The Flying Scotsman

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  I took the telegrams from my portfolio and handed them to him. “I came through the baggage compartment,” I said as if this were the most usual course available to me.

  “Did you? No doubt you will tell me why.” He was opening the first of the envelopes but he paused to hear my answer.

  “I wanted to see if the door was secured with a chain,” I said, steadying myself as the train began to lumber out of the station.

  “And is it?” he asked blandly.

  “I am not certain. I was distracted by the body I found,” I said, doing my best to match his tone.

  My employer abandoned his air of unconcern. “Whose body?”

  “I rather think it may be Whitfield’s,” I said apologetically. “I did not see his face, but so near the bar—and Whitfield missing ...” I made a gesture of resignation.

  “So they tell us,” he said. “What did you see of him?”

  “Not much.” I had suddenly to swallow very hard.

  “How did he die?” Holmes inquired, his telegram forgotten for the moment.

  “I could not tell,” I admitted as the train began to make its way out of the Carlisle yard, bound for the tracks leading north. “I saw only the hand protruding from beneath some baggage that appeared to have shifted.”

  “Then it might be an accident,” said Holmes, doubt making this possibility unlikely.

  “The man might be someone other than Whitfield,” I added, believing it as much as Holmes believed the death was an accident. “It happened not very long ago—the hand was cooling but far from cold.”

  “Cooling,” he said, musing. He went back to opening his telegram, which he read as his frown increased. “Dear me,” he said as he folded the first telegram and opened the second. “How very aggravating,” he said as he began reading the second; his expression darkened as he scrutinized the message. “The situation is more unsettled than I had hoped it would be. Without doubt I will owe Tyers an apology at the end of all this. He has had more to contend with than even I anticipated.”

  I could not resist the urge to ask what made him say so, but checked the impulse. “Is Tyers well?”

  “Apparently, and Sutton, too. But it would appear these incidents around Prince Oscar have forced the hands of the men within the police who have allied themselves with the Brotherhood. I had thought that they would not act unless I forced them into the open, but they have decided to try to conceal themselves instead. If they assume that hiding makes them inconspicuous, they will learn otherwise before they are much older. I hope this second telegram has no more unwelcome news. How very imprudent of the police to make this an issue of support, as they have done.” He looked at the third telegram, which I recognized as coming from the Admiralty. “More posturing,” he said as he read it. “Like cocks on a dungheap. This smacks of Cecil, not Scotland Yard. What folly possessed Spencer to throw in his lot with Winslowe, each endorsing the other, and in the most political way. I wish they did not feel the need to—” He broke off. “I shall deal with that later, when our charge is safe.”

  “Speaking of Herr Schere, how is he?” I thought of him in the next compartment, with my valise stored above him. It struck me as a strange setting for a Scandinavian Prince. I supposed some of my amusement came as a response to the fatigue and cumulative abhorrence the journey had wrought in me. I managed to stop myself smiling, but it was an effort.

  “He was embarked on a complicated game of patience when I last looked in on him, while you were fetching the telegrams. I must say that he has weathered this whole—ah, adventure—very well.” Holmes was opening the fourth telegram as the train swung onto a connecting rail.

  I grabbed the edge of the luggage rack to keep from losing my balance; the train was being shifted over another farther, and the lurch happened again. “Do you think Loki is aboard the train?” I had not wanted to put the question quite so blatantly, but it was out before I could find a less intrusive way to ask.

  “I cannot afford to think otherwise,” said Holmes remotely as he reviewed the second telegram from Tyers. “Nor can you. This assassin has shown himself—or themselves—to be clever and blood resourceful. If we are not very careful, he may well prevail.” He shook his head, “Oh, dear. Well, let us hope that this is nothing more than an unfortunate coincidence,” he muttered, then went on in an easier tone, “Loki may not be here, of course; but if we assume he is not, we will make the kind of mistakes that would leave Herr Schere exposed to the assassin’s strike. I need not tell you how that would redound.” He read the telegram again, taking the time to examine the phrases for the full depth of their meaning. “Somerford has still not been heard from. And the name is troubling. No wonder Tyers is alarmed.” He refolded the telegram. “Who knows what the police may have learned from one another? At least Sir Cameron has been inactive. I do not envy his valet, and well you know the reason why.”

