The Flying Scotsman

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Half a dozen soldiers turned toward the Georgian building where I stood; I motioned them to hurry. I did not bother to shout—no one would hear me.

  The door at the far side of the roof opened and then a young subaltern of the Guard burst out onto the uneven surface, a service revolver drawn and one arm windmilling to steady him. He gathered his dignity and came toward me, his face set in firm lines. “Good God, man. Are you hurt?” He clearly did not require an answer. “What have you found? Is the poltroon about?”

  “If he were, I would not be standing here by myself, exposed to his shots, would I? And I am unhurt.” My tone was not as respectful as Mycroft Holmes would like, but the man’s officiousness put me off. I would offer him an apology when and if he caught the fellow. “I have found this,” I went on, showing him the brass casing.

  “I should take this,” said the officer.

  I held up my hand to stop him. “I think we should wait until Mycroft Holmes comes. The Prime Minister will expect him to handle this. I’m certain you have provisions for abiding by Mister Holmes’ authority.” I could see the resistance in the man’s eyes and I did all that I could to distract him. “I think the man might have gone down the other stairs. I haven’t had a chance to look there.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” The man hurried away, signaling his soldiers to follow him.

  As I watched him go, I sighed a little, knowing this was only the beginning of the fuss that would result from this attempted assassination; my employer would be held accountable for anything that transpired as a result of this distressing development. It would cause no end of difficulties for Mycroft Holmes, who preferred to work away from the glare of the political arena. I leaned over the edge of the rail, hoping I might find someone in the crowd who was clearly trying to escape. Not that I thought any accomplished marksman would do anything so reckless, but I had known others to make just such a mistake; I had the scars to prove it.

  I noticed that the soldiers were debating what to do, their officer exclaiming that the assassin was no doubt well away from this place and so it was useless to send his men pelting after the criminal. A few of his men were protesting, saying they ought to give chase, to maintain public confidence if not to catch the would-be assassin, which made me want to laugh at their confusion. Then I heard my name called and saw Chief Inspector Calvin Somerford coming toward me, and I was relieved.

  “Guthrie,” said the Chief Inspector, his words slurring around the stem of his pipe. He was not the stiff sort of policeman that was most often found around such grand occasions as this one. He was in a dark suit, not quite formal morning wear, but several notches above his usual garb; he stood a bit taller than I, was about forty years of age, with clever, sardonic features. This man had been assigned to the Prince when Oscar arrived in England and had been shadowing him ever since. This event in St. Paul’s was the one place he had been excluded, the presence of the Coldstream Guards being thought to be sufficient deterrent to any assassin: This was now patently inadequate. “Mister Holmes coming up, I suppose, to have a look around?” Most of his phrases ended with an upward inflection, making him sound constantly inquisitive. I thought this was indicative of the man himself.

  “Yes. He will be up shortly,” I said, glad to have another man to help me maintain the scene to Mycroft Holmes’ standards. I went to shake his hand as much to show solidarity as to be cordial, for in such a setting, form came after substance.

  “Well, they can’t say Mister Holmes didn’t warn them of the risks.” He nodded toward the lip of the roof. “Looks like you were standing a mite too close?” Without waiting for a reply, he looked about, his eyes narrowed critically. “I’m surprised we didn’t have anyone up here? You’d think they would see the potential, wouldn’t you?”

  That had been bothering me since the shot rang out, but I had not pinpointed it until Calvin Somerford voiced it so well. “Yes,” I said, as I looked about. There most certainly should have been someone on this roof—other than the assassin—and the lack of someone was becoming more glaring in my observations.

  “One man, I should say?” Chief Inspector Somerford observed, his manner seeming so laconic that one of the soldiers scoffed at this remark.

