The Flying Scotsman

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  The butcher has delivered a rack of lamb which I shall set to roast with onions and herbs shortly, so that when Sutton returns from across the street we may dine straightaway, so that should any more complex problems arise, we will be ready to deal with them ...

  MYCROFT HOLMES arrived in the lounge just as I was finishing my account of his revealing the murderous plot of Heath and Dunmuir. “The police determined to hold the two in the lav, certain that with a constable to guard the door, it must serve well for their confinement until they could be taken along to jail.” I looked directly at Holmes, saying, “Ah, Mister Holcomb. This is Arthur Burley of the Sheffield Intelligencer. He has taken an interest in the case you did so much to solve.”

  “A reporter, you say?” Holmes beamed, holding out his hand. “A pleasure to know you, Mister Burley. I think of ourselves as brethren in type.” He beamed at this labored witticism. “Quite a change, seeing a journalist seeking to present the facts of an event instead of a more sensational fable. If I may assist in any way to present an accurate picture of the events in question, I would be honored to do so.” He signaled to Whitfield. “A brandy please, in a snifter.”

  “Right away, Mister Holcomb,” said Whitfield, and I saw him put down the bottle he had previously opened into one of the storage crates before he unsealed a new one. This seemed to be something of a ritual with him, and I wondered again what its purpose might be.

  “You seem a most astute fellow, Mister Holcomb,” Burley went on. “But how you were able to hit upon such salient points with so little opportunity for observation impresses me.”

  “Well, you know how important it is to notice as much as possible while traveling,” said Holmes as he went to fetch his brandy; his crown was waved away by Whitfield. “Since traveling is my stock-in-trade, no doubt I have honed my capabilities more than most men.”

  “No doubt,” said Burley. He glanced back at me. “You told me he lacks false modesty. I see you were right.”

  Mycroft Holmes inclined his head. “Guthrie has worked with me long enough to appreciate my character.”

  “No doubt,” said Burley again, as if preparing to dismiss Holmes from his work after all. “I wonder that you should be willing to be caught up in such work as unraveling a murder.”

  “Mister Burley,” said Mycroft Holmes with an air of exaggerated sympathy, “you cannot think that murders on a train are good for travel. Since travel is my livelihood, I felt it incumbent upon me to do my utmost to end the mystery quickly, so that there would be no growing apprehension about rail travel.” He gazed up at the ceiling as if seeking inspiration. “You may not recall how sharply rail travel and holidaymaking dropped off in Cornwall after that freak rail crash in eighty-one? The rumors surrounding the tragedy were soon laden with specters and the most dire of manifestations, and all because it could not be determined who had left the switch open, or why. I should hate to see such a plight befall the Flying Scotsman.”

  Mister Burley scribbled a few notes, I suspect because he was being closely observed. He was still watching Mycroft Holmes narrowly, measuring him with canny attention. I was increasingly aware of the tension in the room and the attitude of—I must almost call it predation—that filled the lounge. At last Mister Burley achieved a sour smile and said, “No doubt it would be bad for Satchel’s Guides to have people take their holidays close to home.”

  “Precisely,” said Mycroft Holmes, and sat down at the very table Heath and Dunmuir had occupied. “You see, Satchel’s is revising its guide to rail travel in Britain, which is why Guthrie and I are here. Guthrie has prepared some excellent drawings of interesting sights that might be seen on a rail holiday.” He motioned to me. “Show them your work, Guthrie. No need to hide your light under a bushel.” He tasted his brandy and made an affable gesture to the room at large, inviting one and all to view Edmund Sutton’s drawings, which I dutifully displayed.

  “One doesn’t see many left-handed illustrators, I fancy.” Mister Burley remarked as I finished collecting the drawings I had shown.

  “I have not thought much about it, sir,” I responded. “I recall my first teachers strove to train me to use my right hand, but I had not the aptitude.” That much was true; I had spent three years trying to work with my right hand only to fail, although I was rather more capable with that hand as a result than many another left-handed man. “I cannot say whether or not it has affected my work. How can I know without learning to write and draw afresh?”