  “I would rather forget that episode in my working with you, sir,” I said. “The Brotherhood and Sir Cameron provided a most... . edifying start to my employment with you. Baptism by ordeal, or so it seemed.”

  “Still rankles, does it?” He gave a quick, amused look in my direction. “Not that I blame you; it was trial by ordeal, I fear,” Mycroft Holmes agreed. “Well, back to compartment four. I shall remain at my post here.”

  But I was not quite ready to be dismissed. “What of the body? Shouldn’t we tell someone?”

  Mycroft Holmes shook his head. “You are right, of course.” He tapped his fingers on the telegrams. “I shall say I need something from my baggage at our next halt. That is Melrose, I believe. At that hour my request will not be remarkable and the staff should be willing to accommodate it.” He fingered his watch-fob. “Tell me: if a porter enters the compartment to look at the Edinburgh baggage, is he likely to discover the body?”

  “If he notices the over-set trunk, he will; otherwise, I think not. The compartment is quite dark and the body was intended to be hidden; I happened upon it by accident because of the trunk. That is how I came to notice the arm.” I did not like the notion of leaving the dead man unattended for so long, so I said, “Shouldn’t we do something sooner?”

  “What could we do that would not make it plain that one of us had seen the body? Then we would have to explain our delay in reporting, which would complicate the delay we would surely have to contend with. You might have to remain for questioning, for, given the hour, the police are probably unprepared to conduct a formal inquiry so late at night. Not only would that deprive me of your excellent talents, it would throw our mission into the spotlight once again, which is something to be deplored, wouldn’t you agree?” He saw me nod and understood my reluctance. “Guthrie, the man is dead. There is nothing more you can do for him, much as you would like to. If you want to help find justice for him, well and good, but understand that you are putting Herr Schere and all that his efforts entail at risk.”

  I sighed. “Yes, I know,” I said. “You have not said anything I haven’t thought of myself. But I do not like the necessity—”

  “No, no more do I,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Do not fret. The train is moving; and if the murderer is aboard, whether it is Loki or some other, the killer is trapped here as much as we are.” He nodded to me. “I will let you know when I go to make my request.” He held up the last telegram. “One to go. Let me tend to it and then I will deal with the dead man.”

  “Thank you,” I said, gathered up my portfolio and left him in compartment two while I went along to number four. As I closed the door, I wondered if I ought to tap on the wall of compartment five, just to let Miss Gatspy know that I was on duty. Much as I wanted to reassure her, I hesitated, and finally sat on the daybed, my portfolio leaning against the wall. I did not know what more I should do, and so I once again did my best to nap, though I was fully aware that my attempts were futile. I could not allow myself to sleep, not u
ntil our journey was finished; and although fatigue weighed on me as heavily as chains, I did not mind them, for I knew my vigilance was required. Should any harm befall Prince Oscar, I would deserve the disgrace that would fall upon me. With this sobering reflection to engage my thoughts, it was hardly surprising that I could not drift off.

  As we slowed for Melrose some while later, I heard Mycroft Holmes leave his compartment and go along the passage toward the second-class car, where I recalled a conductor was on duty. I wished I might hear how Holmes would persuade that worthy to venture into the baggage compartment for the purpose of retrieving a nonexistent bag. Knowing how capably he dealt with diplomats, I knew the conductor would be brought to compliance without too much effort. I did not hear him return nor see him pass this compartment, which I found a trifle odd, but not actually occasion for apprehension. I resolved to wait and watch what might transpire, for the body would likely cause more questions to be asked, if not tonight, then tomorrow. I did not look forward to another round of questions by the police which I supposed must follow once the body was found; nor did I think that those passengers who had been willing to provide information to Inspector Carew would be as cooperative now: One murder was exciting, bur two became frightening. The only consolation I had was that there would be far fewer passengers to question, for this had clearly happened after Leeds; not only were there fewer passengers aboard, but many of them had not ventured to the lounge car.

