“Was that why you were singing in the bath, sir?” I ventured to ask, as Mycroft Holmes took his first long sip of tea.
“One of the reasons, Guthrie, yes.” He smiled at me, his expression so benign that I was almost afraid to move. “While the Chief Inspector is here, I want you to follow my lead.”
“Of course,” I said, wondering why he should take such pains to remind me to do the very thing I had done from the first hours of my employment.
“Good. Very good, my boy,” he approved as he drank more tea. “You have become most astute in the last few years.”
Surprised at this unexpected praise, I tasted my tea as well, noticing only that it was a trifle too hot. I sat a bit straighter in my chair. “It’s what you’ve been watching for since Prince Oscar arrived. You have expected something of the sort from the outset. There is more to this than the assassination attempt, isn’t there? It is not so simple as you have implied; more is at stake.”
“I believe so,” said Mycroft Holmes, taking a scone and smearing lemon curd on it. “And I rely upon Tyers to bring me the confirmation of my suspicions in the next hour.” He bit down firmly and chewed.
“The Brotherhood, no doubt,” I said feeling a combination of fatigue and exhilaration at the realization that I would once again be in the fray.
“No doubt,” Mycroft Holmes agreed through a bit of scone. “They want Prince Karl Gustav on the throne one day, allied with Germany and aiding their cause of European collapse. No doubt you have noticed how often the Brotherhood works most injuriously in the nations around Germany, undermining their integrity and binding them to German purposes.”
“That is the aspect I cannot understand: why would a man of Prince Karl’s stature and position want to belong to an organization dedicated to the destruction of the very institution to which Karl himself has been born?” I was not hungry—nerves were robbing me of my appetite, a development I found disturbing for it was not one I often encountered.
“He has most certainly been promised a favored position with the Brotherhood when they triumph. Karl Gustav is a younger son, and in the usual course of things, he will live his entire life in the shadow of Prince Oscar, who, barring mishap, will one day be King of Sweden-and-Norway. How ignominious for Karl Gustav, perpetually condemned to the conscripted life of royalty, with responsibilities and obligations that would make the average man shudder, with little or no chance to achieve the position that all the demands support. No, Karl Gustav had no reason to eschew the privileges the Brotherhood has promised and no reason to refuse to aid Germany, for their policies could provide him the advancement that he, like Hamlet, so conspicuously lacks.” He had another decisive bite of the scone.
“But isn’t he making, well,”—I felt myself redden at this lurid comparison—“a deal with the devil?” I could see that my choice of image amused my employer.
“In more ways than one,” said Mycroft Holmes, after he took a long sip of tea. “For whether or not Karl Gustav ever achieves his desire to supplant Prince Oscar, he will always be at the beck and call of the Brotherhood. It is their damnable practice to aid you so you will be beholden to them, and then to compel you to do their bidding in all matters that suit their purpose.” He poured more tea, using the strainer to keep the dark leaves from getting into his cup; it was a fastidious gesture, reminding me of the narrow, restricted life he was believed to live and how far that carefully maintained façade was from the truth.
“Do you think Prince Oscar is aware of the problem?” I had heard many of the discussions that passed between my employer and the Scandinavian Prince and I could not recall any remark His Highness might have made directly on the subject.
“He has been told, of course. Whether or not he is convinced is another matter.” He stirred his tea as he dropped in sugar. “I have tried to alert him, and I know he is aware of the actions of the Brotherhood; but I am less certain he understands the role his brother is playing in the Brotherhood’s activities. I very much doubt he would entertain the notion that Karl Gustav could have had any role in the event today.” He lifted his cup. “More’s the pity.”
The door to the kitchen opened and Tyers called out, “I am returned,” his voice sounding a trifle breathless, suggesting he had rushed up the backstairs. “I have two replies. Others will be carried ‘round by nine in the morning.”
Mycroft Holmes nodded in satisfaction. “Were you followed?”
