The Scottish Ploy Read online

  “This is preposterous,” said Sir Cameron a short while later. “I have little to report. I arrived, I was received by you and Baron von Schattenberg, there was tea, you sent for some brandy, Baron, and then insisted on some nonsense with the tea. I didn’t think it was at all necessary, but you Germans insisted, so it was done. The next thing I knew, the fellow was ... was on the floor.” He put down his paper. “I can tell you no more.”

  Mycroft Holmes schooled his demeanor to one of sympathy. “It is like you, Sir Cameron, to minimize the danger here. But it is important that you put such considerations aside, much as they do you credit. For it may be that the poison was intended for you.”

  Sir Cameron went very still; I watched the color fade from his cheeks. “What are you saying, Holmes?”

  “I should think it is the obvious conclusion,” Holmes said gravely.

  “That I was the one intended to die?” Sir Cameron demanded. “How could that be possible?”

  “Well, you sustained a most fortunate escape less than twenty minutes ago. Now it appears that a second assassin was in position to strike in case the first should fail.” He looked at the paper with the few scrawled lines on it. “How could the killers have known you would have brandy instead of tea?”

  I bit back a remark that anyone who had ever met Sir Cameron might suppose such a preference, but I said nothing on that head while Mycroft Holmes continued to deal with the Scottish knight.

  “There is something in what you say,” Sir Cameron allowed. “I may have been too hasty.” He picked up his paper again. “I may be able to recall something more.”

  “Your report will certainly be worthwhile for the police.” Mycroft Holmes went back to writing his impressions, and a few minutes later set down his pencil. “A pity we cannot have any tea while we wait,” he remarked.

  The others in the room stared at him with faces showing a range of emotions from irony to disgust. Baron von Schattenberg cleared his throat. “The police will want all the tea things, I suppose. Everything on the tray?”

  “They will,” Mycroft Holmes confirmed. “We do not know where the poison was, or whatelse is poisoned.” He pointed to the pastries. “For all we know, they, too, are deadly.”

  Egmont Eisenfeld held out his paper to Holmes. “Do you think his face might be covered? It is most ...” He made a gesture of repugnance to finish his thought. “The smell is bad enough.”

  Holmes considered this request. “I don’t think dropping a handkerchief over his face would ruin anything.” He pulled his own from his pocket, spread it, and put it in place.

  “Thank you,” said Eisenfeld. “It is less terrible, and it preserves his dignity.”

  I recalled the morgue attendants’ remarks earlier this afternoon on death and dignity, and I saw at once that it was really the living who benefitted from these concessions to the dead, not the dead themselves, who were beyond all caring. I was startled at these responses, but I did not deny them, either. It perplexed me that I had taken so long to realize these things, after all the escapades I had passed in Mycroft Holmes’ service.

  “Guthrie,” said Holmes, cutting into my reverie.

  “Sir?” I gave him my attention at once.

  “If you will collect all the papers so we may have them ready for the police?” Mycroft Holmes looked at the others in the room. “It will not be long. The police will be here presently.”

  “I hope so,” said Sir Cameron. “The fire is burning lower and there is no more fuel to put on it. Do you think we could summon the butler for that service, at least?” He was becoming truculent again, fretting at any check on him.

  “I think it would be best if we waited until the police come,” said Holmes.

  Sir Cameron gave a sigh of ill-usage. He stared at the Baron. “Where is my wife, sir? We might as well settle things, so long as we are stuck here.” I knew his tone of old: he was attempting to pick a fight.

  “It is what we are met to do,” said Mycroft Holmes, surprising me and spiking Sir Cameron’s conversational guns. “Let us try to make the best of our predicament.”

  This was all Sir Cameron needed. “Well, sir? Where is she?”

  “She is in Holland,” said Baron von Schattenberg with a kind of gratitude that struck me as questionable. “Her uncles are with her. If you can convince the Admiralty to permit them into your country, she can arrive day after tomorrow.”

