The Scottish Ploy Read online

  Mister Kerem did not like being prodded, but he took it well enough. “At such an hour, I can well comprehend your testiness. I will bring myself to the point at once.” He paused. “It is slavery, Mister Holmes—slavery.”

  I had begun to write, but his mention of that most heinous institution caused me to stop my efforts and wait for further instructions: I glanced at Mycroft Holmes to see what his response might be.

  “My dear Mister Kerem, much as I lament the enslavement of my fellow-humans, I am powerless to interfere with Turkish sovereignty. It is a deplorable state of affairs, I grant you, but it is also beyond my powers to correct. If you wish to stir up public sentiment, it is a journalist you want, not a minor official such as I am.” He spoke smoothly enough, but I saw he had begun to twiddle his watch-fob, a sure sign of agitation on Holmes’ part.

  “Not in Turkey, Mister Holmes,” said Mister Kerem as dramatically as an Italian. “No. Nothing of the sort. Slavery here in England.” He waited a second or two, and added, “You must stop it.”

  “Slavery here in England?” Holmes said in a tone of utter revulsion. “Nothing of the sort, my good man. Nothing of the sort. There are laws ...” His voice trailed off and an uncharacteristic expression of doubt settled on his features. “Why do you say this?”

  “Because my own brother was taken from our family,” said Mister Kerem. “A lad of sixteen. And he is not the only one.”

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

  The arrival of the Turkish gentleman, Mister Kerem, has alarmed MH in a singular manner—so much so that he went himself to fetch G at this late hour for the purpose of having him record what is said; MH himself was returning from a most private interview with HRHE when my note reached him. It appears to me that MH is more troubled by Mister Kerem than circumstances would seem to justify, which gives me to wonder what more MH knows of the situation that he has kept to himself ... I must believe that MH has some special understanding that has been alerted by recent events.

  This evening I reported to MH that this flat was under observation from the rear. In a flat opposite this one from the service alley, there has been a man in what must be servant’s clothing who has done nothing but watch the alley and the stairs leading to this flat. I thought at first I might be mistaken, but now I can have no doubt. I have informed MH of this and he has acknowledged this intelligence with a nod ...

  What has puzzled me is the generous welcome MH has ordered to offer Mister Kerem. It is not like him to be so unquestioning regarding those admitted to this flat. No doubt he will explain it in good time.

  I will have to find a way to warn Sutton not to approach this flat from the front, or to come in disguise, I expect him within the hour, when we will have to improvise, for MH does not want Sutton seen at this flat, except in his disguise as MH himself.

  I SAW doubt war with apprehension in Mycroft Holmes’ features, and I realized he must have heard something of this before now, or he would not have been so quickly ambivalent. I glanced toward our visitor, and addressed him myself. “Why do you say this, Mister Kerem? Have you proof? It is a most infamous accusation you are making.”

  “Alas, I have only tangential proof, not anything direct but what I have been told, and what I have surmised,” said Mister Kerem. “It is not to my liking to have nothing more substantial to offer you, but—” He shrugged in a hopeless way. “You may find it incredible, yet what I know I will impart, and pray Allah will give you more wisdom than He gave me.”

  “That is very good of you,” said Mycroft Holmes, recovering himself somewhat. “Do you say there are those in England who support this most nefarious of trades?”

  “I fear it is so,” said Mister Kerem. “My brother tried to warn me, I think, but I did not listen. I could not attribute such villainy to any European. It seemed so far-fetched: a European in the slave-trade to Europe, where, as you say, such business is illegal. But when he vanished, and then the policeman investigating his disappearance was found hacked to death near the harbor, I knew I had been a fool. I should have given my brother as much faith as I gave my various employers.” He gazed into the middle distance. “He was a good boy, my brother. Yujel. Not a name that comes easily to English lips, but as good a name as any in Turkish.” He attempted to smile and failed utterly.

  “This Yujel was taken, you believe?” Mycroft Holmes asked with a crispness of tone that implied he was not eager to be detracted by memories.

