The Scottish Ploy

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “He is only ten minutes late,” Holmes said in a conciliatory manner. “The weather may be sufficient cause to account for that.”

  “So it might,” said the Baron grudgingly. “The weather has been filthy.”

  Mycroft Holmes was spared the necessity of reply by the arrival of the butler with the tea-tray, which he set down on the table between the sophas. “Your tea, sir,” said the butler, and bowed.

  “Danke,” said the Baron and waved the butler away.

  “Cream cakes,” said Mycroft Holmes, surveying the bounty on the tray. “A rare treat. Sir Cameron will be pleased.”

  “And raspberry tarts, which I understand he fancies as well,” said Baron von Schattenberg, as if it were unreasonable to like such food.

  “What would you rather have?” Mycroft Holmes inquired. “Sausages and cheese, perhaps?”

  “That would be more to my taste,” the Baron admitted. “Still, it is pleasant enough, in its way.” He came to the sopha. “Let us hope Sir Cameron arrives before all is cold.”

  “Truly,” said Holmes with sincerity. “It would be a pity not to enjoy this at its best.”

  That eventuality would not arise: there was a bustle at the front of the house, and then Sir Cameron’s bellow, “Holmes! Holmes! Get out here!”

  My employer and I exchanged glances as he rose. “If you will permit me, Baron?”

  “Of course,” said Baron von Schattenberg, apparently unaffected by the uncouth display at the front door.

  “Guthrie. Come with me, if you please,” said Holmes, not waiting to see if I was behind him as he left the room.

  “HOLMES!” Sir Cameron’s voice was louder than ever. “I know you’re here!”

  Mycroft Holmes answered the summons quietly. “Sir Cameron. What do you require of me?”

  I paused a step behind Holmes to scrutinize Sir Cameron: he was a bit heavier than he had been the last time I had seen him, and his ginger hair was thinning, but he still cut a fashionable appearance in his formal clothing. Just now his face was flushed and he was white around the mouth. It took me a moment to realize that he was not inebriated but in the grip of fear, and then I wondered what had so discomfitted him.

  “I want something done,” said Sir Cameron bluntly. “I want the blighters arrested.”

  “What ... blighters?” Mycroft Holmes asked in an eminently reasonable tone of voice. “What has happened, Sir Cameron?”

  Indignation and fear swelled in Sir Cameron’s bosom. “Well might you ask. Some blighter took a shot at me! At me!”

  Holmes’ manner went from indulgent to serious in an instant. “When?” he asked.

  “Just now. We were turning off Mount Street when there were two shots fired at my town-coach. The door-frame on the right side was splintered and my coachman was wounded in the shoulder.” There was a suggestion of a stammer in his words, and he paced in a small ellipse, his hands caught together to keep them from shaking. I noticed a whiff of brandy about his person, and I assumed he had fortified himself from his flask.

  “Are you certain?” Mycroft Holmes was intent now, entirely focused on what Sir Cameron was saying.

  “As certain as a man may be,” said Sir Cameron. “I won’t stand for it! Shootings in London. In Mayfair!” He slammed his fist into his palm. “It’s not to be endured.”

  Mycroft Holmes set about the task of soothing the mercurial Scottish peer. “Sir Cameron, if you will tell me all you can about the incident, Guthrie here will see a full report is tendered to the police within the hour.”

  ‘The police,” Sir Cameron scoffed. “Fat lot of good that will do.” He glowered at the butler who was standing a few steps away listening avidly. “See you don’t pass this on to any of your cronies. I don’t want to read about it in the Mirror tomorrow.”

  “I do not gossip, sir,” said the butler stiffly, and pointedly left the room.

  “Good riddance,” said Sir Cameron. “There was something odd about the shot—it was more like a hunting pistol—you know, the long-barreled Hungarian sort they use on boar and bear for the coup de grâce.”

  “No doubt you’re right; we’ll make due note of it,” Mycroft Holmes told Sir Cameron as if this were nothing of significance, though both Holmes and I knew that Vickers favored a long-barreled Hungarian hunting pistol. “Still, if you want to stem the tide of gossip, perhaps we should tend to the matter for which we are here?” He made the suggestion tentatively, not wanting to provide Sir Cameron with another excuse to rant.

