The Flying Scotsman

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “If you think so,” said Whitfield, looking in Mycroft Holmes’ direction. “Strange fellow, that Holcomb. Too clever by half.”

  “It’s the travel,” I said, hoping he would make more sense out of my remark than I could.

  “All that talk about poison. Quite puts me off.” He polished the wood automatically, his attention on Holmes and the Inspector. “Don’t like to think about how he comes to know it.”

  “Now then, gentlemen,” said Inspector Carew. “I am sure you are all anxious to have this unfortunate event behind you, and Mister Holcomb has persuaded me that he might be able to show how the murder was done and who did it. I have discussed his theories with him, and I am satisfied that they may well offer the solution to this crime. Therefore, I ask you to listen to him and answer any questions he may put to you.” He gave a nod in Mycroft Holmes’ direction. “There you are, Mister Holcomb. The rest is up to you.”

  “In other words, you are permitting me to damn myself if my conclusions are incorrect.” Holmes’ tone was dry. “Understood.” He straightened himself up to his considerable height, took a deep breath, and began. “When Mister Jardine first came into the lounge car, Mister Heath and Mister Dunmuir were seated—there.” He pointed to the table they had shared. “My illustrator was at the bar. Have I got that right, Whitfield?”

  “That you have, sir,” the barkeep answered promptly.

  “In other words, Mister Jardine sat as far away from Dunmuir and Heath as he possibly could,” Holmes declared. “He could have been trying to hide from them.”

  “You might say that,” Whitfield said, as if the notion were new to him. “He didn’t seem the sociable type.”

  A few men made noises of agreement. I saw one of the men point to Heath and whisper something to his neighbor.

  Holmes rocked back on his heels. “Did none of you think it strange that the man should be wearing clothes more suited to the paddock than to travel?”

  “Thought the fellow was rude and inconsiderate,” said Mister Olwin.

  “He was dressed for the paddock,” Holmes went on as if Olwin had not spoken, “because he was trying to escape.” He paused for effect, just as Edmund Sutton would have done. “He had left the track without taking more than his bags. He packed and fled. You may imagine his dread when he stepped into this car and found the men he had been hoping to elude sitting together as if they were waiting for him.”

  “Just a minute here ...,” Heath began. “I never met this man before today”—he indicated Dunmuir—“and as for the dead man, aside from sharing a table with him at luncheon, I have no acquaintance with him whatsoever.” His face was growing pink and his eyes glittered.

  “In a moment I shall demonstrate that isn’t true,” Mycroft Holmes said confidently. “You, Mister Heath, not only knew Mister Jardine, but you and Mister Dunmuir were part of a criminal ring fixing horse races. You, sir, are a bookie, and Mister Dunmuir is a breeder, one of the most respected in the North. But of late affairs have gone against you, have they not, Mister Dunmuir?”

  Mister Dunmuir was packing his pipe and gave Holmes a long stare. “You’re the one telling tales, laddie, not I.”

  Who, I wondered, was Mycroft Holmes’ source for information in the racing world. In an instant I realized he had had recourse to his brother’s formidable files. When had he perused the material on horse racing, and why had he bothered? There had been some word of a scandal in the papers, but why should Mycroft Holmes have any reason to pursue the matter? I would have to ask him when the occasion permitted.

  “You, Heath, and Jardine have been feeding horses—often your own, so you could profit by betting against them—various substances to compromise their performance on the track. Only it went wrong this last time, didn’t it?”

  Heath started forward only to find Constable Washbourne at his side. “You have no basis for these accusations.”

  “You think not?” Holmes asked, and gave Heath a long time to answer. When nothing more was said, Holmes went on. “There was a mishap at the track, wasn’t there, one that brought inquiries too close to you, and which caused Jardine to panic. When you discovered he had decamped, you set out to get him, and to silence him.”

  “Preposterous!” Heath bellowed.