  “Holland,” said Sir Cameron, musing. “How long has she been there?”

  “She arrived at her current location yesterday. I received a wireless last night, informing me that she was at her hotel.” The Baron cocked his head. “She is anxious to see you.”

  “And she wants her uncles to come with her.” He considered this. “What is the trouble with that, Holmes? The Admiralty do not object to her traveling with her relatives, do they?”

  “It is not that they are relatives, although there is some question as to the degree of relationship of one of them,” said Mycroft Holmes awkwardly. “We have been given reliable information that the uncles in question have affiliations that the government—” He stopped. “These uncles may have more planned than simply delivering your wife to London.”

  Baron von Schattenberg shook his head. “That is a ludicrous idea. There is nothing unacceptable about Lady MacMillian’s uncles, even the man who has been awarded that name honorarily.”

  “You are sure of that, are you?” Holmes asked, his manner highly skeptical.

  “As sure as I am that my aide is dead on the floor,” said the Baron.

  “What is the trouble, then, Holmes?” Sir Cameron demanded. “What can the uncles have done that you will not let them accompany their niece—my wife—to this country?” He put one hand on his hip in a belligerent manner, glad to be in a wrangle at last.

  Mycroft Holmes hated to have his hand forced, and by someone of Sir Cameron’s stamp made it more intolerable; still, he knew he had to answer. “It is not your wife that troubles the Admiralty, I repeat: it is her traveling companions, and those they intend to add to their party here in London. There is a report—a very, very reliable report—that indicates the uncles are members of the Brotherhood.”

  I was astonished to hear him speak so bluntly, and in our present company. I hoped it was a ploy and not some desperate attempt to flush the culprit by a surprise attack. I wondered if he would reveal anything of Vickers or Braaten, or if he would keep that information to himself; I could not help but think he might have said too much already.

  Sir Cameron stared in complete disbelief. “The Brotherhood? Absurd! They are men of high rank and great wealth. There is no reason for them to associate with such iniquitous men. What can they seek from the Brotherhood that they do not already possess?” He looked to the Baron von Schattenberg for support.

  “They may seek power,” said Holmes quietly, and added, addressing the Baron, “Please forgive my abrupt disclosure. I did not intend to put this before you in such a manner.”

  “I am at a loss,” said the Baron. “I cannot put credence in this. If you are referring to the subversive organization known as the Bruderschaft, then I must tell you that your information cannot be correct. The organization is dedicated to the overthrow of those legitimately in power, or so we have been told. The men of the Brotherhood are scoundrels, all of them, unprincipled and treacherous. How could Lady MacMillian’s uncles be party to such barbarity? It is the height of absurdity to think they might ally themselves with such an organization. Her uncles have done much for Germany, for all Germans, not just their own class. They, themselves, are well-born and wealthy; men of highest repute and in excellent standing in the world. They have no reason to join so infamous a group.” He shook his head slowly. “What could anyone have told you to make you believe so pernicious a lie?”

  “The man who revealed this vouched for t
he authenticity of his information with his life. His body was found shortly after he provided us with his report. He was grotesquely murdered.” Mycroft Holmes took a deep breath. “You must forgive me if I set store by such a sacrifice as our agent made. He had pursued these men for more than a year before they found him out, and they made him suffer for what he had done. If you wish a copy of the report, I will see you are provided with one.” This last offer was startling; I wondered what Holmes sought to accomplish by it.

  “Yes,” said Baron von Schattenberg. “I would like to see your report.”

  “I will have it sent round tomorrow. And I promise it will be tomorrow, though it will be Sunday. I know this material is genuine and I believe what we have discovered deserves your immediate and concerted attention. When you have had time to review it, you may comprehend my many reservations about the escort Lady MacMillian has provided herself. In fact, you may want to undertake measures of your own where these men are concerned.” He looked toward the window—shuttered in anticipation of the coming night. “You may not share my worries in this regard, but I would like you to have an opportunity to see the reasons I have them.”

