“Yes, yes,” Mycroft Holmes replied placatingly. “No need to fly into the ropes, Guthrie. I admit I am all admiration for your Miss Gatspy—and since you defend her so eloquently, you will allow me to call her yours in this instance.” He reached to open the door. “I am going back to the platform for a moment, and then I am returning to my compartment. The body is not likely to be kept here much longer, and once it is gone, the Stationmaster will be allowed to release the train. Continue as you have been, but remain more aware than usual. Loki, no matter whose identity he has taken, must be desperate to complete his work. You will have to maintain fired senses, for this man strikes quickly, relying on confusion, as we have seen.” He took a deep breath. “I confess I will be glad to see this journey end.”
“And I,” I told him.
“Take no chances, my boy. I cannot easily replace you, you know.” His smile came and went quickly enough, and then he, too, departed.
I took up my place by the window in my door, looking through the gap in the shade to watch the events on the platform unfold, all the while asking myself if I should have armed myself; the knife in my valise suddenly seemed a most inadequate weapon and hopelessly hard to reach. I wished then I had some free-standing chair to lodge against the door so that it could not be slid open.
A fussy man in a driving coat with a physician’s bag arrived on the platform and was hurried over to Quest, ignoring those around him. Mycroft Holmes approached the man only to be rebuffed as the physician set about his work. He seemed offended by the body, for his examination was cursory and his manner disapproving, as if he felt that this presumed misadventure was an unseemly way to die, and his role in it resentful. Finally he issued some orders and the body was carried away, I supposed to a wagon waiting for that purpose. A discussion ensued among the remaining men on the platform. I heard more than saw Mycroft Holmes come back aboard the train as the talking came to an end. Then, as if in a ballet or magical entertainment, the conductor, the porters, the night Stationmaster, and the constables returned from confusion to familiar patterns. The bell sounded its warning, the engine hissed, and the Flying Scotsman pulled out of Melrose Station, bound at last for Edinburgh.
I returned to the day-bed and lay down once more, still determined not to sleep and sore enough to be reasonably certain I would not. I did, however, in a while, begin to doze, exhaustion making me light-headed. While I did not entirely lose track of time, it became more malleable, and I paid less attention to our progress and more to the fancies that my mind conjured for me. When I stirred myself to greater wakefulness, I began to long for this journey to end and to hope that we would arrive without further mishap. In this drifting state of mind, I dismissed a whisper in the corridor, for I heard no footsteps, and I thought the train might be passing through woods, where the branches of trees might brush the cars as they passed. The gently waving branches were wonderfully seductive and I let myself be fascinated by them, imagined images that bordered on dreaming.
In the next instant my heart was in my throat and I was full awake as a weight crushed down upon me.
“Guthrie. Don’t move,” Miss Gatspy breathed as she wriggled atop me. I had never realized how strong she was—not that I thought her a weakling, for our previous experiences together had demonstrated she was not—for I had never had to wrestle with her. “Lie still,” she whispered, her lips just below my ear.
“What on earth is—” I began, very quietly, only to have her clap her hand over my mouth. I could not keep from thinking of the one time I had not maintained my composure with her, and the night we had passed together. I was shocked to realize that I was suddenly eager for another such opportunity.
“Hush.” The order was so soft that I hardly heard it. She held her head up as much as our position would allow, which pressed her torso more firmly against mine, an action that gave rise to sensations that were utterly inappropriate to our situation. I had to resist the urge to embrace her, to renew my delicious knowledge of the curve of her body ... I stopped myself from such unworthy ruminations. If she had any awareness of my response, she was too much a lady to mention it as she continued on the qui vive.
I did my best to listen as well, although my pulse was loud in my ears. In a minute or so, I could discern the sound of things being shifted about in compartment five—Miss Gatspy’s compartment. The sound was stealthy and so measured that it was most certainly deliberate. I felt a rush of anger that after everything that had happened on this long train ride Miss Gatspy should be subjected to such an invasion of her privacy. Good God, I told myself, she is not some criminal, to be treated without respect; even if the man—for it must be a man—ransacking her things were a criminal himself, he should have confined his searches to Mycroft Holmes and me, never mind that Miss Gatspy was an agent of the Golden Lodge. It galled me that I could do nothing to stop this shameful intrusion.
