The Flying Scotsman

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Nothing like that,” said Sutton. “I chose my way, and I have no regrets.” He slapped the arms of his chair. “So what is this urgent business you mentioned in your note?”

  “I will need you to go round to the Admiralty for me tomorrow, and to maintain my schedule for the next several days.” Holmes coughed decorously. “I believe Guthrie and I will be out of town for a short while, and it is most essential that no one learn of it.”

  “But including the Admiralty—you rarely do that,” said Sutton, rubbing his chin in the same way Mycroft Holmes did when he was struggling with a problem.

  “In this instance I must,” said Mister Holmes, glancing in my direction. “Since Guthrie will be gone with me.”

  I started, although by now I should have been accustomed to these abrupt announcements. I began to realize that I was learning why he had been singing in the bath. “We’re not accompanying the Prince, are we?” I could not stop myself exclaiming.

  “As far as Scotland,” said Mycroft Holmes as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Scotland? Are you serious?” My own native burr grew stronger just speaking the word. “My God, why? More to the point—how?”

  “By rail?” Edmund Sutton guessed.

  “But you have been saying by sea!” I blurted out at the same instant. Instantly the recent headlines of the great train race came to mind: Holmes had disappeared twice during those record-setting runs. At the time I had thought my employer was off making the first steps toward some new treaty. Eventually I had learned otherwise—Mycroft Holmes had gone to Scotland for reasons of his own: the trains to Edinburgh were the cutting edge of engineering. Some were said to have achieved speeds over one hundred miles per hour, an astonishing and frightening prospect. The speed had fascinated Holmes, for he perceived at once the strategic implications of such rapid transport, and he had determined to assess its potential for himself. He told me upon his return that a train could reach Edinburgh in half the time of any steamship. “By rail,” I repeated less confused and more intrigued.

  “Surely, my dear Guthrie, you recognized that for the stratagem it was.” He cocked his head in Sutton’s direction, and I was struck again at how much alike they could look, Sutton seeming a younger, paler version of Mister Holmes. In the near-decade that I had known him, I had seen the first signs of age settle on Sutton’s features, making his resemblance to Mycroft Holmes more marked than when we first met in June of 1887.

  “I supposed it must be,” I said, “but if it is, why do you begin with the police? There must be better means of establishing false leads than through the police.”

  “The building from which the assassin took aim had been searched by police,” Mycroft Homes reminded me. “Therefore I must presume that someone within the police is connected to the assassin, someone in a position of importance.”

  I nodded twice as the full import of what he had said was borne in on me. “But the police being involved in something so heinous—” I stopped again, recalling Constantinople. “Well, not British police.”

  “Your fealty does you great credit, my boy, but you cannot afford such admirable sentiments in this instance. Or in many others. The Brotherhood is only one of many enemies of Britain we must be wary of. You know that once the guards are corrupt the castle is doomed.” He reached for his port.

  “Consider Lear, “Sutton recommended, quite confusing me, for I could not comprehend his intention in this context. “Well, he gave power to the dishonest daughters because they seemed more sincere than the unvarnished affection of his true one.”

  “Not an unapt analogy in its way,” said Mycroft Holmes, making his praise as generous as he could. “The police are being diligent and busy, but it may mean nothing. Spencer and Winslowe are still trying to protect themselves ahead of the Prince. We shall see.”

  “That wasn’t all you told the Chief Inspector,” I warned him, and was cut off by the loud report of a rifle. I jumped up, already moving before I had realized precisely what had happened. Mycroft Holmes was ahead of me, out the door of the sitting room and into the corridor with a speed and energy that still had the capacity to astonish me.

  “Sutton! Stay here! Tyers! Watch the back!” he ordered sharply, as he reached for his topcoat. “Guthrie, do you have your pistol?”