  For once, Sir Cameron allowed himself to be persuaded. “Right you are. These Germans can’t be trusted to hold the line. Smarmy lot, they are.” He smoothed the front of his coat. “I’ll give Guthrie my report when we’re done here. The police can wait until we’re finished with this meeting; it’s not as if they can catch the assassin. If I know anything, I know he’s long gone. He’d be a fool to remain nearby.”

  “A fool or brilliant,” said Holmes distantly. “What better place to hide than among those walking on the street in the rain?”

  Sir Cameron paid no attention. “I sent my coachman off to find a constable and then to see a physician to have his shoulder stitched up. He will give a first report.” He made it seem as if these very sensible acts were the height of magnanimity on his part.

  “It is probably best, as you say,” Mycroft Holmes declared, relieved that he had not had to dispute with Sir Cameron over such precautions.

  “Where are the Germans?” Sir Cameron went on.

  “In the drawing room. If you will permit me to announce you?” Holmes said as he ushered Sir Cameron down the corridor.

  “If you want to do the butler’s job, what is it to me?” Sir Cameron said as if he had no part in the butler having left them to their own devices. “Let’s just get this over with as quickly as we can. I have an engagement tonight and I do not want to miss it.”

  Mycroft Holmes concealed a sigh. “I should hope we may settle all our questions promptly, but that will be up to you, in large part.”

  “Then it should be a simple task, for I am a reasonable man.” Sir Cameron declared with a fine disregard for the truth.

  We were almost to the drawing room; Holmes made a last attempt to prepare Sir Cameron for what lay ahead. “They know about the house you let.”

  Sir Cameron stopped abruptly. “What business is it of theirs?” he asked, choler returning to his eye.

  “They do not want you to have your wife stay there,” Holmes said.

  “And why should she? She has a suite reserved at Brown’s, or so I believe. Does she want to change her plans?” Sir Cameron inquired. “What is it to her if I let a house in London?”

  Mycroft Holmes held back the outburst I knew was threatening to erupt. “If not for her, then why—?”

  “I can’t spend all my time at an hotel or my club,” said Sir Cameron petulantly. “It’s much too public a place. A man needs a place of his own, don’t you know? A private one. A place where he can enjoy himself without prying eyes upon him.”

  With a gesture of exasperation, Holmes whispered, “Do you mean to say you are going to install a mistress there?”

  “Well, and what if I am?” Sir Cameron answered sullenly. “You can’t blame a man for—”

  The door opened and Baron von Schattenberg exclaimed, “Are you not going to present Sir Cameron, Mister Holmes? now that he has finally come?”

  Mycroft Holmes recovered his aplomb with astonishing speed. “Of course,” he said to the Baron. “It is my honor to present to you Sir Cameron MacMillian. Sir Cameron, the Baron von Schattenberg.” He gave me a quick glance as if to be certain I was in place to deal with any faux pas Sir Cameron might make.

  The Baron bowed and clicked his heels. “A pleasure, Sir Cameron.”

  “And for me,” said Sir Camer
on automatically. “I am sorry I was late, but on my way here my coach was shot at.” He said it calmly, with an air of heroic resignation. “I knew I had enemies, but I did not think they would be so bold as to strike in the heart of the metropolis.”

  “Shot at!” the Baron marveled. “Did you suffer any—?”

  “I am unhurt,” said Sir Cameron. “Which is more than I can say for my unfortunate coachman, who was wounded in the shoulder.” He was dangerously near smirking now. “It is an outrage, of course.”

  “Most certainly it is,” agreed Baron von Schattenberg with an alacrity that I found suspicious. “Come in, come in. There is tea and I can send for schnapps or brandy, whichever you would prefer.”

  Sir Cameron smiled. “That would be very good of you.”

