I had long since given up trying to persuade Mycroft Holmes that she was not my Miss Gatspy. All I did was shrug. “If we may trust her.”
“In this instance, I think we may,” Holmes said, glancing into the corridor behind him as a loud noise came from the luggage compartment. “Trunks being loaded, by the sound of it,” he told me as if to reassure himself.
“Why should we trust her?” I asked before I had wholly realized I had spoken at all. I began to apologize for this unseemly outburst only to be silenced by Holmes holding up his hand. “I am sorry—”
“There is so much we have to do here,” he informed me. “I will discuss this with you later. For now, we must ready ourselves for the police.” He cocked his chin in the direction of the window. “Keep a look-out. When the police arrive, we must not falter.”
“Why would we do that?” I could not imagine he intended to extend our disguises to the point of hindering any investigation.
“My dear Guthrie, think a moment,” he said with great patience. “Think of what Tyers is doing.”
I held my tongue this time, remembering that Tyers was continuing Mycroft Holmes’ efforts to discover the man or men in the police who was also a member of the Brotherhood. “You mean the solidarity of—”
“Precisely,” said Holmes, and folded his arms while the conversation in the lounge car became more anxious. “I hope we will not have long to wait. There’s no point in continuing our questioning now. These men are restive enough as it is,” he added in an undervoice.
“That they are,” I said, and went back to staring out the window, both anticipating and dreading the arrival of the police.
FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS
My first telegram has been sent to Bedford and the memoranda that MH said were to be delivered as part of the second round of communications are ready. I will leave Sutton alone with his sides and Ben Jonson’s occasional vulgarity. By the time I return the first telegram from MH or G should have been delivered, and I will know which set of instructions I am going to be expected to obey. What a predicament to be in—having to identify a corrupt official without exposing ourselves in the process. In these days of so much distrust of the police, it is prudent not to raise any more public sentiments against them than is necessary. By the same token, it is also necessary to redress any wrongs committed by members of the police as quickly as possible. When the repercussions are such as may be in this current case, circumspection is more essential than ever, so that any findings are capable of supporting the most thorough scrutiny.
The second double for HHPO is about to depart from the Diogenes Club under naval guard. Unless something has gone very wrong, I believe MH can take justifiable pride in protecting HHPO from the danger of assassination ...
“MISTER Hol—comb,” I exclaimed, wanting to be sure I caught my employer’s attention in the midst of all this turmoil; I saw two uniformed constables running down the platform, one of them in the company of the conductor. “The police have arrived.”
“At least the first wave,” Mycroft Holmes said, and addressed the men in the lounge car. “Gentlemen, as you can see, your ordeal is coming to an end.”
One or two of the gentlemen in question were beginning to show the effects of drink, and I could see they would not make a very good appearance when the police spoke to them; it was a fortunate thing that Mycroft Holmes had insisted that they provide their accounts before they bolstered their nerves with strong spirits. One or two were regarding Mister Jardine’s body with growing uneasiness, as if they expected it to do something untoward.
A few moments later and a constable came into the lounge car, his expression wary, as if he was apprehensive about what he might encounter. He looked at the men at the bar, at the body, and then to the barkeep. “Anything been touched?”
Whitfield snorted. “O’ course something’s been touched. But if you mean the body, Mister Holcomb and Mister Guthrie have kept us away from it.” He pointed out Mycroft Holmes with a mixture of relief and satisfaction.
The constable came up to Holmes; he was nearly a head shorter and five stone lighter, but he gamely gave my employer a long, skeptical scrutiny. “Oh, yes?” he said at the end of it, implying a world of doubt.
“Yes, Constable, I did,” said Mycroft Holmes, thrusting out his hand. “Micah Holcomb of Satchel’s Guides. This is my illustrator, Paterson Guthrie. Glad to have been of service.”
