The Flying Scotsman Read online

  “That it has,” I agreed, holding my glass untouched. He sipped to taste his own. I waited to learn what his afternoon’s reveries had revealed to him.

  “That poor footman. The body will be at the morgue by now. I should go along and have a look at it in the morning.” He shook his head. “Sad thing, to have such a death occur.”

  “That it is,” I said with feeling. The image of the man crumpling had haunted my eyes like a photographic exposure since I’d come down from the roof. “Four seconds sooner and Prince Oscar would have been hit.”

  “We must be glad of the warning and the reprieve it has given us.” The expression on Mycroft Holmes’ face was hard to read. “Be very certain we must not lapse into unfounded optimism or security. That shell casing should tell us that, if nothing else.”

  “How do you mean?” I knew the question was expected of me, and I waited for the answer with the conviction of one sure in his purpose.

  “It is a most unusual shell, that came from the casing. I can think of only half a dozen men in Europe who would have cause to have such a shell.” He coughed. “I will explain later.” He scowled.

  I decided I did not want to pursue this just now. “Any word yet from Chief Inspector Somerford? Or his superiors?”

  “No, nothing from any of them. Not Somerford, not Winslowe, and not Spencer. We’ll learn more when Somerford comes to dine.” He dawdled over his next sip. “We have made arrangements to send the Prince home under heavy escort,” he went on after a moment.

  I had come to know that tone of voice. “Oh?” I said politely, wondering what we would actually do.

  “Or something of the sort, in any case,” said Mycroft Holmes, with a nod of his big head. “I will need you to work out the details while I am across the street. We must not be too obvious, but we must use all means possible to ensure Prince Oscar will reach his country without being in danger again. You will have to arrange discreet protection for the Prince and contrive, if you can, to be sure he is kept under guard—”

  “Like a prisoner?” I dared to interject.

  Instead of dismissing my remark, Mycroft Holmes directed his profound gray eyes at me. “There are times, my boy, when royalty looks very like a prison. Oh, to be sure the accommodations are better than Brixton Gaol, but they are equally as confining, and the sentences are for all lifelong.” He coughed once. “Never mind. Our duty now is plain and we do not have a great deal of time to fulfill our obligations. So. Given the presence of so many of Her Majesty’s relatives in London, we must be trebly careful, for another incident could bring about precisely the kind of doubts we would most want to keep from the minds of such high-ranking persons.” He slapped his knee. “I am going to give you some travel schedules, and you will work out what we have to do in order to guard Prince Oscar and how we may best escort him from our shores to his. We are fortunate indeed that he is inclined to favor Britain, for if he did not, an event such as the one we witnessed today would set the seal upon Scandinavian support for Germany.” He shook his head. “You and I know, Guthrie, how much influence the Brotherhood has in German affairs. It behooves us to proceed with care. We cannot play into their hands now, when we have come so far toward limiting their ambitions. You know where in Europe the Brotherhood is strongest. You would do well to make every effort to keep Prince Oscar away from such locales.”

  “Certainly,” I said at once, setting my thistle aside, the port no more than tasted. I could see restlessness building in him, and I knew he would want me to work immediately. “Do you want me to work here?”

  “Yes, if you would not mind terribly,” he said with uncharacteristic diffidence. “I think it would be wiser if you would not put papers about in any case.”

  “No, sir; I would not,” I assured him, mildly annoyed that he would think I would so forget myself as to do such a thing.

  Mycroft Holmes cocked his head, his expression mildly inquisitive. “Guthrie, what do you make of this? The attempt on the Prince’s life?”

  I was so startled by his question that I hesitated to give an answer.

  “I suppose it must mean he has enemies, as we have realized. What royal does not? But whether it is an enemy of Britain, an enemy of Sweden-and-Norway, or an enemy of Oscar himself, we do not yet know. It may be a direct action of the Brotherhood, in which case it is all three; but the Brotherhood rarely works so openly, so it would be foolish to assume only one of the possibilities is operating here.”