  “He was,” said Mister Kerem. “There was a man in our town, a foreigner, a European, who said he was looking for places to plant orchards, but he spent most of his time watching the young men.” He made a resigned gesture. “As what man does not?” Mister Kerem glanced at me and then at Mycroft Holmes, one eyebrow lifted knowingly.

  I could think of nothing to say to this, but fortunately my employer was not as nonplused as I.

  “Indeed,” he said in a very urbane tone. “Tell me more of this foreigner who claimed to be planting orchards.”

  There was a burst of sound from the kitchen. Tyers must be busy, I thought, and continued to write.

  “Well, he was much like many Englishmen. He might have been a Dutchman, or even a Swede. He was fair and his face was florid. He walked with a limp. He was of middle years, and he spoke with an accent that some said was French, but I did not think so. His words were harsher.” Mister Kerem cleared his throat. “I did not speak to him more than once myself, and that briefly and in English, so I cannot tell you very much about that. I only saw him a few times.”

  I realized the man he was describing could be Jacobbus Braaten, a notion that chilled me.

  “Did you have any reason to think he was planning an abduction? Was there anything obvious about him?” Mycroft Holmes asked; if he had noticed the man’s resemblance to Braaten, he gave no indication of it.

  “Not as such. Why should I suspect such an infamous thing?” Mister Kerem frowned. “This man was a stranger, and so we all watched him, but we also ignored him.”

  “How do you mean?” I asked, for although I had had a brief sojourn in Turkey, I could not claim that I understood the Turks.

  “I mean that he was kept apart, not so obviously that he would be offended, but enough to indicate he was a stranger among us. He was aloof by nature, I supposed, as so many Europeans are. So no one extended themselves to befriend him, but also no one was wholly unaware of him.” He paused. “I do not intend to confuse you.”

  “Of course not,” said Mycroft Holmes smoothly. “I know the insularity of which you speak. Turks are not the only ones to practice it.” He essayed a chuckle. “The English villager is much the same.”

  “It may be so,” Mister Kerem conceded, returning to his topic with full deliberation. “I cannot think what I am to do. I have come this far and now my trail grows cold, and I fear this can only mean dire consequences for Yujel, though I try not to despair of finding him. I know my brother came here on the Princess Fatima and arrived five weeks ago. Other than that, I can find nothing to point to what has become of him.”

  “Did you go to the police?” Mycroft inquired, with a quick glance in my direction to make sure I put down the answer fully and accurately.

  Mister Kerem scowled. “They did not listen to me. One of the senior officers told me I was mistaken. They would do nothing.”

  “And so you sought me out. Now why is that?” Mycroft Holmes asked in a voice so bland that I was instantly on the alert.

  “I was told by an official at the Admiralty that you might be able to help me.” He shrugged. “So I determined to find you.” He looked down at his feet. “It was no simple thing, I can tell you. I must assume you have enemies, Mister Holmes?”

  “What public servant does not?” Mycroft Holmes answered, dismissing the possibility with such sangfroid that I was more alarmed than before. “You learned my direction an
d came to me with some difficulty.”

  “Yes,” said Mister Kerem. “I was chased by hooligans down an alley. They threatened to beat me and rob me—”

  “That, lamentably, might have happened anywhere in London, and for no reason other than you are a stranger here,” Holmes told him. “Why do you say that it was connected to me?”

  “Because one of the men warned me to stay away from you.” Mister Kerem looked a bit shamefaced admitting this. “I was very much shocked.”

  “So might you be,” said Mycroft Holmes, and rose. “I am going to see what has become of Tyers and our tea. Do you Guthrie, look after our guest.”

  I mumbled some words that might be assent, and I made a bigger show of opening my portfolio to take more notes. “You were saying about this European man, whom you believe is responsible for the disappearance of your brother ...” I left the end open, so that he would be inspired to expand on his suppositions.

  “It was a most dreadful thing,” said Mister Kerem. “I had paid no heed to anything my brother told me, yet he had expressed his apprehensions most clearly.”

