The Flying Scotsman

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Ah,” said the stout man. “In good time. I am feeling a bit peckish.” He tossed off the last of his drink, folded his paper, and prepared to leave the lounge. “After you, sir,” he told me.

  “No; please,” I said, standing aside to let him open the door onto the platform.

  We trooped out, the stout man, myself, the pipe-smoking Scot, and the curmudgeonly Glaswegian, across the platform and into the dining car—now redolent with savory odors of mulligatawny soup, potatoes in onion gravy, grilling lamb, and baking cod—where a dozen or so passengers were already seated, Mycroft Holmes and Prince Oscar among them.

  “Guthrie!” sang out Holmes in the accent that had never known a public school education. “There you are. Come join us.” He waved me toward him with large gestures, which, from a tall, portly man, were nearly overwhelming.

  “Coming, sir,” I said, clutching my portfolio and heading for their table, which was laid for four. I had to jostle by a young couple from the second-class car and murmured my excuses as I did. Reaching the table, I endured a hearty handshake worthy of an American, and did my best to look accustomed to this treatment.

  “I don’t know about you, Guthrie, but I am famished,” Mycroft Holmes exclaimed. “Didn’t have time for much of a breakfast; had to show Herr Schere here some of the sights before we left. Too bad he isn’t quite up to snuff.” He sat down and motioned Prince Oscar and me to do the same; Prince Oscar had the seat next to Holmes, on the window, which, after long debate the previous night, we had decided was safer than the aisle seat would be. He nudged Prince Oscar. “I dare say you at Satchel’s in Vienna don’t often enjoy a ride like this one?”

  Prince Oscar coughed experimentally and mumbled, “Not often,” in German. He fumbled with his chair, the space being limited and the Prince unused to such treatment. “The countryside is very nice.” He remembered to continue to muffle his voice.

  The Glaswegian was seated across the aisle from us, with the two other men from the lounge car. He looked decidedly bilious, his face an underlying shade of green, as if he had spent the night in hard drinking and was not yet wholly sober. The two whiskies had not helped that, I thought as we settled in for our lunch.

  “Two soups, an omelette, lamb, or fish. Very nice,” Mycroft Holmes enthused in his Fleet Street accent. He seemed to have taken on the nature of his clothing, and he sat in his place with his shoulders thrown back, arms overlapping his chair, for all the world like a large, extravagant bird displaying his feathers. I was reminded yet again of Sutton’s remark that Holmes was a loss to the theatre—“He’d give Irving and Beerbohm-Tree something to worry about, especially in the Scottish Play, if his performance was any indication”—and at this moment I was prepared to concede Sutton was right.

  “The fish is cod,” said Prince Oscar. “I dislike cod.”

  “Then have the lamb,” Mycroft Holmes recommended, before he swung around to the table across the aisle from us and held out his big hand. “Good afternoon. I am Micah Holcomb, a writer for Satchel’s Guide. Since we’re traveling together, we might as well be acquainted. This is my illustrator; his name is Guthrie. And our companion is the from the Viennese bureau of Satchel’s, Herr Schere.”

  The stout man looked slightly offended at this open display, but he put out his ink-stained hand at last and said, “Heath. Kerwin Heath. Printer by trade. I don’t know these gentlemen’s names, or I should introduce you.”

  Such was the strength of Mycroft Holmes’ force of character that his hearty good-will was sufficient to require a response from both men. The Scot with the pipe spoke first. “Angus Dunmuir. Pleasure.” The brevity of his handshake belied his cordial word; he volunteered nothing about his profession.

  The Glaswegian growled his response. “Camus Jardine.” He hunched his shoulders so that he would not have to shake hands.

  “Well!” Holmes said genially. “Well met, gentlemen. I hope we may wile away the hours in pleasant conversation.” His determination earned him the careful scrutiny of the three across the aisle; undeterred by this beginning, Mycroft Holmes rose from his seat and went about the dining car, introducing himself to all the passengers who were waiting for their luncheon. When he had completed this self-appointed task, he returned to our table in time to order the Scotch Broth and the cod for his lunch and a bottle of claret for our table, which made me stare—ordinarily Mycroft Holmes would never drink a red wine with fish. But, I reminded myself, Micah Holcomb would. I joined Prince Oscar in selecting the mulligatawny soup and the lamb, wanting to compliment the wine.

