The Flying Scotsman

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  I sat upright, aware from the tone of his voice that something was amiss. I set my snifter aside and went to retrieve my coat. “Do you know what the matter is?” I asked as I pulled on the sodden garment that now seemed intolerably clammy.

  “No. But the note is from Mister Holmes and it is urgent.” He handed the paper, clearly torn from a notebook, with my employer’s familiar, spiky scrawl angled across the half-sheet of paper: “Sutton, Send Guthrie down at once. Secure the flat against our return. MH.”

  “Not much information,” I remarked as I prepared to leave.

  “Secrecy may be paramount,” Sutton said. “Go on. And watch yourself.”

  Little as I wanted to, I had to fight off a sudden fear that ran through me. “I shouldn’t be long,” I said before starting down the stairs. It was raining in earnest now, and the wind had picked up so that the water came at an angle; shortly it was running down the inside of my collar and sliding along my neck and back. The sensation was eerie and unpleasant.

  Mycroft Holmes was standing within the line of constables in front of the Diogenes Club, his long, clever face set in a powerful frown. Police Commander George Winslowe and Police Superintendent Roland Spencer were standing in a huddle with him, their demeanor as somber as his. As I came up to them, stopping a respectful five feet and two stairs away, Mister Holmes caught sight of me and waved me closer to the three of them. “I apologize for bringing you out a second time on a night like this, but we must speak with these two men.”

  “Of course,” I said, wondering if I still had my notebook and pencil in my inner waistcoat pocket.

  “Nothing written down,” Mister Holmes said sharply as if discerning my thoughts. “We have agreed upon a solution to our problem. It is a difficult one, but it has the greatest chance of success.” He sighed heavily. “I will have to call upon the men in question.” He lowered his voice still more. “Two of the Directors belong to this club. I have no apprehension about them. But the rest ... well, the PM must add his weight to our petition if we are to succeed.”

  “Shall you need me on this errand?” I asked.

  “I don’t know yet. Besides, that is hours away.” He dismissed it with an impatient wave of his hand. “What we must settle is far more urgent. Guthrie, what did you find on the roof?”

  I knew what he wanted. “The same kind of chisel cut as was on the building by Saint Paul’s. Properly cut in a single, practiced blow so that the groove is utterly smooth. Recent enough that the wood was raw with the mark. If there had been more light or it had not come on to rain, we might have found more; but as it was, neither the policemen nor I were able to discern anything remarkable other than that groove. I managed a cursory measurement, and it appeared to have been the same size as the other, although I could not swear to it absolutely.” All three were listening closely. When I completed my brief account, I added, “For the moment, I must suppose both shots were fired by the same man.”

  Commander Winslowe spoke first. “You have no doubts? The groove could not have been caused in some other way? Could it not be older than you reckon?”

  “Well, if it is, Commander,” I replied, “then we must suppose the assassin has been practicing here, readying himself for yesterday’s attempt on Prince Oscar’s life. Or something more dire.” I indicated the Diogenes Club door. “Many illustrious men pass these portals. Their loss would be disastrous.”

  Superintendent Spencer endorsed my concern. “That very thought had crossed my mind. What if the assassin knew nothing about Prince Oscar and was seeking instead to kill one or more of the members? It is always possible, Mister Holmes, that his target was not the Prince at all, but you.”

  I had a quick, nasty recollection of the footman’s blood spattering on me, and recalled that Mycroft Holmes was only a few steps away from me. “I believe we should factor such a potential into our plans.”

  Mister Holmes, who had been silent until now, spoke in a low rumble. “You may do as you must, but our first purpose must be to protect and preserve Prince Oscar, for his death at this crucial time could shift the whole of Scandinavia to Germany, and we would be at a disadvantage, should that be allowed to happen. Put your energies there, gentlemen. Guthrie and I know how to look out for ourselves.” He glanced at me again. “The roof is guarded?”

  I pointed to the building in question. “A constable is posted inside the door to the roof and the door itself is locked.”

