“Ah,” I said, supposing he knew what he was talking about. It was his profession after all.
“How do you think we’re doing? Are we making good time?” It was a common enough question on a train famous for its speed.
The barkeep glanced out the window and then at the clock behind the bar. “About average. We won’t break any records on this run, not at this rate.” He gave the polished surface of the bar another wipe-down, frowning either at the gloss or the speed we were traveling.
I was about to make a remark on how fast English trains were when Mister Jardine, who was sitting alone at the end of the lounge, lurched to his feet, clutched his neck, took two horrid gasps as if through a severed throat, and fell heavily onto his side.
There was consternation in the lounge car almost at once; oaths and outcry competed with the shriek of brakes and the clank of couplings as the train slowed in answer to the barkeep’s tug on the emergency cord, which brought the train to a shuddering halt.
Almost before the train was stopped, three conductors converged on the lounge ready to berate the barkeep for his actions, and all fell silent at the sight of Mister Jardine, now lying dead with an unquestionably cyanotic tinge to his distorted features.
“Oh, my God,” said the eldest of the conductors, and he did not intend this profanely. “What happened?”
Knowing what was expected of me as Mycroft Holmes’ secretary, I stepped forward. “The man appears to have been poisoned,” I said as calmly as I could. “He died swiftly, and his coloring suggests it.”
“Are you a physician?” one of the conductors asked me sharply.
“No, but I have seen a man done to death this way before,” I answered carefully and offered no other qualification.
“Poison,” the youngest of the conductors scoffed. “How could he have been poisoned?”
The passengers in the lounge car had gone suddenly very quiet, listening to this as if it were news from the front. Two of them set their drinks aside; another swallowed his whole.
“That, I suppose, is a matter for the police,” I said. “And the sooner they are notified the better.” I realized some of my drink had splashed onto the arm of my suitcoat, and I daubed at it with my pocket handkerchief.
The barkeep nodded twice. “He’s right. When any suspicious event takes place aboard a North Eastern train, the authorities are to be summoned at once.” He saw that the conductors were nodding in response to his recitation.
“Then I suppose we’d better put him in the luggage compartment for the time being,” said the senior conductor, and was about to reach for the body when I intervened.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to disturb the body when a crime’s been committed,” I said. “The police usually want to examine the scene as it is.” My tone was deferential, but my determination was apparent. I put myself between the conductors and the corpse. “I have been called upon to draw crime scenes before, and always the police have emphasized the importance of leaving the site undisturbed.”
“That’s true enough,” said one of the passengers whose name I did not know. “Coppers want things left alone. Not that I want to drink with that for company,” he added and was given a grumble of support from a few of the rest.
The conductors hesitated, and it was while they were muttering among themselves that Mycroft Holmes came into the lounge car.
“I say there, Guthrie? What is this all about?” He sounded more inconvenienced than worried, which I knew was far from the truth.
I stood back. “As you see,” I told him, indicating the body.
“Gracious!” he declared, and went toward the fallen man; such was the force of his presence that no one attempted to hinder him. He stopped a foot or so from the body and bent down to examine him. “This man has been poisoned,” he said calmly. “You must inform the police at once.”
The senior conductor was willing to agree now. “Just what I thought myself. We must make a full halt at Bedford and wait for the authorities to tell us what next to do.”
“You should also secure this car,” Mycroft Holmes went on. “If not, the murderer might well be able to escape.”
This brought a buzz of consternation from the other passengers, one of them calling out, “You don’t think any of us did it?”
“No,” said Mycroft Holmes bluntly. “But neither do I know that all of you did not.” He let the implications of his remark sink in before continuing. “Until the police tell us otherwise, I should think you would all want to wait for them to do their job. You would not want suspicion to fall upon you by mistake, would you?”
A few of the men exchanged uneasy glances, and then Mister Dunmuir spoke up. “I don’t like the dead for company, but I’m willing to let the constables do their work.” His reasonable tone was enough to persuade most of the rest to comply with this requirement.
“Bedford is not far, and once the police have finished with this unfortunate occurrence, I am sure we will be on our way again quite handily,” said Mycroft Holmes, looking at the conductors for agreement. “I don’t know how we do this, gentlemen. One of you should surely remain here, and I am certain one should notify the engineer of what has happened, and one should probably make whatever arrangements are necessary for when the police come aboard.” He looked about. “I will be glad to keep order here, with my illustrator Guthrie, and help in any way we can.”
“But Herr Schere?” I protested, knowing we would be leaving the Prince exposed. For all we knew this was a diversionary tactic to leave the Prince unguarded.
“Oh, he is in good hands, Guthrie,” said Mycroft Holmes in a tone I thought bordered on smug. “There is a nurse aboard, a Miss Gatspy? I think you may have encountered her already. She has agreed to watch Herr Schere for us.”