  “A telling point, I’ll give you that. Self-effacing, aren’t you?” Mister Burley inquired testily some while later. “One would think these drawings were the work of another, for all the pride you show in them.”

  Mycroft Holmes responded for me. “Illustrators are not like gallery painters, don’t you know. They are not as moved by passion as those who style themselves artists, and they view their work more pragmatically than their more self-absorbed brethren.” He rose, handing the nearly empty snifter back to Whitfield, along with a shilling and thr’pence. “For your excellent service,” he said grandly.

  Whitfield took the tip and chuckled. “You’re as generous as an American, sir, and no doubt about it.”

  “Well, a traveler like me learns to show appreciation for good service,” he said magnanimously. “If you can tear yourself away, Guthrie, I would appreciate your company for a short while. We must prepare a telegram for Satchel’s to explain our delays.”

  I slid the drawings back into my portfolio and prepared to follow him, but I was detained by Mister Burley, who had one more question for me. “Mister Guthrie, where may I find other examples of your work? I should like to acquaint myself with it.”

  Fortunately I had anticipated his question and gave my answer without stumbling. “Until last year most of my illustrations were done for newspapers, most of them English or Scottish. I have been employed by Satchel’s for nearly a year, and my first work for them will appear in a guide to the Orient Express, which is due to appear in Europe in two months. If you contact Satchel’s in London, I am sure they will supply you a copy when the publication is available.”

  “What kept you?” Mycroft Holmes demanded, as he stood on the platform between the second- and first-class cars at the front of the train.

  “Mister Burley wanted to do a bit more fishing,” I replied. “I thought it best not to avoid answering him.”

  Holmes nodded. “Very wise. Damn the man! To have a journalist on this train is the worst possible luck. Our attempts to make our passage undetected by our enemies have not been sufficient. We should have ridden in the rear car of a freight train and traded comfort for safety. But I thought speed would—” He scowled out at the hedgerows flashing by. “Burley may be able to recognize Herr Schere, which would be—” He stopped himself before he revealed the whole of his anxiety.

  “But he will leave the train at Sheffield,” I pointed out.

  “And send telegrams to half the newspapers in England, or I do not know the breed. Journalists are more curious than the police and often more dogged. Mister Burley senses all is not as it appears, which moves him to look more closely. A man of his profession is always on the alert for a story that will make his reputation and none more so than a journalist working in a routine publication doing routine work. Journalists are easily bored, and when they are bored, they can do mischief.” He sighed. “I know Satchel’s London will endorse our credentials; but if Burley pursues the matter, as I fear he might, we cannot rest assured that we will remain ...” His words trailed off. “I hope we do not end with a débâcle.”

  For a long moment I could think of nothing to say, but then I suggested to him, “Can Chief Inspector Somerford do anything to throw Burley off the scent?”

  Mycroft Holmes rubbed his chin, his large, long fingers outlining his jaw. “Chief Inspector Somerford,” he mused aloud. “Perhaps. If we can reach him without causing an
upheaval. That may prove to be an excellent notion, Guthrie.”

  I saw at once that my employer had more in mind than I had had when I had offered my word of advice. “You will want to prepare another telegram,” I said, knowing what was to come.

  “No, my dear Guthrie, I will prepare two more, and I’ll supply you the money for full delivery.” He very nearly smiled. “I think you may have hit upon something very useful.”

  “I wish I knew what it was,” I complained, and followed Mycroft Holmes into the first car and along to compartment two.

  “We will be in Sheffield shortly,” said Holmes, pulling his valise down and extracting his writing supplies. In no time he was at work on his additional telegrams, handing them to me with the previously prepared ones, and two pound notes to pay for messenger delivery upon receipt.

  “Are you expecting communication from anyone but Tyers?” I asked as I put the telegram texts into my portfolio.

