The Flying Scotsman

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “That will do well enough for my purposes,” said the Inspector after what seemed an eternity. “We will be underway again in a minute or two.”

  As if to confirm this there was a hiss from the front of the train, and the cars gave a kind of shudder, as if readying themselves to resume our journey. The men in the lounge car looked about uneasily, as if they thought something intrusively dramatic were about to happen. Several of them gulped down their drinks and one of them went so far as to put his just-lit cigar out in the last of his stout.

  “Do we ride along?” Rollins asked, his voice low and rumbling, not at all the kind of sound one would suppose could come from such an unprepossessing chap.

  “Yes, Rollins, we do,” said Inspector Carew. “And we remain with the body until it is removed. God willing, we will depart with our culprit in tow.” He sighed, looking through the paper Mycroft Holmes had given him. “I shall review these. Any of you gents need the necessary room, use the one in this car at the end of the corridor beside the baggage compartment once the train has left the station. There’ll be constables at both platforms, so don’t try anything foolish.” He took hold of the edge of the bar as the train heaved itself forward a few inches.

  “Once the train is moving, may we go to our compartments once again?” Mycroft Holmes asked. “I am traveling with a Viennese gentleman, Herr Schere, who is unwell. I have left him in the care of a nurse, and I would like to see how he is faring.”

  “A very reasonable request,” said Inspector Carew after he had given it some consideration. “I will do myself the pleasure of accompanying you to inquire into the condition of your Viennese traveling companion.” He smiled with no trace of warmth. “Will that suit you?”

  The train was moving again, going more slowly than was usual. I had a moment of panic when I realized we were leaving Bedford without sending or receiving telegrams. Undoubtedly Tyers had one waiting in the station telegraph office, but it might as well have been on the moon; I could not reach it.

  Just north of Bedford we passed another train pulled off on the siding in order to allow us to go on undelayed; I thought how intricate a task it was to keep trains in motion without more catastrophes than we had. I had to reassure myself that the North Eastern line did not often make mistakes in adjusting their schedules—I hoped this would be another such successful run. We had more than enough to worry about without wondering if the North Eastern were doing their part of the work.

  “Tell me, Guthrie,” Holmes said in a low voice as I made my way back to where he stood at the end of the bar. “What do you think Mister Jardine did that made someone willing to kill him?” He began to toy with his watch-fob. “This is more my brother’s area of expertise than mine, but let us apply his methods.”

  “All right,” I said as I watched Inspector Carew begin to pour over the plan I had done of the lounge, occasionally consulting the statements Mycroft Holmes had prepared for him. I had no doubt that beneath that aloof facade, the man was thorough and dogged.

  “Ah, yes,” Holmes said following my gaze, “Inspector Jasper Carew. You would think that he saw corpses on every train coming through Bedford for all the response he has made. Too cool by half, if you ask me.” He folded his arms and braced his shoulders against the wall, accommodating the movement of the car. At this reduced speed, we swayed and jostled more than we had done at our earlier, faster pace. “He bears watching. And, of course, he is watching us.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m aware of that.”

  “Good for you, Guthrie. You have learned to hide your awareness, which is a very great advantage in our work.” He glanced toward Mister Dunmuir, who was staring out the window, nothing in his demeanor to suggest he was upset. “I wish I knew more about that man.”

  “Why? Why Dunmuir more than another?” I asked a touch more sharply than was called for. I did not like to see fellow-Scots accused or even suspected of criminal activities.

  Mycroft Holmes answer was bland. “Because he had a greater chance to observe Jardine than most of us did.”

  “I suppose he did,” I allowed, recognizing how accurate his statement was. “That is assuming he paid any more attention than necessary. You saw how they were during lunch—Dunmuir and Heath exchanged perhaps a dozen words with Jardine, most of them about salt and pepper.” I was not going to be put off my guard quite so easily. I swayed as the train pulled around the long, gentle, westerly curve leading to the straightaway into Wellingborough and Kettering beyond.