“How good of her,” I said, feeling an unaccountable stab of jealousy go through me. Inwardly I told myself this was absurd, an emotion unworthy of me and having nothing to do with my past dealings with Miss Gatspy. Still, it rankled. The very notion of Miss Gatspy alone with Prince Oscar was enough to set my thoughts racing, and along lines I found most disquieting, for after all, the Prince had had a night on the town with Sir Cameron. I had to fight the irrational impulse to protest this arrangement. Which was ridiculous. I reminded myself that Miss Gatspy was an accomplished player of these difficult games and that under these unexpected circumstances, we should be grateful for a young woman of Miss Gatspy’s talents to protect Prince Oscar.
“Yes, it was. No doubt she will look after him quite well while we are occupied here,” said my employer.
“No doubt,” I said tonelessly. “Then we should proceed on to Bedford. The longer we delay the more chance the culprit will have to protect himself.”
“True enough,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Then it is as well that the conductors should be about their tasks at once.” He made a gesture that sent the three hurrying. Then he looked toward the barkeep. “The police will most certainly want accounts from each of you of what you did or did not see. The same is true of all the rest of you. If you discuss this among yourselves, you may not have as clear a recollection of the event. Therefore I propose to sit down with you,” he said to the barkeep, “and get what information you have to give. Then my assistant and I will do the same for each of you in this car, at which time I will stand each of you a drink. Lord knows, we could all use one.”
“Mighty high-handed,” muttered one of the passengers.
Mycroft Holmes heard that and spoke up at once. “You cannot be compelled, of course. But the clearer and more complete an account we may give the police, the less time we are apt to be delayed.” He knew this observation had an impact on all of them. He lowered his eyes. “A man is dead. It is the least we can do to help in bringing his murderer to justice.”
“True enough,” said Mister Dunmuir quite suddenly. “
I don’t like murderers roaming about the countryside, and I don’t like to dishonor the dead.”
This unlooked-for support seemed to encourage the rest. In a matter of a few minutes the men had sorted themselves out, and I was perched on one of the three barstools, my notebook out of my pocket and my pencil sharpened and at the ready.
“My name’s Cecil Whitfield,” said the barkeep. He struck me as being much of his type—regular-featured and accommodating. “I live in London. I’ve worked for the North Eastern line for seven years.” He cleared his throat and began, “I noticed the ... the deceased when he came into the lounge before luncheon was served. He kept to himself, very dour and moody. He took his drink and sat at the end of the divan, as far from others as he could. The same when luncheon was over. He came in with those two”—he pointed to Dunmuir and Heath—“ordered his drink with them, said a few words about the food, and then he took his whisky and went off by himself.”
Several of the men in the lounge were nodding their heads in agreement, although one, a beanpole of a fellow in a modish tan suit that didn’t become him, said, “They talked longer than that.”
Mycroft Holmes swung around and looked at him. “You will have your chance to give your account. In the meanwhile, please say nothing. I want every account to be individual, to aid the police in making a complete picture of the event. If you disagree with what has been said, tell me when it is your turn.” He glanced toward Mister Jardine, whose lips were now decidedly blue.
A man with a Midlands accent grumbled at Holmes’ high-handed ways, but did nothing to challenge him.
The barkeep finished his account, read my transcript of it, signed it, and poured himself a generous tot of gin. “I’ll manage the drinks, sir,” he said, looking a bit restored.
“Well and good,” said Mycroft Holmes, and signaled to the man who had been sitting nearest Mister Jardine.
“You understand I had my back to him. I saw very little until he rose and ...” His expression was confused.
“Then this will not take long,” Holmes assured him. “Which seat were you in? Guthrie, draw a scheme of the lounge, so each can mark his place. We know Whitfield was behind the bar and Jardine was in the last chair before the corridor to the next car and access to the baggage compartment. We need to place all the others as well.”
I did my best to sketch the lounge as ordered, and did not acquit myself too dreadfully. When I was done, I let Mister Olwin mark his place on the drawing, and I wrote his name to the side of it, then prepared to take down his statement. It turned out to be quite brief and delivered in neat, organized declarations that would surely be useful to the police. When he had signed his account, he ordered West Country cider for his tipple.
The third account was given by the man who had been seated across from Olwin, and he had more of a flare for the dramatic. To improve his account, just as he was describing how he saw Jardine clutch at his throat and stagger out of his chair, the train began to move again, punctuating this account with a lurch and a groaning of metal that created a most alarming effect in the lounge. Mister Wrougtham continued his narrative as the train picked up speed, as if carried along with its movement. Aside from dramatic elaboration, his tale added little to the information we had already compiled. He accepted a split of champagne for his efforts.
The beanpole was the seventh man to render his account. He gave his name as Fitzwilliam Carstairs, his occupation as a solicitor who was returning to Sheffield after completing a transfer of deed for a client. “I am sure of what I saw,” he said as if daring Mycroft Holmes to deny this.
“Which is why we are at such pains to get all of you to tell what you observed. You, Mister Carstairs, say you saw Mister Dunmuir and Mister Heath talking for more than the few moments the rest have described?”
“Yes,” said Carstairs indignantly. “I cannot account for what these others have said, but I know what I saw.”
