Mycroft Holmes strode two steps forward to the center of the lounge. “I have my illustrator, Guthrie, to thank for the observations I made. He came into the lounge before luncheon was served and he had occasion to see Mister Jardine, Mister Heath and Mister Dunmuir. He had the impression that Mister Heath and Mister Dunmuir, who sat together—where?”
I pointed out the table the two men had occupied. “They spoke occasionally, as strangers will when traveling. Mister Jardine arrived after I did and seemed disinclined to seek any society but his own. His accent and his demeanor were Glaswegian.”
“And he sat in roughly the same location where he died, did he not?” Holmes asked as if to punctuate the manner in which Mister Jardine had continued his self-imposed isolation.
“At the far bend in the angled settee, yes,” I said, and saw Whitfield nodding in anxious agreement.
“Are you certain he sat there the whole of the time?” asked Inspector Carew. I could see he was paying keen attention, and had formed a few notions of his own. This was his means of measuring his deductions against those of Mycroft Holmes.
“Certainly it was his only place before luncheon,” I said, and heard Mister Heath clear his throat.
“I had little occasion to regard him, and the end of the bar prevented a direct look at him, but I am quite certain that he did not rise from that place. I should have seen it.” His cheeks were ruddy, and a certain roughness had come into his speech, but he was quite presentable.
“Mister Whitfield,” Mycroft Holmes said to the barkeep, “does this tally with what you saw?”
“Yes, it truly does,” said Cecil Whitfield. “The dead man sat there by himself and making no sign of wanting any company but his own.” He looked about the bar and said, “Had more of you gents been in here then, I might not have noticed so clearly, but with only the four, his behavior was easily discerned.” He seemed proud of himself for knowing so impressive a word.
“So,” said Mycroft Holmes. “We have four men in this lounge before luncheon—Mister Dunmuir, Mister Heath, Mister Guthrie, and, shortly after, Mister Jardine. None of them behaved as if they were acquainted. When the chime rang for luncheon, they all went into the dining car, where Mister Jardine was seated with Mister Dunmuir and Mister Heath across the aisle from Guthrie, Herr Schere of Vienna, and myself. They spoke little during their meal. When I introduced myself to them, Mister Heath was the most voluble of the three, displaying a good deal of bonhomie not shared by the other two at the table.”
“Well,” said Mister Olwin, “two of them are Scots, aren’t they?” His cheeky wit gave everyone in the lounge an excuse to laugh.
“Camus Jardine was more than taciturn, from what I saw at luncheon,” said Mycroft Holmes, cutting off the laughter. “He was a very frightened man. It would appear he had good cause to be.”
At this announcement, Inspector Carew leaned forward, his attention sharply focused on Mycroft Holmes. “Why should you think that?”
“For one thing, he stank of it. He wore country clothes, to be sure, but the odor that came from him was fear, not the stable. That, and the nature of his silence, which was not unlike a hare hiding in a bush while a fox is prowling.” Holmes looked at each passenger in turn as he continued. “No, gentlemen, there can be no doubt; the man was terrified of something—something near at hand.”
“Or someone,” said Mister Loughlan, who was looking tired; I could hardly blame him.
“True enough. Or someone,” Mycroft Holmes concurred. “But what should so frighten this man? Who was he and what had he done, to be so distressed?”
“I have an answer to that,” said the Inspector. “Camus Jardine was a horse—”
“A horse-trainer,” said Holmes at the same time. “Yes. His riding boots were well-worn, with stirrup chafes on the inside of the leg, yet the heels were worn down from walking; therefore a trainer or a game-warden. If he were a game-warden, he would have worn other clothes than the ones he had on, whereas a trainer would have excellent reason to dress for the stables while traveling. There was a bulge in his jacket pocket and a bit of oat-chaff clinging to the fabric, where he kept his rewards for the animals he was training. He wore a cap such as stablemen wear; therefore I must suppose that he had been in London, or near London, to work with one of the horses he had trained.”
“That seems a bit of a leap to me,” said Mister Olwin, folding his arms to emphasize his skepticism.
“Not at all,” Holmes said in amiable contradiction. “Think about this, if you will. This man, who was clearly more at home in a stable than a train, was returning home from some event in a state of great agitation. Losing a race would be cause for disappointment, not terror. Assuming he lost.”
“Unless there was more at stake than winning,” said the man with the Yorkshire accent.
“Exactly,” Holmes agreed. “If he had more at risk than the race. As a trainer, what would that be? What could a horse-trainer do that would make him so frightened?”
Whitfield had an answer. “He could try to fix the race.” He looked about, proud of his answer.
“Very astute, Mister Whitfield,” said Mycroft Holmes. “You have hit upon a most promising line of inquiry. Wouldn’t you say so, Inspector?”
Inspector Carew had been following this in thoughtful attention, and he finally made a gesture with his hand. “Assuming everything you have said thus far has any basis in fact.”
“Oh, Inspector, I never assume. In my travels I have learned that assumptions are far more trouble than they’re worth.” Holmes lowered his eyes, making it apparent he did not want to become engaged in a dispute. “Let me continue along these lines if I may?”