  Superintendent Spencer heard this with slight approval. “Somerford’s men, no doubt. He feels the attempt on the Prince’s life—if that is what it was—keenly. Very dedicated fellow. How did your discussion with him go, Holmes?”

  “Well enough,” my employer answered; his manner told me he was holding something back.

  Commander Winslowe, already straight, stood a little straighter. “We will depart at noon, according to plan. We have found a young ensign who resembles the Prince enough for casual observation, and he is willing to embark for Belgium and thence to Stockholm, with a small naval escort. He knows the perils of this undertaking, but he is willing to do it.” His face looked a bit ruddier in the lampshine, but that might have been from the rain on his face.

  “Good man,” Mycroft Holmes approved. “We will hope that the men I must persuade will agree to our plan.” He held up a finger. “Do not discuss this with anyone not directly involved. If you do not have to include him, do not. Err on the side of caution, gentlemen. For tomorrow—or today, isn’t it?—bon chance.” He nodded at the two then said to me. “Come, Guthrie. We have much to do before dawn.” With that he turned away and trod across the slippery cobblestones in long, steady strides.

  I went after him rather more carefully. I caught up with him on the sidewalk. “If you are sending a double to Stockholm in Prince Oscar’s stead, where are you taking the Prince? Has there been a change of plans in his destination? Other than somewhere by rail?”

  “All in good time, Guthrie,” said Mycroft Holmes as he made his way up to the first floor, pausing there before going on. “Is Tyers back yet?”

  “Not when I came down. He may have returned since. Where has he been?” I asked before I could stop myself as we began to climb once more. I was cold enough to begin to shiver, and it was an effort to keep my teeth from chattering in the treacherous spring storm.

  “Why, with the Prince, of course,” said Mycroft Holmes with a smile any Cheshire Cat would envy. “He had one other message to deliver, but after that he has been with Prince Oscar.”

  “Who is where?” I demanded in a tone I would have never used to my employer even a year ago.

  Mycroft Holmes stopped before using his own knocker. “Why, Guthrie, my dear boy, I thought you had surmised it all: Prince Oscar is in Baker Street at my brother’s flat—where else should he be as safe as there?”

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

  Spent an hour in Baker Street with Prince and when I complete this entry I will make a full report for MH. The Prince is not discouraged, although he is upset about the footman. Another man, less rigorously trained, might become overwhelmed by these events, but Prince Oscar is made of sterner stuff, as indeed all royals must be.

  CI Somerford was not available to take the memorandum MH prepared for him, but judging the state in which he departed, and the engagement he spoke of, I am neither surprised nor anxious in his regard....

  The Swedish Ambassador has declined MH’s request for an interview.

  THREE muffled chimes marked the hour as Mycroft Holmes looked down at the maps spread out on the study table. “Gentlemen, it is late and yesterday was eventful.” He stretched, joints cracking audibly. “Time to get some sleep. Guthrie, you need not return until eight. I need you rested and fresh.”

  “Much appreciated, sir,” I said, rising from my chair and preparing to depart.

  “Dress for a formal b
usiness meeting.” It was an order; he and I both knew it.

  “That I will. Thank you, sir,” I said from the doorway.

  “Very good,” said Mycroft Holmes as he bent over the sheets of paper with their endless scrawling. “I’ll need you to copy these when you first arrive, while I breakfast. Make sure you allow enough time to do it well.”

  “Certainly, sir,” I said, trying to decide if I should come half an hour earlier; Mycroft Holmes’ specific instructions in regard to the hour made me decide that I had better arrive at the time he stipulated or risk interfering with some other aspect of his plans. As I reached for my coat, which was only slightly less damp than the last time I had worn it, I said, “Do you know where I might flag a cab? With the police about—”

  “The Admiralty should have a trap across the street, not elegant but utilitarian enough to serve.” He yawned. “Our trials are not yet over, my lad. I rely on you to continue your splendid efforts.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir,” I told him as I let myself out of the flat. Descending the stairs, I thought of Tyers, who would be up before six, which now seemed barely half an hour away. As I stepped onto the pavement, I saw the trap waiting in the service alley beside the Diogenes Club, a fellow in a heavy naval cloak sitting on the driving box. I waved to him as I crossed the street and noticed four constables emerging from their posts in the shadows. “Mycroft Holmes tells me you’ll drive me to Curzon Street,” I called out, a bit too loudly to be polite at this hour.