  “He was the weak link in your chain. He, being a trainer, was distressed by how the horses were being treated. I am guessing he wanted to end the ... er ... enterprise, and you would not let him. With this scandal, you were convinced he would turn against you and give your scheme away to the authorities.” Holmes set down his empty pony on the bar; Whitfield took it promptly. “There have been rumors for the last two years about tampering with the races, although there was no proof. But with the jockey dead, there is going to be an intense scrutiny, and you all were aware your activities would be revealed.”

  “Assuming there is any truth in this farrago of yours, sir,” said Dunmuir, pausing to light his pipe, “why should we maintain so elaborate a ruse on this train? Why should we not travel together, the better to plan how to avoid the consequences of our reprehensible acts?”

  “Because, as I have said, Jardine bolted. You had originally planned something of the sort, I suppose.” Holmes looked over at Heath, whose face was now mottled red and white, declaring either guilt or the righteous indignation of an innocent man. “You had to get away, and Mister Dunmuir could provide you a place to go to ground at his estate in Scotland. Jardine was on his way home to Glasgow. I believe Jardine thought he had a one-day lead on you.”

  Inspector Carew spoke up. “On Mister Holcomb’s suggestion, I have gathered a number of newspapers from the passengers on this train, and there is indeed much attention given to the death of the jockey. The police are investigating it, and a number of irregularities from the track.” He held up a number of newspapers, rolled into an untidy tube. “It is all here. Scotland Yard have begun their inquiries.”

  “What makes you think that has anything to do with us?” Mister Dunmuir seemed almost bored. “Why should either of us know Mister Jardine, let alone kill him? Your story would probably do very well in the theatre, but it will not answer in court.”

  “But it will, you know,” said Mycroft Holmes. “The police will hold you in Leicester while they search your home in Scotland and your office in London. It is likely you will have left some note or other evidence of your plot.”

  It took Mister Dunmuir a shade too long to respond. “I will demand restitution for any invasion of my privacy.”

  “It will be forthcoming, of course, if nothing incriminating is found,” said Inspector Carew. He noticed Mister Heath was sweating. “Washbourne, take the two of them into the lav, will you, and keep watch at the door? I have a few more questions for them once they compose themselves.”

  A few of the passengers were looking relieved; one of them offered to buy a round of drinks, and in an instant a hectic melioration was spreading throughout the lounge. Whitfield hopped to his job as Constable Washbourne escorted Heath and Dunmuir to the lav. I watched them go with a degree of bafflement; I had not thought the matter would be so swiftly concluded. I admitted as much, sotto voce, to Mycroft Holmes, who replied, “The Inspector needs a good reason to hold the train at Leicester until he can get instructions from the Yard. This provides him one.”

  “Then it was a ruse?” I asked, shocked at the notion.

  “Possibly; although I am certain those two men were behind Camus Jardine’s murder. I may have the details wrong, and it may be Heath and not Dunmuir was the instigator, but I doubt it. Dunmuir has the right demeanor.” He accepted another pony of shooting sherry. “I don’t want the police aboard the train any longer than necessary, for Schere’s sake.” He took a sip of the fortified wine.

  I had declined more drink, knowing I might easily become sleepy and inattentive if I allowed myself anymore such indulgence. With the s
train of the last two days, I knew that I would not be able to resist the sweet seduction of rest if I had stronger drink than tea, so I ordered a pot of Assam from Whitfield, explaining myself by saying, “I had wine at luncheon.”

  “Very abstemious sort, aren’t you?” He signaled the kitchen for the order, adding, “You want milk and sugar with that?”

  “Sugar only,” I said, knowing I would want the full benefit of the tea. I had come to marvel at Mycroft Holmes’ capacity for drink, which seemed to have little or no impact on him. Some men had such constitutions, and my employer was undoubtedly one of them; I was not made of such hardy stuff—when tired, drink invariably made me sleepy.

  Inspector Carew made a point of putting a light touch on the moment. “Those of you who need the necessary room, use the ones in other cars. For the moment, the one in this one is engaged.” It was a feeble enough joke, but one the men in the lounge car were glad to laugh at.