  Drawing to a stop at the nearly deserted platform at Melrose, which atypically was to the left of the train, not the right, there seemed to be nothing more sinister about the place than a country train station with four yellow gas lamps burning in the misty night. I opened one of the corridor shades of my compartment enough to allow me to observe what transpired; I did not think I could be seen through two panes of glass—not with the brighter light being outside the car. I noticed two families alighting from the second-class car; sleeping children and drooping adults stopped to wait for their baggage to be brought to them by the single porter still working on the platform. A moment later the baggage compartment door was opened and the porter went inside.

  After what seemed an hour or so, but had to have been less than five minutes, the porter emerged, exclaiming in the accents of Belfast that the police must be summoned and a doctor. I saw him cross himself; although I could not see clearly enough to be certain, I supposed he must be pale with shock. Consternation broke out among those few passengers on the platform; I watched, wishing I could hear what was being said. The porter hastened into the station, and shortly thereafter the night Stationmaster emerged, looking like an affronted turkey-cock. He came bustling up to the baggage compartment, a lantern in hand, only to emerge almost at once, deflated and dithering.

  The Irish porter came aboard the train to find some help from among the staff; a waiter and a conductor answered the summons, stepping onto the platform with the air of men being led to execution. It took them a short while to ready themselves, during which time the passengers waiting to collect their belongings became restive, a development that finally spurred the porter to encourage the others to go with him. I noticed the passengers began to gather near the baggage compartment door, fascinated and repulsed by what they were watching.

  In the midst of this anxious confusion, I saw Mycroft Holmes step onto the platform from what must have been the dining car. I was taken aback to think he would make himself so visible, and at such a time, but I had learned in the last nine years to trust him and all that he did. I saw him speak to the night Stationmaster and receive a kind of abstract nod from that gentleman.

  The porter and waiter emerged from the baggage-compartment, supporting the still figure at whose side dangled a clearly broken, discolored arm. As they stepped into the light of the nearest gas lamp, I saw his face, and nearly gasped aloud—for the dead man was not Whitfield, but Quest.

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

  Word has come from King’s Cross that the Flying Scotsman has been delayed once again, this time in what was supposed to be a ten-minute halt at Melrose. The train is now scheduled to arrive in Edinburgh as late as two-thirty, making it the slowest run the train has had on the new route that was not brought about by damage to the tracks. The Directors will not be pleased, but the gratitude of the government, private though it may be, will offset the most stringent complaints, or so I suppose it must. I have asked Sid Hastings to remain at King’s Cross until we have word from Edinburgh, which he has consented to do.

  Now that Sutton has returned to the flat following his surveillance of the persons implicated by name, he has decided to remain here tonight, waiting to hear that MH and G have arrived safely at Edinburgh, and that HHPO is no longer in immediate danger. I can only express my astonishment at Sutton’s loyalty, for he has been as devoted to MH and his work as any man in the Admiralty—perhaps more so in that he is not looking to forward his diplomatic career.

  CI Somerford has still not reported to his superiors, and little as any of them wish to suggest it, there is concern about his whereabouts. If Superintendent Spencer would be willing to answer a few questions, it might be a simple matter to set all this to rights, but he has refused to respond to any inquiries, and Commander Winslowe has taken to defending his decision. I am going to prepare a telegram to be sent to Edinburgh before one in the morning so that it will be in MH’s hands when he arrives. If we act quickly, we may yet avert a great scandal ...