All these impressions were over-ridden by my renewed and overwhelming awareness that under the bombazine or whatever it is that females make their clothes of, was Miss Gatspy—Miss Gatspy as the living, breathing, captivating creature she had been since we first encountered one another in that train compartment in France, the Miss Gatspy who had spent one terribly wrong, terribly wonderful night with me, the night I had not been able to put out of my mind, strive as I might. I could comprehend now why Mycroft Holmes called her my Miss Gatspy, for in this one blissful moment, she was again my Miss Gatspy. She was my Penelope. I realized I had been holding her more tightly than was necessary; I willed myself to release her, but for once my body would not obey. I broke the silence in a hushed apology which Miss Gatspy—Penelope—ended by lying full atop me and pressing her lips to mine. I had never experienced the like before but once: all the sensations I had thought were romantic absurdities I now knew were a pale shadow of the reality they sought to describe, and what I had thought was chagrin on her part had been something more intimate. Not in my long engagement to my former fiancée, Miss Elizabeth Roedale of Twyford, had I experienced anything so all-encompassing as this encounter evoked in me. How grateful I was to Miss Roedale for terminating our engagement, for I realized that I would never have felt for her the smallest degree of the passion that filled me now, revived and intensified by the passing of time. I was ruler of the world with Penelope Gatspy in my arms, and nothing would ever be quite the same again, for I knew beyond question that I had not disgusted her during that splendid night, nor would I now. Had the train exploded at that moment, I would not have cared.
How long we remained embraced and kissing, I had no notion, but we were brought back to a sense of ourselves by the sound of Sir Cameron cursing his valet as he made his uncertain way to the lav.
I was immediately aware of how compromised we were, and I started to insist she move when she kissed me a second time. This time I was less shocked and more inspired, as I showed by my enthusiasm. Emboldened by her response, I let my hands wander over her shoulders and back while Sir Cameron continued to careen toward the lav, his unfortunate valet in tow. I would not have been less concerned had he been in the Vale of Kashmir but for my realization that there was someone searching Miss Gatspy’s compartment; and with Sir Cameron blundering about, an encounter was not impossible and potentially disastrous.
As Miss Gatspy moved her head enough that our lips were no longer touching, she whispered, “Finally, I was beginning to think you would never do anything again but long.” Her hand, an inch from my face, warned me to be quiet and listen.
“ ... a whoreson blaggard like you. I don’t need you nursemaiding me.” His speech was slurred, but not enough to make his insults unintelligible, more was the pity for the valet.
There was a sharp sound from the other side of the wall, from compartment five; I was fairly certain the miscreant had readied his pistol.
“—if you’ll allow Sir Cameron,” the valet was saying in a tone that cringed.
“I’ll see you in Hell, laddie, that I will,” Sir Cameron declared with increasing choler.
It was impossible to hear any of the stealthy sounds in the next compartment with Sir Cameron braying in the corridor, and it was hard to concentrate with Miss Gatspy so very near and every one of my nerves attuned to her presence. Still I strove to do what I had sworn to do—act for Mycroft Holmes to protect Prince Oscar. With more difficulty than I would have thought possible, I extricated myself from Miss Gatspy, for I did not want to offend her with any untoward touch or slight her through any inadvertent gesture. At last we moved apart and I began to get to my feet. My hands were steady, which comforted me, for I felt amazingly shaken. I crept to the wall separating compartments four and five and laid my ear against it. Behind me I could hear Miss Gatspy get off the day-bed and begin to set her clothes to order. I heard her skirts rustle more than I heard the culprit in the next compartment.
“We’ll be in Edinburgh in a few minutes, Sir Cameron,” the valet went on in his attempt to placate the outraged knight. “You’ll want to make haste.”
