Against the Brotherhood

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

“King Ludwig’s crony,” said McMillian, shrugging as he started across the platform toward the waiting train. “I will want my luggage in my compartment. It should not go into the baggage cars.”

  “I will have the porter tend to it,” said the stationmaster, making it obvious he was glad to see the last of Cameron McMillian.

  Now that I was boarding the train, I wished I had been able to have one more word with Mycroft Holmes before I undertook this phase of my assignment. I wanted to know where he would be, and how I could contact him if it came to that.

  “Look!” McMillian’s sharp command cut through my reflections. He was pointing to a hunched figure in a wheeled chair attended by a young man in a cadet’s uniform. So wrapped and blanketed was the invalid that it was impossible to discern either the age or the sex of the person, or the cause of his condition, if it indeed was a he, and not some ancient Grafin or Marschallin being accorded this distinction.

  I saw that the chair was being pushed toward our train, the cadet moving hastily under the instruction of his charge.

  “That is King Ludwig’s guest,” exclaimed McMillian as two porters struggled to carry the wheeled chair and its tenant into the private car. “If that man has anything infectious, I will hold King Ludwig responsible for any illness I contract.”

  “It may be that the reason the King ordered the private car was to prevent any contact with other passengers, if the person is ill and not suffering from some other malady,” I suggested, thinking that such care was unlikely, but wanting to keep McMillian from fretting.

  “You give King Ludwig a great deal more credit than he deserves,” said McMillian as we reached the steps up into our car. “If he thinks of his people at all, it is only as decorations for his buildings. Having any regard for someone in poor health, or the health of others, would not be deemed important by him.”

  The center compartment was not unlike other private compartments: a settee that became a bed at night, a little dressing room, a large, curtained window, a small closet.

  “You can put my luggage in the adjoining compartments so that I will not be any more crowded in here than necessary,” McMillian announced. “I will want the keys when you lock the doors.”

  “Naturally, sir,” said the senior guard who had been given the task of watching this car. He saluted smartly and went to follow McMillian’s orders.

  “The washroom is just there,” said the conductor as he came by the compartment. “At the end of the car. You change at Karlsruhe for Mainz. I will summon you when we are thirty minutes from Karlsruhe, to allow you time to make ready.”

  “Yes,” said McMillian. “And inform my man an hour ahead, so that I will not have to wait for him.” He indicated the door. “Where are the valets’ compartments?”

  “Next to the washroom,” said the conductor, who touched the bill of his cap and left.

  “You will put your things in order and arrange for the evening meal.” As he said this he scowled. “You will have to pass through the private car to reach the kitchen. That is a bad thing. Perhaps at one of the stops the waiter could bring my food up to me, walking on the platform, to decrease the risk of infection.” He waited for me to help him remove his greatcoat and put it away in the closet. “I leave that up to you.”

  This sudden concern for infection struck me as odd in a man who had spent the previous night licking champagne off a prostitute. “Perhaps I should ascertain what the nature of the invalid’s complaint is before resorting to so awkward an arrangement,” I said, hoping that this would meet with his approval. I wanted to discover for myself who it was who traveled immediately behind us.

  “So long as you wash your hands and face thoroughly after speaking to the creature, well enough. Do not bring any contamination into me. And when you have seen him, I will want to know how serious you think his condition is.” He had made himself as comfortable as possible on the settee, and seemed inclined to remain there for the afternoon.

  “I will, sir,” I told him, and backed out of the compartment, recommending as I closed the door that he lock it from the inside. “Better too cautious than too sorry,” I reminded him, sounding very like my mother.

  “Yes,” he agreed, and I heard him move. A moment later the bolt was pressed home and the door was as secure as it could possibly be.

  In one of the two valets’ compartments on the car, I saw my carpetbag, and the hat I had worn earlier this day. I slipped into the tiny chamber, which was little more than half the size of McMillian’s compartment. And while there were two woolen blankets, it was obvious that the unupholstered wooden bench could not be made into a bed.