  “How was that?” I asked, and paused at the sound of something breaking and a muffled oath from the back of the house. I recovered and went on. “Precisely what did he say?”

  “He said that he had seen the man watching him,” said Mister Kerem in the dramatic manner he had used before. “He knew that the man wanted more than kisses.”

  “But a look and his suspicions would not be enough for such conviction as you have now, surely,” I said, hoping to draw him out.

  “You do not understand how it is,” said Mister Kerem in exasperation. “If you had seen this man, you would have known that he would attempt anything nefarious.”

  “You did not listen to your brother, but you had similar apprehensions?” I pursued.

  “I did not comprehend the whole of the danger,” said Mister Kerem.

  I considered my next question. “You did not respond to this threat until your brother’s misfortune—is it possible there might be another explanation?”

  “It was the foreigner who took him,” Mister Kerem insisted with some heat.

  “You believe this because he was a foreigner?” I asked, and saw that I had offended the Turk.

  “That would be inhospitable,” Mister Kerem declared, sulking.

  I wondered what I might do to recover the advantage I had had only moments ago. Fortunately, Mycroft Holmes chose that moment to return, carrying the tea-tray and smiling affably.

  “I’m sorry to have taken so long,” he said to the room at large. “There was a minor accident in the kitchen and Tyers is busy setting things to rights.” He put the tray down. “I think you’ll find you’ll be more the thing, as my grandmother used to say, when you’ve had a cup of tea. There will be baked eggs in a short while.”

  Mister Kerem shook his head, somewhat mollified. “I am distraught about my brother.”

  “Small wonder,” said Mycroft Holmes. “I am distraught about mine, when he goes missing.” He glanced at me. “Would you be good enough to lend Tyers a hand for a moment, Guthrie? I fear he may need some assistance.”

  “Of course,” I said, rising and preparing to leave the two of them alone. As I set my portfolio down, I saw Mycroft Holmes signal me to be gone for at least five minutes. I gave him a slight nod to show I understood and said, “Whatever Tyers needs, I am his to command.” I hoped I had not overdone it.

  “Excellent fellow,” Holmes approved, and gave his full attention to Mister Kerem.

  Walking down the corridor to the kitchen at the rear of the flat, I began to wonder what my employer thought my absence would accomplish.

  Tyers was fitting a cut section of wood veneer over a broken window-pane; he glanced my way and favored me with a single nod. “The courier was shot as he came up the steps,” he told me. “The first shot was wide of the mark.” He indicated the shattered pane.

  “Is the courier ...” I did not want to ask if he had succumbed.

  “In the rear. Behind the rack of disguises Mister Sutton has provided,” said Tyers, as if this were an every-day occurrence, requiring nothing more than the most minimal attention.

  “How seriously is he injured?” I asked, appalled.

  “He’s bled a great deal, but the wound is clean; if he escapes a bad fever, he should be right as rain in a month or so. He is wrapped in blankets and resting comfortably. I will shortly go to inform the Admiralty of this unfortunate event, and ask Doctor Watson to step ’round for a look at the lad.” Tyers managed a slight, inscrutable smile. “We don’t want this getting out, do we?”

  “Good Lord,” I exclaimed. “I should hope not!”

  “Exactly,” said Tyers, implying a wealth of misfortune in that single word. He picked up the dustpan which had been lying before the cooker. I had not noticed it until now, and I saw it was full of shards of broken glass. “I’ll be back in half a tick,” he said, and went to dispose of the dustpan’s contents.

  Left to my own devices, I paced around the kitchen; the familiar smells of bread and grilled meats awakening my hunger. I recalled that Mycroft Holmes had mentioned breakfast and my mouth watered. I could feel the heat coming from the cooker; I hoped this meant that breakfast would soon be forthcoming. Even as I realized this, I was shocked at my lack of feeling, for surely I must be callous beyond all reckoning to care more for my next meal than the Admiralty courier who lay in the next room. Had I become indifferent to human suffering as a result of my work for Mycroft Holmes? I did not want to think so.