  The waiter brought goblets of water and a basket of crescent rolls and butter before returning to the galley for our soup. I noticed the swaying walk he had developed to compensate for the movement of the train. He brought the Scotch Broth first, took the luncheon orders from the opposite table, and went back for the mulligatawny. As he did, a middle-aged couple came from the lounge car; they were seated behind us and were immediately subject to Mycroft Holmes’ ruthless affability.

  “Fine day for a journey,” Holmes declared, as soon as he had learned the names of the couple, James and Missus Loughlan, just back from America; they had returned from Baltimore some four days since and were now venturing home to Leeds. “Fine place, America. Full of travel possibilities.”

  Until that instant I was unaware that Mycroft Holmes had ever been to America; he had made reference to Americans, but that was not the same thing. He had also confessed to having been in Canada, but that was hardly commensurate with visiting the United States.

  “We were glad of your travel guides,” said Mister Loughlan. “I had no notion that country was so big.”

  His comfortable wife laughed. “Now, don’t play the noddy, Mister Loughlan,” she said, giving him a shove in his elbow. “Not that the guides weren’t helpful, but we did spend many weeks planning our travel.”

  James Loughlan was delighted to be distracted by the waiter. He managed a nod that was quite cordial, then pretended Mycroft Holmes had vanished like a conjuring trick.

  “I see nothing worrisome,” said Prince Oscar, clearing his throat as if against pain.

  “Ah, Herr Schere, if we could see it, it would not be worrisome,” Mycroft Holmes agreed, making a sign of approval to our patient waiter as he served the other two bowls of soup and offered to open the wine.

  “Good idea,” Holmes said as if it were a novel one. “Wine does better when it’s opened awhile, just as stew is always better the second day.” As the waiter took out his corkscrew, Holmes went on, “Custard needs to set a bit before you eat it, too.”

  “So they say,” the waiter agreed as he drew the cork and handed it to Holmes, who, wholly unlike himself, pocketed it instead of sniffing it or examining it for dryness.

  “Let me have a taste of it,” Mycroft Holmes requested, holding out his glass and watching as the waiter poured a bit into it. He drank it straightaway, without looking for color or legs or sniffing its bouquet. “It’ll do,” he announced. “Give it ten minutes and serve it.” He winked—actually winked—at Prince Oscar, saying slyly to the waiter, “Can’t have the Viennese think we’re complete savages, now can we?”

  “No, sir,” said the waiter woodenly, and went about his duties as the dining car continued to fill.

  “How’s the mulligatawny?” Holmes asked when I had tasted mine.

  “Very good,” I said, thinking they had done a good job, although the intensity of the flavors had been lessened to accommodate English tastes. “It could use a bit less salt.”

  Across the aisle, Mister Heath was jostling uncomfortably in his chair, exchanging uneasy looks with the taciturn Mister Jardine. Mister Dunmuir seemed oblivious to it all, sipping his Scotch Broth and occasionally looking out the window at the passing scenery. At one point Jardine said something under his breath, and Heath’s color mounted in his face to a shade of plum I
knew could not be healthy.

  Our soup bowls were removed and our main courses brought. I was pleased to see side-dishes of potatoes with minced onions and green peas in butter; and as soon as all three of us had been served, I settled down to my meal, realizing for the first time I was famished. I noticed that Prince Oscar appeared slightly perplexed when neither Mycroft Holmes nor I waited for him to begin, but then he recalled his role and fell to, taking as much pleasure in our food as the rest of the passengers.

  Shortly before we were finished, an abrupt oath uttered sotto voce came from the table across from us. Mister Jardine pushed to his feet and stumped out of the dining car in the direction of the lounge. Mister Heath squared his shoulders and watched the fellow go; while Mister Dunmuir paid no attention whatever but continued to enjoy his cod.

  “Oh, dear,” said Missus Loughlan behind us.

