The Flying Scotsman

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “No murder here, no murder here,” said Sir Cameron. “But there might soon be if I cannot get some brandy.” He directed a fulminating gaze at his hapless valet.

  “You see how it is, sir,” the valet said quietly. “Sir Cameron—he’ll be better once he is home, if you understand me.”

  “I certainly do,” I said, and added a bit more loudly, “I’ll talk to Inspector Carew, to see what we can arrange.” With that promise I took a step back, the screw of paper in my pocket feeling as if it were afire.

  “Well?” said Mycroft Holmes when I went into the Prince’s compartment once more.

  “He wants brandy,” I said. “The constables will not allow his valet to get any; he would have to go to the lounge car for it.” I shrugged. “He will start yelling again soon, I fear.”

  Inspector Carew scratched at his cheek; it was clearly a nervous gesture. “What if I arrange for him to have his brandy—what then?”

  “I think we can get Miss Gatspy’s powder into it. He will sleep all the way to Edinburgh.” Mycroft Holmes made a gesture to show he did not want anything to do with Sir Cameron.

  Inspector Carew made a snort of agreement. “I will get the brandy, and a snifter for him. Then Guthrie here can take it to him, all prepared, as it were.” He made a polite nod to Miss Gatspy which Prince Oscar answered with a curt one of his own just as the Inspector closed the door; I hoped he had not seen Prince Oscar’s response, for it might set him to thinking in ways that could not help our mission.

  “So, tell me about this murder?” Prince Oscar tried not to look too curious.

  As quickly as possible, Mycroft Holmes summed up the events in the lounge car, choosing his words with care so as not to alarm the Prince unduly. When he was finished, he added, “The police will remove the body at Leicester, and I hope we may be allowed to leave the train there in order to send and receive messages. I fear if we do not find the murderer, we will be detained on this blasted thing until we reach Scotland.”

  “Well, then we will have nothing to fear from other assassins,” said Prince Oscar.

  “You assume there is no new culprit aboard,” Holmes corrected him, doing his best to show respect although he was becoming impatient. “We have not received Tyers’ report from London.” It was a significant admission for Mycroft Holmes to make, and I could not help but feel sympathy for him.

  Miss Gatspy, who had listened in close attention, said, “I can tell you a thing or two that may help you.”

  “And what might that be?” asked Mycroft Holmes sharply.

  “My ... my organization,” she said, apparently deciding not to mention the Golden Lodge by name, “has some information on assassins that might prove interesting to you. We assembled it when we learned about some of Prince Karl Gustav’s new supporters.” She looked in Prince Oscar’s direction. “I do not mean to offend you in saying any of this, Your Highness.”

  “Carry on,” he said indulgently. “What does Herr Schere care about such things?” It was a gallant attempt to conceal his dismay and it very nearly succeeded, but his hands trembled as he reached for his cup of cold tea.

  “What have you learned?” Mycroft Holmes demanded.

  “That there are, in fact, two assassins working, each using the same methods so that you will assume it is one person.” She spoke with little emotion beyond a trace of exasperation, yet I could sense the indignation that seethed beneath her calm exterior; the pale line around her lovely mouth gave her away. “The Brotherhood does this as a common device—they train two to behave as one, and then assign them to act in such a way that it is impossible to connect the crimes, or to determine the correct times for the crimes, since one person cannot be in the same place at once.”

  “I’ve heard about that device,” said Mycroft Holmes, sounding a bit down-cast. “They did that in Prague, didn’t they?”

  “And in Constantinople,” said Miss Gatspy with a nod in my direction.

  “Good Lord!” I expostulated. “Then that was how—” I saw Mycroft Holmes’ warning gesture and fell silent.

  “How can you be certain that this is what is going on in this instance?” Mycroft Holmes asked Miss Gatspy; he had lost his Fleet Street accent and now he looked very odd to me, dressed as he was.

  “Because one of our sources was killed before he could report to us. He was assigned to look for breaches in the Prince’s protection. He was supposed to meet with me yesterday morning, as soon as he was relieved of duty.” Her blue eyes grew very cold. “I am certain he knew who the second assassin is.”