  “They were not very expressive,” Holmes agreed. “I cannot help but find it puzzling.” He twirled his watch-fob some more, like one of those eastern mystics with his prayer wheel. “Why did they sit together at lunch if they had nothing to talk about.”

  “Perhaps they preferred solitary—” I broke off as Inspector Carew got to his feet and came toward Mycroft Holmes.

  “You did a very good job, Mister Holcomb—a very good job. Which still puzzles me, but let that pass.” He turned toward Rollins. “How much longer do you need with the body?”

  “Five more minutes and then he can be placed in the baggage compartment,” Rollins answered.

  Behind the bar, Whitfield looked up sharply. “I’d better go and make sure there’s room for him. We can’t have him rolling about on the passengers’ cases.” He slapped his palm down on the bar. “Closed for ten minutes, gents.” He bent down and picked up one of his crates, then made for the inner door into the luggage compartment where his supplies were also stored.

  “Conscientious,” said Inspector Carew. “Don’t see that too often nowadays.” He held up the papers. “Rollins, will you keep these with you? That’s a good fellow.” He handed the papers to Rollins then regarded Mycroft Holmes. “Shall we deal with your sick friend? You will have to run the gamut in terms of questions from other passengers. If you would prefer to wait until after Leicester, I can well understand.”

  “I think it would be best to look in on Herr Schere,” said Mycroft Holmes crisply. “He is in charge of the Vienna office. I wouldn’t want him thinking I was lax in my duty to Satchel’s by neglecting him.”

  “Is he aware there is a body in the lounge?” Inspector Carew inquired.

  “I suppose he must do,” Holmes answered, frowning. “I trust he will not develop a dislike of travel in England because of this.” He shouldered his way to the door. “Inspector, if you will be good enough to come with me. Guthrie?”

  “At once, Mister Holcomb.” I clutched my portfolio and followed after the two taller men, going past the constable on the platform to the dining car. I found the wonderful odors of roasting capon unappealing as I made my way between the tables, trying not to disturb the waiters who were changing napery and glasses; the second bartender was alone at his table, the last of his meal before him. The second-class carriage was oddly quiet, the occupants of the various compartments busying themselves with reading papers or other private activities. I wondered what the constable said that had had so daunting an impact on them all.

  Arriving at Prince Oscar’s compartment in the first-class car, I held back as Mycroft Holmes knocked on the door. “Herr Schere? It is Micah Holcomb come to see how you are doing.”

  The door slid open and Miss Gatspy appeared. “Good afternoon, Mister Holcomb,” she said with a demureness I knew was not hers. “Herr Schere is resting. If you must speak to him, then let me make him more comfortable.” With that she closed the door again, leaving the three of us standing in the narrow corridor.

  “A most personable woman,” said Inspector Carew with a speculative shine in his eyes.

  I bridled in her defense; luckily no one saw me. “Nurse Gatspy is most capable,” I said, trying to sound approving and coming off pompous.

  “Guthrie is right,” said Mycroft Holmes with a slight smile. “Her skills are beyond question. That she is fair and conducts herself well re
commends her the more.” He looked back at the door as Miss Gatspy opened it again. Obedient to her signal we crowded into the compartment.

  Prince Oscar lay on the wide bench that had been made up as a day-bed. He wore his smoking jacket, surrounded by pillows. On the pull-out table was a tray with a teapot and the rest of the service for tea, as well as a small bottle of Benedictine that had only just been opened. The Prince waved languidly to us. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I am sorry I cannot rise to shake your hands.”

  “How are you feeling, Herr Schere?” Mycroft Holmes asked. “May I present Inspector Jasper Carew? Herr Osrich Schere of Satchel’s Guides, Vienna.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Inspector. As you can see, Mister Holcomb, I am the better for Miss Gatspy’s help,” he replied, with such a look at her that I longed to tell him how offensive I found his behavior. Perhaps Princes were allowed such liberty, but no man of good character would so compromise the—

  “Guthrie has been assisting Inspector Carew here deal with the dead man in the lounge,” said Mycroft Holmes, laying his hand warningly on my shoulder.