  I STARED AT the body on the platform, trying to come to terms with what I saw. Quest, not Whitfield, was dead. Therefore Quest was not either of the Lokis. This put Whitfield’s disappearance in a new and very sinister light, for it suggested some fell purpose in his absence beyond what we had assumed. From my place in Prince Oscar’s compartment, I watched as Mycroft Holmes entered into a discussion with the night Stationmaster, the conductor, and the Irish porter. They stood somewhat apart from the passengers, and although I could watch them, I could not hear them. This aggravation increased when a young constable arrived and released the passengers. In a short while, Mycroft Holmes arrived at compartment four and tapped. I let him in at once.

  “I suppose you saw?” he asked as he came in.

  “Yes. Quest, poor chap, is dead. And Whitfield is still unaccounted for.” Saying it aloud left me with the uneasy feeling that the trouble we were facing had once again changed its nature and would demand a new approach.

  “The constable is of the opinion that Quest was in the baggage-compartment when the load shifted, and he became fatally pinned,” said Holmes without any inflection to color his remark.

  I knew what he expected me to ask. “And you? What do you think?”

  “Why, I think the same thing you do, dear boy; I think Whitfield murdered him and is still on this train, waiting for an opportunity to kill Herr Schere.” His grey eyes were as candid as a baby’s, and he waited for me to speak.

  I coughed in an attempt to conceal my surprise. “Yes, that is foremost in my thoughts,” I agreed, wondering as I did what I should prepare to do. “But it is no easy thing to cast Whitfield in the role of a murderer.”

  “Or an assassin?” The suggestion was made lightly enough but I could see an angle to Mycroft Holmes’ square jaw that reminded me of his force of character. On this point he would not readily be challenged.

  “You mean Loki?” I asked, startled that the notion, once spoken, was more intriguing than absurd; my own thoughts had tended in just such a direction, and Holmes’ observation only served to confirm what I had hoped was a misapprehension.

  “Why not?” Holmes said. “What a good job for one of the two to have—a few months running the length of England to get to know the countryside and to make the contacts that might be needed—”

  “But he said he had been tending bar for some time—I forget how long,” I interjected.

  “And no doubt he has. Barkeeps find
work throughout the world and may readily move their employment from place to place. As occupations go, this is a very good one for Loki, at least for one of them. Miss Gatspy said the men were convincing in their fallacious identities. Should Whitfield prove to be one of them, I must agree that he has a most persuasive way about him.” Mycroft Holmes cocked his head in the direction of the platform. “They will find death to be accidental, or misadventure at the worst, and we will be on our way again at last. But I will lay you five pounds to a farthing that Quest died of a broken neck and was dead before that trunk broke his arm.”

  “Poor blighter,” I said, feeling a bit queasy at my own earlier suspicion that Quest might be the assassin. I still wondered if we had Loki to rights in the person of Whitfield. “What if we are wrong, and Whitfield is as much a victim as Quest? The body could be lying on the tracks or thrown into the verge.”

  “Yes, true enough. And if we had time enough to examine all the persons on this train with leisure, we could assuage our dubiety without exposing anyone to unjust suspicion. However we will be on our way in half an hour or so, and we will arrive in Edinburgh some time after midnight, so time is a luxury we do not have. In these circumstances, I must choose the most likely person, which is Whitfield. I may be defaming a blameless man with my assumption; I am cognizant of it. But who would you prefer to cast in the role? The maître d’? We have ruled out Sir Cameron’s valet, haven’t we?” Holmes asked. “Miss Gatspy, perhaps?”

  I stood a bit straighter. “You will have your joke, sir,” I said.

  “She is more than capable of the act if she is convinced of the rightness of her purpose,” Mycroft Holmes went on, tweaking me.

  “The very reason we have nothing to fear from her. Prince Karl Gustav is the one who is being supported by the Brotherhood, and our friend is therefore under the watchful eye of the Golden Lodge.” I did not like dignifying his remarks with any comment, but I could not allow this slight on such a brave woman to go undisputed. “You would not speak this way about her if you had any actual reservations as to her purpose or her character.”