  “Was that Constable Childes?” I asked, suddenly convinced I could not be wrong.

  She looked down at her hands, her expression sufficient confirmation. “He was trying to find out how many of the police have fallen under the influence of the Brotherhood. We knew that some of the men were, but we did not know who or what positions they occupied.”

  “Are you suggesting that one of the assassins may be a policeman?” I demanded, and felt Holmes big hand close on my lower arm. I swung around and stared at him. “My God! That is what you’re suggesting isn’t it?” I glanced at Miss Gatspy. “I’m sorry if my language offended—”

  “Oh, Guthrie,” she said in exasperation. “As if language means anything at a time like this.”

  “Then what about Inspector Carew?” I demanded. “What are we to think of him?”

  We heard Sir Cameron swear loudly from compartment one, and a distinct bang as something of moderate size and weight—such as a boot—struck the wall.

  Mycroft Holmes pointedly ignored this interruption. “For the nonce, dear boy, we must be very careful with Inspector Carew. Even if he is wholly blameless and honorable to a fault, he may inadvertently let slip something to one of his colleagues that could have dire repercussions for our efforts now.” He patted my shoulder. “Keep your wits about you, Guthrie.” This last remark was spoken in the journalist’s accent, and for a moment I was jarred.

  “I’ll do my utmost, sir,” I assured him.

  “I am certain of it,” he said, and cocked his head in Prince Oscar’s direction. “You will have to be very careful with Inspector Carew. If he even suspects that there is any deception being practiced, he will most assuredly proceed to investigate our mission, which could be disastrous. It is bad enough that our arrival in Edinburgh is delayed, we must—” He broke off as the door opened and Inspector Carew came back into the room with a tray in hand, a sealed bottle of brandy and a snifter set upon it.

  “What about the Edinburgh delay?” he asked nonchalantly, as he handed the tray to me. “I thought it best that the valet should see the bottle sealed, so that he will suspect nothing when his employer falls asleep and cannot be wakened.”

  “A sensible precaution,” Mycroft Holmes approved, adding, “With Herr Schere not feeling well and his connection to the Continent lost, we will have to make arrangements for him to have special accommodations. As we are going to arrive later than scheduled, that may be difficult.” His explanation was glib and had I not known Holmes as well as I did, I would have been convinced, as I hoped Inspector Carew was.

  “Most inconvenient,” he agreed. “Even if Herr Schere were feeling well.” He looked at me as if he was surprised I was still in the compartment. “Well, get on with it. We have to return to the lounge car as soon as possible.”

  “So we must,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Mister Jardine’s death is still a mystery.”

  I understood the meaning of that last remark; I hefted the tray and prepared to leave the compartment.

  The train was still traveling at a reduced speed, no more than thirty miles an hour, and it rocked like a smack in fresh seas. I used my elbows to steady myself against the walls and windows of the car as I made my way to compartment one. I tapped the door with my foot. “Brandy,” I called, hoping that the screw of pa
per in my pocket was not as visible as I feared it was.

  The valet opened the door; I could see the distinct impression of a palm on the side of his face. Sir Cameron had not improved his conduct toward his servants since those few, wretched days more than eight years ago when I had served him as valet. “Thank God,” said the valet with genuine piety.

  “I’ll bring it in, if you like, and help you get it open. From what I heard, you’ve had something of a ruckus here.” I thought my intentions must be completely transparent, but apparently they were not.

  “Oh, thank you, sir, thank you so much. Do come in.” He pulled the door open for me and I had my first clear look at Sir Cameron MacMillian; I strove to avert my face without being too obvious about it.

  “At last,” he said, from where he sprawled on his day-bed, for his compartment was made up very much as Prince Oscar’s was, but in far greater disarray. “Do something about this place,” he ordered his valet. “The compartment is a shambles.”

  I pulled out the table from its niche in the wall, set the tray upon it and went about opening the brandy. “Have a look at it, if you like,” I said, holding out the bottle.