  Beside me, Mycroft Holmes said quietly, “No inspection of the train. We have something to be grateful for.”

  “Amen,” I said with feeling. “And perhaps in Leicester we can use the telegraph station to reach Tyers.”

  “I should think so,” said Mycroft Holmes, his long face appearing jovial now. “No doubt Tyers has enlightened himself as to our predicament.”

  I knew better than to ask how he might accomplish this; instead I regarded Holmes with an inquiring eye. “Have you discerned who among the police has been working against us?”

  “Not yet. I am lacking two crucial pieces of information. Once I have them in hand, I will be prepared to tell you all.” He laid his long, straight finger aside his nose, as if he actually were a journalist who made his living writing about his travels.

  “As you say,” I responded, then added, “Do you think one of us should visit the first car?”

  “Yes, but not yet. We do not want to draw any more attention to the car than is necessary. We have to remember that part of a disguise is being unnoticed.” He smiled a bit. “When one or two of the men, here have gone off to the lavs in the other cars, then one of us will be able to leave without being conspicuous.”

  Inspector Carew made his way to Holmes’ side. “Constable Washbourne knows his duty. You need not fear that those men will bribe him. If they attack, Constable Snow is on the platform and ready to assist.” He looked at Holmes carefully. “I must say, your assessment of the crime was most astute.”

  “Well, m’ father was a magistrate in Swindon. He taught me a great deal about crime and criminals.” He had a smile worthy of a Cheshire Cat. I tried not to stare at this clever fiction.

  “How does it happen,” the Inspector asked, so nonchalantly that I, for one, was instantly on guard, “that the son of a magistrate is a journalist? Wouldn’t you have trained for the bar?”

  “No talent for it, and no money to pay for it,” said Mycroft Holmes, with the bluntness of one long used to such questions. “As it was, my brother has filled that place, while I have become a kind of professional vagabond, going about the world and reporting on what I find.” He winked at Inspector Carew. “You learn a lot, going about the world.”

  “No doubt,” said Inspector Carew drily. As Whitfield handed him a second glass of ale, he added, “Had some run-in with criminals in your travels, haven’t you?”

  “What traveler has not?” Holmes countered. “I have seen my share of skulduggery, I believe.”

  “Which accounts for your knowledge of poisons,” said Inspector Carew.

  “Inspector, any man traveling on his own in foreign climes had better be alert to these things or he will never live to file his report. Foreigners are often targets for certain criminal elements. This is true in London, or Paris, or Rome, but it is the more so in regions beyond our usual travel. One must be on guard against poisons, against thieves, against murderers, against the greedy and the zealous. A man in my position has to tell the readers of Satchel’s Guides where it is not safe to go as well as where it is, and what the dangers are as well as the sights.”

  “Very likely,” said Inspector Carew, and turned his interrogation on me. “Have you had the same experience. To illustrate the publications, you must go to many of the same places as Holcomb here has gone.”

  “My travels are not nearly as extensive, but I agree with Mister Holcomb.” I did my best to be amiable, but I was beginning to feel some exasperation as well. “Before you ask, I am a Scot, as you probably can hear in my voice, though I have called London my home for nine years and more. My mother is a widow with other children, so when I could, I went out to earn my own way in the world.” It was true enough for broad strokes, although it conveyed an impression that was not accurate, as I intended it should.

  “Have you encountered any trouble with poisons in your travels?” His inquiry was so bald that I spoke in haste.

  “In Constantinople, some time ago, a fellow slipped one of those devilish Chinese rice-sprouts in a tiny bag into my food. It would have sliced my guts to ribbons had I eaten it. That might not be a classic poison, but it is close enough for me,” I said, the burr in my words stronger than usual, clear indication of my emotions. Even thinking of that ghastly moment when the tiny bag was discovered had the capacity to make me unpleasantly giddy. “What Mister Holcomb tells you is true.”

