The Scottish Ploy Read online

  “Jacobbus Braaten, for instance?” she suggested. “No, don’t waste your breath protesting. My allies in the Golden Lodge have been following you and Mister Holmes as soon as we learned that Braaten and Vickers had sailed for Ireland. They will undoubtedly make for London as quickly as possible, and they will seek you out.” Her cerulean eyes narrowed as she contemplated the possibilities. “You must be very careful. We can’t guard you all the time.”

  I did my best to smile. “You have been following us?”

  “Some of the time. There are six of us assigned to you, and two are on duty at all times. My comrade is in Pall Mall just now, waiting for you—and me.” She began to walk along the path, leading her horse; I kept to her other side. “We began night before last. I began my watch yesterday morning. And I must say, you have been very busy.”

  I heard the note of exasperation in her voice and I could not help but bristle. “There has been much to do,” I said, attempting to hold my umbrella in such a way that it shielded us both.

  “Poor Sutton. He has been scampering from role to role,” she added.

  “That he has,” I said. “It is his work.”

  “Petulance does not become you, Guthrie,” she said, and wagged a finger at me just as a shot cracked.

  Her horse screamed—it was such a sound as I hope never to hear again—and half-reared, then tottered and fell, blood pumping from a wound high in his neck. He kicked spasmodically, and struggled to right himself, only to fall back, his breath going out of him for the last time.

  Miss Gatspy stood as if transfixed for perhaps two seconds, then came to her senses. “Come,” she said, taking my arm and pulling me toward the bushes I had been running for. “Hurry!”

  I felt rather than heard the bullet that slapped through my umbrella to whisk past my ear. This leant new impetus to my run. We tumbled into the half-barren branches of the bushes, paying no heed to the pokes and scratches the limbs and twigs bestowed on us. “Can you see?”

  “Not in this downpour,” said Miss Gatspy, her voice tight.

  “Do you have any idea who is shooting?” I knew it wasn’t prudent to trust her, but I could think of no reason to disbelieve her information.

  “Agents of the Brotherhood, I would suppose. Jacobbus Braaten has said he wants you dead. You, Guthrie, not just Mycroft Holmes. He had put a price on your head among his men. He holds you responsible for his limp, and he wants vengeance.” She pulled him deeper into the thicket. “If I were the killer, I would try to trap us in here. I don’t propose to let that happen.”

  “I will follow your lead, Miss Gatspy,” I said, and closed my ruined umbrella as tightly as the torn fabric would allow. “This is useless.”

  She took it from me. “Perhaps not,” she said. “It may be put to some use.”

  “If you can find a means to turn it to our advantage, please go ahead. It is my honor to present it to you.” I was appalled at how stuffy I sounded as I spoke to her. What had come over me? Was it the shock of seeing her horse die?

  “Thank you, Guthrie,” she said with a quick, tantalizing smile.

  “If we can reach those trees, I think we can—” She stopped as another bullet plowed through the thicket at about three feet above the ground. “That isn’t sporting,” she complained.

  “You don’t think this is a game, do you?” I demanded, very much troubled by her remark.

  “No. And I think men who aim for their opponents’ vitals want to inflict suffering as much as they want to kill them.” She crouched down. “Come. That last shot wasn’t aimed, it was intended to make us give away our position. We should be somewhere else.”

  “Won’t that be doing just as they want?” I asked, doing my best to follow her through the brush, feeling the twigs gouge and snap at me as we went. If I was so assaulted, what must be happening to Miss Gatspy? Surely her porcelain skin would be scratched and bruised by the rough treatment our escape was providing? I tried to think of some way to express my concerns without making it seem I thought her incompetent.

  “Hold still, Guthrie,” she said suddenly, halting in the middle of the bushes. “I think he’s worked around to our left flank. If we don’t move, perhaps I can hear him. He will certainly not be able to hear us.” She stayed in a crouched posture as she leaned toward the screen of branches and leaves of bright red and yellow. “Yes. There is someone out on the pathway. If he continues along, perhaps we can double back,” she whispered.