  “Not at this stop. At Leeds perhaps—certainly at Carlisle.” He rubbed a spot of ink from the tip of his finger. “Tschersky should have something to tell me by then.”

  “Carlisle,” I repeated, recalling his apprehension regarding the place. “But we will have more time there, won’t we?”

  “That may or may not be to our advantage,” Holmes murmured. “We will have to be very careful; when we arrive in Carlisle it will be full dark, which is not to our advantage. We will have to make preparations.”

  I nodded and glanced at the wedge of corridor I could see beyond the drawn shade. There was Sir Cameron’s put-upon valet, making his way down to the rear of the car. I once again had a fleeting impression of the short time I had served Sir Cameron in that capacity, and my sympathy for the man welled anew. Recalled to Mycroft Holmes’ remark by a clearing of his throat, I said, “Beg pardon, Sir. You were discussing the preparations we will need to make for our arrival in Carlisle.”

  “At least you were not wholly wool gathering, my boy.” Holmes took another of his cigars from his silver case, which he kept in his inner breast pocket. When Sutton had given it to him, I noticed he had had it inscribed to his “most highly regarded mentor.” Now, as Holmes prepared to return the case to the inner breast pocket, he paused. “I trust I have not placed Sutton in danger again. My conscience still smarts when I recall he was shot in my stead. And kidnapped, as well.”

  “Sutton is a brave man,” I said, aware that until I met Sutton, I had never thought of actors as brave; Sutton had long since taught me the error of my ways. “He will not begrudge you a risk or two.”

  “Very like you in that way,” said Mycroft Holmes as he snipped his cigar and went through his little ritual of lighting it. “Don’t imagine I am unaware of my good fortune in that regard. But I would just as soon neither of you got shot again, if you don’t mind.” He blew out the smoke. “Given how long it has taken us to come this far, we will probably have to take on water at Sheffield, as a precautionary measure.”

  “How long will that take?” I asked.

  “It’s hard to say. Perhaps no more than five additional minutes, but it will mean pulling onto a siding to do it, and that could create a delay by itself. The York-to-Birmingham is due through Sheffield at about the time we will arrive; and if we must take on water, we will have to wait for the other train to pass before resuming our journey. Assuming we have no other delays, this run will take half again as long as it was supposed to.”

  “It may be possible to continue on without further mishap,” I said, with more hope than conviction.

  “Possible, yes, but I fear it is not likely.” He motioned to me to get down his valise. “I will have to prepare one more telegram. If you like, go along to compartment four and see how Herr Schere and Miss Gatspy are managing.” He gave a rumbling sound, which I knew to be a chuckle.

  I accepted this dismissal with alacrity, excusing myself at once and hastening to knock on the door to Prince Oscar’s compartment. I noticed that the Prince remembered to cough as he called out, “Come in.”

  “Hello, Guthrie,” said Miss Gatspy as I closed the door behind me.

  “Miss Gatspy,” I replied. How fetching she was, I thought, and reminded myself that she was also very dangerous. “I hope I find you doing well?”

  “Actually,” she said with the hint of a smile, “I am a trifle bored. These long journeys, no matter what the circumstances, have a sameness that wears on one, don’t you think?”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” I said somewhat mendaciously, for I had felt very much the same after the police left the train.

  “When our only entertainment is Sir Cameron’s antics, it is a sign that all is not going well,” said Miss Gatspy.

  Just then there was the sound of someone stumbling against the door, and I moved swiftly to see what was the cause, hoping as I did that Sir Cameron had not wakened and was making his perambulations about the narrow corridor. As I slid back the door, I saw Sir Cameron’s valet, his face a bit ruddy. He did not smell of spirits, but his manner suggested he had been drinking. I noticed his eyes were lacking that shine of inebriation. “Well?” I said sharply.

  “Beg pardon, sir, I’m sure,” said the valet. “Tripped. Foolish thing to do. I don’t like riding on trains.”