  Her husband did his best to make light of the unpleasantness. “We might as well be in Texas,” he said, and chuckled.

  “As you say,” his wife agreed. She pointed out the window. “Oh, look Saint Albans. A mail drop, isn’t it?”

  Prince Oscar remembered to cough and beg pardon for doing it, while Mycroft Holmes poured out the last of the wine.

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

  I have had two notes returned to me in response to the memoranda that MH had dispatched this morning, and I am not sanguine of their results. I cannot help but believe that this investigation is more hazardous than any of us supposed. The police have closed ranks, which is to be expected; but in their solidarity, they are protecting a criminal whose purpose is the ruin of them all.

  I must shortly prepare my first telegram to send to MH to be received at Bedford.

  Sutton is about his impersonation, remaining in the parlor with papers spread around him, which only he and I know are pages of a play he is memorizing. I have already been treated to his animadversions on Henry Irving’s unfair and unreasonable dislike of Mister Ibsen’s work, and his own conviction that the plays of Ibsen will one day number among the classics. Fortunately his next part is in an English play. The role he is currently learning is in Volpone by Ben Jonson, a far remove from the work of Mister Ibsen, in which Sutton is to play Mosca, a character who assists Volpone in his machinations. Mosca, Sutton tells me means “fly·” Volpone means “fox.”

  I cannot say I will regret having to leave Sutton to his task while I carry out MH’s instructions. I find my capacity for Mister Jonson’s humor is less than his provision of it. Still, during these difficult times, I am grateful to be able to laugh now and again ...

  “I THOUGHT that went rather well,” said Prince Oscar as we crowded into Mycroft Holmes’ compartment after lunch. His fresh, open face was so full of optimism that I did not know how Mycroft Holmes would have the courage to tell him otherwise.

  “If you mean we were not set upon by assassins in the middle of the dining car, yes, I would concur,” Holmes told him. He did not let the Prince’s downcast air keep him from going on. “I am still trying to decide if the contretemps we witnessed at the table across from us was intended as a distraction or was really nothing more than what it seemed—not that that is readily determined.” He rubbed his chin. “Guthrie!” He rounded on me. “Find out more about that trio, if you will. It may send you back to the lounge, but do it. I will follow you in a short while.”

  “And I? Shall I come, too?” Prince Oscar asked eagerly.

  Mycroft Holmes shook his head. “Until we know more, it would be best if you remain here. I am sorry, Herr Schere, but I do not want to tempt fate.”

  Prince Oscar did his best to conceal his disappointment. “I understand.”

  “What should I look for?” I asked, wondering what I had missed.

  My employer gave a sigh of exasperation. “To begin with, I should like to know why Mister Heath is lying about his occupation; he is no more a printer than I am.”

  “He is not a printer?” the Prince exclaimed.

  “What makes you say so?” I asked in almost the same instant.

  “You observed the ink on his fingers—well, you were supposed to see it. But you will notice it was only on his right hand, and the color was dark blue, such as one might find in any inkwell in the country. Printers have ink on all their fingers, not just on one hand, for they must touch their machines with both hands; and traditionally it is black, not blue. Also, no ink was apparent under his nails or on his cuticles. His sleeve on his right arm has a slight dusting of what I suppose must be chalk, for which few printers find use. Therefore I must assume the man is lying about his occupation.” He was standing and had to reach out to steady himself on the luggage rack as the train swung around a bend in the track. “We’re increasing speed,” said Holmes dispassionately. “We’ll reach Bedford shortly. I’ll put a message together for you, Guthrie, and you will send it from the telegraph office and retrieve any sent from Tyers or anyone else who may require my attention.”

  “Of course,” I said, reaching for my portfolio. “Do you need me further or shall I—?”

  “Back to the lounge car with you, and keep your eye on Messieurs Heath, Jardine, and Dunmuir. There is something going on there that I do not like.” Mycroft Holmes glanced down at the Prince. “If Guthrie discovers nothing troubling, then in a while we should go along to the lounge car, as well. You will have to continue your performance, sir.”