“Please do,” said Inspector Carew.
I watched this intellectual sparring with some trepidation. Holmes was making himself very visible and could attract more questions than would be easy to answer, but if I tried to communicate my apprehensions to my employer, I would tend to worsen the very problem I sought to correct. So I made notes in a desultory fashion and hoped nothing would happen to make the two men confront one another more directly.
“If Mister Jardine had agreed to do something to change the outcome of a race, then those with the greatest interest in the race—an owner or a bookie, for example—might feel moved to demand compensation from the man.” Mycroft Holmes glanced about the lounge. “Poison is a sly weapon, not a passionate one. It is a weapon of deliberate malice, a weapon of clear intent. A man seeking revenge might well use it.” He chuckled unpleasantly. “And, as we all know, its use and source can be hard to detect.”
“But I poured the drink for Jardine, and he carried it himself,” said Whitfield, no longer as sure of himself as he had been.
“Ah, you are assuming the poison was in the drink he obtained here,” said Holmes. “Yet he had just come from the dining car, and had eaten and drunk immediately before. If the poison required a short while to act, or was taken in a form that needed a little time to become potent, then the drink here is the least of our worries. I have heard ...” He let the provocative tone of his voice make its impact. “I have heard that there are many ways to disguise poisons, to slow or hasten their action, usually with food and drink.”
Inspector Carew nodded slowly. “I think I’ll have one of the constables go along to the kitchen of the dining room.”
“All the dishes are probably washed by now,” said Whitfield.
“But probably not the napery,” said the Inspector. “That could tell us a thing or two, if we can find the napkin and the tablecloth from Jardine’s meal.” He looked directly at Holmes. “I am impressed, Holcomb. Who would have thought a man from Satchel’s would turn out to be so keen an observer?”
“Observation is an essential part of my work,” said Holmes in what seemed a modest manner. “No one who travels as I do can afford to be unobservant.�
�
“As soon as I return, you may carry on with your theory,” Inspector Carew informed my employer. “Gentlemen, I am afraid I must ask you to remain in the lounge for a short while longer. Rollins,” he said, signaling to his coroner, “you can help find the—”
“Napery,” the fellow finished for him. “I am coming.” And so saying, he followed the Inspector out of the car to the platform leading to the dining car.
“At least we’ll soon have that body gone. It’s bad luck to travel with a corpse,” Olwin declared. “Kettering is a mail drop, and then we’re on a straight course for Leicester. I leave the train at Leicester.” He looked at the place Inspector Carew had stood.
Mycroft Holmes did not argue. “All the more reason to settle this here and now. None of us wants this nagging after him. Unsolved murders leave the police in a bad light. They pursue murderers diligently, and this case is no exception.” Holmes saw the men exchange glances.
“They never caught the Ripper, did they?” Mister Heath countered.
Holmes was unflustered. “No, they did not. But this is not a Ripper killing; it is a murder aboard a moving train, which means that there are a specific number of possible killers, for the murderer must be aboard.” He paused to let the men in the lounge consider this in all its possibilities.
“How do you mean?” asked James Loughlan, suddenly more apprehensive. “Surely they cannot think any of us would do this.”
“Well, someone killed him,” I ventured. “Those in his company are the ones most likely to be investigated.”
“Gracious!” Mister Olwin looked genuinely shocked at the suggestion. “You can’t think that we would have done anything to that poor man.”
“Well, he is certainly dead,” Mycroft Holmes pointed out.
“What about suicide?” Mister Heath looked nervous as he suggested this, as if it were a lapse in taste.
“Then why should he be frightened?” asked Whitfield.
Before an argument could erupt, Mycroft Holmes interrupted. “I believe it is wise for the police to err on the side of murder, for whom among us would like a such a killing to go undetected and unpunished?” As the men in the lounge exchanged uneasy glances, Holmes went on. “Poison is, as I have said, a sly weapon. Perhaps the most insidious thing about many poisons is that their effect is remarkably difficult to detect.”
“Do you think this was such a murder?” Whitfield was looking more frightened, and his voice had risen.
“It would certainly seem so,” said Mycroft Holmes. “But we must keep in mind the victim and how he came to be poisoned.” He cleared his throat and rocked back on his heels. “Poisons are not all alike; there are a number of poisons that simulate heart failure or apoplectic collapse that no method known to science can detect. Those are the favorites of the true professionals.”
I saw the barkeep go quite still, as if stricken with worry.
“To me the best poison has always been that which kills hundreds in Britain every year: food poisoning.” He looked about, knowing everyone aboard had at one time or another eaten a dish that was not wholesome.
Inspector Carew had returned in time to hear the last of this; he stood watching Holmes through slightly narrowed eyes. Only when there was silence again did he speak. “We may be in luck, but I doubt the chemist will think so. He has several days’ work ahead of him.”
The train began to slow down, not greatly, but enough to attract attention. As the men looked about in apprehension, Whitfield spoke up. “We’ve got behind the Ipswich to Manchester train—that’ll be it. It’ll take the switch to Derby just after Loughborough.”
“We’ll be behind it for such a distance?” Mister Heath sounded distressed.
