The Flying Scotsman

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Except when we are stopped or slowed to a walking speed,” I added for him, to acknowledge I understood his anxiety in that regard.

  “Yes.” he cleared his throat. “I must go. You will have another spate of telegrams to send at Leeds; there may be ones to collect as well.” He lowered his voice. “I’m sorry to keep you on the run, but I fear I must.”

  “No such thing, sir,” I said. “I welcome the activity.” It was no more than the truth—all these hours cooped up in a compartment, no matter how handsome, weighed upon me; my hip was no longer sore and I was as eager as a race-horse for a good run. I marveled that Prince Oscar could endure this enforced inactivity so well. I had to stifle the uncharitable recognition that he had Miss Gatspy to occupy his attention as unworthy of either the Prince or Miss Gatspy.

  “Then, Guthrie, bestir yourself and see how Whitfield is doing in the lounge.” He went to the door. “And have a look at the first seating in the dining car. If anything strikes a wrong note with you, I want to know of it.”

  “Very good, sir,” I said, thinking that while this recommendation was prudent, I did not entirely look forward to reciting the details of Jardine’s death yet again.

  “Of course, you know better than to make your scrutiny obvious,” Holmes added as he let himself out of the door.

  “Of course,” I said, rising and turning the lamp down low—I was not about to leave my compartment in darkness. I picked up my portfolio, neatened my tie, wishing as I did that I had brought a spare collar with me, for the points on this one were sadly wilted. We were nearly five hours behind schedule now, and no one who had boarded the train in London was looking entirely fresh. Had we been on time, we would have passed Carlisle by now and been on the last, fastest leg of our journey; as it was, there were hours ahead of us still.

  The second-class car was not much occupied, the reason for which became apparent when I entered the dining car to find it filled to capacity with any number of passengers, including one family of seven that occupied two tables, one parent at each, trying to deal with tired children whose ages ran from two or three to thirteen or fourteen. As I made my way along the aisle between the ranks of tables, a few of the diners greeted me; having no desire to enter into any discussion of the deaths, I nodded my reply and kept moving, trying to present an air of cordiality as I did. Nothing struck me as inappropriate to the place, nor did I feel any inclination to question anyone I saw. Relieved, I went across the platform linking the cars. The lounge car was hazy with smoke from cigars, cigarettes, and pipes produced by a bit more than a dozen men. Making my way to the bar, I saw someone who was not Whitfield tending.

  “He’s off shift,” said the new man, remarkable only for his astonishing ordinariness. Nothing about him was attractive, or odd, or notable: his height was average, his hair was medium brown, his features regular, his demeanor appropriate. Were he not behind the bar, I should never have noticed him. “He works until the first seating for dinner, and then he has four hours off. The name’s Quest; you’ll be that illustrator fellow, Guthrie. The train’s still agog at what you and that Mister Hol—comb did.” He held out his hand.

  “Pleasure,” I said, and noticed how powerful a grip the fellow had; I also noticed that he had stumbled over Holmes’ assumed name—was it a slip of the tongue or something worse? Regarding the fellow as closely as I dared, I could not believe that the chap was athletic, but the strength of his hand suggested otherwise. “These long delays must be aggravating to you,” I went on.

  “Not a bit of it,” he replied. “The longer we have to travel, the better business is here. It is inconvenient, to be sure, but thr’pence here and there makes up for it.” His reference to the tip he usually received when a passenger left the car made sense to me. “It helps that we don’t have to close in the afternoon, as we would if we were stationary. But there you are, then. What’s your choice?”

  I considered a moment, then said, “I’ll have Assam laced with rum, if you can make it? In a glass.”

  “Sounds Russian,” said Quest. “Wanting it in a glass.”

  “If you had vodka, it would be,” I agreed with a laugh.

  “Been there, have you?” Quest asked over his shoulder, tending to the kettle that steamed over a small gas ring.

  “To the Crimea, very briefly,” I said; I had been there hardly thirty-six hours before I managed to get aboard an Italian merchant ship bound—thank goodness—for home.

  “They say the women are passionate in Russia,” Quest prompted.

  I could not help but smile. “Foreign women are always passionate. In Rome or Cairo or Moscow they probably say the same thing about Englishwomen.”

  Quest chuckled. “Point taken,” he said, and put a strainer filled with black tea in the mouth of a good-sized glass and then gingerly poured in the near-boiling water. “Dark or light rum?”

  “Dark, I think,” I said as he finished making the drink for me; he filled a jigger with dark rum and poured it through the tea leaves before removing the strainer from the glass. I could smell it across the bar and was relieved that the heat would burn off a little of the alcohol. “There you are,” he said, using his polishing rag to place it in front of me.

  “Smells wonderful,” I said, and was about to move away from the bar so I could eavesdrop on the various conversations in the lounge when Quest motioned to me.

  “You see that man with the nose? He’s been asking about you and Mister Holcomb. Just thought you ought to know.” Quest moved back quickly and easily, once again suggesting a degree of athletic prowess.