  I shuddered at the thought of what brandy would do to Sir Cameron in his present frame of mind, and so I struggled to try to think of something to say that might warn him of the risk he was running. The best I could come up with was, “With so much to accomplish, do you think you want to—”

  He did not allow me to finish. “I would welcome a glass of brandy to steady my nerves,” he announced. “After the misfortunes of this afternoon, I do not want to make a decision based on my unwitting belief that I am under attack from old enemies instead of assessing my position from a less apprehensive posture.” His smile was smug enough to annoy me but insufficient to give me cause to call his request into question. I looked at Mycroft Holmes and shrugged; he nodded to me.

  “Then let brandy be brought,” said Baron von Schattenberg. “It is only fitting that we offer our guest libation to his liking.” He gave a quick look at Holmes as if to make certain that it was recognized that he, not Holmes, had the command of our current situation.

  “For which I thank you,” said Sir Cameron. “You must excuse Holmes,” he went on glibly. “He is a Puritan at heart, and thinks himself above all indulgences. More’s the pity.”

  “As you say,” the Baron conceded. “I will see that you have the hospitality you prefer.” He looked at Mycroft Holmes as if to accuse him. “Bring brandy,” he ordered the butler, who was standing a short distance away. “And a carafe of hot water as well.” He folded his arms. “When Sir Cameron is quite comfortable we will resume our discussion.”

  I was tempted to dispute the remarks Sir Cameron had made as well, but I saw Mycroft Holmes signal me to silence, and so I kept my peace. I busied myself with making notes that meant very little while the tea cooled in anticipation of the arrival of brandy, which would be most welcome when it was finally produced. When the butler came in with a tray containing an old bottle of French origin, I saw the three aides nod to one another, and knew then that they had anticipated some disruption in our meeting. That distressed me, but I contained myself, hoping that there would be some means to reveal this device for what it was.

  “May I have some tea?” Mycroft Holmes asked as the Baron poured out a measure of brandy into a snifter of cut Czech glass.

  “Oh, I think that is possible,” said Baron von Schattenberg. “Herr Kriede, if you will do the honors? Pour yourself a cup first, and drink it down before you offer any to our guests. He has had such an ordeal that he deserves this courtesy.”

  “At once, Herr Baron,” said Helmut Kriede, rising and coming to perform the duty requested by the Baron. He filled his cup with a flourish, stirred it thoroughly, added milk and sugar, stirred again and drank the whole. “There. You see?”

  “You did not need to make such a display for my benefit, or for Sir Cameron’s; we do not think we are in the company of our foes,” said Mycroft Holmes. “But I thank you for your willingness to demonstrate your good-will.”

  “Thank you, Mister Holmes,” said the Baron. “I wish you to comprehend the extent of our inclination to accommodate your expectations so that you will not balk at our requests regarding Sir Cameron and Lady MacMillian.” He began to pour a second cup, paying only slight attention to what he was doing. “It is most unseemly that Sir Cameron has suffered any mishap that is the least associated with us, for that would tend to cast doubts on all that we do.”

  “Not at all,” muttered Sir Cameron, whose visage belied his words.

  “You see?” the Baron exclaimed. “Sir Cameron understands me. I do not mean to distress you, but you must realize that I am obligated to stand by my countrywoman in matters that may not be all you wish for.”

  “I do grasp that,” said Mycroft Holmes, and gave an uneasy look at Sir Cameron, who was swirling his brandy in his snifter. “I do not wish to make Lady MacMillian’s stay here unpleasant in any way, but I am concerned about her escort. The men she proposes to accompany her are not those who have wholly unblemished pasts, and this is perturbing to the Admiralty, and to Her Majesty’s government. This leaves me in a difficult position, for I wish to find a way to welcome Lady MacMillian to London without the reservations we must have in the current circumstances. You have said, Baron, that she will not reconsider. I hope that this is not true, for I need her to—” He stopped abruptly as Helmut Kriede made a small, gasping noise then fell to the floor, the teacup he had been holding breaking as it hit the edge of the table.

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

  Sutton is off to the Diogenes Club in his guise as Mycroft Holmes. He told me just before he left that he would remain in the Reading Room of the DC for the purpose of removing himself from observation, for he is very much of the opinion that he is still being followed. If this is true, it is most disturbing, and I am at a loss to say what is best to be done ...