  “It seems likely,” I said, unwilling to impart more while so many could overhear us. “You cannot want to speak—”

  Chief Inspector Somerford coughed to show he understood. “I’ll just have a look around? And to think it’s only Wednesday. What will we have on our plates by Friday?” He nodded once to the soldiers. “Mind you let my men up when they arrive. I’ll need their help.” His diffidence was rewarded with a shrug of assent. I knew that Chief Inspector Somerford was a very canny fellow, able to do a great deal without appearing to, which Mycroft Holmes had realized was a major skill in diplomatic circles.

  I went back to the place where it seemed that the assassin had waited; I wanted to bring little attention to myself. I succeeded so well that when a shot rang out, I staggered back and had to steady myself against falling.

  Chief Inspector Somerford was the first to move. He ran to the rear of the roof, from the direction that the shot had come, and he pointed, “You! There!” he shouted, his quiet voice an authoritative bellow that shocked two of the soldiers into coming to attention.

  Unsure if I should leave my position, I faltered, just long enough to see Mycroft Holmes step out onto the roof, showing no signs of effort from the long, quick climb up the stairs in spite of his portly build. I had often been aware of the man’s remarkable strength and endurance, and that made me respect him increasingly, for great as his intellect was, it was not his only attribute worthy of high regard: his appearance of indolence was nothing more than a ruse, and one I had come to know as a deliberate ploy used to encourage his enemies to underestimate him, much as his carefully maintained impression of a sedentary life made possible by his redoubtable double, Edmund Sutton. He strolled up to me. “Found anything, dear boy?”

  “Nothing much,” I said. “But I think we should—”

  “—discuss it later. Yes. Of course.” He looked to the opposite side of the roof. “What is Somerford carrying on about? I don’t suppose they have caught anyone but a cutpurse or a mudlark.” He sighed. “The Prince is safe and we will join him when our work here is finished. We will need to tend to matters here, and then I will be able to review what you have found.” He leaned down to look at the marks I had discovered. “Heavy weapon, by the looks of it. Very good rifle, probably with a big-game telescope attached to give him a more accurate shot. From the sound of the weapon, it was of a heavy caliber. My first thought was one of those American Sharps rifles that they use to so unsportingly kill their buffalo. But from the high crack that followed it may well have been one of the German weapons created for hunting big game in Africa. With their long, 30-caliber bullet and faster rate of firing, they are increasingly popular among those who trade in assassination. Such a weapon would be ideal for our criminal; he had to kill with one round.”

  I shuddered as I again glanced over the wall at where the footman still lay. Staring at the corpse and pool of blood that was barely visible five stories up, I was reminded of the Brotherhood. “So it did—but not the intended target,” I said.

  Mycroft Holmes nodded. “Also the new Weiss scopes are very powerful, but present only a narrow field of vision. That might explain how a professional could have missed his kill. And this was most certainly an attempt to kill the Prince. He was close enough to have been intending the worst; in such a crowd, if his purpose was only to frighten, he would have sprayed the coaches or something of the sort. In fact,” he went on thoughtfully as he picked up the shell casing and turned it over, end on end, in his long fingers, smiling grimly as he saw his suspicions about the caliber were correct, “it is a bit perplexing that nothing more was done. He was after Prince Oscar, and failing to accomplish his mission, he fle
d, since he knew he would not have a second chance here today.” He began to twiddle with his watch-fob, a sure sign of his growing apprehension. “This fellow hasn’t finished with the Prince, you may be sure of that.”

  Inspector Somerford approached slowly shaking his head. “There you are, Mister Holmes. A most perplexing business?”

  “Perplexing is the least of it, Inspector. I am not at all perplexed. We can have no doubt as to the culprit’s intentions,” Mycroft Holmes declared. “He was going to kill Prince Oscar; and we must assume that since he failed to do so, he will try again.”

  “What, Mister Holmes? No one would be so foolish,” exclaimed Inspector Somerford. “He was foiled, and he put us on the alert. If the intention is to cause embarrassment to the government, this has been done. If it is a domestic matter, then why come to England to kill the Prince? Much better to make a point about your own country in it, if you follow me. That is why I am taking this as a sign that England’s foes are at work.”