  I was distressed to see that the door lacked an inside lock, for I was apprehensive about the notebooks I carried. I tried to see if there was some manner in which I might improvise one, when the train gave an experimental lurch and I found myself clinging to the doorframe to keep from falling.

  As the train groaned and came to life, I made my way back to the bench and hung on, waiting until we had rattled and huffed out of the station and had begun to pick up speed. Rising, I saw that McMillian had been right—it was a beautiful autumn day in Bavaria now that the fog had lifted. I reminded myself of my duty and started off in the direction of the private car, wondering as I did why it was so strangely placed in the train. Most private cars were put first or next-to-last of the cars, to keep them private, but this one was oddly situated. I made my way, swaying with the train, to the private car, taking care to knock before I opened the door.

  The young cadet faced me in the open door, his fresh face so clean and boyish that it was hard to imagine he was a devoted student of war. He gave me a salute and stood aside.

  At the far end of the private car there was a long couch with a high back which faced the enameled-iron stove. The wheeled chair stood abandoned, and on the couch, in a fine English suit topped off with a muffler of cocoon-like proportions, sat Mycroft Holmes, legs stretched out the length of the couch. “Guthrie, do come in. I didn’t expect you quite so soon. The chill hasn’t quite gone off yet, but be comfortable, do. It will be warmer shortly.”

  I stared at him, thinking I should have realized he would not leave me to flail about on my own. “I’m relieved to see you, sir,” I said as I dropped into the armchair.

  “As I am,” my employer confessed. “I was not sure this arrangement could be made so quickly, things being as they are in Bavaria.” He coughed delicately. “And I do not simply mean about King Ludwig. It is difficult to work around the Brotherhood. Von Metz has his fingers in a great many pies, and we have yet to discover the whole of them.” His expression of disgust revealed more than his tone of voice. “But I was fortunate. Von Schallensee was able to arrange all this on extremely short notice.”

  “Von Schallensee?” I asked, not recalling the name from any of the work I had done for Mycroft Holmes back in London.

  This was acknowledged with a nod. He spoke more loudly as if he intended to be overheard. “Von Schallensee is a man who works very much as I do, quietly, for the benefit of all Germany, as I try my poor best to consider all of Britain’s Empire in what I do. Von Schallensee is the man who first identified von Metz for me, and provided the information necessary to bridge the gap between Vickers and von Metz. He was able to delay the train long enough to procure this car—it is one of his own, incidentally—and to arrange for its placement in the order of cars, which, as I understand, was more difficult than procuring the car itself.” He waved to the cadet. “Kreutzer, pour some brandy for Guthrie here. And be sure the fire is taking hold as it should.”

  The cadet nodded at once, and opened the cabinet where a number of bottles and glasses waited. “And for you, sir?”

  Mycroft Holmes pulled at his lower lip. “I think I’ll have the same.”

  “Very good,” said Kreutzer, and set about pouring generous tots into two ballo
on snifters. He brought these to us, giving a stiff, military bow as he did. “Your brandy, sir.”

  “Thank you, Kreutzer,” said Mycroft Holmes, making a single gesture to dismiss the lad. “I will probably need you later. Before we transfer to the next train.”

  “Of course, sir,” said Kreutzer, and retired to the far side of the car after checking the stove and adding another quarter-cut section of log.

  “He is one of von Schallensee’s men,” Holmes explained with a slight smile.

  It had to be something like that, I knew, for the cadet to be here. “You trust him.”

  “With my life, which I mean quite literally,” said Mycroft Holmes after taking a little sip of brandy. “And given the dangers at the station, he served me well. Tell me how it is going with McMillian.”

  But I was not going to be fobbed off so easily. “What dangers at the station?” I asked, recalling Zimmerman.

  “There were five watchers there, three in railroad uniforms which they must have been provided by those belonging to the Brotherhood.” My employer took out a cigar and snipped its end, preparing to light it. “Surely you were aware of them, Guthrie?”

