The Flying Scotsman

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  I sighed. “Of course.”

  “Cheer up. Think of this as earning your dinner,” Holmes suggested with a wink.

  I handed him my portfolio. “You’d better keep hold of this,” I said, and went out of the compartment. I noticed the constable leaving Miss Gatspy’s compartment and so I waited, as if I was about to make my way to the lav or into the next car. As I began to walk, the constable raised his billy to me in a kind of salute or casual threat before he left the car. What on earth had he learned from Miss Gatspy that he should respond to me in this wise? I thrust my apprehensions from my thoughts and put the whole of my concentration to finding any signs that someone had been forced off the train.

  On the platform I saw nothing indicative of a struggle—not scrapes nor scratches, nor patches of skin, nor blood, and no odor of strong drink. I continued on through the second-class car, where the constable was just beginning his search. At the end of that car I again inspected the platform with the same result as before. The dining car was in confusion as the waiters tried to ready it for the next seating while a pair of constables looked under the tables and through the kitchen in an effort to discover where Whitfield might be.

  I reached the lounge and saw that the bar had been closed down while the police were at their tasks; Quest stood behind the bar, idly smoking a churchwarden’s pipe and gazing at some distant point known only to his memories. I nodded, and continued on a bit farther to the platform leading to the second-class car behind the lounge-and-baggage car. If I were to discover anything of significance, it would be here. Resolved to take greater care inspecting this site, I dropped down onto my knee, making the most of the light-spill from the platform.

  On impulse I got down from the platform to look at the ties between the tracks, thinking that something might have fallen from Whitfield’s pocket if he had been thrown from the train. I peered into the dark, wishing I had a bull’s-eye lantern. I used my fingers, discovering a bent ha’penny and a small link of tarnished silver that had once been part of a heavy chain, but nothing that persuaded me that Whitfield had been harmed here. I moved back and peered under the shadow of the platform, trying to see if anything had been hidden there. The odor of oil and coal was so strong that I had to clench my jaw to keep from coughing, stopping the spasms in my chest, and making a dull sort of hacking sound.

  Which may have been why I did not hear my assailant come up behind me until an instant before his truncheon struck me on the back of my head and I toppled into unconsciousness; as my eyes closed I had an impression of a bloody hand reaching out of the platform shadow, but it may have been nothing more than a response to the blow that knocked me out.

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

  Finally word from Leeds. I was beginning to fear for MH’s safety, but his report indicates that all is well at least superficially. HHPO is in no apparent danger; and aside from the demands of local police, the train has not been delayed beyond another half hour, which still means it will arrive in Edinburgh much later than was prepared for. As soon as I am finished with this entry I have half a dozen errands to run and a sheaf of instructions to hand to Hastings. It appears that Sutton’s notion about two assassins is not as far-fetched as I thought it had to be, and if certain telegrams confirm MH’s fears, there will be more work for all of us to do if HHPO is to arrive safely in his own land once again.

  I have in the last ten minutes been handed a report brought by a fellow with a Russian accent, with a note—unsigned, of course—saying that the contents in the sealed envelope are private and must be destroyed as soon as they have been read. The Russians are the most leery folk on earth, always certain of spies and plots. Still, with their history, who can blame them?

  Sutton is just back from the Diogenes Club and has sworn to disguise himself afresh and help me in my errands, and I am inclined to accept his help. He may be an actor, but his probity, at least in regard to his work for MH, is beyond question. He has a dozen personae he may adopt quickly and turn to advantage. A young man in the uniform of a foreign navy bringing a dispatch to the Admiralty would attract less notice than I would at this point, if anyone is monitoring the actions of Commander Winslowe. That will allow me to carry the messages MH has asked me to prepare to CI Somerford and Superintendent Spencer. Whatever has transpired in the last hour or so aboard the train has prompted MH to reassess his thinking in regard to this mission.