  There is a note from Sir Marmion, who has indicated that he is going to review the wounded courier’s case, to determine if he has been receiving the best of care. While I do not doubt that the Admiralty provides its people with the finest treatment, I am also certain that Sir Marmion may be able to suggest other means to improve the courier’s lot, and hasten his recovery.

  MH and G are still with the Germans, which is not unexpected. I will not look for them for at least an hour or so. In the meantime, I have in hand an autopsy report for Yujel Kerem, which I shall present to MH upon his return. It appears MH was right in two of his conclusions regarding the young man ...

  I must step out for an hour or so to visit the butcher and the baker, for, tomorrow being Sunday, such shops will be closed, and I will be unable to find any of the meats and breads I can obtain during the week. At least the butcher has said he has put aside a standing crown roast of pork that I may bring here for tomorrow’s dinner. Come Monday there should be fresh veal chops, and halibut from the fishmonger ...

  THERE WAS silence in the drawing room of Herr Amsel’s house in Berkeley Mews. No one breathed for the greater part of a minute, and then Baron von Schattenberg called aloud for the butler as Sir Cameron downed the entire contents of his snifter; for once I could not blame him. Mycroft Holmes dropped to his knee and took the man’s wrist, then leaned forward and put his ear to his chest; it was apparent to all that life had departed, for Helmut Kriede’s face was set in a rictus that cannot be long supported in life. The body carried odors indicating death had struck.

  The butler appeared in the door, his annoyance at the summons giving way at once to horror. “My God!” he ejaculated as he saw the corpse. He rushed forward only to be stopped by Mycroft Holmes.

  “Send someone to the police. Say it is urgent: there has been a death by poison.” Holmes got up. “Then seal this room. Let no one enter or leave it.” He regarded Baron von Schattenberg. “I hope this will meet with your approval?”

  “Oh, yes,” said the Baron, much shaken, his face gone pasty. “I will defer to you in this. It is your country.” He turned away from Kriede’s body. “But I do not like having to remain here. Is it necessary that we stay here? Can we not adjourn to the library and close this room for the police?”

  Mycroft Holmes shook his head. “
That would not be wise,” he said as soothingly as he could. “We must provide no opportunity for any mischief to be done to the body, or to the scene itself.”

  “Come now, Holmes,” said Sir Cameron in his bluff, bullying way, “No one’s going to touch it. I think it’s a damned good notion, going to the library. Nothing to be gained staying here.”

  “I regret to contradict you, Sir Cameron,” said Holmes with a polite nod. “But we must be able to report to the police that the body is precisely as it fell, that no one has touched the cup-and-saucer, that, in fact, all is as it was when the poor man died. If we leave a guard here, no matter who that guard may be, there must be some opportunity for alteration of the scene, and that would muddle the investigation from the start. No, do not even pick up his cup, Herr Eisenfeld. Everything must remain exactly as it is.” He motioned to me. “Guthrie, do you hand out sheets of paper to everyone, and we shall occupy ourselves writing down everything we can remember in the minutes that led up to Herr Kriede’s death.”

  Sir Cameron welcomed this opportunity for complaint. “I saw hardly anything. I had just arrived and was still somewhat overcome by my experience in Mount Street.”

  Mycroft Holmes dared to interject his instructions. “It would be better if we do not discuss what happened until we have each one written his own impression of events. That way we may discover a detail only one of us observed.” He pointed at me. “Guthrie, if you would?”

  I had taken some sheets from my portfolio; I rose and handed them out to the Germans, to Sir Cameron, and to Mycroft Holmes. “Do you want me to do the same, sir?”

  “Of course I do, dear boy. It is most essential that we triangulate our impressions, which this exercise will allow us to do,” said Mycroft Holmes as he pulled out his pencil and set to work, providing an example to the rest, for gradually they all began to write. I, too, returned to my seat and put my mind to recalling all I had noticed from Sir Cameron’s arrival to the moment Helmut Kriede fell dead. I tried to remember everything I had seen, and all the remarks I had heard. It was more difficult than I had thought it would be, for the presence of the corpse loomed in my attention, and my recollection shifted and slid like reflections on running water.