Tired as I was, I could not quiet my mind, which all but sang with commotion, as if it were a busy train station and all my thoughts were locomotives coming and going in furious enterprise. I chuckled a little at my conceit, which I thought showed a certain aptness to the moment, but I could not will my muscles to relax, for when I tried, I began to fret, thinking I would drift to sleep and be unavailable in an imminent-but-undefined emergency. After a while, I stopped forcing myself to release tension and began to consider the various passengers I had encountered, attempting to discern any resemblance to the assassins who might well be on board. For once I was sorry I had not bothered to look closely at the two rear cars, for now it struck me that they might well provide an excellent place for Loki to hide, where our attention would not be turned while we relied upon the dining car and the lounge to separate us from Glasgow-bound villains. Not that I supposed the assassin would have been obliging enough to put himself on the Glasgow cars, for from what we had been told to that moment, we had no reason to think the man-whichever one it was—was stupid. I kept stopping at the various waiters and other staff of the train, thinking that anyone new among their numbers must stand out to the rest of the staff if not to those of us who were traveling. I did not like to dwell on the possibility that something had become of Whitfield, for it not only cast question on his replacement, but not knowing Whitfield’s fate left me prey to many speculations, none of which served to lull me into repose. Wrestling with phantoms of my own invention, I waited for the first signs that we were nearing Carlisle.
FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS
Not ten minutes ago Sutton returned with some information that, if true, causes me the gravest apprehension. What he has imparted is so weighty a matter that I dare not set the particulars down here for fear such a record would compromise good men if they are shown to be free of any taint of wrong-doing. The name is not so common that it can be dismissed as without meaning, but it is not so rare that it can be pointed to as absolute proof of so unthinkable a connection. I will have to prepare a second telegram for MH and then send Hastings to the station to wire it forthwith. I must hope that it will reach MH at Carlisle; in case it does not, I will send a duplicate of the message to Edinburgh, although I fear if MH does not learn of it presently, he may well be in grave danger. If I had time I would try to include supporting information, but as I haven’t received the same, I must act with what I have to hand. Then I shall set Hastings to watching for any activity that will confirm or negate the deduction Sutton has offered to account for what he has stumbled upon, which I have asked him to describe in detail. That must be telegraphed to Edinburgh. MH may dismiss the whole as conjecture or he may have some other means to account for what appears to be most reprehensible in the current light I must shed on the report presented to me. I hesitate only because I fear to blacken a name through a simple error. Honorable and trustworthy as I know Sutton to be, for all he is an actor, I will require closer scrutiny than he has been able to provide; if he is correct, he will be in danger until the guilty party is taken into custody. I should also send word to Scotland Yard as soon as I can determine to whom I may safely present such observances. The scandal this revelation—if revelation it is—could bring is painful to contemplate.
In regard to these matters, I have had word from Commander Winslowe once again, who is standing staunch in his championing the police. Should Sutton’s information prove accurate, Commander Winslowe may find he has followed the wrong banner. He demands a report from me regarding the progress of the train and the safety of HHPO, along with full reports of all incidents that might have some direct implication for the police. I have nothing to tell him that he would find acceptable, so I must take it upon myself to postpone his outcry at least until morning. Given the hour, that should not be as difficult as it would have been had the Scotsman run on time. Never did I think I should be grateful for tardiness, but so I am ...
I have sent a note around to CI Somerford but have not yet received a reply. Ordinarily this would not cause me apprehension, but after what Sutton has told me, I cannot remain sanguine where any policeman of rank is concerned. There could be serious consequences for MH and his companions if the police are truly as compromised as it now appears they are ...
A courier from the Admiralty has provided revised times of arrival for the Flying Scotsman, as given to them by the North Eastern line. According to their estimates, the Flying Scotsman should arrive in Edinburgh at 12:48 A.M., which may well be its slowest time on record. What matters most now is its arrival, not the time. I trust word will be sent as soon as MH and G are safely at the club and HHPO is sleeping under naval guard.
No more time. Must get this to King’s Cross at once.
THE switching yards at Carlisle were a maze worthy of Hampton Court. There was a switch every fifty or so paces. These allowed the cars to be moved between trains most effectively, but meant that there were no through or main tracks, but rather a jumble of possible routes. The whole was choreographed by flags, telegraph, and whistles from a tower in the center, though it seems likely the most they could accomplish in their efforts was the prevention of the worst disasters. Since colored lights over some of the tracks gave an indication of when it was safe to proceed, I gave them my attention as we began our progress through the confusion. As I watched, a small engine belching gray smoke rushed past on an adjoining track that lay only a few feet from ours, shuttling a closed box-car from one train to another. Even now, well into the night, the yard was active, with freights from Newcastle vying with an excursion train from Dumfries for the track to the south, while we were shunted along toward the main station to allow the Carlisle passengers to depart. We were traveling very slowly—I could have walked as fast without undue effort—tracing our way among the rails as we made our way to our destination.