  A solemn smile was my reward. “Very good, Guthrie. Unlike the police, you have not yet chosen a theory to serve your purposes. Our years together have honed your thinking. Excellent. There are a few permutations of the possibilities you have outlined, but generally you have hit upon the salient points.”

  Praise from Mycroft Holmes still delighted me, and I smiled to show my appreciation; I would have tried to turn the compliment; but in the past when I had attempted such a gesture, my employer had not encouraged such courtesy. “Thank you, Mister Holmes.”

  “Not that there are not other factors to consider.” Holmes sipped his wine. “There are numerous possible motives for this attempt. It could very well be the act of those who oppose Britain and seek to embarrass or discredit her. There are many on our streets who fail to appreciate the benefits of our associations with their homelands. Nor can we rule out those few remaining Anarchists. While they prefer bombs, I have had experience with those of that ilk using rifles as well, though rarely as professionally.” He pulled at his lower lip. “What do you think, Guthrie?”

  “I think that such an eventuality is unlikely,” I replied, knowing that most of my employer’s discourses were his way of thinking aloud and making sure he had considered all the possibilities by hearing them aloud.

  Mycroft Holmes nodded slowly. “We should not overlook that this was an attack against a royal. There are those few who still see the Directorates of the French Revolution as being right. That the only way for the masses to gain power is to destroy all those with privileged blood. This might not be the first shot fired simply in jealousy by that type of fool. Nor can we assume the assassin is, or was hired by, someone only from this country or the Brotherhood. After all, Sweden-and-Norway sits over Germany, shares a sea with Russia, and has extensive dealings with all of Europe. I suspect there are men in several nations who would benefit from the Prince’s death, directly or indirectly. And speaking of those benefitting, his brother may have arranged the attempt on his own, without the help or approval of the Brotherhood. He certainly has the most to gain and the resources to enable him to commit such an act. Finally, you have to take into account the fact that a footman, not the Prince, was killed. Although I think it remote, I cannot dismiss out of hand that the assassin was actually in Prince Oscar’s pay, under instructions to make the event appear to be an attempt on the Prince’s life. While I deem it highly unlikely, this may be part of a convoluted plot to eliminate his brother from the succession entirely—in self-defense.”

  I regarded Holmes dubiously. “Highly unlikely,” I seconded.

  “Oh, no doubt, my boy, no doubt. Some of these possibilities are indubitably more likely than others, but without hard evidence of the assassin’s employer it behooves us not to dismiss any possible source for the threat.” He had another sip of port, rolling the wine on his tongue appreciatively. “There is, finally, the most obscure possibility of all—that the footman was not only the target, but an integral part of a conspiracy to frighten Prince Oscar into capitulation or submission to those whom the footman supported with his life.”

  “I will endeavor to keep this all in mind, sir,” I said with feeling; the complexity of the diplomatic world never failed to astonish me; that Mycroft Holmes had it all in his thoughts, at the ready, every hour of the day and night commanded my highest admiration.

  “Yes. Well, see you put your observations to good use. I will be leavin
g in a short while; I expect to see progress upon my return.” He clapped once as if to conjure results from the air like a magician. “You know where the maps are kept.”

  “Indeed yes,” I said, hoping to show a good level of dedication. Mycroft Holmes chuckled. “This isn’t Alexandria or Constantinople, my dear boy. You may be at ease.” He made his way to the door, his steps ponderous, as if visiting the Diogenes Club weighed him down with obligation and responsibility by virtue of his membership.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, rising out of respect as was my habit.

  I watched him leave from the front landing, going into the long spring sunset to cross the road, walking as if oblivious to the traffic around him. I wondered again at the mercurial nature of this most steadfast of men, that these two extremes should exist within him in successful juxtaposition. As I went back into the flat, I paused for a moment, listening. Then I made my way back to the study and began to puzzle out an itinerary that would take Prince Oscar back to Stockholm without exposing him to any more incidents. Beyond all doubt, the British government could not sustain the embarrassment that the assassination of a foreign royal while in British protection would lead to; that was obvious to the meanest intelligence. I had been about the world enough now to know that prestige was as valuable as the coin of the realm—sometimes more valuable.