  “Well, hold onto the outer rail. That’s what it’s there for,” I recommended, unwilling to berate the poor fellow; Sir Cameron did that to excess in any case.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, and continued on his way back to Sir Cameron’s compartment.

  “The valet,” I said as I once again closed the door.

  “Yes, Guthrie. We heard,” said Miss Gatspy. “I wonder why he was listening at the door. Do you think Sir Cameron suspects anything?”

  “I think Sir Cameron is in a drunken stupor,” I said.

  “If his singing was any indication, I can think nothing else,” said Prince Oscar.

  “I think he was listening,” said Miss Gatspy.

  “I think he was coming back from the lav and stumbled, just as he said, for I did not see him in the corridor as I came along, which I must have done if he had been stationed here to listen,” I countered. “You must always suspect everyone.”

  “In a situation like this one, only a fool would not,” she snapped back.

  “Guthrie, Miss Gatspy, please,” the Prince intervened. “Whatever the cause of the valet’s presence, he had only a minute or two to listen, and all he could learn was our unflattering opinions of Sir Cameron. I see no danger in that.”

  Miss Gatspy nodded, her fair, shining hair catching the light from the window. “It’s having to be confined,” she explained. “I begin to be apprehensive when my world is limited to a corridor and a compartment.” She stood and stretched. “Do you think, Guthrie, that you could give me a moment or two to use the lav?”

  “Of course,” I said, knowing it was expected of me. “If you want to step into your compartment for a moment as well, I will be glad to continue on here.”

  “How kind of you,” she said, smiling at me as she left the compartment.

  As soon as she was gone I secured the door. “When she returns is there anything you would like me to get you?”

  “A deck of cards, to pass the time,” Prince Oscar said.

  “Cards. Of course,” I said, a trifle disconcerted that it had not occurred to me to make such an offer myself. “I should find a deck for you.”

  “I cannot ask you and Miss Gatspy to amuse me all the time,” he added with a hint of an impish smile.

  “Amuse you?” I echoed.

  “Well, you do fence so endlessly, I wonder you have not married the girl,” said the Prince.

  I could feel heat mount in my face and I stammered out, “Marry? Miss Gatspy?” I managed not to take umbrage at this provoking remark. “I fear you mistake the matter, sir. Miss Gatspy and I have passe
d one or two adventures together in the nature of our work, but nothing more, I assure you.” I could feel color mounting in my cheeks as if to give the lie to my protestations. “The railing you perceive is our way of testing one another, nothing more.”

  “If you say so, Guthrie,” said Prince Oscar. He looked toward the window. “We must be nearing Sheffield. There are more houses.”

  “Yes. We must,” I said, obscurely grateful for the nearness of the town. I supposed we should soon arrive at the station, where I would be busy tending to Mycroft Holmes’ instructions regarding telegrams.

  “While you are in the station, would you be kind enough to pick up a paper or two for me? I have nothing to read but the reports I was provided when we signed the treaty, and frankly, Missus Radcliffe would be welcome to me now.” He laughed once to show he was exaggerating.

  I knew I was expected to laugh, and I did my best to comply, although to my own ears I sounded most false. “I will try to oblige you, sir.”

  “Thank you, Guthrie,” said the Prince, and resumed watching out the window as we moved more deeply into Sheffield.

  The farm cottages and estate houses amid the gorse rapidly gave way to mills, factories, and the tight rows of narrow-fronted homes. There was a slight haze over the entire town, a combination of dust and the smoke from thousands of coal fires. The streets, when I could see them as we rushed by, were bursting with traffic, mostly wagons filled with goods. We went past a wagon piled so high with wool I wondered it didn’t topple over. A few seconds later Irish laborers in their distinctive caps came into view, loading machine parts into a wagon that must have been specially reinforced to handle the weight of the steel. Everyone we passed moved energetically.

  “I know many English purport to dislike industrial towns, but I think they must be very proud of such a place as this, and Manchester, and Birmingham,” said Prince Oscar, as we slowed still more, approaching the station.