  “In my topcoat pocket,” I assured him as I grabbed for the garment as Mycroft Holmes flung open the front door and surged out onto the landing, as I hurried after him, pulling my coat on as we pelted down the stairs to the street where half a dozen uniformed policemen had gathered around the front of the Diogenes Club, two with pistols in their hands—a rare enough sight in the stews of Soho, but absolutely unheard of in Pall Mall. As it was starting to mizzle, the streetlights looked fuzzy and the pavement shone. As we rushed across the street, a naval commander appeared in the door of the Diogenes Club, his hands slightly raised to show he was unarmed and not the prey these police sought.

  Mycroft Holmes hurried up to Commander George Winslowe, taking an instant to let the nearest constable declare he was not dangerous, a sentiment I knew was open to question. “Commander,” said Holmes in authoritative accents, “where did the shot come from?” I remained near the invisible line established by the constables while my employer issued his first orders.

  The Commander pointed across the street to the building two doors down from the one where Mycroft Holmes kept his flat. “The roof, I should think.”

  “You constables,” Mycroft Holmes said sharply to three of the policemen. “Go secure the place. Now.”

  “Right you are, sir,” said the nearest of the three; he motioned to the others to move off with him.

  “And you,” Mycroft Holmes went on to another of the constables, “find Chief Inspector Somerford as quickly as may be. He must know of this.”

  Commander Winslowe came down one more step and spoke quietly to Mister Holmes; I could not hear what was said, but I saw Holmes give a grave nod and frown as he did. Then he said something quietly to the Commander before calling out, “Guthrie. Follow the constables, if you will. I want to be sure nothing happens to any evidence they may come upon.”

  I wanted to remark I should have gone with them from the first, but this was not the time to question him. “Very good, sir,” I said, and hurried off in the direction the constables had taken. When I glanced back over my shoulder I saw Mycroft Holmes and Commander Winslowe go up the steps and into the Diogenes Club, the constables stationed close to the steps in anticipation of the arrival of other authorities.

  As I reached the building in question, the doors of the flat at the ground floor opened and a red-faced man in robe and sleeping cap stepped indignantly out. “What in the name of all that’s merciful is going on?”

  “That is what the police are trying to determine,” I said, prepared to start up the stairs.

  “Shooting!” the man expostulated. “In Pall Mall!”

  “Yes. It is shocking,” I said, hoping that concurrence would keep him from trying to detain me.

  “Something must be done,” he insisted.

  “That is our intention,” I said, already three steps up. “Please go back inside and lock your doors. We haven’t yet apprehended the criminal.”

  That was sufficient to send the fellow back within doors; I heard the bolt of his lock snick home before I reached the landing at the first floor. Running up the stairs increased the ache in my hip, but not so much that I was unable to continue my climb, and speedily. I passed it and the second floor without incident and arrived on the roof to find the three constables using bull’s-eye lanterns to inspect the roof. One of them heard me approach and swung around, the beam of the lantern catching me full in the eyes and dazzling me.

  “Who’s this, then?” one of the constables demanded. “This is a police investigation. Be about your business.”


  “I’m afraid this is my business,” I said. “I am Mycroft Holmes’ confidential secretary. You saw me with him down on the street.”

  Another of the constables said, “That’s right, Daniel. He came down with Mister Holmes, all right.”

  The blinding light swung away from my face. I blinked, but spangles, like echoes, distorted my vision. “Have you found anything?” I asked as I groped my way forward, trying to peer through the blobs of glowing purple obscuring my vision.

  “It’s possible,” said the constable who had identified me. “Here at the edge of the roof, there appears to be a new groove cut. Nice, clean work. Done in a single stroke, I should think,” he went on as he turned his lantern on the place he was describing.

  I could not yet see clearly, but I could make out the place the beams of the lanterns were turned well enough to know it was like the groove I had seen on the roof above St. Paul’s. I squatted down to inspect it more carefully, and squinted to keep my sight as sharp as possible. A curved chisel had cut the groove, and as the constable had said, in a single pass. I touched it lightly, as if some secret to the identity of the assassin might linger in the groove. Nothing. “Did you find anything else?”