  For the next hour I worked with the various schedules Mycroft Holmes had provided, covering a sheet of foolscap with my notes and growing increasingly dissatisfied with the possibilities. I had almost come to the conclusion that it might be better to invite the Scandinavian navy to come to escort their Prince home, if such a request would not have dreadful implications for British-Scandinavian relations in the immediate future, which would render the work of the last two weeks useless. With a sigh I put my pencil aside and rubbed my eyes, then rose to my feet and stretched. I told myself that more than my shoulders and hip were growing stiff, and that I needed a turn around the room to limber up my brain as much as my muscles. I noticed a new addition to the framed drawings on the wall—a charcoal study of a ruined Cornish castle, vacant and forlorn on a spit of rock over the clawing breakers. I stopped to study it and noticed the ES signature in the lower right-hand corner of the work. Another one of Edmund Sutton’s sketches, I thought, recalling the portfolio of stage designs he had brought here several months ago. He had reminded me then that actors must know how to draw, not only to paint scenery and props, but to put on makeup. In the time I had been in Mycroft Holmes’ employ, my opinion of Sutton’s profession had improved so that I now began to expect that in his own way Edmund Sutton was as remarkable a fellow as the man who employed us both, an observation Sutton found ludicrous when I suggested it to him some three months since. I thought he underestimated his talent, but he would not agree: he told me that had he a greater gift, he would have continued to pursue leading roles he had once attempted instead of the character parts he now essayed. I turned my attention to a handsome watercolor of the Lake District in high summer. I supposed the lake in the watercolor must be Windermere, but that was probably because I thought all the lakes were Windermere.

  I had just resumed my work when Mycroft Holmes returned from his club. Dusk had turned the flat gloomy, long purple shadows engulfing the rooms. He turned up the lights in the hallway, remarking how eager he was for tea. “Not that the port and brandy are not superb at the Diogenes Club, for they are, but I fear I have to keep a clear head this evening and tea is just what’s wanted.”

  I recalled that Tyers said the kettle was ready in the kitchen. “I’ll attend to it.” When I was young, I often helped my mother prepare tea. No one in the family thought it odd that a son should help with such work for, as my mother said often, “You must not rely on women and servants to look to your comfort, my lad; they may not always be available to you.” Our family had one servant, and as she grew older, it fell to me, as the son of the household, to help with things Hatley could no longer do. I went to the kitchen and moved the kettle onto the hottest part of the cooker, as I had been taught to do while still a schoolboy. The sugar caddy and milk jug were set out on the preparations table, and these I set on the brass-fitted butler’s tray while I warmed the good stoneware pot Mister Holmes insisted upon.

  “Guthrie,” Holmes called from the study, “are these your notes?”

  “On the foolscap—yes, sir.” I measured out tea from the tin, choosing the Assam that Mister Holmes favored when he was faced with long hours of study.

  “Not much worthwhile, is there?” His voice was louder and his step in the hall warned me of his approach.

  “It has ... difficulties, sir,” I said, choosing my words carefully.

  “So it would appear.” He was standing in the door, my pad of paper in his hand; he scowled down at my notes. “Dear me, I had no notion we had allowed such disorder to arise.”

  “Such disorder?” I asked, my attention more on preparing tea than on his observations. The smell of roasting lamb was very strong, honing my appetite. There were cups on their racks, with saucers behind them. I took two down and placed them on the tray.

  “There is almost no coordination with British schedules. Oh, the trains are not too inconvenient, but other posted sailing times—Good Lord, man. Have you ever seen such stuff? You would think the world still ran by sails and tides to look at these.” He tapped the page with an accusing finger.

  “For some, they still do,” I reminded him, for steam had not wholly taken over the sea-lanes yet.