  “I know a thing or two about the Brotherhood,” Sir Cameron remarked. “Nasty brutes, the lot of them. Won’t do to have them hanging about. I don’t think my wife would permit such—”

  The butler knocked on the door. “Chief Inspector Pryce has arrived,” he announced.

  “Let him come in,” said Mycroft Holmes before Baron von Schattenberg could speak. He signaled me to come to his side, which I promptly did. I was still perplexed by all the revelations Mycroft Holmes had provided the Baron; such a forthcoming warning was not in his usual style; it struck me that perhaps this murder might lend weight to the things he had learned about Lady MacMillian’s proposed companions. At least he had not said anything about Braaten and Vickers sailing for Ireland: that was best kept as reserved information.

  The door opened and Chief Inspector Vaughn Pryce came into the drawing room. Of average height, lean, about thirty-five or so, with a strong face, he was altogether a smoother customer than Inspector Lionel Featherstone; he looked about and said, “Good evening, gentlemen. I see there has been a development here. How did it come about?” He had a better accent and tailor than most policemen could boast: I remembered hearing that his mother, whose name he used, had been an entertainer before she married a very minor Earl from the north and earned the odium of all her husband’s family. Did that account for the saturnine cast of his countenance, or had his police work made him cynical, as it had done for so many others?

  “So you are Chief Inspector Pryce,” said Mycroft Holmes. “My brother has spoken of you often. I am Mycroft Holmes. I am associated with the Admiralty.”

  “Holmes, Holmes,” said the Chief Inspector. “Yes, I think I know your brother: tall, clever chap with a knack for turning up culprits.”

  Ordinarily Mycroft Holmes would protest such a demeaning description of his younger brother, but now he only said, “Sounds very like him.”

  “Does he have anything to do with this?” asked Chief Inspector Pryce. “No one said so.”

  “Alas no. This is a suspicious death that may have diplomatic implications, which must be the reason you have been sent to investigate,” said Mycroft Holmes pointedly; he, too, knew that Chief Inspector Pryce had in the last year been assigned to crimes among the upper classes.

  “Diplomatic implications?” Chief Inspector Pryce echoed. “How is that?”

  Mycroft Holmes spoke before anyone else could. “Well, this house is owned by Dietrich Amsel, a German national, and the dead man is also German. The man who employed him is a Baron. We were gathered here this afternoon to arrange a visit for Lady MacMillian—you know Sir Cameron, of course?”

  “By reputation,” said Chief Inspector Pryce. “A privilege, Sir Cameron.”

  “You’re most kind,” said Sir Cameron in a voice that suggested that such homage was his due.

  There was a long, uncomfortable pause, at the end of which Chief Inspector Pryce was moved to speak. “So you were here to make arrangements for Lady MacMillian. And this man just keeled over?”

  “It seemed almost that way,” said the Baron, as if the death of his aide was only now becoming real to him. “He drank some tea and collapsed.”

  “Um-hum,” said Chief Inspector Pryce. “Why?”

  “Did he collapse? It would appear to be from poison,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Swift and paralytic, by the look of it. Monkshood, perhaps.” He coughed. “Nothing has been moved aside from a small amount of action each of us has taken.”

  “I see,” said Chief Inspector Pryce. “Did any of you notice anything beyond the ordinary? Before the man ... collapsed?”

  Mycroft Holmes answered again. “While we were waiting for you to arrive, I asked that we each put down our recollection of the moments leading up to Herr Kriede’s death. My secretary Guthrie has the pages for you.”

  I opened my portfolio and retrieved the pages I had just put there. “I think you will find them useful, Chief Inspector,” I said as I handed them to him.

  He took them, a bemused light in his eyes. “How very ... beforehand of you, Mister Holmes,” he said, and I reckoned he was not best pleased by this.