  “Yes. I know about you,” said the driver from the depths of his muffler and cloak; his voice, I supposed, was gruff from waiting in this inclement weather.

  Climbing into the trap, I thought, but for the voice, he might have been anyone under that mass of clothing—he might have been a bear. “Sorry to keep you up so late.”

  “Nothing to worry about,” he responded, and gave his chestnut the office.

  I sat still for the journey, trying to find some obvious flaw in Mycroft Holmes’ plans; he had taught me to do this almost eight years ago and I continued the practice ever since. I was too worn out to think clearly, so most of the exercise was in vain, but at least it kept me awake until we reached Curzon Street. As I got out of the trap, I managed to thank the driver.

  “Duty, sir,” he explained. “Your usual driver will fetch you tomorrow morning.” With that he kissed the air noisily and his chestnut walked on.

  I made my way up to my rooms and all but staggered to my bed. Fatigue had made my muscles taut from my long hours of forcing myself to remain awake and attentive. As I undressed my hands trembled, a sure sign I was past my limit. Once my clothes were hung up, I found my nightshirt, drew it on, washed my face and toweled my hair and then got into bed, certain I would not relax enough to fall asleep for some time. I heard the clock in the parlor beneath me ring the half hour, but nothing more until an urgent pounding on my door brought me awake just as the night sky was beginning to lighten with the promise of dawn. I must have been dreaming, for I was momentarily disoriented, my thoughts back in Bavaria that was also Constantinople, and the members of the Brotherhood were preparing to burn down the Houses of Parliament, which was also in this fantastical dream-landscape.

  “Mister Guthrie!” I recognized the voice of Mycroft Holmes’ jarvey. I flung back the blankets and rushed to the door, imagining the worst had happened. I unlocked the door and pulled it open so quickly that I nearly overbalanced Sid Hastings as he strove to rouse me.

  “Sid!” I exclaimed. “What is the matter?”

  “Mister Holmes wants you at once,” he declared in a tone that did not encourage dawdling, or many questions.

  “I’ll get dressed,” I promised him, making an effort to open my armoire to retrieve my clothes. “What time is it?” I had not intended to ask, knowing whatever he told me, I would dislike his answer. I felt groggy and faintly dizzy, a sure sign I had not slept enough to relieve my fatigue.

  “It’s gone half-five, sir. Sun’ll be up in a couple of ticks.” He turned around so I could get out of my nightshirt without embarrassment.

  I poured water from the ewer to the basin and managed a cursory wash before I began to shave, doing the work by touch more than anything my mirror revealed. It was moments like this one that made me long for a burnoose and a beard. I ended up nicking myself once, but got the job done and then pulled on my singlet and my shirt over that. Remembering Mister Holmes’ admonition from the night before, I chose clothes a thought more formal than those I usually wore to work. As I fixed my collar in place, I noticed the room brighten as the clouds in the east became luminous; Sid had been right about the sun. I finished dressing more handily now that I could see what I was doing, trousers on before socks and shoes. In less than four minutes I had my tie in place and my waistcoat buttoned. I pulled on my jacket, and swung around to Sid. “All right. I’m ready,” I told him.

  “Then let’s be about it,” said Sid, holding my door for me, and waiting on the landing while I secured the lock.