“I’ll make what I damned well please!” Sir Cameron roared.
It might have been a signal, for the loud report of a pistol punctuated Sir Cameron’s outburst, which now became a bellow of rage. I stumbled toward the door, only to find Miss Gatspy a step ahead of me. As she slid the door open, she looked back at me. I noticed she carried something in her hand—I assumed she had brought her pistol in her purse and was planning to use it.
“Well, one of us had to do something, Guthrie,” she said before she shoved past Sir Cameron’s valet and toward the door to her compartment.
“Penelope!” I cried, just at that instant more apprehensive on her behalf than anyone else on the train. Then I stopped as I saw Sir Cameron sprawled in the narrow confines of the corridor, half-leaning against the wall, cursing steadily and loudly, his hand wrapped around his shoulder which was already wet with blood. I hesitated for a heartbeat only—and I curse myself for doing so—then plunged after Miss Gatspy, who had placed herself in front of the shattered door to compartment five. I saw Sir Cameron’s valet fumble in an attempt to aid his employer, and I had to be agile to avoid either man.
A figure hurtled our of compartment five striking Miss Gatspy a sharp blow on the side of her head, and then firing again in the direction of Sir Cameron. The shot went wild, but in the confusion the man bolted for the lav, got inside and slammed the door.
“We have him!” shouted the valet, abandoning the infuriated Sir Cameron to launch himself at the lav door.
I was about to echo his sentiments when I recalled that broken window and wondered if we had been too quick to assume the criminal was trapped. My worst fears were realized at the sound of splintering glass, and another shot.
“Good Lord, what is he doing?” Miss Gatspy murmured, her hand to her head, her marvelous eyes glazed. Their wavering glance struck me as no bullet could.
I dropped to my knees beside her, pulling her against me. I did not care that the valet stared at me. “Promise me you are not hurt, Miss Gatspy.”
“I ... will be all right. But he is getting away, Paterson; stop him.” She had rallied enough to upbraid me, and I was happy to hear it.
“He can only reach the roof of the train from the window,” I said. “And he will not be able to go far from there,” I soothed her, recalling my own time on the roof of the train.
“If he reaches the engineers, we have trouble,” said Sir Cameron’s valet, with more purpose than I had seen him display yet.
Mycroft Holmes appeared in the corridor, a pistol in his hand. “Is there anything I can do, Guthrie?” He appeared utterly urbane, bur I could discern a note of apprehension in his deep voice.
“Sir Cameron has been shot,” said his valet coolly. “I don’t think it is serious, but he will need attention.” He managed to kick the lav door open. “Leftenant-Commander Thomas Ames, at your service, Mister Holmes,” he added with a salute. “I’ll be the escort to take your person to his ship.”
“I’ll need more than a word in the middle of trouble, Ames,” said Holmes so brusquely that I knew he was seriously annoyed. “In the meantime, Whitfield is getting away.”
“And that could be difficult,” said Ames. “I will make my way to the engineers to help them. I have—”
“Am I to bleed to death?” demanded Sir Cameron in stentorian tones.
“The cad shot me!”
“I shall present my credentials when we both have leisure for it,” Ames said, and headed for the front of the car. “We are near the station, and time is precious.”
“Then hurry. I will see to Sir Cameron,” said Mycroft Holmes in a tone of ill-usage. “Guthrie, make sure Miss Gatspy is not seriously injured, then ready yourself for the chase, for it is my belief that Whitfield will try to make his escape as we enter the station at Edinburgh, which is not far ahead.
The view from the train had changed rather abruptly from rough hills to brick-and-shingle buildings growing ever closer together. We were entering the Portabello curve at a much more reasonable speed than when my employer was a passenger during the race. To one side was the wide expanse of the Duddington Road, during the day filled with carts, wagons, and traffic of all sorts, now all but deserted. After crossing a steel bridge over another busy way, the proximity of the station was apparent by the increasing number of tracks visible to both sides of our car. Beyond these iron rails and up a small slope sat a line of tightly packed four-story residences, their walls stained with soot and coal dust. At irregular intervals an even more darkly stained chimney made of the same dark stone as the building’s walls shoved into the night sky. I turned away from the window to face Miss Gatsby.