  The valet was busy picking up boots, two valises and a pillow from the floor; he paid no attention to me. Sir Cameron inspected the label on the bottle, scowling before signaling his grudging approval. I took advantage of the moment to pull the screw of paper from my pocket and empty its contents into the snifter. I wondered, as I did, if it had any taste. Miss Gatspy had not mentioned any, but with so determined a sot as Sir Cameron, any slight change would be detectible. I took hold of the bottle and poured out a generous amount, swirling the snifter in the approved method of warming the brandy, only to have Sir Cameron snatch it away. “Never mind that,” he growled. Then he grew very still, staring at me.

  My courage all but deserted me as I endured his scrutiny. “What is it?” I asked, expecting to have him denounce me.

  “I thought I saw aright. Left eye blue, right eye green. Most unusual.” Sir Cameron made a gesture to ward off misfortune, then lifted the snifter. “Not the best they make, but well enough.” And with that, he took a long swallow.

  The valet had stowed the items he had collected in the overhead rack, and he said, “Thank you. You’ve been most kind.”

  “A pleasure to help a fellow-traveler,” I said with what I hoped sounded like automatic courtesy.

  “He isn’t often so ... so demanding,” the valet went on. “He has been so much in the lime-light, even in the company of royalty, that he is now despondent. To hear him now, you would think that he and the Prince of Sweden-and-Norway are bosom chums.”

  “All this travel and official functions can put a strain on a man.” I did my best not to sound too sarcastic, and I supposed I had done a fairly good job, since the valet said nothing more.

  Sir Cameron took another swallow, not so large as the last, and squinted at me again. “Damme, you look like someone ... I’ll bring his name to mind in a minute. A scoundrel, as I recall ...”

  It would not be wise to leave too hurriedly, I knew, so I spoke to the valet again. “If there is anything more you need, I will lend you whatever assistance I can.” I held out my hand—an egalitarian gesture that made the valet blink.

  “Much appreciated, sir, I’m sure.” He edged me toward the door.

  I had no wish to linger; I took myself off, pleased that the danger Sir Cameron could represent had been successfully reduced. As I was reassuring myself that all was well, I stepped back into Prince Oscar’s compartment. “He took it,” I said, and saw that this was of little or no concern to anyone in the place.

  “—if you think that the two sitting with him at lunch murdered him, whether or not Heath is a printer,” Inspector Carew was saying, taking issue with something Mycroft Holmes had said. “How can they be associates? You have no reason to think they are.”

  Mycroft Holmes leaned back against the windowframe, blocking out the glowing afternoon light. “If I did not, I would not say so,” he informed the Inspector. “I suspect that Heath is a bookie—the ink on his hand, the chalk on his sleeve, and the fact that he has been reading about that scandal at the races—”

  “As have half the men on this train,” Inspector Carew interjected.

  “—and has been in the company of a horse-trainer. Mister Dunmuir has quite a reputation for training champions,” Holmes said emphatically. “You’ve heard of him; you simply did not associate him with the precise Mister Dunmuir. If you will take the time to review the various accounts of winning races, you will see his face in many reports on winning horses.”

  I watched in some surprise. I was unaware that Mycroft Holmes had any interest whatsoever in horse-racing; he had an eye to a good animal, and when he rode, he had a good seat; but he had never so much as mentioned any of the races, famous or not. “Why do you think Mister Heath is not a grocer, chalking his prices? Or a ... a ...” I began to flounder.

  “Would you buy so much as a vegetable marrow from that man?” Mycroft Holmes inquired sweetly. “No. He has the manner of a bookie, and if he is not carrying betting slips, you may call me an idiot.”

  “Then we shall see which of us is more deserving of the name,” said Inspector Carew. He motioned to Holmes. “Shall we put your notion to the test? If you can convince me that there truly is an association among those men, that would provide motive for a murder.”

  Prince Oscar’s eyes were shining; under other circumstances he would have followed us out of his compartment and back through the train to the lounge. But for the sake of his disguise, as well as his safety, he had to remain closeted with Miss Gatspy. Had it been possible to do so without earning Miss Gatspy’s scorn, I would have remained with her and the Prince.