  The streets were far from empty at this early hour; delivery-wagons and vans made their way with everything from milk and cheese to live chickens and fresh fish. I wrapped myself in the rug Sid provided, hoping to preserve my collar and tie from the weather, but not at all certain I had taken sufficient precautions. The rain had slacked off but the morning was dampish, and the paving was slicked with mud, spattering as wheels went through it. The pace everywhere was urgent so that the brisk pace Sid Hastings set was not noticeable amongst the rest of the vehicles. As we drew up in front of Mycroft Holmes’ building, I saw the clutch of constables had moved from the door of the Diogenes Club to the front of the building from where the assassin had shot. Puzzled, I remarked on this as Sid let the steps down for me.

  “Sad, that is,” he said, his Cockney accent making the words more brusk than they already were. As I stepped free of his cab, he touched the brim of his hat and moved away toward Charles II Street, where he would wait for my employer to send for him.

  Knowing that something had gone very wrong, I hastened up the stairs to Mycroft Holmes’ flat on the top floor, my imagination working faster than my feet. Only the knowledge that Prince Oscar was safe in Baker Street kept me from losing heart. Trying to overcome the residue of sleep that held me, I rapped on the door with my knuckles and two breaths later was admitted to the flat by Tyers, who looked fresh enough but for the circles under his eyes. His clothing was impeccable and he greeted me as if this were a usual morning. “Good morning, Tyers,” I said as I stepped inside. I saw that it was just after six, and trusted I had been timely enough to suit my employer.

  “And to you, Mister Guthrie,” said Tyers in unflappable calm.

  “Mister Holmes—” I pointed to the corridor.

  “—is in the study. He’s expecting you,” said Tyers as he secured the front door once again.

  I left my topcoat on the rack behind the door and went along to the study. I rapped on the door, which was ajar, and said, “Mister Holmes—”

  “Do come in, Guthrie, dear boy,” he called out from within. “We’re about to have some tea and scones. Heaven knows we need something.” He was standing near the fire, dressed as if for a day at the Admiralty. His features looked glum, making him appear older than his fifty-three years.

  Sitting beside him, Edmund Sutton seemed as always a paler, younger echo of him. “It’s too bad,” he said, as if I had not yet discerned this.

  “It’s damnable,” said Mycroft Holmes. “It is also most ... appalling.”

  “Dear God,” I exclaimed, horrible possibilities forming a catastrophic parade in my thoughts. Surely there had not been an assassination at the Diogenes Club? Had some important member been shot? Had there been—I made myself stop. “Tell me.”

  “The constable—Childes, his name was—guarding the roof where the assassin waited was found murdered this morning.”
Holmes sighed heavily. “He was shot at close range, high in the back. There is no sign of a struggle.”

  “It must have been very sudden,” I said, shocked to disbelief. I made myself speak the ideas that swarmed my brain. “The devil must have hidden somewhere on the roof, or hung over the side, like Amoud, in Constantinople.”

  “It rained last night, Guthrie,” said Mycroft Holmes quietly.

  “Yes?” I spoke more harshly than I had intended.

  “He could not have hung over the side of the building. Everything was slick. And the roof was thoroughly searched.” He shook his head. “No. Unsettling as it is, we can come to only one conclusion: the constable knew his killer, and trusted him enough to allow him to stand behind him.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say “her,” as Penelope Gatspy’s lovely countenance filled my mind’s eye. I shut such useless thoughts away. “Because he came so close? How close is that?”

  “There were burns on the constable’s clothes. The killer may have muffled the report with the constable’s cloak.” He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “His relief found him at five.”

  “How long had he been dead?” I was astonished at how quickly I fell into the habits of inquiry Mycroft Holmes himself had taught me. My distress would have to wait or the constable would not be avenged.

  “I would say no more than two hours, given the state of the body.” He coughed. “I should not have been so sanguine about this whole operation. I have made the mistake of assuming I had assessed the whole, and clearly I have not. I thought because Prince Oscar was safe that we had nothing more to worry about. I hoped we would trap the assassin while delivering the Prince from all harm, and nothing to pay for it.” He began to pace, his head sunk down on his chest.