A second constable arrived, there was a hurried, whispered conference between the two, then the second rushed off again and the first assumed a stance of authority. “This is how it is. We have to wait until the Inspector comes aboard with the medical man. They will decide how we’re to deal with ...” he let his gaze, wandering in the direction of the corpse, finish his thoughts. “In the meantime, you’re to remain calm and go nowhere. I’ll begin taking your statements now.” He reached importantly for the notebook in his sleeve.
“Holcomb’s already done that,” said Whitfield. “He’s been taking down statements from everyone. That fellow with him has done most of the writing.” He was almost smug as he made this announcement.
“Guthrie,” Holmes supplied, going on, “it seemed a good notion to record as much as possible while the impressions were still clear. Once men begin to talk among themselves, they will tend to try to reconcile their impressions with those of others. I did not think that would benefit your investigation.” He motioned to me. “Let him look over the notes, Guthrie. I am sure he will find them interesting.” It was more disconcerting than I had anticipated, hearing that accent from him, though I had heard him use a great many others. They had been foreign accents, not English ones—this was rather like hearing the Prince of Wales speaking broad Suffolk, or Cockney.
“Um,” said the constable grudgingly. He squinted at Holmes, sniffed, and took the pages I held out to him. “I’ll have a look at these.”
“There are still a few more to be had. Would you like to get their statements now?” Mycroft Holmes indicated the men waiting on the upholstered bench. “It would be more convenient for those men, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” said the constable, squaring his shoulders and advancing on the last witnesses as if to overwhelm them with the magnitude of the case. “Now, which of you was next?”
As the constable began his job, Mycroft Holmes said to me, very quietly, “We must be careful with this chap. He’s carved himself a niche and he does not want it ruined. If it is at all possible, do not challenge him on any issue unless I begin it.”
“Why are you so worried about a constable?” I asked.
“Because police are no different than anyone else. Those in their profession talk among themselves. They boast and they complain, as men of all professions do. This man will want to make the most of his part in this investigation and he will say far too much to his cronies, and word will get out.” He shook his head ponderously. “If only we knew how far the corruption has spread, I would be more sanguine. As it is ...” He coughed delicately. “Say as little as possible about Herr Schere.”
“I am not wholly a novice, sir,” I said a bit stiffly.
“No, Guthrie, you are not. Forgive my maladroitness. I meant nothing to your discredit.” He lowered his head and added, “We must finish this case quickly.”
“Herr Schere?” I asked, not following his thoughts.
“No, Guthrie; this murder. If it is connected to our mission—which I am beginning to believe it may not be—we must determine what part it plays.” He rocked back on his heels as if the train were moving. “It is easy to think it a diversionary tactic, but it may, in truth, be something else entirely. And we had better know which as soon as may be. A pity you had to hand those notes over to the constable. Nothing for it, though.” He turned away, and managed another expansive gesture. “Mister Whitfield, I am most impressed by how well you hav
e handled this tragedy.”
Cecil Whitfield, being only human, grinned, and his very ordinary face reddened with pleasure for the praise. “Well, you know, sir, we try to do our bit.”
“And so you have,” Mycroft Holmes enthused. I watched him, bemused, wondering what he was up to. “You must have had experience before in dealing with awkward situations.”
“You know how it is, sir, on trains,” Whitfield responded, basking in flattery.
“And no doubt you have a keen eye for trouble,” Holmes went on.
“I like to think so, sir,” said Whitfield, his face serious and his manner bordering on obsequious.
“Well, then—just before that poor man died, did you happen to notice anything about him that suggested he was afraid? If he was, could you tell what frightened him?” He tossed the question out as one might speculate on the number of dried beans in a jar.
“He were a sullen sort of man,” said Whitfield, making a great show of thought. “Nothing seemed to please him. That could have been fear, but it could have been surliness just as well.”