  A constable came here not ten minutes since with news for MH that he will not like. Inquiries regarding the assassination attempt in front of St. Paul’s have been suspended on order from the PM, who has declared that this investigation is causing friction between Britain and the great countries of Scandinavia. He has ordered Scotland Yard to hand all material they have gathered to his Secret Service men, so that they may handle the matter less publicly. MH will have something to say about that when he learns of it. I must include a report of this development for my next telegram which should reach him at Carlisle.

  I have much to do before I send that report and less than ninety minutes in which to do it all. Sutton is in the kitchen smearing his face with soot so he may leave by the back stairs as a chimney-sweep. His enthusiasm for verisimilitude is laudable, of course, but in this instance I am inclined to temper my praise. I must attend to getting him on his way before the flat is dusted in charcoal.

  I CAME TO myself as steam hissed and a last flurry of activity indicated the train was about to depart. Dazed, I sat up holding my head with my hands. I did not realize until that moment I had scraped the flesh of my palms as I fell. I had been pulled a foot or so away from the tracks and perhaps half a car length toward the front of the train, so that I would be in the shadow of the platform—or so I guessed as I attempted to put together the fragmented recollections I had of the attack I had sustained.

  Slowly I stretched out my arm and flexed my hand, reassured that I could do so much without succumbing again. I blinked several times and moved experimentally; I knew I had to board the train or be left here alone.

  The engine bellowed again and the train began to inch forward. In my befogged state I tried to compel myself to move, to make some effort to return to the train, but it took four or five seconds before I could will myself to try to stand. By then the train was moving at the same pace as a brisk walk and in a moment or so it would pick up such speed as I would not be able to catch it. More from desperation than thought, I reached out to the brace beside the baggage door. I did not expect to catch it, and therefore almost wrenched my shoulder when I managed to grab and hold the long metal bar. I swung heavily against the train, landing just where my old wound on my hip was: the pain went through me like a bolt of lightning, and only my grim determination kept me from releasing my hold on the train. Much as my hip ached, I knew it was nothing compared to the terrible injuries I would suffer if I let go and fell, for I risked being crushed by the metal wheels.

  I was half-running now to keep up with the train, and to any observer I must have appeared comical, a man dangling in ungainly fashion off the side of the Flying Scotsman: for me, it was grim business, my head ringing and dizzy, my arm aching, and the possibility of serious injury or death waiting for me at any mischance. We crossed a broad street, and I feared for discovery or perhaps an assault from the denizens of the town who preyed on the unwary. From my position, I would be unable to fight off any toughs who might decide to bedevil me. I had to get aboard the train now or drop off before the speed increased to a fatal rate. I knew I would have one chance and one chance only.

  With a single, tremendous effort, I hauled myself up the bar and onto the narrow lip where the sliding door left six inches of purchase. I took hold of the door handle and clung to it, promising myself I would pull the door open slowly and get safely inside the car as soon as we were out of Leeds.

  The scenery fit my darker mood. The comfortable rolling hills of the southeast had given way t
o stonier and broken lands. Large patches of ground were still enclosed, showing spots of bright green among the gray-green of prickly weeds and the first thistle. The stone here was a creamier color, less grey than that around London and a lot more prevalent in the fields. The track itself was lined with three- or four-year- old plantings of a silver-leafed tree and another shorter tree whose foliage was so dark as to appear almost black as the lights of the train struck them.

  I was frightened and sore and famished. After ten minutes I was weary as well. My hands, mauled and cold, fixed on the metal bar like claws. My hip felt as if I were being mangled by a tiger from within my flesh. I cursed when the first spitting rain promised to chill me to the marrow. The sound of the train rolling over the rails was mesmerizing, and I had to force myself not to be lulled by its seductive repetition. I deliberately pressed my lacerated palm against the wood of the door, letting the splinters bite enough to shake off any lassitude the clicking and rocking might impart.