“I am quite able to manage for myself,” announced Miss Gatspy, trying to move out of my protective hold. “My head is ringing, but I am not ill.”
“Will someone take care of my shoulder?” Sir Cameron held up his blood-stained hand. “Must I—”
Mycroft Holmes came a few steps nearer. “Let me help you up, Sir Cameron.” He was able to lever the wounded man to his feet, supporting him with his shoulder.
“Damn, Holmes, what are you doing here?” Sir Cameron said, his voice shaky but much more sober than before he was shot; it was just such outbursts as this one that had caused us to be so careful in regard to the Scot.
“Taking care of you, it would seem,” he answered drily. “Guthrie, see to Miss Gatspy, and then be ready.”
“Of course,” I said, feeling a pang of conscience, for I had been enjoying this opportunity to hold Miss Gatspy. I helped her to stand on her own as Mycroft Holmes took his unwelcome charge to his compartment. “You had best go to my compartment.”
“I think rather I should go to ... Herr Schere,” she said to me, as she leaned on my arm. “Someone should be with him.”
“Excellent notion,” approved Mycroft Holmes just before he shoved Sir Cameron into his compartment. “Tend to it, Guthrie.”
I was not entirely pleased with this notion, but I had none better to offer, and there was some urgency. I had an unpleasant moment as I thought that it was very strange that Prince Oscar had not set foot outside his compartment in all this excitement. As I reached for the door, I faltered, afraid that in the turmoil of the last two minutes he might have come to some harm. It was just as well that I hesitated, for Prince Oscar himself pulled the door open, greeting Miss Gatspy and me with a drawn pistol.
“Guthrie!” cried he, lowering his weapon at once. “Miss Gatspy. For goodness sake—” He broke off to say something under his breath in what I supposed must be Swedish, for it sounded something like German. “Hurry.”
Miss Gatspy suddenly leaned a bit more heavily against me. “Yes. Do get me in, Guthrie,” she said, in a thready voice. “I fear I am ... somewhat weak after all.”
“
Oh, Good Lord,” I expostulated, and swept her into my arms to carry her into Prince Oscar’s compartment; a sweeter burden I had never borne, and I was saddened to put her down on the Prince’s daybed.
“Was it Loki?” Prince Oscar asked, sounding very calm for a man who had narrowly escaped assassination.
“It was Whitfield,” said Miss Gatspy faintly. “Whether or not he is Loki is uncertain.”
“Don’t tax yourself, Miss Gatspy,” I recommended, holding her hand to assure myself she was not unwell. “I must excuse myself. You will watch after her for me, won’t you?” I did not think it inappropriate to entrust the care of Miss Gatspy to the Prince.
“Certainly. Off you go, Guthrie,” said Prince Oscar, adding as he gestured toward the window, “We are nearing the station.”
Ordinarily I would not like being summarily dismissed in that manner, but I knew Mycroft Holmes was depending upon me. “I will return for her once all is safe.”
“Very good,” said Prince Oscar as I hastened to the door. The corridor was empty, and I noticed the train was slowing down. The outlines of darkened houses went past, no longer a blur, but distinguishable. I hurried toward the front of the car, unconcerned about attracting the attention of Sir Cameron. I stepped onto the half-platform connecting the first car to the collier just behind the engine. I stood there in the thickening mist, ready to do anything I might to assist Ames in apprehending Whitfield.
The tracks curved, beginning the two-mile-long approach to the station at Edinburgh. I squinted into the darkness and wind, hoping to discover the whereabouts of either Whitfield or the self-announced Leftenant-Commander Ames. I became aware that my hip was aching once again, but it was not sufficient to keep me from my duty. The train slowed still more, to less than ten miles per hour, and I reckoned that if Whitfield were to make a move, he would make it now, when he might have a hope of getting off the train without killing himself.
The Flying Scotsman Page 33