“Well, yes,” Mycroft Holmes conceded. “But take that man”—he pointed at a thin gentleman with graying hair wearing a tweed jacket—“what can we discern about him?” Without waiting for a response, he went on in a near-whisper to me, “I recommend that you don’t try your pose as an artist on him.”
I waited, knowing that I’d understand in a moment; Mycroft Holmes made these observations as a kind of mental exercise, as another man might take a daily constitutional. He said it kept his mind limber.
“Unlike our companion at luncheon, this man is a printer. There is printer’s ink under his fingernails, but only on his right hand. Also, his right forearm is slightly tighter in his jacket’s sleeve. That indicates he works with one of the new high-pressure presses or more likely the sheets of highly detailed illustrations they produce. The ink is the wrong shade for the poor stuff used in a newspaper, so I surmise he works at printing those woodland scenes so popular lately or perhaps even an illustrated magazine. Since he is too well dressed to be one who regularly operates the presses, he likely owns or manages such an establishment. I have always observed that the owner of a business is often much more willing to engage in the actual work of the place than are his managers. Perhaps that is why they are the owners. I also suspect his cannot be too large an establishment or he would not be concerned about pressure, perhaps a deadline, for he has been nervously regarding his watch, which you will see he has placed on the table beside his drink. You may observe he has two pens in his jacket. I am willing to wager that we will find one contains red, or some other distinctive color of ink. Since he lacks a pencil box, it is unlikely he is an artist himself. Hence I deduce he is the owner or editor. Let us wait a moment. His movements reflect someone who is reluctantly about to finish a task he can no longer avoid. His posture shifts, his fingers and wrists have tensed three times in the last minute, and his eyes keeping darting around and then settling on the table in front of him as if he is already looking at what he anticipates—much as you behave as you approach doing my accounts.”
I had not realized my discomfort with those accounts was so obvious; in spite of my years with Mycroft Holmes, I found it intimidating to attempt to prepare records for someone with the eye for detail and analytical mind my employer possesses. I resolved to try to put on a more cheerful air the next time I approached that monthly chore. I had just made my resolve when the fellow we were observing reached under his seat and brought up a sheaf of papers. These proved to be proof prints of illustrations of military activity during the Siege of Port Arthur. Within minutes he had circled in red several parts of the first illustration.
“An editor,” Mycroft Holmes said, satisfied at what he had discerned.
There was a sudden commotion among the men at the bar as the constable snapped to attention and a man dressed for hacking with prematurely white hair came into the lounge car, followed by a rabbitty little man in an out-at-the-pockets-and-elbows suit carrying a physician’s bag. The white-haired gent stopped and looked around the lounge. “God have mercy,” he said as he caught sight of the body.
“The Inspector has arrived,” said Mycroft Holmes, not quite making a public announcement.
“That he has,” said the white-haired man, declaring, “I am Inspector Jasper Carew of the Bedford constabulary. The man with me is the coroner for our investigations, Norton Rollins. He will conduct the examination of the body, if you will clear a path for him?” His manner was faintly laconic, as if he wanted no part of bustle and strife, but he had a look in his deep-set blue eyes that told me he was someone of powerful will. I hoped that he and Mycroft Holmes would not lock horns, for such a contest would surely take on epic proportions.
There was a shuffling of chairs, stools, and feet as the coroner made his way toward the corpse. Most of the men in the lounge car were still unwilling to look at Mister Jardine. I stayed near Mycroft Holmes, anticipating his need of my abilities, although I could not determine which he might request.
He surprised me yet again. “Inspector, my illustrator has made a rough drawing of the state of the lounge car at the time the man died, if it would be useful.”
I shot him a quick look. “The quality—” I reminded him, hoping there would be no opportunity to compare my schematic with the finished drawings Sutton had provided. I must surely be found wanting if that were done.
“Of course, Guthrie,” Holmes soothed. “You know how artists can be, Inspector—not wanting the world to see their work until they have had time to polish it, making it as flawless as possible. Guthrie is no different. The sketch he has made of this scene is quick and without finesse. But working on a moving train is hardly the best of drawing circumstances; I know you will make allowances.”