  “Not yet,” said the first constable. “I would have mentioned it right off.”

  “Well, if you do, make sure I am informed at once,” I said as I rose to my feet. “You and your men will need to check the stairs and the rear entrance to the building to ascertain if anyone has seen or heard anything. If our shooter has left something behind, we should know of it.” I thought of the shell-casing, and hoped we would be fortunate enough to find another such clue to link the two events beyond cavil.

  The constable called Daniel came up to me. “You should tell Mister Holmes that there is something damned wrong about all this. They’re saying us coppers haven’t done our job proper, but that’s a lie.” He sounded resentful, which I supposed I would be in his position, with my own force facing the chance of implication in these crimes.

  “True enough,” said his other colleague, who had been silent until that moment. “The rumors are that the police helped the bastard take a shot at the Swedish Prince, but it’s not true.”

  “There are all sorts of rumors about,” I said, in the hope it would quiet their indignation sufficiently for us to get some work done. “I have heard that the Russians were behind it or the Turks.” This was not entirely accurate, but I had some experience of rumors, and I knew that it would not be long before someone made these claims, if that had not happened already.

  “They’re saying the Austrians had a hand in it; at least that’s what I heard at the pub this evening,” the first constable said, taking my meaning to heart. “They could have done it, couldn’t they? They’re not over-fond of the Swedes.”

  “Well, someone did,” I replied. “And it is up to us to find out who that is. We can leave it to longer heads than ours to find out why.” I bent to look at the groove one last time—the rawness of the scar was already being obliterated by the soft rain. I could feel the drops of water on my face and I knew we would have to get brollies or indoors very shortly if we were not to be soaked.

  “Very good, sir. We’ll secure the roof and set a guard at the access so no one can come up later. That’ll keep the scaff-and-raff away.” The first constable shone his lantern in the direction of the roof-door. “If you want to go ahead of us?”

  Although I doubted many scaff-and-raff would find their way to Pall Mall, I applauded their efforts. “Of course; you must do. Thanks. Good of you,” I said, as if these men had overheard the discussion between the Chief Inspector and my employer and I was left with the work of making amends on their behalf.

  Daniel shook his head. “Very cool, this cove. Very cool indeed.” He took a last glance back at the roof and the increasing fall of rain. “Too bad the weather didn’t change an hour earlier.”

  “It is a very wet night.” one of the others said. “It’ll be wetter before morning.”

  My hip confirmed it, the small sliver of metal imbedded in bone throbbing like a sore tooth. I did not bother to limp—the ache was constant no matter how I walked or sat. “We’ll have rain for two or three days,” I remarked.

  “It’s spring,” Daniel protested as we closed and secured the lock on the door. “The rain will slack off.”

  “Not for two days,” I said, disliking this dispute I was being dragged into as the result of my own folly. “But nothing we say will change it,” I went on in a less belligerent tone.

  “That’s the God’s own truth,” said the first constable. “Do you, Childes, stay here. You’ll be relieved at dawn. No unauthorized person in or out, not even if he lives in the building. Is that clear?”

  “It surely is,” said Childes, taking up his post with a self-conscious care that made me wonder how long he had been on the police force.

  We began to make our way down the stairs, our footsteps echoing in the stairwell, magnifying the sound until it seemed a regiment might be descending instead of three tired men. What troubled me was how totally the sound covered any other noise. If the assassin were in the building, he might be doing anything and we would not hear it.

  As we reached the ground floor, the first constable came up to me and saluted smartly. “Tell your Mister Holmes that he’ll have my report on his desk by noon. I’ll make a copy for Chief Inspector Somerford as well.” He was about to turn when I stopped him.

  “I’ll be proud to do that, Constable, but it would mean more if I knew your name.” I waited for his response.