  I gazed over my right shoulder in the direction Quest had indicated, and saw that Arthur Burley was deep in conversation with an elderly man who might be a solicitor or a schoolmaster. “What the devil?” How had he got onto the train? He had said he was leaving at Sheffield, and here he was, riding on to Leeds. I supposed he must have been ordered to stay aboard, or had taken it upon himself to remain in the hope of finding more information. I wanted to curse, for I knew Mycroft Holmes would be annoyed to learn of this. Perhaps, I thought, the man would leave the train at Leeds, having got as much as he could on the murder. He would still be able to catch the Lancaster-to-Bristol night train and be back in Sheffield around midnight. It was a comforting thought, but I knew better than to rely upon it.

  “I trust you will not mind my saying to you that you have done a very great service to the peace of this country,” said a man who had come up on my left side. I turned rather suddenly and saw a well-setup fellow of about my own age; I recalled him from our earlier encounter when Inspector Carew was conducting his inquiries. The man’s name was Jeffers, or something similar to that.

  “I think you overestimate what I have done,” I said, studying his face in the hope of discovering any guile he might reveal. “In my position you would have done the same.”

  “Shortly before you came in, I said as much to Burley there. Can’t have those newspaper johnnies carrying on as they do about the lack of duty that is becoming rife in these modern days.” He looked at my glass. “I’ll be pleased to stand you another.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “No need. This is my limit before supper. It is kind of you to—” I did my best to look grateful for his offer, but I could tell he was mildly annoyed that I would not accept his hospitality. I tried to undo any poor impression I might have made by my refusal. “It has been a trying day, and I suspect much more drink would go to my head. You know how it is; Old Scratch fiddles on a drunken tongue. Can’t have that when there will be a lady at the table with Mister Holcomb, Herr Schere, and me.”

  “Indeed,” said the fellow, and turned away.

  “Don’t mind him being huffy,” said Quest, who had overheard the exchange. “You know how these former army types can be.”

  “Former army?” I asked. “Why do you say that?” I supposed the man might have had a mi
litary background; I thought it more likely his father might have been an officer. I waited for what Quest might say.

  “Stands like he’s got a broom up his bum,” the barkeep said, commonly and succinctly. “He has a very good opinion of his own judgment as well.”

  “Very likely,” I agreed, balancing the glass on my portfolio as I adjusted my fingers on it.

  “Takes all kinds, they say. Still, stuffy sorts are not as pleasant as those that likes a good time.” His attention was demanded by another passenger, whose ruddy cheeks revealed his mild intoxication.

  I continued to take small, burning sips of my black-tea-and-rum while I did my best to listen without seeming to be listening.

  “ ... too late for the coachman. I’ll have to walk the two miles ...”

  “How can I explain to my wife about the killing? She’s been asking questions. She’s a delicate creature ...”

  “ ... thirteen or fourteen hours to Edinburgh! Scandalous, I tell you. I shall demand a refund of my fare.”

  “ ... left in the baggage, so I cannot reach it ...”

  “ ... since my man of business advises against it.”

  “The most marvelous whores in London, give you my oath ...”

  “ ... prices on cotton from America ...”

  “The whole village came out for it, made an occasion of it ...”

  “Not that you could expect anything else from the Americans ...”

  “ ... in terms of settlements, of course, I could not advise anyone to agree to such terms, let alone a friendless widow ...”

  “ ... but I wouldn’t want my name in your paper ...”

  “ ... against regulations, they told me, to let a passenger into the baggage compartment while the train is in motion; they don’t want to ...”

  “Just what I was telling you. The fellow will be in custody by now ...” This was the military chap whose name I recalled as Jeffers.

  “ ... the lad’s at school, of course, and will go on to Brasenose in ...”

  “ ... hardly something for the Prince of Wales to deal with—more along Cecil’s line, I should have thought ...”

  “ ... and a sweet omelette to finish ...”

  “Nothing to do with me, old man, but if my daughter ...”

  “ ... another scheme for the Norfolk broads ...” I recognized Arthur Burley’s voice, very smooth and plausible, as if he were steadying a skittish horse.

  “If I left my bags at the station, the coachman could fetch them tomorrow ...”

  Nothing caught my attention as requiring my immediate concern. I took a bit larger sip of my drink, burning the roof of my mouth as I swallowed.

  “Is it to your liking?” Quest asked, trying to appear concerned for my good opinion.

  “It is very good,” I told him, more out of courtesy than any sense of the quality of the drink. “Thank you.”

  “Not the sort of thing often asked for; I shall remember your tipple, sir, that I will.” He thumped the bar with his knuckles to register the promise with the old Druid oak-gods. A summons from the other end of the bar from the fellow who had been talking about his son who would be going to Oxford demanded Quest’s attention, and he went to replenish the drink.

  I went back to listening, hoping to learn something of use, but not at all sanguine that I would, or that I would know it when I heard it.

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

  The telegrams have been sent and Sid Hastings is standing by at King’s Cross to receive any communication from MH, which he will deliver to me at once.