  “Oh, bravo, Mister Guthrie,” said Miss Gatspy, her blue eyes alight with mischief. “I should like to see your efforts.”

  “And so you shall,” Holmes promised her before giving his attention to Prince Oscar once more. “Herr Schere, I fear we may be delayed; our arrival in Edinburgh will be later than we expected. I trust you will not be too inconvenienced?”

  “I presume you can make alternate arrangements for me?” His brows were pale so the lift he gave them was not so noticeable as it would have been had they been dark. “I am sure you will work out something.”

  “Of course,” said Mycroft Holmes heartily. “We can’t have the publisher of Satchel’s Vienna left to fend for himself like a tradesman.”

  Inspector Carew seemed satisfied. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I hope you make a full recovery.”

  Prince Oscar remembered to cough. “I think Miss Gatspy has made me better already,” he said with another of his knowing glances; I recalled again that the Prince had gone carousing with Sir Cameron during his stay in London, and I had to force myself to listen with composure. “Still, I think it is best if I remain here in my compartment, under her care, for the rest of the journey.”

  Miss Gatspy’s smile could only be called a smirk. “Why, thank you, Herr Schere; you’re much too kind.” She shot a glance at me from under her lashes that made me want to throw something. I reminded myself this was an excellent way to guard Prince Oscar now that this unfortunate murder had taken place, and that Miss Gatspy was helping us, but it made little difference to my conviction that she was deliberately provoking me.

  A loud bellow from the front of the car claimed all our attention, and a moment later we heard a timid voice raised in dismay, “But Sir Cameron, I can’t!”

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

  Word should have come from Bedford by now, but no telegram has been delivered. I have said nothing to Sutton regarding my concern, but he can read the clock as well as anyone and he knows it is past time that a telegram should have come. Which leads to two questions: has a telegram been sent and intercepted, or has no telegram been sent? If intercepted, by whom, and in which direction? Was mine purloined, or was MH’s? If the telegram was never sent, why was it not? Both possibilities are troublesome, but both in very different ways.

  Without the telegram from MH, I do not know which of his instructions to follow, which is especially distressing now, for one or the other plan must be put into effect soon or we will lose what little advantage we have secured for ourselves.

  ... I suppose I should prepare telegrams for Leicester and pray they are received. If nothing occurs to hurry me, I will try to hold off taking any action until my second round of instructions arrives ...

  “OH, GOOD LORD!” Mycroft Holmes exclaimed over a renewed outburst from compartment one, “Sir Cameron MacMillian.”

  Inspector Carew was immediately interested, more in our reaction than in the altercation in compartment one. “How do you know that?”

  “Well, how do you think?” Mycroft Holmes demanded impatiently. “I have seen him before, of course—”

  “Yes. He does like to have himself before the public eye,” said Prince Oscar, with a fastidious expression that eloquently displayed his disgust of such antics.

  “That he does,” Holmes seconded, adding, “I saw him come aboard this morning,” he told the Inspector. “He was not what you would call sober, and he demanded more drink at once.”

  “Can’t think how he can stomach it, on a moving train and all,” I added.

  “Guthrie, don’t be cheeky.” Mycroft Holmes swung around. “For the sake of Herr Schere’s health, would you be good enough to go down and see what is wrong?”

  I was astonished that Holmes would suggest such a thing, for it was possible that Sir Cameron would recognize me and put an end to our subterfuge. I was about to protest when a new, louder roar was set up. “Oh, all right. I only wish I had a quarterstaff,” I said.

  Miss Gatspy spoke unexpectedly. “I have something that will work as well,” she said, adding, “I’ll just go along to my compartment. I shan’t be long.” She did not wait for permission but slipped out of the room.