  “Hurry up, Guthrie,” Holmes said impatiently as we passed through the second-class car. “Your observations may be crucial. Can’t have you lagging behind now.”

  “No, sir,” I said, lengthening my stride and clasping my portfolio while Mycroft Holmes summed up his thoughts to Inspector Carew.

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

  Still no word from MH or G. I do not know whether I should report this to anyone, for with MH’s suspicions, it may play directly into the hands of the conspirators to inform the police of this development. The devil of it is, I cannot reach MH either, and so I cannot inform him that one of the two decoys used for Prince Oscar has been shot as he reached Dover. The second double remains unharmed, at least so far. This only confirms MH’s certainty that HHPO is in danger and is likely to remain so.

  Sutton has suggested that we keep on as we were instructed. He will go to the Diogenes Club on schedule, and maintain the illusion that MH is following his habitual routine. Sutton believes if anyone is party to the conspiracy, he will betray himself when MH appears to be keeping to his routine. I do not know that I am wholly in accord with Sutton; but as I cannot yet determine what is best to do, I will run along to King’s Cross and see if I can learn anything about the Flying Scotsman. There may have been word received at the station, and if there is, I will discover it.

  The shooting of the double worries me, for it suggests that the assassin is still at large. The only consolation I have is that so long as the shooting took place in Dover, the assassin cannot possibly be on the train to Edinburgh. I wish I could so inform MH. It would not be much assurance, but at such a time, it would undoubtedly be welcome news.

  WHITFIELD was looking white around the gills when we came into the lounge car. He greeted Mycroft Holmes like a long-lost friend, holding up a pony of sherry as a kind of welcome. “It’s the best we have—shooting sherry. Dark as a nut.” He glanced at the men in the lounge car and the ominous vacancy where Mister Jardine had lain.

  Mycroft Holmes accepted the sherry and sipped it, making a sign of approval. “Good of you, Whitfield,” he said.<
br />
  “Ta, sir. It’s been thirsty work.” He held out a drink to Inspector Carew, a glass of pale, wheaten ale. “I’ve taken the liberty of giving Mister Rollins a brandy—riding alone with a corpse and a compartment full of baggage cannot be”—he made a gesture to show how little the notion appealed to him—“I am sorry we have not kept order as much as you might want,” he said more quietly. “I must tell you, Inspector,” he went on, unable to lower his voice much due to the noise of the train, “some of these men are taking a nasty turn, surly-like.”

  “Hardly surprising,” said Inspector Carew, his white hair shining like a halo as the light struck it. “Have the constables been able to maintain order?”

  “Yes; now that the passengers are free to use the necessary room. That was becoming something of a problem.” Whitfield did his best to look amused at his own feeble wit.

  “Just so,” said Inspector Carew. “Well, perhaps we can liven things up. It appears Mister Holcomb has a theory about how Jardine came to die. You must all want to hear what it is, mustn’t you?”

  There was a general sighing from the men at the bar, by the look of them I would have thought this was the last thing on their minds, but then, who was I to cast aspersions upon them? I sat down on one of the upholstered stools near the window, opened my portfolio and drew out my notebook, as Mycroft Holmes had instructed me to do as we went through the dining car.

  “How is it that you listen to that windbag from Satchel’s and not to any of us who have done as you’ve told us to and not pressed for advantage?” This came from a man named Albert Whipple, who was a property agent from Sheffield; he was plainly much distressed by the delay as by the murder.

  “I have listened to him because he was willing to do the work I should have done had I been here at the time of the murder,” said the Inspector bluntly. “You would do well to take a lesson from him instead of carping at the slights you imagine.” He nodded in Mycroft Holmes’ direction. “So, if you would like to listen while he propounds his theories, I will listen along with you, to discover what I can. It may prove useful.” He went and ordered a whisky, saying, once he had his drink in hand, “You may begin, Mister Holcomb.”