  He laughed. “How lax of me. Of course. I am Constable Desmond Bernard; Mister Holmes will know the name.” Touching the edge of his helmet with two fingers, he turned smartly but without military exactness and went toward the door and the rain beyond. Daniel trailed along behind him.

  I watched him go, doing my best not to feel too uneasy about leaving this place with only one constable to guard it. No doubt my employer would know whether or not a second guard was needed. I hitched up my coat and brought it over my head enough to keep me somewhat dry; then I bolted from the building and made my short way down the street to the building where Mycroft Holmes had his flat. As I went, I saw the number of men posted at or near the Diogenes Club had increased to nine.

  Sutton opened the door to my knock. “Come in, Guthrie,” he said, sounding very much like our mutual employer. “Mister Holmes will be back shortly. He sent a messenger to Tyers about ten minutes ago. Tyers has left on an errand and will return shortly.”

  “Perhaps I should go down again,” I suggested, not wanting to leave the flat again until I went to my own rooms in Curzon Street.

  “Mister Holmes would like you to stay here. He asks you to prepare a report on what you observed on the roof and to organize any other accounts that might be presented tonight.” He had set the lock once more and was gesturing in the direction of the study. “You’ll want to take off that wet coat and warm yourself.”

  “So I might,” I agreed, glad to be persuaded to do the very thing I wished most to do. I handed my coat to Sutton and went into the study. I plopped down on the chair nearest the hearth, letting the warmth from the smoldering logs go over me like the massage of angels’ fingers. I had not realized until that moment how cold and wet I was.

  “There’s brandy,” said Sutton, indicating the fine old bottle on the table near the shuttered window. “Have some. It will warm you.” He poured a finger into one of the snifters and handed it to me. “Go on. Take it.”

  Ordinarily I would have refused, but the events of the day, compounded by the alarums of the night, had left me jangled. I took the snifter with a grateful nod. “I doubt my hands will warm it much,” I said in feeble jest as I gave the liquid a swirl in the snifter.

  “When Mister Holmes returns, you can switch over to tea.” Edmund Sutton gestured extrav
agantly, as if to have the movement carry all the way to the balcony. “It should not be much longer. He said he would not be long.”

  I nodded, remarking, “It’s late,” before I allowed myself a bit of the brandy.

  “After one,” he agreed before he splashed brandy into a second snifter for himself. “Sometimes I miss touring,” he said just to fill the silence, which actors abhor. “Those four years I and my company roamed about the Midlands doing Molière and Shakespeare and Ibsen and Sheridan and all the rest, they were wonderful. We went as far as north as Northumberland, and as far south as Oxford and Saint Albans, going up and down and across on trains, our scenery and costumes riding with us in the baggage car; we were this century’s version of strolling players, perpetually on tour. We kept to a strict schedule. Five performances a week, with a matinee on Market Day, whichever day it was in that town. Traveling on Sunday, dark on Monday while we set up for Tuesday night.” He sighed. “There’s no substitute for it. Not if you want to make the most of your talent.”

  “Did you like the Midlands?” I asked to show I was listening.

  “Well enough. There was plenty to sketch; I’ll say that for the place. Kept my eye sharp and my hand steady.” He grinned, looking now like a slightly over-age university student. “I learned thirty-seven roles in those four years. We did six plays a year, and in a few I played more than one role.”

  “Was that difficult?” I asked, having had to sustain a persona other than my own while engaged in doing the work Mycroft Holmes required of me.

  “Not usually, though in one or two instances, it was.” He was standing beside the fireplace, one arm resting on the marble mantle, the other holding the snifter with elegant nonchalance. “We were doing She Stoops to Conquer, and my change between roles required a skin-out new costume and completely redone make-up. It was always a rush.” He looked up as the sound of the knocker reverberated through the flat. “Excuse me,” said Sutton, abandoning his superior pose and going to answer the door. He reappeared almost at once, looking mildly shocked. “Mister Guthrie, you’re needed below.”