  “No, sir, I don’t think so,” I said. “I was more concerned with McMillian than with station guards.”

  “Not surprising,” agreed Holmes as he took a deep pull on his cigar. “Well, you will have to accept my word that they were there. They did not wear the correct shoes, and one of them was foolish enough to wear his signet ring. To have the right uniforms and the wrong shoes! It’s oversights like that” —he took another lungful of smoke—“which cause me to lose all respect for von Metz’s underlings.”

  “That accounts for three of the men. What of the other two?” I asked, wondering what details I had not noticed.

  “Oh, you saw the man with the Prussian accent, didn’t you? Tall fellow with brindled whiskers and a stiff arm? No?” He had recourse to his cigar again. “Well, he was pretending to claim baggage at the end of the platform, but it was all sham. He addressed all his remarks to one of the false guards, and he carried two pistols under his coat and perhaps a third in his sleeve.” He tapped the ash into a saucer Kreutzer had provided. “The last was the woman in gray, with the very attractive hat and veil. They do deign to use women, now and again.” He shrugged. “Tell me about—”

  “McMillian,” I finished for him. “You know everything up to when I packed his things.” I recounted the events from the last time I had seen him at Madame Isolde’s to my arrival at the door to this private car. I made my report as succinct as possible, including noticing the Egyptian eye on the stationmaster’s watch fob, and the private visit of Zimmerman. I ended by saying I did not want to be away from McMillian too long. “So we are now bound for Belgium, and McMillian thinks all the spies of Europe are after him.”

  “As well he might” was Holmes’ answer.

  “Is he in much danger?” I asked, finally tasting the brandy.

  “Well, there are many factors to consider: if McMillian is killed, a more competent messenger could be appointed. Unfortunately, his death is apt to herald the theft of the treaty, which must, of course, be avoided. I am concerned that our Scot is making a public nuisance of himself. He is demanding too much attention and he is choosing his company badly. England is not the only government keeping close watch on the Brotherhood. If the Germans suspect what McMillian is carrying, then we will be in the unenviable position of having to deal with them in their own country. There is also the continuing presence of the Golden Lodge, and I am not yet satisfied if we are being aided, observed, or used by them, nor to what ends. It behooves us not to become complacent about them. It may be that McMillian’s very ineptness will serve as a shield. Some may assume that a man who careers from brothel to brothel boasting of his great secret mission must be a decoy.” He blew a cloud of smoke into the air. “It would be circumspect to assume we have two deadly and antipathetic groups who are determined to obtain the treaty at any cost whatsoever.”

  I listened to Mycroft Holmes with an increasing sense of frustration and foreboding. How could I protect McMillian from such forces without revealing my mission to him? And if I did tell him of my true purpose in accompanying him, would he believe me? And if he believed me, would he cooperate with Mycroft Holmes to protect the treaty?

  Holmes sensed my misgivings. “I hope it will not come to it, but if you must be revealed, you won’t have to tell him anything. If it becomes necessary, I will do it.”

  “Speaking of what I must tell him, what should I say about the person in this car? He is afraid that he will take some infection from the invalid,” I said.

  He considered his answer carefully. “I think you should say that the invalid is an important military adviser who was severely injured in battle some years ago. There will be no question of infection, and no need for McMillian to fear any plague will light upon him.” He chuckled suddenly, adding, “You might also say that the invalid is nearly deaf and difficult to converse with. That should stop him wanting to press for an interview.”

  “You have the cut of his jib,” I said with a single nod. “All right. I will give him this tale and I will hope we will be able to squeak through this without any more trouble. If only that treaty were not so crucial.”

  “But it is,” I added, wondering again if any piece of paper was worth what this one had already cost. Certainly safety for the many outweighed the lives of the few, or so I had always believed. But I had seen a man murdered less than twenty-four hours ago, and had killed a man myself two days before that, and the matter was no longer as certain to me.