We stopped opposite a newly painted sign: the city’s name in blocked black letters over white that hung off the wooden shelter that afforded protection from the rain to those waiting closest to the station’s main building. This was a brick-and-wood structure bordered along its impressive length by a long wooden platform. The brick of the station itself had been recently scrubbed and the window frames painted a bright white. Small knots of porters and passengers waited where the cars for their class of service were disgorging passengers. The steam brakes in the locomotive engine spurted loudly, causing a horse harnessed to a carriage nearby to rear and whinny in protest.
I waited, ready to sprint to the telegraph office. My portfolio was under my arm, the texts of the various messages I was to send newly deposited within it. I was still somewhat stiff from my earlier experiences, but not as impaired as I feared I might be. I saw the office I sought at the far end of a number of platforms, and I knew I would have to be quick about my work if I were to do all that I needed to in the time allowed me.
There were men waiting to unload the Glasgow baggage standing next to those clearly waiting for Carlisle arrivals; they did not mill so much as simmer in anticipation, and I was reminded of the quays in Constantinople for the state of readiness I saw. The train signaled its stopping with an elaborate display of steam released into the night, and the whole stopped with a solid jerk that left me glad I had taken hold of the railing.
At once the station was alive with activity as the men waiting to off-load baggage came forward and the process of separating the Glasgow portion of the train from the Edinburgh began in earnest.
I did not linger to watch the process; I headed at a fast walk toward the telegraph office, my senses telling me my telegram texts were vital. Had I a more imaginative bent of mind I might have supposed they were about to burst into flame; as it was, the urgency of my mission kept me moving. At least, I thought as I dodged a handcart laden with trunks and cases, this was not the busiest time of the day, for that would have made my task more difficult. I kept moving, and when I reached the telegraph office, I hurriedl
y went inside and asked for the telegrams that had been sent to me as I handed over the new ones and a £5 note to expedite the sending.
The telegraph operator, a keen-faced man of fifty or so, handed five telegrams to me without comment beyond, “One came in two minutes since,” and began the first of the messages Mycroft Holmes had prepared. He tapped out the letters with the efficiency of long experience, no sign of expression in his eyes in regard to the nature of the message he was transmitting. He finished the first as I put the ones I had received into my portfolio. He began the second with the same expressionless demeanor, glancing at the page from time to time as he continued to communicate the text.
“Any difficulties?” I asked, wondering if I should leave before I saw the whole of them dispatched.
“No. Very clear it is,” he answered, a soft Scottish burr in his voice that set me into a nostalgic mood for several heartbeats. “It will be in London shortly.”
“Thank you,” I said, and prepared to leave.
“You’re going in late, aren’t you?” he asked, as I reached the door.
His question startled me. “How do you mean?”
“Oh, only that the Flying Scotsman has never had so slow a run. You’re making something of a record tonight.” He winked and his face became almost elfin. “I have half a bob on your not making it to Edinburgh before one in the morning.” He continued to tap out letters as I stared at him.
“You bet on such things?” I knew I should not be surprised, but I was unable to contain my astonishment.
“Why not? The Scotsman’s always good for a bet, but usually not for being slow.” He motioned me to go away, and I did, my thoughts in consternation as I went out into the confusion of the station.
The unloading of the Flying Scotsman’s baggage compartment was coming along quite well, for the Glasgow-bound baggage had been stored in the same area of the compartment. Those leaving the train had a slightly more complicated situation to deal with, but nothing so involved that it could not be readily handled. I was about to climb back aboard the first car when curiosity got the better of me. I determined to find out why the baggage-compartment door had been secured by a chain when I had attempted to get into the compartment earlier.
A porter was just leaving the compartment with a handcart half-laden with leather-strapped cases. He barely looked at me as I went past him into the compartment, muttering something about a forgotten train-case. The porter tipped his cap and kept on going as I looked about in the darkness to assess the condition of the place.
The supplies for the bar were nearest the narrow door leading to it, kept in place by wide canvas belts that held the cartons and bottles without danger of breakage. I noticed that one of the barman’s aprons was draped over the back of this stack, which suggested to me that Quest was not on duty in the lounge. Next to this there was the stowed baggage for the front two cars of the train, stacked neatly and held by rope nets that prevented shifting during travel, a feature the fast trains took great pride in providing. For that reason alone I was somewhat surprised to see a small trunk canted at an angle at the back of the compartment; I assumed it had been knocked aside during the unloading of the Glasgow baggage.
I started toward the trunk with the intention of setting it to rights when I discovered a hand protruding from beneath it. Suddenly I was consumed with curiosity and dismay. Just as I moved closer, the baggage compartment door slammed closed and the first clanking of the uncoupling of the rear cars began with a groaning of metal as dismal as any reputed ghostly wail in Scotland. The darkness was not complete, for a low light burned near the door into the bar, but it provided only sufficient illumination to make it possible for the barkeep to find his bottles; the rest of the compartment was engulfed in gloom.