  After working on the door for some time—I would hazard no more than five minutes, although it seemed nearer an hour—I realized that it was probably locked from the inside, which meant I would have to get back on the platform or hang onto the bar from Leeds to Skipton, where we would have to stop for water, or so I recalled. The resistance I encountered when I tested the door suggested a chain on the inside, which puzzled me, for if the lock was in place, what need was there for a chain? It made me more aware than ever of how desperate my situation was. Now that I was in this position, I did not know for certain how far it was to Skipton and if it was truly a water station; the schedule of the train was so compromised, I dared not assume that all the halts would be fixed. Besides Skipton was twenty-five miles ahead, the rain was increasing and I would be soaked through in less than five minutes. I knew there was a kind of service ladder on the side of the train that allowed the maintenance men to service the roof of the car; it should be next to the rod I was holding onto. But I did not relish climbing to the roof of this moving train car in the rain and the night.

  I was so caught up in trying to sort out how to proceed that I did not notice the stone bridge just ahead until it scraped along my back and shoulders, shredding my coat and leaving me a vaster collection of bruises than I had accumulated thus far. Now my shoulders vied with my hip for monumental pain. I made myself think of what was ahead. This part of the North Eastern line was littered with such bridges, narrow and tall-sided. I now had no choice, for the next bridge might easily batter me to pieces or knock me from my perch to the rails where I would be cut to ribbons in seconds. I swallowed hard against the image formed in my mind at this. No, I told myself over the agony of my shoulders and hands, it was the roof or a coffin. I reached out and began to feel for the shallow rungs, hoping all the while that I could reach the roof before we crossed another bridge.

  At last I found a rung and grabbed hold of it as if it were a life-ring in a stormy sea. This left me sprawled across the side of the car like some preposterous insect flattened on the headlight of the engine. I had to move, but I found it nearly impossible to summon up the courage to swing away from the door and pull myself to the ladder. My shoulders and my hip made such a notion preposterous, for the effort would be a strain even if I had no injuries. With my body hurting with every movement, the very idea of climbing over the car made my gorge rise. I had to chide myself with all the remembered rebukes of the schoolyard before I could gather determination enough to make the attempt, for I knew it would have to be successful or I was lost.

  I pushed out and tugged myself at the same time, scrabbling with feet for purchase on the lower rungs, and reaching for a place with the other beside my one fixed hand. Occasionally I find my left-handedness an unexpected blessing, and so it proved in this instance, for my left hand was the one already holding the rung, and as I flailed about with my right, my left held true, and at the end of interminable seconds, I caught the rung above my left hand, and I knew I would not fall, no matter how wind and rain buffeted me. My hip flared, sending agony up my body like a flame. With grim determination, I began to climb to the roof, reaching it less than two minutes before the train swept over another narrow stone bridge. I clung to the roof and breathed deeply for a short while.

  Not wanting to have to account for myself to anyone in the lounge, I made my way forward on the car, crawling along the roof, being battered by wind and drenched by rain while I crawled—I am not too proud to admit it—along toward the other access ladder. I was shaking from effort and cold by the time I reached my goal. Moving with exaggerated care, I finally climbed down the outer ladder to the platform between the dining car and the lounge. My hands were shaking, and it was not entirely from cold, as I opened the door to the dining car.

  The maître d’ saw me and instead of admonishing me to wait for five minutes before being seated, he rushed to my side. “Good Lord, sir. What happened?” From the expression on his face, I knew I looked as bludgeoned as I felt.

  “It’s a long story,” I said, and was shocked at how thin my voice was. I cleared my throat and went on. “I shan’t bore you with it now. Suffice it to say that I shall have a word or two for your Directors when this journey is over.” I trusted my indignation covered my relief. For several heartbeats my bones felt like cold aspic.

  “Just so, sir,” said the maître d’, all but saluting. Once again I found myself wondering how long he had been at sea before he took to the rails.

  “I must be a fright,” I said, trying to pull myself together. I busied myself with getting out of the ruin of my coat; the condition of it shocked me afresh. I had not realized how comprehensive the destruction was. I dropped the remnants to the floor, unwilling to touch them any longer. “Do you perhaps have a jacket you could loan me until I can return to my compartment and change my clothes? For I fear these are quite ruined.”