  “Excellent nurse,” Prince Oscar approved and I wondered if I saw something sly in the way he praised her. It was distressing to think that the Prince might use his high position to take advantage of her.

  “Yes; that is our understanding,” said Mycroft Holmes. “She would probably blush to hear us praise her so.”

  From what I knew of Miss Gatspy, blushing was the last thing she would do; her demure manner was a calculated performance, and her porcelain skin and limpid blue eyes created an impression that was far from the truth. I knew Holmes expected me to say something to support his observation, so I said, “She is not often given all the credit she deserves.”

  “Nor, I suspect, would she take it if it were offered.” I knew my employer was enjoying himself hugely; I hoped that Inspector Carew would not become suspicious.

  Prince Oscar spared us all any more awkwardness by saying, “I reckon it would be a wise precaution to have nurses on all trains.”

  “A most novel idea,” said Inspector Carew, his expression lightening. “There are physicians on ships, aren’t there? A nurse on a train might be a good safety measure.”

  “Tell the railroads, if you think it would be useful,” Holmes recommended as the door slid open and Miss Gatspy returned, a screw of paper in her hand.

  “I’m sorry this took so long, gentlemen; I had to measure from a bottle, and on a moving train, this is not easily done.” She managed a shy smile and went on, “This is a compound that causes lethargy. Those who have indulged as Sir Cameron has tend to sleep long and soundly under its influence.” She put the screw of paper in my hand. “If you add it to his drink, he will be snoring in twenty minutes.”

  Inspector Carew regarded her in mystification. “Do you always travel with medical supplies, Miss Gatspy?”

  “Why, yes, of course,” she said as if hers was the most ordinary conduct in the world. “I find I need to be prepared. Nurses are often more readily to hand than physicians in emergencies, don’t you think?”

  “True enough,” said Mycroft Holmes, swinging around to look at me. “Well, Guthrie, good luck. If there is anything we can do to assist, you have only to inform us.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, dreading facing Sir Cameron again.

  Inspector Carew spoke up. “You have had experience with this woman before? You have reason to trust her?”

  “We have met on our travels and seen her deal with more than one emergency,” was the last thing I heard as I left the Prince’s compartment and went along down the corridor to Sir Cameron’s. I knocked on the doo
r only to have it nearly skin my knuckles as it was opened with considerable force.

  The valet, his face quite pale, stood ready, it seemed, to apologize. He did his best to block the way into the compartment, but over his shoulder I could see the place was in disarray. I could just make out Sir Cameron’s shoulder, hunched as if to hide, near the window. “The trouble is, Sir Cameron wants another bottle of brandy, but the constables won’t allow it.” His long, narrow face had all the features crowded into the middle, seeking the shelter of his long, prominent nose, the only distinctive feature he possessed.

  “Is Sir Cameron without ... without anything to drink?” I asked, recalling his demand for brandy as we departed King’s Cross. He had been a sot when I had encountered him in Germany, he had been a sot in London five years ago, and he continued a sot in the years since; but it appeared that his vice had worsened.

  The valet nodded and whispered, “It was the wedding, sir—at Saint Paul’s?—there were four receptions and a few more occasions Sir Cameron was moved to attend. He became caught up in things, and, as you see ...” He dared not finish his thoughts.

  “I see he is fairly far gone,” I said, quietly but bluntly. “Do you think he should drink anything more?”

  Before the valet could answer, Sir Cameron surged up energetically if unsteadily and hove himself around to face the door. His features, always ruddy, were now florid; and his ginger mutton-chop whiskers bristled like a tomcat’s; his hair, I noticed with ungracious satisfaction, was all but gone on his pate, and the pouches under his eyes were more pronounced. He squinted in my direction. “Who the bloody hell is that, then?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir; we were wondering if anything were wrong?” I knew Sir Cameron well enough to know it was folly to suggest anything was actually amiss. “We heard shouting, and considering there has been a murder on this train, we thought it best to check. Inspector Carew is with us, the officer in charge of the investigation.”