  “You may pursue your theories, Chief Inspector; Guthrie and I will pursue mine.” Mycroft Holmes made a gesture indicating he meant no criticism of the Chief Inspector’s goals. “Together we will be able to uncover the reason behind this lamentable event. Will you arrange for me to have access to this roof tomorrow? I may want to see how he hoped to accomplish his ends, and with all that confusion below, it would be useless now. Our combined efforts must lead us to the truth.”

  “Of course,” said Somerford, making a kind of salute with his palm down, as the Americans do.

  “Those years in Canada were ...” Mycroft Holmes said, his thoughts fraying as he put his concentration on the roof once more.

  But I was not satisfied. “Years in Canada?”

  “Um?” My employer turned a deceptively mild gaze upon me. “Oh, yes. Somerford was in Canada as a young man; he came back to England when he was twenty-three. It explains his accent, and his manner of saluting.” He then clearly put the whole of the matter out of his mind as he crouched down to study the groove that had supported the rifle barrel. “Most interesting,” he murmured, as he studied the angle of the thing.

  In spite of my intention to ask him nothing until he volunteered, I could not help but say, “Why interesting?” just as he wanted me to do.

  “Well, my boy, this groove was cut in place with a chisel, one that made a single impression, which suggests that the shooter brought it along for such a purpose, which in turn implies that he has done this kind of thing before and knew to come prepared.” He did not quite smile, but he did rock back onto his heels and nod to show his satisfaction. “If the man knew to do this, he is no amateur; and there will be a record of him somewhere.” He put his large, well-shaped hands together as if in prayer, which I now knew meant he was searching his astonishing memory for any similarity to other cases of which he had knowledge; his deepening frown indicated he was not identifying anyone to his satisfaction. “Well, I shall devote some time to it later.” He rose, dusting his fingers off against one another. “If the man is experienced—as we must suppose he is—he will have melted into the crowd, milled with them, and made his escape without attracting any attention; so whomever the soldiers have caught, we will discover that the poor creature is not our assassin.” He pointed to Chief Inspector Somerford. “I want you to call around at my flat this evening, Chief Inspector. Your men will have completed their first search of the area around Saint Paul’s. You and I will have much to discuss.”

  Calvin Somerford made another of his American salutes. “Eight o’clock, then?”

  “I’ll tell Tyers to have a supper laid for nine, if that will suit,” said my employer, ignoring the incredulous stares of the soldiers who watched their discussion. “Guthrie will be with us, of course, and you may bring your assistant, if you like.”

  “I’ll think about it,” said Chief Inspector Somerford. He raised his head and peered up at the sky. “No rain for a while. That’s something in our favor?”

  “Tomorrow. The weather will change by evening,” I said; the small fragment of a bullet that was lodged in my hip had provided me accurate weather predictions since I acquired it in the streets of Constantinople, almost four years since. “You’ll want a tarpaulin after that.”

  “He’s very reliable,” said Mycroft Holmes, motioning to me to follow him. “I think we can leave the police to their work,” he said as he pocketed the shell casing. “Until this evening, Chief Inspector. And do try to keep the soldiers from falling over each other; it is bad for morale.” His single crack of laughter brought indignant stares from the soldiers and sly smiles from the two policemen accompanying Chief Inspector Somerford.

  “I would like to think,” I said as we stepped through the door onto the top of the stairs, “that there will be a straightforward solution to all this.”

  “My dear Guthrie, no more do I, no more do I,” said Mycroft Holmes wearily as he began his descent.