  “I will enjoy it,” said Prince Oscar, enthused at the prospect. “This is most instructional, traveling this way.”

  “I should think so,” Mycroft Holmes said without a trace of irony.

  “Very well, sir,” I said to my employer as I rose and picked up my portfolio, patting it just below my embossed initials. “My faithful companion and I will go see what is happening in the lounge. And I will leave the train at Bedford to send along our initial report.” With a nod, I let myself out into the corridor and started along it in the direction of the lounge car. I had traversed the second-class car and was in the platform connecting it to the dining car when the door opened from the other direction and a trim woman in a most fetching traveling ensemble in dark, steel-blue twill came through. I started to stand aside, and wished I had worn my hat in order to tip it, when the woman took hold of my elbow. Surprised, I supposed she was unsteady on her feet, but as I looked her fully in her face, I knew I had erred.

  “Guthrie,” said Miss Penelope Gatspy without preamble, “what on earth are you and Mycroft Holmes up to this time?”

  My breath stopped in my throat and I must have blushed, recalling our last encounter two years since. How could she behave as if none of that had happened? Not that I was ungrateful, for to experience the castigation I most certainly deserved would not have helped our mission. “That is no concern of yours,” I said as if it were only a day or two ago when I had last seen her. No doubt the woman would demand an explanation of me in due time and an apology that I should certainly offer.

  “Oh, Guthrie, of course it is my business. I shouldn’t be here if it were not.” Her laughter did more than an accusation would have done to convince me I was not hallucinating the whole episode.

  Delayed shock coursed through me. I discovered I was unable to speak. I stared into her mesmerizing blue eyes and remembered how she had looked the first time I had met her; we had been on a train then, too. I was in a compartment that she, too, occupied. I had not realized then that our meeting was far from chance. In the intervening years since that first encounter, I had come to regard any association with her with ambivalence; for although she was a most lovely and self-possessed young woman, she was also an agent in the Golden Lodge, whose purposes were ambiguous at best. Our last encounter was still vivid in my memory, to my chagrin. Finally I said, “Miss Gatspy. It is you. I suppose I should not be surprised.”

  “No, Mister Guthrie,” she said with purpose. “You sho
uld not.”

  “How am I to respond to that?” I asked, feeling stupid for challenging her.

  “You are usually a sensible man, Mister Guthrie,” she said impatiently. “You know that the Brotherhood seeks to place Prince Oscar’s brother, Karl Gustav, on the throne. Why should it astound you if the Golden Lodge takes an interest in Prince Oscar’s welfare? Particularly now that your English police have a highly placed agent of the Brotherhood among their numbers?”

  “Good God,” I swore without apology. “How do you come to—”

  “Guthrie, we haven’t time for this. We might be discovered at any moment. Tell Mister Holmes that I am traveling as a nurse, should he need someone to help with protecting Prince Oscar. Or should I say Herr Schere?” She smiled winsomely at me and went on her way, opposite to mine, pausing once the door closed to turn back and wave to me.

  I stood on the swaying platform for the greater part of a minute, trying to order my thoughts. Miss Gatspy often had that effect on me, and I told myself I should be accustomed to it by now. But with every attempt at reassurance, new questions arose, so that what should have led to my comfort in fact resulted in more turmoil. I made myself turn and continue on through the dining car—now nearly emptied of diners, one of whom was the second bartender—and into the lounge where nine passengers were seated taking advantage of the friendly air of the place.

  “How’re you doing?” The barkeep glanced at me with concern that went beyond the demands of his service; if having his partner gone was an imposition, he showed no discomfort because of it. “Not my place to say it, but you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I suppose I have,” I said blankly, and gave myself a mental shake. “Nothing to worry about, though. Not that kind of a ghost.”

  “Travel can do it to you,” said the barkeep and poured a brandy-and-soda for me. “A lot of you artist-types like this.” He accepted his payment and tip with a quick smile, and I saw him put the brandy bottle down in the carton behind the bar, although it was less than half empty. There were four other partially filled bottles in the carton as well. He noticed my attention and said, “I always like to hold a little back, you know how it is—looks better to some if the bottles are fairly full.”