Holding onto the heavy netting on the Edinburgh baggage, I resolved to make my way to the angled trunk in order to investigate further. I had to feel my way once the shadow of the stacked baggage overwhelmed me. So it was that I realized that the arm belonged to a corpse, and the dead man had not been there long enough for the skin to be noticeably cool. I was torn between the wish to discover the man’s identity and the knowledge that the scene should remain undisturbed for the police—for they would have to be summoned.
I could not see or reach the dead man’s face, but I was very much afraid I had discovered the absent Whitfield. I stood very still, trying to decide what to do and knowing the authorities had to be notified. But that could mean another significant delay; and with Loki pursuing Prince Oscar—it was an assumption but one I felt it prudent to make—such a delay could completely undermine the whole of our mission. I did not want to leave the body for the porters to find at Edinburgh, but I did not want to give Loki any more advantage than he already had. Reluctantly I decided to leave the body where it was so that we could continue on. I knew this decision would hang heavily on my conscience, but the death of Prince Oscar would be a far greater tragedy than the death of this poor man. The final clang of separation from the rear cars served as the passing bell for the dead man. I vowed I would return to see him accorded the respect he was owed, and I apologized for leaving him alone once more.
Duty made me rise and step into the bar. Hoping that I would not encounter Quest, I let myself out through the bar-hatch at the end of it, startling a square-faced man whom I vaguely recalled from the dining car; he was smoking a rum-soaked cigar and reading a Midlands paper.
“Have you seen the conductor?” I asked him, as if there was nothing remarkable in any of this.
“On the platform, helping the uncoupling,” he replied, goggling. He continued to stare at the side of my face where bruises had formed. “We’ll be pulling out shortly.”
“And the barkeep?” I wanted to prepare myself for anything. If Quest were aiding Loki—or worse, if he were Loki, he was an ordinary-enough man—I would have to be ready to confront a vicious enemy.
The man shrugged. “After hours. He’s probably asleep somewhere.”
I saw he was becoming curious and would commence asking me questions, which I needed to forestall. “Thank you,” I said, and hastened toward the dining car, holding onto my portfolio as if it contained the revelations of all mysteries. I had to account for my decision when I handed the telegrams I carried to Mycroft Holmes, for he would need to be informed about the dead man. I attempted to console myself with the reflection that this timely warning would make up for the impulsiveness of my entering the baggage compartment.
The maître d’ looked at me in some alarm as I came through the dining car; he muttered a few syllables of commiseration at the sight of my face but made no effort to detain me. The waiters were cleaning the tables and putting up the chairs for the night, and none of them paid any attention to me as I went on into the second-class car. Here I noticed many of the shades were down, and the compartments darkened, which made the hour seem later than it was; and for a brief moment, I yearned for sleep. Then I crossed the platform into the first-class car and felt the first surge and rattle that signaled our departure. The last leg of our journey was about to begin, a realization that elated and appalled me in the same breath.
Mycroft Holmes did not seem worried when I entered his compartment. “I was beginning to think you had become lost, dear boy,” he said as if the possibility afforded him no other emotion than boredom. There was a moment of silence before he spoke again. “Lost in a memory, Guthrie. From a time I was here, not long ago.” Despite the tension our dilemma must be causing he smiled wistfully. “At Portabello, that’s as we enter Edinburgh, there is a quite significant S curve. It suffers, I’m afraid, from the rather insufficient elevation that troubles so many of our main lines here in Britain. Worse yet, this curve ends on a high bridge over a wide road. The event I have been recalling was the last of the great runs in the Race to the North. A chap named Rous-Marten was juggling four watches in order to accurately determine the
train’s speed. He announced it was eighty-two miles per hour a few miles before we entered the Portabello curve, which is usually taken at less than ten miles per hour. You may imagine the excitement. Everyone appreciated both the speed and his concern. We were all there by invitation, as select a group of rail aficionados as could be found in this island.”
“I was returning from the Continent at that time, was I not?” I asked, wanting to fix the time in my thoughts.
“So you were,” said Mycroft Holmes. “It was then, as we entered the curve, that Percy Caldecott announced that we had better all brace ourselves or we would be thrown right out of the windows. The two Worsdsells kept running full out and suddenly we were thrown about as if in a Rugby scrum. Most of us ended up on top of Rous-Marten who amazingly held onto all four watches and the left part of a seat. Without his warning I suspect we all might have been thrown through the glass and into the Duddington Road.” He chuckled. “When we emerged from the curve we were on mile one, almost into Waverley Station, and after consulting his watches Rous-Marten announced we were still plummeting forward at the rate of sixty-four miles per hour. It was, Guthrie, a good thing that Waverley Station has a long run or we’d have ended that on the stair up to Princes Street.” Emerging from his brief reverie, Mycroft Holmes returned abruptly to the very different peril we faced on these same tracks. “So, did you get the replies we desired?” he asked reaching out with an open hand, still smiling faintly.
The Flying Scotsman Page 31