The white-haired Carew swung around to look at us, then held out his hand. “Thank you. That will be useful.” As he took the sheet Mycroft Holmes held out to him, he added, “Perhaps your illustrator will add to his civic virtues and consent to draw the body as it lies.”
I could feel myself go pale. “I ... I ... this isn’t the sort of ...” I looked around at Holmes, hoping he would find some way to excuse me from such a disastrous duty; my drawing classes were twenty years behind me, and I had been taught to use charcoal, not pencil, for drawings. It was one thing to add a touch here and there to Sutton’s excellent work, and quite another to prepare a record of a crime. My previous sketch had been for purposes of detailing persons’ locations, not the disposition of the corpse.
“He isn’t in the general way of drawing dead bodies, of course, although he has done so,” said Mycroft Holmes blandly, “but I’m sure he can provide you with a quick sketch that will suit your purposes.” He put his big, long hand on my shoulder. “Don’t fret, my boy. The dead cannot hurt you.”
With gratitude I seized on this one bit of salvation he had offered. “Yes,” I told the Inspector, “I have an aversion to dead bodies.”
Carew sighed. “So many do,” he said to the air, ignoring the slight mutter of discomfort that swept through the occupants. “Well, Mister Guthrie, I am grateful to have you aboard. Let Mister Rollins finish his preliminaries and then I will tell you what to draw.”
I took my portfolio and made my way back in the car to where Mister Jardine was lying. I could feel my hands shaking and chastised myself inwardly for being so lax that I could not control myself; after all, I had walked to my own execution in Constantinople and remained unshaken. But the thought of having to attempt to draw this scene unnerved me. “Sorry,” I mumbled as I nearly bumped into Mister Rollins, who was bent over Mister Jardine, nodding and sucking in his cheeks as a sign of thoughtfulness.
“You don’t have to bother with the face; I’ll have that at the morgue and I’ll photograph it,” said the physician in a testy manner. “I need to know how he is lying, how the fu
rniture is disposed around him,” he went on, then looked up at Inspector Carew. “Do you need anything more?”
“Not with this excellent schematic,” said Inspector Carew. “Don’t worry about the aesthetics,” he advised me. “Just a sketch with the pertinent information is needed. Otherwise we’ll be here for hours more, and the North Eastern would not be best pleased.” He made a quick gesture. “If we’re given the go-ahead from London, we will ride along to the next stop. That way we may be certain no one leaves the train, and we can anticipate being met by a proper escort for the victim.” He patted the breast of his hacking jacket and drew out a brass case from which he removed a long, thin cigar. “If anyone wishes to smoke, I find it makes the air less oppressive.” He indicated the body.
A few of the passengers hastened to take advantage of this kind offer. Pipes and cigars and a few pouches of tobacco and papers were brought out, prepared, and set alight.
“I’m a trifle nervous,” I said, vastly understating the case. “I doubt the work will be very good.”
“Very good isn’t necessary,” Inspector Carew assured me. “Barely adequate will suffice.” He studied Mister Jardine’s position intently, then stepped back, tapping Rollins on the shoulder indicating he should give me access to the corpse.
A number of passengers in the lounge made a great display of trying not to watch what I did, all the while struggling covertly to observe me at work. I took out the pencils Sutton had showed me how to use only hours ago—how I wished I had a stick of charcoal instead!—chose a clean sheet of paper, and using the back of my portfolio to steady the paper, I did what I could to sketch the end divan, the table, and Mister Jardine fallen between the two, one hand still to his chest, the other flung out as if to seize something in his rigid fingers. I looked at what I was doing and thought it woefully disappointing, but kept gamely on, knowing that until I had achieved some semblance of accuracy, Inspector Carew would cordially-but-inexorably keep me at this task.
The Flying Scotsman Page 16
