouted Holmes as the motor-car continued out of our sight. “You and Miss Gatspy go in pursuit of him. Bury, you remain here, in case he should double back. I must get Sutton to safety.”
Hastings soothed Lance, then said, “I don’t know how fast we can go, Mister Holmes; he’s that tired.”
“I know, Hastings. But we must do our best.” He resumed his task of getting Sutton aboard the cab. “You two. Off you go. Bury, stay alert. If nothing happens by ten, come along to Pall Mall.”
Miss Gatspy paused for a moment as if she was ready to question these orders, then thought better of it. “Quickly, Guthrie. Vickers is getting away.” She got into the sylphide and motioned to me to get in beside her. I hurried to do as she wished, hanging onto the side of the carriage as she set the mare in motion again, following after the Daimler, which was nearing the end of the avenue. As I swung myself into the narrow seat, I looked over at her. “It is most inappropriate, but I must get out of some of these wet things. If I keep my valise between us, I should not offend you too much.”
“Oh, Guthrie,” Miss Gatspy said in an exasperated tone. “Do get on with it. I have to concentrate on driving; you will not astonish me if you remove your coat, your waistcoat, your shirt, and your singlet.”
I could say nothing in response to her that would not give modesty its nimiety. “I will be as quick as I can.”
“Good. I need your eyes to help me.” She kept her mare going at a jog-trot—as fast as was safe in the dark on such wet roads.
“There are no other motor-cars that I can see on this road,” I said as I struggled to get out of my suit-coat. It was like peeling the wet rind off a tropical fruit, but eventually I managed it, and flung the garment onto the floor at my feet just as the sylphide rocked as it swung into the Uxbridge Road. I clutched my valise as if it would afford me balance, and waited to remove my collar, tie, and cuffs until we were on steadier ground.
“He’s turning to the right,” said Miss Gatspy, leaning forward as if to urge her mare on. “He may be heading toward Brentford or Kew.”
“Or the Great West Road,” I said, thinking this the more likely choice. “He could very well want to get out of the London area.” I was down to my shirt, and about to extricate myself from its moist embrace.
“My thoughts as well, Guthrie,” said Miss Gatspy. “But I fear we will not be able to keep up with him.” There were already three carriages and a bicycle between us and the Daimler; we had little chance of closing the gap, for the mare was tired and beginning to flag. As I watched, the motor-car turned west again and was quickly lost to sight. At the next left turn, Miss Gatspy swung to the east and let the mare set her own pace back into the soggy bustle of greater London.
I took my roll-top pull-over and a clean singlet from my valise; I donned the singlet quickly, then pulled on the pull-over. “We hadn’t a chance,” I said after we had gone about two miles.
“No, we hadn’t,” Miss Gatspy conceded. “Although there was always a chance the motor-car would overturn, or it would suffer an accident of the motor in this rain.”
“A shame it didn’t happen,” I said as I put my valise behind my legs under the seat. “I would have been delighted to pull him out of a wreck of his vehicle.”
“Well, at least Braaten is no more,” said Miss Gatspy. “Now all we must hope is that Sutton is all right.”
“He did not appear all right,” I said warily. “His face was quite ... quite bruised.” It was not the whole of it, but it summed up the most obvious aspect of his appearance. “He was given morphia, and he is not ... himself.”
“He will be better,” said Miss Gatspy. “They didn’t have him long enough to habituate him to the drug.” She looked at the traffic ahead as we once again approached the Uxbridge Road. “I suppose we should go back to Pall Mall.”
“Yes,” I said. “But would you mind stopping on the way in Curzon Street long enough for me to change my clothes and drop of these things?”
“Of course, if you want. But what on earth for?” Miss Gatspy tried to mask a yawn with the back of her hand. “If you’d rather remain there, I will see you tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, no,” I said, a bit of my energy returning. “After I call in Pall Mall to see how Sutton is doing, I am planning to go to the theater.”
She stared at me. “Why on earth?”
I laughed. “You’ve forgotten? Mycroft Holmes is going to play MacBeth tonight at the Duke of York’s Theatre and I wouldn’t miss it for all the tea in China,” I cried aloud, and was pleased when Miss Gatspy looked at me with renewed vitality. “Would you care to join me, Miss Gatspy?”
She cocked her head flirtatiously. “Mister Guthrie, I would love to.”
FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYRES
MH returned here at six-forty, with Sutton, who is now installed in MHs room where he will remain until he is more himself. I have been given the task of caring for Sutton until MH is once again in the flat. Sutton is in poor shape, his face showing signs of ill-usage, and patches of his hair shaved for a purpose he has not been able to describe. I am preparing a hearty broth for him, and I will feed him regularly until he is once again restored to good condition. Sutton is still under the influence of the morphia he was given some hours ago, and it will be some hours more before his body is rid of it; it has left him a bit delirious and drowsy, so that he is unable to hold thoughts together for more than a minute or so. He has also been kept in cold, wet clothing, which has left him much depleted of energy, and inclined to shiver at the least touch of a draught. I have built up the fire in MH’s room and taken another comforter down to help him restore himself.
G came by not ten minutes ago, dressed for an evening out, and eager to learn as much as he can about Sutton’s current condition; he was relieved to learn that MH sent for Watson before he left for Saint Martin’s Lane; the good doctor is expected here at nine. Thank goodness he is the soul of discretion. G also asked if there had been any new information brought to this flat since MH and he went out to find Sutton. I told him—as I had told MH somewhat earlier—that there was a dispatch bag brought round about half-five, and that I believed it had to do with some developments bearing on her Herr Kriede’s death. It appears there was more to that event than seemed the case at first. MH resolved to examine all his evidence in the morning, when he has recovered from the demands of this night.
I am sorry I cannot leave to attend the performance; MH left here wrapped in mufflers and his caped cloak, with a driving hat pulled down low over his brow, so that none of the compan
y will have a good look at him until he has donned costume and make-up for the play. I will have to rely upon G’s report of the event, to which I look forward with great enthusiasm ...
BEATRICE MOTHERWELL, in her medieval finery as Lady MacBeth confronted her husband, her eyes blazing. “We fail.” She reached out and took hold of his tunic, pulling him near to her. “But screw your courage to the sticking-place/And we’ll not fail.” She moved around behind him, her head pressed against his shoulder as she went on to describe how she would ply Duncan’s servants with wine while MacBeth murdered the King.
“She’s making changes,” I whispered to Miss Gatspy.
“Not in the text,” was her equally soft answer.
“No, in her movements. She hasn’t done it this way before.” I frowned as I said it.
“She didn’t do this with ... our friend?” Miss Gatspy asked, and was shushed by the man behind and one seat away from her.
“Not when I have seen it,” I said, barely louder than breath. “I wonder why she changed it?”
“Watch the play,” Miss Gatspy recommended.
In the third act, in the first scene with the murderers, Mycroft Holmes—in the persona of MacBeth—stumbled in the speech, Your spirits shine through you. I wondered if anyone noticed, or if they did, they assumed he had done so for dramatic reasons; none of the actors appeared to be aware of it, but it would not be likely that they would.
During the interval, while Miss Gatspy and I drank tea together, she said, “I think he is doing very well. It is a pity his injured friend cannot see him. I think he would approve; it is a very creditable interpretation.”
I could not help but smile at her clever conceit. “It is,” I agreed. “It is likely that he would be pleased with the performance.”
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