  “Won’t he be expecting that?” I could not hide my apprehension. “You must be aware—”

  “Quiet!” she ordered, barely audible.

  I did as she commanded, remaining still and silent as a thin finger of water began to make its way down from the back center of my collar to my back, and then to slide down beside my spine; a second trace of cold wetness was forming under my ear and spreading along my shoulder. It was all I could do not to sneeze. I swallowed hard twice, but this did not diminish my impulse, which I feared must express itself in dramatic ways, exposing us to the deadly purpose of our hunter.

  “You will have to make a break for it, Guthrie. Go down the south-east path. Do not get some foolish notion to come back to rescue me or you will ruin all. I will come to Pall Mall directly I have dealt with this brute.” She had put her lips near to my cheek to tell me this, and I could smell the violet perfume she sometimes wore. “If you’re ready, nod.”

  I nodded, as she told me, and then, as she struck me on the arm, I broke out of our hiding place and made for the path she had mentioned; I still held my portfolio, which I now raised over my head to afford myself a modicum of protection from the rain as I ran. I thought I heard a shot fired, but I could not be sure of it, for I suffered no injury, nor did I notice any sign of a bullet. At the end of the path, I entered a wider walkway that led out of the park to the path leading around to Saint James Park and then up The Mall. I was cold and wet, my over-coat was sodden, and my shoes were soaked through. Still, I had a strange elation that I decided must come from my fortunate deliverance. That thought had no sooner entered my mind than I was struck with the risk Miss Gatspy must be taking, and I hesitated, wanting to return to lend her whatever assistance I could. But she had insisted I go, and, more to the point, that I not return; I knew her abilities well enough to realize that if I did not follow her instructions, I might end in causing her more hazard than she had worked out for herself; that alone kept me walking toward Waterloo Place, though every step was painful to me.

  “You look like a drowned rat, Guthrie. What happened?” Mycroft Holmes said as he opened the door to my knock.

  “I feel like a drowned rat,” I told him as I came into the flat. “And if it is all the same to you, I would like to request a bath and a change of clothing before we set about our preparations for today.”

  “All right,” said Holmes, his mien quizzical as he closed the door. “Tyers,” he called out. “Will you be good enough to ready a bath for Guthrie? And take out his traveling suit, if you would. What he is wearing will have to be dried.” He motioned me in the direction of his dressing room where his bathtub stood. “Half an hour in hot water and a suit of dry clothes and you’ll do.”

  I thanked him and added, “We will have another visitor this morning.”

  “Your Miss Gatspy?” Mycroft Holmes ventured.

  I stared at him in open astonishment. “How did you know?”

  “My dear Guthrie, only she causes you to behave in a manner compounded of hang-doggedness and smug self-satisfaction. How did you happen to encounter her?” He opened the door that led to the door into the kitchen. “Let us know when the water is ready, if you will, Tyers.”

  “That I will,” said Tyers and worked to fill the fourth eight-gallon stockpot that was also used to heat bath-water.

  “She was ... was following me,” I said, thinking as I did how absurd
it sounded. “She was.”

  “If you say so, I believe you, Guthrie,” Holmes said, amusement lending a glint to his deep-set dark-grey eyes.

  Thus encouraged—however sardonically—I plunged ahead. “According to Miss Gatspy, the horsemen who have been behind us are from the Golden Lodge. They have been sent to guard us and have done so ever since they learned of Jacobbus Braaten’s and Justin Oliver Beauchamp Vickers’ plans to sail to Ireland in order to reach England.” I folded my arms, disliking the tightness this caused in my wet garments; I gave him a quick summary of the results of our morning meeting, and all that had transpired in the Green Park. “She said Braaten has put a price on my head for laming him.”

  “That was a worthy act, Guthrie. In his way, Braaten is acknowledging it. So is Miss Gatspy, for that matter.” He stepped back and reached into the long wardrobe that stood behind him. “Let me loan you a dressing gown,” he offered. “You can get out of those damp clothes while Tyers fills the tub. I don’t want you catching a cold in the middle of this tangle.”