  “Indeed, sir,” said the maître d’. “Shall I put that in a sack for you?”

  My first impulse was to tell him to throw it out, but I knew Mycroft Holmes would probably want to inspect the garment, in case any useful clues had survived the onslaught. “Yes, if you would,” I said, and put my hand to my temple as a wave of nausea swept through me.

  The maître d’ observed this impassively. “How fortunate you may rely on the nurse in your car to tend to the worst of your hurts.”

  I realized this was more an order than a suggestion, but just for a moment I could not imagine whom he meant. Then I recalled Miss Gatspy’s current ruse. “Just so,” I said, and waited while the maître d’ secured a white jacket for me. “Thank you. I shall mention this in my report.”

  “Very good, sir; I shall have your coat ready in a sack when you come to dine,” said the maître d’, and turned to shoo his waiters back to their tasks as I staggered along toward the next car while I tugged on the white jacket.

  I made my way through the second-class car without incident, for which I was grateful. My condition was frightful and I was limping heavily. Apparently no one noticed or was inclined to inquire as to the cause. As I entered the first-class car I nearly collided with Sir Cameron’s valet, who was just emerging from the lav, a basin of water balanced between his hands. I swore, and he yelped, and we both stopped stock-still.

  “Good God, sir,” said the valet.

  “Yes, very likely,” I said, trying to make light of what I was by now fairly certain must be a horrific sight.

  “Are you ... all right?” He leaned against the wall to keep from spilling any of the water. “I would like to help, but Sir Cameron—” His shrug was an apology, and one I accepted readily.

  “Of course.” I moved enough to allow him to get past me, then followed him as far as compartment three, which I opened and slipped into with the relief of reaching a haven. I had a brief, wholly irrational urge to weep, but I set my teeth and began to undress, putting the white jacket where I could easily reach it when I left.
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  I was down to my singlet when there came a drubbing on the door, and I jumped at the sound. “Yes?”

  “Guthrie!” Mycroft Holmes ordered sharply. “Let me in.”

  By the tone of his voice he would willingly have broken the door down, so I put my fresh shirt aside and went to obey.

  He stood staring for perhaps five seconds before he came in and shut the door. His deep-set eyes were studious. “Dear me; Miss Gatspy was right,” he said as he contemplated. “Not Whitfield, I should guess.” He held my portfolio in his large, long hands, and his grip tightened on it as he surveyed the sum of my injuries—at least those he could see. “I heard you blundering along the hall and the slam of your door, but never supposed you had entered into a contest with a battering ram.”

  “A stone bridge,” I told him. “The remains of the coat are in the dining car. I shall hand it to you when we go to dine.” I removed my singlet, noting it too had been torn; there was some blood on it but not enough to make me worry. I took down my valise and pulled out clean clothes as I summed up what had happened to me since we left Leeds. Mycroft Holmes listened without interrupting until I fell silent.

  “Have you any thought of who might have struck you?” He might have been asking about the latest successful novel or a musical revue.

  “No. I wasn’t expecting anything of the sort, not there next to the platform with constables about,” I said, feeling sheepish. “That was a mistake, of course,” I went on before he could point that out to me. “The most successful attacks are carried out when the attention is diverted or when confusion is high. I forgot that.”

  “Well, it is easily forgotten,” said Mycroft Holmes, a frown creasing his long forehead. “I am puzzled that the baggage compartment door should be so tightly secured, however. The doors are most usually locked, of course, but from what you describe—I must surmise that you are correct—a chain was used on the inside. Because of picking up the mail and dropping it off, the baggage compartment door is on a single lock, not a double one, certainly not a chain.” He turned away as I continued to dress and went on. “I do not like so much uncertainty. But if I speak up, I could bring our mission into more risk than it already has, which may prove intolerable.”