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

  MH returned shortly before G from the aftermath of the wedding in separate conveyances, G having returned to his rooms in Curzon Street to change his clothes before reporting for his assignments from MH. It is apparent that there is a deal of confusion surrounding the events at StP this morning, and the confusion is mounting. By morning, it will be bruited about that mounted Cossacks charged the Scandinavian delegation singing “God Protect the Tsar,” and there will be many who will swear to have seen it, or something as preposterous. I share MH’s apprehension that by nightfall tomorrow there will be so many rumors about that we will be unable to discover a means to sift the wheat from the chaff, as the saying has it. By Friday, no fact will be untainted. To forestall the worst of this, MH is preparing a number of memoranda and other dispatches that I must presently deliver, most with the hope of discovering the truth of today’s events before they are forgot or distorted. The list is a long one and I will not complete my rounds in less than ninety minutes. I have agreed to carry my pistol, little though it pleases me to do so.

  Word has just come from Sutton that he will arrive soon after midnight, when his performance concludes, which will relieve MH greatly. He has offered to purchase papers so that MH can read about the events as they are being reported to the British people, which MH believes may point to issues we have not yet considered.

  A police constable has been provided to MH to carry messages between him and Chief Inspector Somerford, so that confidentiality can be preserved and so that there need be no delay when messages must be carried. MH is not as pleased with this arrangement as he might be. He does not like exposing Sutton, his double, to anyone who has no need to know of his arrangement with MH, but I suspect that his reasons are more complex than that.

  The Prince is safe, and no one is aware of his hiding place, which is just as well.

  WHEN I returned to my employer’s flat in Pall Mall, it was midafternoon and clouds had blown in, blotting out the glorious blue of heaven’s canopy, and my hip was underscoring this change with a dull, muffled ache that told me it would rain before the next morning. I found the sitting room closed off and the flat ringing with an uneven rendition of the duet “Suoni la tromba” from Bellini’s I Puritani, executed—if that is not too strong a word—by solo bass: Mycroft Holmes often sang in the bath when he had solved a problem to his satisfaction, and today, eventful though it was, was no exception. I smiled with relief as I hung up my overcoat on the rack just inside the door.

  Tyers, who was preparing to leave, rolled his eyes upward and whispered, “At least he has a plan. Better him singing than brooding. He’s got the front of the flat empty, in case we’re being watched. He’s fairly certain we are. I’ll confirm it for him.”

  I chuckled softly; five years ago I would not have been so bold, or so unconcerned, but after the hectic life Mycroft Holmes had thrown me into I had begun to revere him less and respect him more and to
understand his enjoyment in the game. “I have my pistol. Shall I need it?”

  “Probably not, at least not here,” said Tyers. “I should return in less than two hours; if I am gone more than three, alert the police. There’s tea ready on the cooker.” With that he pulled his muffler around his head and ducked out the front door. I closed the door behind him and shot the lock-bolt home.

  “That you, Guthrie?” Mycroft Holmes called out, interrupting his assault on Bellini.

  “Yes, sir,” I replied at once. “At your service.”

  There was a vigorous sloshing while my employer climbed out of his tub. “I’ll be with you directly. There’s port in the study. Pour for yourself and fill a glass for me. We have work to do.” The energy in his tone warned me that it would be a demanding evening.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, and went along to the study, sliding back the doors and going to turn up the gaslight. The bright, warm glow suffused the room, and I looked about with the pleasure of being in a familiar place. The port was in a decanter on a Spanish silver tray, with four thistles beside it. I chose two and poured the dark wine into them, relishing the strong, nutty aroma that rose from the thistles. I set one on the occasional table next to Mycroft Holmes’ preferred chair and sat down in the one opposite it. I put my glass aside while I waited for my employer to join me.

  Ten minutes later Mycroft Holmes strolled into the study; he was properly attired for a convivial evening, and I supposed he would shortly leave to visit his club across the street. He nodded his approval at my more practical attire—I was dressed in a dark tweed hacking jacket over a rolltop jumper and driving trousers, as Mister Holmes had requested. “Very good. That is exactly what I requested. You could blend into almost any public place in London but the opera or a Whitechapel stew.” He sat down and picked up his thistle of port. “Thank you, Guthrie. Today has been a trifle taxing.”