  “Nor do I,” I said with feeling.

  “Well and good, then,” said Holmes, and handed me the green velvet dressing gown he often wore. “It will match one of your eyes, at least.” With that sly reference to the disparity in my eye color, he went out of the dressing room and along the corridor to the front of the flat; I heard him humming an air from Le Nozze di Figaro—the one that begins, La vendetta, oh, la vendetta.

  It did not take me long to get undressed, and although I felt a trifle disconcerted in such a garment, I tried to take its generous proportions in good part; I resembled a half-raised plush tent, I decided as I wandered out into the hall and down again to the study.

  “You know, Guthrie, there is something you ought to consider,” Mycroft Holmes said, suppressing a smirk at the sight of me. “You do look as if you had borrowed your big brother’s clothing.”

  I smiled, a bit stiffly; I am a good eight inches shorter than the very tall Mister Holmes, and slighter as well. “I suppose it’s to be expected, sir,” I said, and before he could comment further, I added, “What is it I ought to consider?”

  “That your encounter with Miss Gatspy was a careful demonstration of theatrics, intended to make you inclined to trust her once again.” He said it blandly enough, but he was watching me to see my smallest response.

  “Yes,” I said. “I thought about that, but I decided it wasn’t likely.”

  “Ah, Guthrie,” Mycroft Holmes sighed, half-seriously, “you must not let your infatuation with that woman cloud your—”

  “You will have your jest, sir,” I said, surprised at my own audacity. “I came to that conclusion because the shooter killed her horse. As a valuable animal alone, it was hardly the act of someone attempting to show a false heroism.”

  Mycroft Holmes considered what I said. “There is merit in your argument.”

  “I should hope so,” I said, pleased to have gained that praise. “The Golden Lodge might ask its members to be willing to sacrifice their lives, but destroying a fine Thoroughbred, that is another thing altogether.”

  “You are persuasive,” said Holmes. “It does sound unlike them.”

  “I cannot think Miss Gatspy would be party to such underhanded dealings,” I said. “She tried to protect me from danger.”

  “Now that is more persuasive still,” said Mycroft Holmes merrily. “Why waste a horse when all she need do is smile and you will—?”

  I stood very straight, the deep folds of the velvet dressing gown hanging around me. “I trust I am not so callow as to be undone by a pair of fine blue eyes,” I said.

  “I trust so, too, Guthrie,” said Holmes. Then he deliberately changed the subject. “I anticipate another visit from Mister Kerem before nightfall.”

  “Why should he come here?” I wondered. “He now may go to Inspector Featherstone. Why should he pull you into his coils?”

  “Why indeed?” Mycroft Holmes said. “That is what I am attempting to puzzle out. Why should he come to me now that he has the attention of the police? Yet I have a note delivered shortly after seven announcing his intention to call around at three. I cannot discern his reason from what he has written, so—” He shook his head, and then, with a change in his stance, indicated a stack of notes. “When you are bathed and dressed, I have a few items for you to copy. I realize it is not customary for you to perform such a task on Sunday, but—”

  “I will have to do them tomorrow morning if not today,” I said, shrugging. “I am at your service today, in any capacity you should want.”

  “Excellent. And when Chief Inspector Pryce arrives, I intend to learn at least as much from him as he is determined to learn from me. I rely upon you to listen closely to all he says. Take no notes, for that will put him on his guard. I wish to discover what his assumptions may be, and how he is inclined to interpret the death of Herr Kriede.” He was all business now—no more tweaking or risibility. I heard him out with due attention, knowing how much reflection must have gone into his memoranda and his plans for today.

  “Your own thoughts: have they changed?” I thought back to the previous evening with a mixture of dismay and agitation of spirit that reminded me that I had not achieved any sense of resolution in regard to the poisoning.

  “Yes and no. Go bathe and we will discuss it when you return,” said Holmes with a wave of his long-fingered hand. “I can hear Tyers pouring in the first pot of water.”