Tyers appeared in the doorway, still unwrapping his muffler. “Yes, sir, I was. And I was most particularly careful to observe my followers.” He pulled a small portfolio from inside his coat and handed it to Mister Holmes. “The information you requested. The two replies are with it.” He bowed a bit.
Holmes took the portfolio and put it on the arm of his chair, a gesture so negligent that I knew it had to be deliberate. “Thank you, Tyers. Now, about the man following you?”
“When I left—by the front, as you ordered—I was observed by a young man, no more than twenty-five, fair, with a moustache and a French necktie. He was well turned out and probably fancied himself a cut above most of those around him, a bit of self-delusion in Pall Mall. His suit was a good copy of Bond Street tailoring, probably done by one of the Chinese tailors offering such suits. He had what appeared to be a tattoo on his wrist, but aside from catching a glimpse of its color—which was bluish as so many tattoos are—I cannot tell you anything more about it. He followed me for my first two calls, bur I lost him near Saint Martins-in-the-Field, as you instructed I should. I was able to satisfy myself I had got clear of him before I continued on my errands.” His expression changed slightly, showing his appreciation for his skill in eluding his pursuer. “After my third call, a man looking like a West Country squire gone to seed followed me.”
“Is that Vickers’ man?” I asked sharply, remembering my first work for Mycroft Holmes that had taken me to the men of the Brotherhood in England.
“I would think so,” said Mycroft Holmes, frowning.
I could not entirely suppress a shudder. “If that’s the fellow I think it is, he has a whiff of corruption about him.” My own dealings with him had been brief but their impact remained, like the smell of a dead rat under the floorboards.
“That is the man and most certainly the whiff,” said Mycroft Holmes, his tone as dry as his features were unreadable. “The man is known to whip the bottoms of the boys attending his school for the most minor trespasses.” He took a deep breath. “He will undoubtedly report your calls to Vickers, wherever he has gone to ground.”
Foolish though it was, I could not keep from a moment of recollection, and the image of Vickers’ face before my mind’s eye was enough to chill me to the bone. “Is he still in England, I wonder?” I asked. “He was gone long enough that he might have decided to return to the Continent.”
“Or Ireland,” said Mycroft Holmes. “I shouldn’t wonder if he hasn’t decided to go there and stir the pot.” His face had hardened, seeming now to be hewn from granite. “I will find him.”
I did not doubt for an instant that he would.
FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS
Having returned from the errands MH sent me to do, I had supper to make for the arrival of Chief Inspector Somerford, who, fortunately, was ten minutes late and was willing to have a second pony of sherry before sitting down to eat. The soup is almost ready, an oxtail with barley, and I will have it in the tureen shortly and then put my concentration on the main course—in this instance I am grateful MH likes his lamb served rare. I seasoned it with garlic, olives, and cumin, as they prepare it in Egypt, one of the dishes I learned to make there. There is new bread and fresh-churned butter. I have to finish the buttered turnips and green peas in creamed cheddar in order to put all on the table in twenty minutes ...
When supper is on the table, I will prepare a full report of my errands and the t
wo men who followed me. MH will want it in his hands before he retires.
CHIEF INSPECTOR Calvin Somerford set down his sherry, the pony still half-full. “If I drink any more of that, I won’t be able to think during dinner.” He offered a small deprecatory nod. “I don’t have a head for wine?” His habitual upward inflection made it seem he had doubts about it.
“No matter, Chief Inspector,” said Mycroft Holmes, as if remarking on a minor blemish. “Not all coppers have to be hard drinkers.”
“If you ask me,” said Somerford, “too many of them are? You can’t do your work when you’re foxed.”
The old-fashioned expression took my attention. “That’s what my old grandmother would call it,” I told him, glancing at my employer as I spoke.
“So did mine,” said the Chief Inspector. “I think it describes the state of slight intoxication very well, don’t you?”
“It does create an impression,” I said, noticing out of the corner of my eye that Mycroft Holmes was encouraging these observations.