  Tyers returned, wiping his hands after he hung up the dustpan in its place. “Good to see you’re keeping your head, if I may say so, Mister Guthrie,” he told me as he cut half a dozen rashers of bacon and put them into a pan to cook.

  I was astonished. “Why do you think so?”

  “You haven’t gone blubbery on me, thank God fasting.” He turned the bacon as it began to spatter. “There’s more to this Turkish cove than meets the eye. You mark my words.” He opened the oven and peered in. “Almost done,” he announced.

  “And the courier? What do you make of his ... misfortune?” I asked.

  “He is lucky to be alive,” said Tyers, busying himself with readying plates for breakfast. “I am sorry he was injured, of course. But he is in the service of his country, and men have paid a far higher price than he for such.” He opened the drawer containing the eating utensils. “Get the serviettes for me, will you, Guthrie? They’re in the second drawer on the left.”

  I retrieved the serviettes and offered them to Tyers, who indicated the tray he was preparing. “Just there, sir, if you would.”

  “Mister Sutton hasn’t arrived yet?” I said, thinking of the courier.

  “Not yet,” said Tyers. “He’s a knowing one. He’ll take care to come disguised.”

  “Did a message reach him?” I was mildly surprised, wondering how word had been got to him.

  “No, it didn’t,” said Tyers.

  “So. You have set out the cock, have you?” It was a signal device that Mycroft Holmes sometimes used to warn Sutton to put on a disguise. The little red weather-cock had seen better days, but it was innocuous enough to make it possible for its use without attracting any attention. “Why could you not get a message to him?”

  “He’d left the theatre,” said Tyers. “This way, he’ll take precautions.” He took a plate of scones out of the warming oven, and then pulled the butter out of the ice-chest and set them on the breakfast tray. “Marmalade and butter. Should we include honey, do you think? The Turks like honey.” He did not wait for an answer, but went to fetch a stoneware jar of it from the pantry. “Better put it out, just in case,” he said.

  I felt as if I had nothing to do. I stood beside the table where the tray waited. “Should I check on the courier?” I a
sked.

  “If you would. Take him some of this.” He handed me a mug filled with an aromatic toddy of brandy, honey, and a mixture of herbs. “Make sure he drinks it.”

  “That I will,” I said, taking the mug in hand and going out the rear of the kitchen.

  The rack of clothing from which Mycroft Holmes and Edmund Sutton assembled their disguises took up most of the side of the long, dark chamber. The windows that looked onto the rear steps and the service alley were kept dusty deliberately, so that no one could easily look in and see what was stored here. Not that it mattered at this hour. I saw the gaslight was shining softly, hardly more than a glow, giving just enough illumination to save one from tripping over the array of shoes accompanying the clothing. I parted the items on the rack, going between a dove-grey morning coat and a multi-caped coachman’s cloak.

  The courier was lying on a narrow cot, a candle standing in a dish on the table behind his head. His shoulder was thick with hastily wrapped bandages, but I could see that a red stain was seeping through. The man’s face was pasty, with sweat on his upper lip and forehead. His eyes were half-closed and he was breathing with an effort. He was a trifle younger than I, with a shock of light-brown hair slicked close to his skull and the indentation of spectacles on the bridge of his nose.

  I pulled the blankets up to his chin. “There you are, sir,” I told him as I bent over him. “They’ll warm you up.”

  The courier’s eyes opened, but did not truly focus. “What?” he asked. “Who?”

  “I am Paterson Guthrie, Mycroft Holmes’ confidential secretary. He sent me to check on you.” It was near enough the truth that my conscience did not twinge at this slight mendacity. “I have brought you something to drink. It will help you to feel better directly.” I held up the mug so he could see it. “Tyers has just made this for you. I will help you drink it.” I dropped down on one knee beside the cot, and reached out to raise his head so he could sip the strange-smelling brew Tyers had made. “Here. Try it, there’s a good fellow.”