  Now that I listened, I could hear it, too. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” I said, with every intention of taking no longer than that. But it was almost thirty-five minutes later that I returned to the study, in dry, warm clothing, and the ache in my scrapes and bruises beginning to fade. As I entered the room, I halted as I caught sight of Miss Gatspy seated in the Turkish chair that Mycroft Holmes had pulled out from its corner for her use. I did my best to speak calmly. “Good morning again, Miss Gatspy. I want to thank you for your timely intervention this morning.”

  “You’re welcome, Guthrie,” she said, extending her hand to me.

  I took it, and barely touched it with my lips. “I hope you did not encounter any more difficulties in extricating yourself from the—”

  “Oh, cut line, Guthrie, cut line,” said Mycroft Holmes in mock exasperation. “You frame your periods as if you were in one of those dreadful plays of Sardou.”

  “I do not mean to offend,” I said, feeling a bit slighted myself.

  “You do not. Only tell her you are grateful and leave it at that,” said Mycroft Holmes, to be seconded by a nod from Miss Gatspy herself.

  “I am grateful, Miss Gatspy,” I said, attempting to bring this whole exchange to a conclusion.

  “My pleasure, Guthrie,” she told me, then looked back at Holmes. “So, as I told you, I am going against the leaders of the Golden Lodge in revealing our presence to you, but I think it is to our mutual interests to work together until this latest ploy of the Brotherhood is stopped.”

  “Will that create any problems for you? Going against them?” Holmes was concerned.

  “It may, but nothing to compare with the problems we would all have if Braaten and Vickers succeed in reaching London,” she responded. “You, of all men, should see that.”

  “Of course. I concur.” He indicated my usual chair. “Sit down, Guthrie, and get your portfolio and pencil.” He smiled in that ghastly way he had when he was contemplating evil.

  I hastened to do as he ordered, and did my best not to be distracted by Miss Gatspy’s nearness. Mycroft Holmes did not often receive females, and so it was a disconcerting event when we were graced with a woman’s presence. That this particular woman was an accomplished assassin only added to the air of uneasiness we experienced. As I opened my notebook, I tested my pencil on my thumb and very nearly broke off the lead. “Sorry,” I muttered as I prepared to
take notes.

  Mycroft Holmes studied the far wall in an abstracted manner. “What do you think the chances are that they will reach London? Realistically?”

  “Realistically? I would think they are excellent,” said Miss Gatspy energetically. “You must know that these men have been at least a jump ahead of your intelligence since the first move was made by Lady MacMillian.” She folded her hands demurely. “The Golden Lodge has watchers in Liverpool, in Port Talbot, and has a ship patrolling along the Cornish coast. There are any number of places they might come ashore with no more halt than a sailor would have at the local pub. We must suppose that is what they are doing, for they must assume that you have become aware of their intentions.” She paused and looked over her shoulder at me. “Should I repeat, Guthrie?”

  I felt color mount in my face. That she should imagine I could not keep pace with her! “I will let you know if I fall behind.”

  “Yes, it would be wise to guard the small harbors, but I will order the Customs officers to be alert as well. Braaten and Vickers may assume we will be kept busy by watching the shore and will therefore come to land at a major city.” Mycroft Holmes began to twiddle his watch-fob. “You cannot be too careful with villains like these.”

  “No,” she agreed. “It would not be prudent to hope that they will do what we wish them to do.”

  “And what is that?” I asked, goaded into speaking. “What does the Golden Lodge have to gain from thwarting the Brotherhood?”

  “You mean beyond keeping Britain and the Continent from rushing into war? I cannot think what other goals we share.” Her large blue eyes shone with mischief and she gave a lingering sigh. “You have an obligation to protect British interests over all others, as I have an obligation to serve the Golden Lodge in any and all circumstances. Just now, our purposes march together, and it is to our mutual advantage to work together. One day it may not be so, but at present, we are allies by contexts; let us make the most of the opportunity we have been presented.”