  “Would Herr Schere say the same thing, I wonder,” the Inspector ventured, his eyes dreamy.

  “I should think so,” said Mycroft Holmes at once. “He has the Balkans near enough to make him cognizant of the risks as well as the benefits of travel.”

  “Um,” said Inspector Carew, indicating he was withholding judgment for a time.

  “And if you have anything more you would like to ask us, why not do so directly? Mister Guthrie and I understand how important it is for you to do this, and we will gladly answer your questions.” He put his empty pony back on the bar; Whitfield took it at once.

  “I am satisfied. For the moment.” He looked over his shoulder. “I am still surprised that you should be able to discern so much from such minuscule amounts of information.”

  “The trained reporter’s eye, Inspector. I daresay you would have seen as much yourself, had you been in Guthrie’s position, or in mine.” Holmes pointed to my portfolio. “Remember that those who illustrate must see before they can draw. And observing the men through luncheon persuaded me that something was amiss among them.”

  “You’ve made that very clear, Mister Holcomb. You need not repeat it for my bene—” He broke off as a loud crash and the sound of splintering glass came from the rear of the car, followed at once by a loud cry from Constable Washbourne. Inspector Carew was in motion almost before the sounds had died in the rattle of the train.

  Mycroft Holmes was barely a step behind him, and I followed after him, shoving my way through the men who had gathered in the narrow entrance to the corridor that led past the baggage compartment to the lavatory. Shouts of consternation came from Constable Snow on the platform beyond, compounding the confusion around us.

  By the time we reached the lavatory, Constable Washbourne had opened the door and gone in; the Inspector stood in the doorway. “Best fetch Rollins from the luggage compartment,” he said heavily.

  Looking over Mycroft Holmes’ large, square shoulder I could see the window of the lav had been broken. As my employer took a step forward, I saw that Mister Kermit Heath was crumpled on the floor, a great, bloody welt on the side of his head. Blood had run from his nose and ears; it was apparent he was dead.

  Constable Washbourne rose from the side of the body and muttered, “Excuse me, sir,” to Holmes as he went to bring the medical man to view the corpse.

  “Dreadful, quite dreadful,” said Holmes with feeling. “I gather Dunmuir has escaped?”

  “Constable Snow says he threw himself out the window; he saw him land on the embankment, but no
thing more.” Inspector Carew indicated the door onto the platform. “I sent him back out. He was about to be sick.”

  “Small wonder,” I said as I stared at the body.

  “What was his weapon? Such a blow could hardly come from his hand,” Mycroft Holmes remarked as he approached the remains of Mister Heath.

  “I must suppose he had some weapon secreted about his person we did not find.” It was clear from the tone of his voice that he held himself responsible for Heath’s death.

  Holmes was close enough to bend over the body. “Something small, I should think. One of those shot-loaded saps, perhaps, or—” He stopped and scowled. “What a bloody fool I’ve been!” Since he rarely swore, this strong language surprised me.

  “In what sense?” Inspector Carew asked wearily, rising as Rollins came through the door.

  “It was right under our noses all the time,” Mycroft Holmes exclaimed. “The pouch of tobacco. It was larger than most and left a heavy bulge in his pocket. I took this as a sign of long use, but that was not the cause; it was the weight of the sap concealed beneath the tobacco!”

  Mister Rollins knelt down beside the corpse. “A sap is very likely,” he agreed after a cursory examination of the wound. “The skull is broken right at the temple. The skull is thin there and more readily cracked. The killer knew his business.” He put his hand on the dead man’s face. “Probably happened too quickly for him to feel it.”

  “Small comfort,” said Inspector Carew. “Still, I suppose it meant something to Heath.”

  “He had no notion what he was caught up in. At least Dunmuir understood,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Which was why he fled.”

  Inspector Carew leaned over Rollins to look out the shattered window. “We should be able to have police after him as soon as we arrive in Leicester. He’s on foot. They’ll snap him up before the dawn.”