“Yes. So many of the old expressions are so vivid? Foxed. Disguised. Bosky. Swallowed a spider?” He shook his head. “No. That means got into debt, as I recall.”
“Like being in the River Tick,” said Mycroft Holmes, unctuous as a cat.
“I believe so,” I agreed, curious why Mister Holmes would want us to have such a discussion, for plainly he did, encouraging it in his oblique way and signaling me covertly to continue. “I’d reckon those phrases change quickly to keep in the mode.” It was a safe observation and one that would open more doors to language, if that was what my employer was seeking. “Those phrases serve as a kind of code, to give information to those who have need to know it.”
“Yes, the cant will do that, and occasionally they use it to obfuscate,” said the Chief Inspector. “So many of the terms used by the criminal classes are intended to mislead anyone overhearing them?” He pursed his lips. “That is one of the reason our spies are so useful—they understand what they hear?”
“So you do use spies,” said Mycroft Holmes, as if this revelation were astonishing.
“Of course. We sometimes use other words for it, but that’s what it comes down to? They are men—and very occasionally women—of the criminal class, who are willing to help us in order to preserve themselves; Commander Winslowe has said that we must make the most of any aid we can, and that includes the use of spies. What else would you call them?” He rocked back on his heels, looking more than ever like a lecturer in a good school. “Anyone in my position must find dependable men who can ferret out answers for me where I cannot go?”
For an instant the porcelain prettiness of Penelope Gatspy crossed my mind, and I remembered how well she did her work. I owed her my life, a debt that I began to think I would never repay. Indeed, after that one shameful lapse of three years ago, I doubted she would ever be willing to give me the opportunity to do so, for she lived in that dangerous twilight world of spies and assassins, embracing a life most women did not know existed. My tongue felt like flannel in my mouth, and I could not speak the words that jangled in my thoughts.
“A prudent approach, I would think,” said Mycroft Holmes in remote approval. “And have your ... ah ... ferrets told you anything about the killing today?” His bluntness brought Chief Inspector Somerford up short. “I would think you would have every spy you have ever used on the hunt for this man.”
“I haven’t had time to speak to them all yet, but the word is out, the word is out,” said Chief Inspector Somerford.
“What word is that?” Mister Holmes asked, his attitude courteous without showing inappropriate interest.
“Oh, that we want this criminal, who is not your usual killer. This isn’t some outraged husband, or vengeful rival, or a depraved maniac, or someone seeking to advance his political cause, or an ambitious and greedy fellow, or even a desperate brigand. We have let it be known that this man is the agent of a foreign and hostile power, whose aims are to create trouble for Britain all over the world? That’s a fairly strong argument to use with most of the practiced organizations for crime in London. Most of our criminals are patriots, in their way, and will not help such a man to escape.” A smile slipped over his face. “It is true. Many criminals are very proud to be British? They look down on criminals in other countries.”
“I have heard something of the sort. It strikes me as odd,” said Mycroft Holmes with an hauteur that would have been more appropriate to a Royal Duke.
“Oh, yes,” Chief Inspector Somerford declared, “criminals have pride, just as any man with a trade does?” He put a finger to his lips. “Too much sherry.”
“Would you like something else?” Mycroft Holmes asked, as solicitous as if he entertained royalty. I was growing more and more puzzled. “A glass of porter? A cup of tea?”
Chief Inspector Somerford shook his head. “No. Thank you, what I want, Mister Holmes, is a spot of food. That will do the trick?” He smiled a bit, though it took concentration.
“I will see if Tyers will put the soup on now,” said Mycroft Holmes, and to my amazement left the room to speak with Tyers. What on earth was he playing at? I did my best to mask my confusion as I studied Chief Inspector Somerford, continuing our conversation as best I could. “About your spies? Can you tell me anything about them?” I was beginning to sound like him, every statement an implied question.