  “My brother has imparted to me the importance of preserving first impressions of crimes, as well as keeping the actual scene as undisturbed as possible. I have seen the wisdom of his admonition, and heeded it here. That was why I ordered the room closed and put us all to the task of recording our impressions of Herr Kriede’s demise. I trust I have not over-stepped myself?” He caught his lower lip in his teeth, but this was his only outward indication of apprehension. “If it would suit you, we will now withdraw to the library, leaving this room to your attention.”

  Chief Inspector Pryce contained his growing annoyance and said, “That would be more convenient, yes, sir.”

  “Then come along, good Herren, Baron von Schattenberg, Sir Cameron,” Mycroft Holmes declared. “The Chief Inspector has much to do.”

  The Baron was reluctant to leave. “Helmut Kriede was my aide, and he is dead in my service. I think I should remain here to see that he is not mishandled, or made ridiculous by your police.”

  “I wouldn’t do anything of the sort,” said Chief Inspector Pryce with an oily kind of sympathy. “But we must make certain tests in order to determine how he died, and from what cause. We need such information in order to mount a prosecution of the guilty party when he is brought to answer to the law. Poison can be difficult to identify. This man is the victim of a crime, and it behooves us to do all that we can to apprehend his killer, wouldn’t you agree? If I tell you that nothing disgraceful will be done, that he will be treated with respect, will you leave the room while we do what we must?”

  Baron von Schattenberg considered his answer. “Will he have to go to your morgue? Can we not send him directly to the undertaker, for embalming, before his body is shipped back to Germany?”

  Mycroft Holmes turned to the Baron. “Do you think that is wise? Herr Kriede was murdered, and his body may tell us much.”

  “He was here as a diplomat,” said Baron von Schattenberg sharply. “For that reason alone, we should be allowed to return the body to his family as quickly as possible. Or must I inform the Kaiser that Her Majesty’s government will not adhere to diplomatic custom?”

  “If you want him shipped,” said Chief Inspector Pryce in a tone of some surprise, and with an uneasy glance at Mycroft Holmes. “I’ll try to hurry the release of the body from the morgue. You’ll want to make arrangements now to have the body picked up. It will probably have to be Monday: tomorrow few of our men work unless they must. I’m sorry, but I doubt I can speed the examination of the body more than that, not where poison’s involved. He’ll have to be vetted by our doctors, and I’ll try to get one of
them to tend to it tomorrow, so you may have him first thing on Monday.”

  “Thank you,” said Baron von Schattenberg, much subdued. “His family will be distraught.”

  “More’s the pity,” said Chief Inspector Pryce. He was growing anxious to have us leave the room. “If you please, gentlemen?”

  “One thing,” said Mycroft Holmes as he went toward the door. “We do not know if anything was done to the food and the tea. Have your men check the food, the plates, the tea, and everything else on the tray for poison.”

  Chief Inspector Pryce sighed. “All right. Since the man died of poison, we’ll endeavor to find out how it got into him.” He bowed slightly to Sir Cameron. “Sorry to have to exclude you, Sir Cameron. A man of your ... experience might be most helpful, but under the circumstances—”

  Sir Cameron shook his head. “No, no. Best to leave things of this nature in you johnnies’ hands. No fear. I know when it is best to lie doggo.”

  “I’m sure you do,” said Inspector Pryce, his admiration making him smile, no matter how somber this occasion had become. “We’ll need an hour or so to inventory the pertinent items for our investigation, and then, of course, the body will have to be removed.” He looked away, shaking his head. “The young man is German, I suppose? Did you say he was German?”

  “Helmut Kriede, yes, was German,” said Mycroft Holmes from the door. He gestured to Sir Cameron to follow him, and then stepped into the corridor with the Baron and his two aides. I kept near at hand, wondering what might be best to do.

  “The library, I think,” said Baron von Schattenberg. “May we have some schnapps brought there?” This last was to the butler, who hovered nearby.

  “If you wish. Do you want anything more?”