  “But not enough to justify some of these schedules. They have accommodated their old schedules when they no longer have to.” He snorted with impatience. “The Prince would be as obvious as a boil on a nostril if we had to guard him at one of the ports between here and Stockholm.” He peered into the kitchen as I continued to set out lemon curd and preserves to accompany scones and Scotch petticoats. “We must find another way, Guthrie. This will not do.”

  “No, sir,” I said, mildly distracted. For a couple of ticks, I could not remember where Tyers kept the clotted cream, and then I opened the cooler and brought it out; on the lowest rack a large jug of oxtail soup waited to be heated for our supper. Next I set out spoons and serviettes while the kettle began to thrill. I recalled I should have prepared three baked eggs for Mycroft Holmes, but it had slipped my mind; and even after all these years I was not that familiar with the cooker. I turned to my employer and prepared to apologize.

  “My dear Guthrie,” Mycroft Holmes exclaimed, “I could not manage half so well were I in your shoes. When Tyers returns, if he has time between tea and supper, he can bake eggs if we require them. I doubt I’ll want them.” He looked at the tray. “Quite masterful, upon my word.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said as I went to pour the water, just on the boil, onto the leaves in the teapot. The sharp scent of black tea rose with the steam as I put the kettle down once again, this time on the cool part of the range. I checked the butler’s tray to be certain everything we required was in place, then I picked it up and started for the hallway.

  “Let me open the door wider, Guthrie,” Mycroft Holmes volunteered. “You will want to be able to move easily.”

  “I’d appreciate that, sir,” I said, surprised at how heavy the butler’s tray was thus laden. Holding it, I made my way down the hall crab-fashion; the brass handles of the tray were polished and a bit slippery, making the grip hard to maintain. All in all, delivering the tea was trickier than I thought it would be.

  “I’ll clear a place on the tea table,” Mycroft Holmes offered, gathering up the schedules in a single gesture. “There you are.”

  I set the tray down with relief. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Nothing, I assure you,” he replied in as good form as he would show an ambassador. “I’ll pour, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Thank you,” I repeated, wiping my hands on the nearest serviette. “We sho
uld have our supper ready an hour after Tyers returns.”

  Mycroft Holmes sat down, his long head angled forward as he prepared to pour the tea. “Do you think we will be able to find a safe route for the Prince?”

  “It will be difficult,” I admitted as I sat down. “The Prince has said he does not want to travel on a Royal Navy ship, for fear of offending Germany.” It had been a matter of contention from Prince Oscar’s arrival in Britain, and one upon which he had remained firm. “He must not be given a military escort. Since the PM agrees with him, there is no more to be said.”

  “Yet finding appropriate civilian transportation is proving difficult. Have you considered the royal yacht?” Mycroft Holmes held out a cup-and-saucer to me; I accepted it awkwardly, for it seemed strange to have him serve.

  “I thought it was not available for this service. Too many of Her Majesty’s relatives would take offense at so singular a display of favor.” I had taken notes at two meetings when this had been considered, and I recalled how vehemently the Swedish Ambassador had insisted that such a distinction was unwelcome to Prince Oscar, for it could lead to the kind of upset that could color diplomatic dealings. “I don’t think the Prince will change his mind simply because the transportation is—”

  “Confusing,” Mister Holmes finished for me. “I think you have read the situation aright. Sadly, wiring for the Prince’s yacht at this point would be a concession that the government would not like, an admission that we cannot vouch for his safety.” He paused as he added sugar to his tea. “There is also now the necessity of a decoy.”

  “A decoy?” I repeated, feeling rather foolish.

  “For the assassin to follow. Surely you see the need of it, Guthrie; you comprehend the importance of Sutton so well,” Mycroft Holmes said, so confidently that I could only nod. “We must assume the assassin will not stop with a single attempt, and that when he continues his efforts he will be more determined. Therefore we must contrive a decoy to keep the Prince safe.”