“You have no reason to complain of it,” said Inspector Carew. “We will be put on a side-track while the body is removed, and the poor man’s luggage. He had a second-class ticket in the rear of the train, and would have gone to Glasgow, not to Edinburgh, had he completed his journey.”
One of the men looked disgusted. “The only speed record we’ll be breaking this run is the one for tardiness.”
His tone was taken up by several of the others, but not quite so boldly. This time Inspector Carew responded, addressing the men before Mycroft Holmes could speak. “I know you don’t like being late. It’s inconvenient and annoying. But think of Mister Jardine. He has experienced something far worse than lateness. You will at least arrive at your destinations; he never will. If he were your son, your brother, your husband, your father, wouldn’t you expect more than shuffling his body off with no more ado than if it were a sack of meal?” He gave the men in the lounge car a short while to think about that. “Whether or not you have sympathy for him, show a little to his family.”
I would have liked to say, “Hear, hear,” but I suspected it would not sit well with the Inspector if I did.
“Didn’t mean no disrespect,” said the square-faced man, who had a wife and three children in the second-class car bound for Edinburgh. He wore a mourning-band on his sleeve, and I recalled he had said something about having to attend a funeral when he was questioned.
“Of course not,” said Inspector Carew. “It has been a difficult time for us all. And as I must ask your continued indulgence until we have finished our tasks, I apologize for the delays and any inconvenience it may cause you.” He directed his gaze toward Mycroft Holmes once again. “Have you any more ideas about who might be involved in this?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, I do,” said Holmes evenly. “It will be my pleasure to tell you what they are. Speculation, of course, but that is to be expected. I may have misread the situation entirely, in which case, I will owe at least two men an apology: you and the man I suppose might have done it. Would you rather we discuss it here, or—?” He gestured to the platform.
“A fine notion,” said Inspector Carew. “Very well; the platform will do. And in the meantime, Constable Washbourne will inspect the tickets of all the men in this lounge. Only those who purchased a ticket to Leicester will be allowed to leave the train there. We will require your names and where you may be reached, of course. I am confident you will all assist us to your utmost capacity, and so I will tender my appreciation in advance of your service.” His cordiality was belied by the cold light in his pale eyes.
“Shall I remain here?” I asked Holmes very quietly.
“Better do. I need a reliable witness in this car.” He raised his voice. “If anyone else has a theory, my illustrator will take down your ideas, or make sure you have the opportunity to speak with the Inspector.”
I very nearly cursed him then, for I could see four of the passengers just bristling with notions they could not wait to elucidate. The next few miles promised to be hectic ones for me unless Holmes and the Inspector could hit upon some astonishing revelation. I resigned myself to the task to taking down every theory offered to me, and consoled myself with the thought that one or two of them might possibly be right.
FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS
There has been a death on the Flying Scotsman, as the telegraph operator at King’s Cross informed me when I presented my letter of authorization from the Admiralty. The police from Bedford have taken the investigation, and no one has been allowed to leave or board the train, which is now on its way to Leicester. The telegraph operator gave me his word he would inform me as soon as the train’s arrival at Leicester is confirmed. I must hit upon some means to get word to MH if he is not allowed to send his telegrams to me. It would probably be wise to send duplicates of the Bedford message, as well, and to send them and any new information to Sheffield, so that if I am unable to reach MH at Leicester, he will still be kept fully abreast of what has taken place thus for.
Sutton admits he is relieved. This long wait for information has taken a toll on him as well. For nearly an hour he abandoned his stud
y of Jonson’s play and reviewed all our railroad notations in case he might hit upon some means of using any associates of his from the theatre who are touring in the Midlands to get a message onto the train. That is one approach that never occurred to me; and although it seems somewhat for-fetched, if communication remains precarious, I will have to consider Sutton’s alternative. At least HHPO is safe; that much I have been able to establish.
CI Somerford sent word that a spent shell has been found on the roof of the house where Constable Childes was killed, apparently matching the one on the roof from the first attempt on HHPO 5 life· Whoever this assassin is, he has left his mark like a calling card, perhaps to taunt the police, perhaps to signal his accomplices ...
I am off to King’s Cross again, to learn what I can about the Flying Scotsman.
AFTER the mail sacks had been exchanged at Kettering—somewhat less frenetically than usual, owing to the slower progress of the train—Inspector Carew and Mycroft Holmes returned from their discussion to find the lounge awhisper with speculation, each passenger regarding his nearest traveling companion askance. I had been observing this and was still not as certain as my employer that it would be possible to unmask the culprit before we arrived at Leicester. Constable Washbourne had checked all the tickets and made notes of his observations in his memo-book. I busied myself pretending to sketch the interior of the car.
“Why bother with this place?” Whitfield asked suddenly, leaning over the bar to talk to me. “It’s nought but a lounge car.”
“It’s a lounge car where a man was murdered. I might find a paper that would pay well for it.” I shrugged. “Not that I can do much until we’re standing still, but I can make a beginning.” I thought I sounded plausible enough. “When we reach Edinburgh, I’ll do a proper job on it.”
The Flying Scotsman Page 19