“Yes. You have said so,” Mycroft Holmes said calmly. “Will you be good enough to let Guthrie take down your words?”
With an injured sniff, Carstairs gave a hitch to his shoulders and began, “I was behind the three gentlemen when they came in from the dining car, where they had been seated together. The Scot with the pipe—I’m sorry, I don’t recall his name—was saying to the dead man that some arrangement would have to be made, at which time the dead swore and told the other man that he would never agree. When they reached the bar to order their drinks, the portly fellow said that the dead man could be compelled, at which the dead man swore again. They ordered their drinks and exchanged a few tense pleasantries; and then, just as the dead man took his whisky, the Scot grabbed his arm and said they were not finished yet. The dead man said, ‘Be damned to you,’ in an ugly whisper, shook the man’s hand off, and went to be seated by himself.”
Several of the men protested this account, claiming that nothing of the sort had taken place. This threatened to turn into a general squabble, which was only ended when Mycroft Holmes called them to order once again. “Each shall have your chance, and each shall say what he saw and heard. It is rare when witnesses all agree about an event; and when such a thing does happen, it is also suspicious.” This served to pacify the men in the lounge car.
When Mister Carstairs had finished, I read back what I had taken down, and while he signed it, marked his place on the plan of the lounge car. He drank tea laced with rum.
We had just completed Mister Dunmuir’s account and had three statements to go when we began to slow for Bedford, where I would send a telegram to Tyers and, with luck, would find one waiting. I did not want to hurry this process, but I knew the others in the lounge were as restless as I. With a warning look at Mycroft Holmes, I said, “The police should be here soon.”
“So they should. I imagine the conductors will take care of summoning them. We had best remain here.” He seemed unflustered at this recommendation.
“But if we are delayed, shouldn’t I inform Satchel’s?” I asked, meaning Tyers.
“Of course. A very good idea. But we will want to let them know how long a delay they might expect. We may not know that for a short while once we arrive. Still, we will have to tell them something,” Mycroft Holmes said, thinking aloud. “Well, as soon as we are dismissed from here, you will send a telegram to Satchel’s to tell them we may be detained and for what reason.” His smile was faint and faintly sarcastic. “If we do not have a long wait for the police to do their duty, we may not be so very late into Edinburgh.”
“True enough,” I said, with more hope than conviction.
The train was pulling into Bedford now, going no faster than a trotting horse. Bedford Station was a long, narrow building along the eastern side of the platform. It was built of the dark brick common in the area. Clustered around the edges of the platform as it extended beyond the station were a number of kiosks and push-carts manned by a dozen or so men waiting to sell a variety of sausages, boiled nuts, and bottled drink to passengers on each train as it passed through, and this train was no different. Nearer the edge of the platform there were handcarts and a clutch of passengers waiting to board. A thick row of unpainted walls of warehouses lined the back of the western platform, their windows reflecting darkly the bustle across from them.
“Let everyone stay as he is,” Mycroft Holmes announced. “We have good reason to remain where we are, with doors closed, until the police have done with us.” His reminder was delivered in firm accents. “Guthrie,” he went on, his voice much lowered, “make sure no one leaves, if you have to confine him by force. All we would need would be for Schere to be harmed now, when we are aware of danger, for the whole attempt we have made to end catastrophically.”
“Yes,” I said, looking about as the passengers in the lounge car stared out the window as the Flying Scotsman stopped, jerked, and stopped again amid a splendid hissing of steam.
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��Why not be seated, gentlemen?” Mycroft Holmes proposed. “The sooner the police do their work, the sooner we will be able to depart.”
Surprisingly, the barkeep agreed. “Listen to the man. He’s making sense.” He began to set up glasses on the bar. “On the house, gentlemen. On the house.” With a flourish, he started to fill the glasses, recalling almost every drink ordered. “Come. We can drink to the poor man who has died.”
It was well-nigh impossible to refuse such an overture; one or two of the passengers in the lounge hung back, but the rest were eager to accept the offer. As I joined the others at the bar, I saw one of the conductors leave the train and hurry off in the direction of the stationmaster’s office, his step hurried, his demeanor harried. “Not a task I envy him,” I remarked quietly to Holmes.
“No, indeed.” He had his snifter in hand and he moved away from the crowded bar to take a position near the corridor to the rear of the train. As I went up to him, he said, “I would not like anyone to leave through the baggage compartment.”
“Of course not,” I said, keeping an eye on the slice of platform I could see through the window beyond the bar. “Not a lot going on.”
“Give it a moment, dear boy,” he said, still maintaining his superior shopkeeper’s accent. “We do not have long to wait.”
“How do you mean?” I had an uneasy vision of the train being surrounded by armed constables ready to fire upon anyone attempting to leave.
“The police will come and very likely a physician as well,” said my employer. “And they will want to deal with this as handily as they may.” He shook his head slightly. “Chagrined though I am to say it, thank God for your Miss Gatspy.”
The Flying Scotsman Page 15