  Mycroft Holmes noticed that I had not taken much of the brandy, but he did not comment on it, merely asking, “When did you last eat?”

  “In the morning,” I replied.

  “You will want to get something into you, Guthrie. I need you to be alert, and for that, you cannot starve. The kitchen can make up a supper for you at my order, if you would like.” He motioned to Kreutzer, and the young man stood at once. “Have a good dinner made for Guthrie, here. And take it to him in his compartment.”

  “I should make sure that McMillian has something as well,” I reminded my employer.

  “Naturally,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Kreutzer, tend to it, if you will.” He watched as the young man passed out of the private car toward the next one, which contained the kitchen. “If McMillian complains of your long absence, attribute it to the amazing deafness of the invalid. Let him know how painstakingly you had to repeat the simplest questions.”

  I nodded. “All right. And I will be glad of a meal.” I had to admit that as little as food appealed to me, I could feel that hunger was affecting me. “I’ll have supper, and make sure that McMillian does not take it into his head to come and bother you.”

  “Thank you, Guthrie.” Holmes rose and indicated the door leading back to the car where McMillian rode in solitary state. “He is difficult, I know, but it will not be long before this is over.”

  My answer was as heartfelt as it was unguarded. “I hope so.”

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS:

  There has been a note for G. delivered by messenger this afternoon. It was sent by Miss Roedale, who has marked the missive “confidential.”

  Given that I have had no further word from M.H., I can only hold this note until both men return, and I have sent a note to Miss Roedale to so inform her, so that in future she cannot claim that she was unaware of how matters stood.

  “CRIPPLED AND DEAF,” exclaimed McMillian as I made my report to him a few minutes after leaving the private car and Mycroft Holmes. “Poor devil. And to think they’re still hauling him all over the country.”

  “He has the cadet to look after him,” I pointed out.

  “Probably a relative of sorts. That’s how these old military families are in Germany.” As i
f they were different in Britain. He indicated the window. “I’ve been looking at the church spires, and the colors they are painted. It’s one of the things I like about Bavaria and Baden; the colors the peasants use to decorate their buildings. So much more festive than England. English peasants have no taste for bright things.”

  “I took the opportunity to go through to the dining car and ordered supper for you,” I went on, trying to show myself a good servant. “It should be delivered shortly.”

  “Excellent,” said McMillian, whose mood had mellowed as distance was put between him and Munich. “I hope they will have some of that good Rhine wine to serve. It’s well enough to drink beer at a country inn, but on a train, only wine is acceptable at a meal. And a French vintage is preferable to a German one, no matter where we are.” His expression was filled with satisfaction with his own opinion and approval of his taste.

  “The cadet will probably bring the meal, so that his charge will not be unduly disturbed,” I said, aware that McMillian might not be pleased with this arrangement. “It seemed the more discreet thing to do.”

  “If it will help accommodate the old man, I suppose there’s no trouble with it,” said McMillian with a touch of sulking in his manner. He looked toward the window again, and gave a sigh. “I’ve heard there are trains now that can go at nearly seventy miles per hour. They do not pull many laden cars, of course, but they can keep up that speed for as long as their fuel holds out.” His whole demeanor implied that if such a train did exist it should be at his disposal.

  “I have heard the same thing,” I said, taking care not to mention that it was part of a confidential memo from Whitehall. “But you know how men like to boast. They want to believe that such a train exists, and so they make claims that assure them their wishes are met.”

  “You’re a cynic, aren’t you, Jeffries?” said McMillian with haughty amusement. “I wouldn’t be in such a hurry to doubt the train is real.” With this he waved me away. I returned to my compartment and sat down, feeling exhausted. But much as I wanted to nap, the least sound jolted me into alertness, and I began to fear I would never be able to rest again. I had reached that stage of exhaustion when a false alertness takes over, demanding wakefulness with jangled nerves. It was growing late in the day and the first streamers of sunset were beginning in the west. At home, I would be getting ready for tea, just finishing up my day’s work for Mycroft Holmes.