“I can’t. Not very much? They are engaged in dangerous work, don’t you know? Not at all like what you and Mister Holmes do.” He made a sloppy wink. “I told Superintendent Spencer himself that we are too trusting of our informants, but when one works on the streets, one sees things others do not.”
“I would think it must be dangerous,” I said, hoping he would vouchsafe more information.
“Well, it is,” said Chief Inspector Somerford. “We lost one of our ... spies earlier today, in fact?” His face was drawn and he was white around the mouth.
“Oh, dear. On top of the trouble at Saint Paul’s. How dreadful for you.” I realized that he was very upset, and for the first time I suspected that his distress was as much a part of his sudden drunkenness as the sherry was. “I would imagine this has been difficult, dealing with so much.”
“That it has,” said Chief Inspector Somerford flatly. “We could not afford to lose this one. Well, we can’t afford to lose any of them, but this one ...” He shook his head repeatedly.
“I am sorry to hear it,” I told him with feeling. “If you depended upon him, it must be doubly hard to have him go.”
“It was.” He steadied himself. “He was found drifting? in the Thames not far from Blackfriar’s Bridge. His ... his fingers were burned to blackened sticks and ... and they’d blinded him? The eyes were gone?” He turned away, his hand covering his face. “I’m sorry,” he said after a long moment.
“No need,” I assured him. “When something like that happens, anyone might be knocked off his pins.” Without intending to, I touched my face where the footman’s blood had spattered. I would have offered him the rest of his sherry, but I supposed he would refuse it; as it was, I tossed down the last of my own, mentally drinking to Penelope Gatspy, wherever the Golden Lodge had sent her.
“I’ll be myself again in a moment?” he said, his voice muffled. Then, abruptly, he raised his head and looked at me; his face was a mask of pain. “There. You see? I’m over my funk.”
“Whatever you say, dear fellow,” I said at once, hoping that my employer would appear again quickly, for I knew I was floundering in my dealings with this man, what with the resurgence of the blood spatters this morning making me feel a trifle ill. Right then I would have rather been rushing down that alley in Constantinople with the four Turks after me than sitting here with this distraught policeman.
He made a visible effort to steady himself. “You’re supposed to grow accustomed to these things,
being a copper? But I never have.”
I noticed a spot of blood on his cuff—not unlike the ones on my own clothes from the morning—and I suppressed a shudder. “The attempt on the Prince and the discovery of that body all in one day. I don’t see how anyone would get used to it.” My voice shook a bit, too, and I made no apology for it.
Whatever Chief Inspector Somerford might have said was stopped when Mycroft Holmes came to the door and announced that supper was served in the parlor. His manner was so obsequious he would have done the most important butler proud. “The soup is hot and Tyers is bringing it just now. We may have to wait a bit for the lamb, but I am certain none of us will mind.” He led the way grandly, and we tagged along behind him like schoolboys trying to be as grown-up as the master.
The parlor was set up for dining, the drop-leaves of the table having been raised and a cut-work linen tablecloth I did not know Mycroft Holmes possessed laid upon it. The service was bone china and the glasses were cut crystal, the napery fine linen. The lay-out was worthy of a diplomatic retreat; and though Mycroft Holmes could be a stickler for form when required, he rarely demanded such punctiliousness in his ordinary conduct. Why was my employer trying to overwhelm this Chief Inspector of police? As we took our seats, Tyers came in and put the tureen in the center of the table, between the two silver candelabra. He proceeded to ladle out the soup in silence while we settled ourselves in place.
“Isn’t the aroma wonderful?” Mycroft Holmes asked no one in particular, as he inhaled the fragrant steam rising from his bowl.
Chief Inspector Somerford allowed that it smelled delicious and did not wait for Mister Holmes to take a first spoonful. He reached for a French crescent roll, broke it in half, and thrust the larger piece into the soup, then, when some of the savory liquid was sopped up by the roll, bit it gratefully. “Excellent,” he said as he chewed.
The Flying Scotsman Page 5