  I am still much perplexed by the stance taken by Superintendent Spencer regarding the investigation of his men. Nothing I have communicated to him has shaken his conviction that there can be no member of the police willing to compromise the rest of the force in this way. If he is being willfully blind, I can only marvel at his assumptions and his ability to view the world on terms that are so influenced by his own loyalty. He insists he is satisfied that no police have knowingly helped enemies of Britain or her people. This impasse is at a most inopportune time, for I cannot partake of his belief without signally failing in my duty—a duty that S Spencer sees as unforgivable. I do not wish to occupy myself with disputes involving this most well-meaning man, but I am committed to do the task MH has given me.

  Sutton is at the Diogenes Club, fulfilling MH’s habitual daily visit. He offered to have a word with Commander Winslowe, who is also a member, but upon reflection decided it might be risky to speak with someone who has worked with MH, no matter how superficially. Sutton believes we must identify the Admiralty spy aboard the train, not only to provide MH the identity of a possible ally in time of difficulty, but to inform him what passenger has been sent with instructions to observe him. I concur, but I would like to have more confirmation of this before I add it to the other information that must cause anxiety to MH when he learns the whole. With so many unexpected intrusions upon a fairly simple plan, I can see no good coming from adding unnecessary apprehension to the mix. I will wait until I have more solid information to impart.

  No further word from CI Somerford, which does not give me the comfort it ought. I may be too superstitious about these matters, but his absence at this time strikes an ominous note within me; and although I can give no rational account for it, I fear that the explanation for his silence may have sinister implications ...

  Hastings has just arrived. I’ll continue when I have seen what he has brought to me ...

  SIR CAMERON had started singing again; I could hear him as soon as I entered the first car, and I shuddered at the sound he made. I wondered if he intended to visit the dining car for the second seating, in which case the maître d’ should be warned of what his staff might have to accommodate. Passing compartment five, I realized I had not seen its interior. Not that I should have done, since Miss Gatspy occupied it; but with Prince Oscar in the compartment ahead of her, I could not help but be concerned.

  The valet appeared in the door of Sir Cameron’s compartment, his skimpy hair disordered, his face filled with repugnance and dismay. “I’ll try ... to arrange ...” he stammered to Sir Cameron, then hurried in my direction. “I won’t be more than five minutes, Sir Cameron.” He faltered as he neared me; I took sympathy upon him.

  “Not an easy employer, by the sound of it.” And as I knew from experience.

  “Just so, just so.” The valet glanced nervously back over his shoulder. “I should have been suspicious,” he added.

  “Should have been suspicious about what?” I inquired, doing my best to detain him without actually laying hold of him.

  “The salary was very good. Too good. I needed the money, you see, and my former employer had died six months since, so I accepted this post as an interim one,” he muttered before he broke away from me and hurried away toward the rear of the train. I watched him go with curiosity, hoping to make sense of what he had only now told me. He was not a long-time servant of Sir Cameron’s—and I doubted Sir Cameron had many of those—but what of his circumstances of employment might be significant, I could not tell.

  Leeds was not far ahead; another twenty minutes and we should be on the platform. I would have to sprint to the telegraph office, collect the messages that had arrived, send those my employer wanted sent, and return to the train without attracting the attention of whomever was tracking our progress. I trusted the platform would be well-lit, enabling me to see everyone who left the train for whatever reason. If it turned out to be dark, I should have a much more difficult time of it. That the same would be true of the assassin gave me scant comfort.

  Sir Cameron’s messy attempts at “Sweetheart, Remember” finally trailed away in a wailing cadenza. I thought the valet would be pleased to return to find his charge had fallen asleep once more. As I knocked on the door of compartment two, I thought
it was fortunate that Mycroft Holmes did not have to listen for such a small sound against all that bellowing.

  “Come in, Guthrie,” he called.

  “How was the ... concert?” I asked, as I stepped through the door, jerking my thumb in the direction of compartment one.

  “Don’t be cheeky, my boy. It doesn’t become you,” said Mycroft Holmes with a faint smile. The light from the lamps had softened his features so that he looked more like Sutton than was generally the case. “He only started about five minutes ago.” He had a small pile of papers in front of him. “I want to go over one or two things with you before you send these off. One, you will see, is to Yvgeny Tschersky. If there is a telegram from him, send this. If there is none, do not send it.” He indicated I should pull out the stool and sit. “This one to Tyers is obvious. This to the Admiralty must be handled very carefully. We do not want the telegraph operator puzzled by a journalist for Satchel’s sending information to such an august body as the Admiralty, so this salutation of ‘Dear Uncle’ is crucial, as is the wording. I know you are always conscientious, Guthrie, but in this instance you must be doubly so, for it is my intention to unveil a traitor if we can. The same strictures accompany the telegram to Superintendent Spencer. We have to make an effort to discover which service is the source of the duplicity we have seen in action.”

  “Hence the various telegrams,” I said, indicating the papers he had prepared.

  “Obviously. I have a notion that with the right prodding, I can unearth the culprit,” he said with that quiet confidence that marked all his actions.