The Scottish Ploy Read online

  “I want you to come up for tea and a brandy, Guthrie. We still have much to discuss.” Mycroft Holmes did not wait for an answer, but hurried up the stairs, none the worse for his walk. I trudged after him, keeping my thoughts to myself.

  Tyers met us at the door, as I expected he would. “There is water just coming on to boil, sir,” he said. “And I have asked Sid Hastings to come up after he has delivered Sutton to the theatre.”

  “Very good,” said Mycroft Holmes. “I trust the afternoon courier arrived without incident?” He handed his cloak to Tyers as he spoke.

  “Yes, and the pouch he brought has a dispatch from Amsterdam that may be more urgent than the rest.” He took my overcoat and valise, but allowed me to keep my portfolio.

  “Amsterdam, is it?” Mycroft Holmes said in alarm. “Jacobbus Braaten?”

  “I was not informed one way or the other, sir,” said Tyers, opening the door to Mycroft Holmes’ study. “The fire is new-laid and I will shortly have your tea.”

  “Very good,” Mycroft Holmes approved.

  “I have put the pouch on your main table, as you can see,” he added before closing the door.

  Mycroft Holmes approached the table as if he expected the pouch to perform some untoward act. “Dear me,” he remarked as he pulled back the flap. “Something on Turkish affairs as well as news from Amsterdam. I don’t like it, Guthrie,” he said as he sat down and proceeded to open the pouch—which was, in reality, a large leather brief-case with a double-lock on it.

  “I can understand why you might not, sir,” I said, going to the chair I usually occupied. My portfolio felt as if it weighed ten stone. I was delighted to put it down.

  Holmes had opened the dispatch and spread it out on the table, reading it quickly and with amazing comprehension. Finally he slapped the flat of his hand down on the table and burst out, “He shall not!”

  I looked up, startled by his fervor. “The Brotherhood, sir?”

  “More specifically, Jacobbus Braaten. He has eluded his watchers and they now believe he may be on a ship bound for Ireland. From there, he is expected to cross to Manchester. He may already have done so.” He sighed explosively. “So much for all the precautions we have in place at Dover. He and Vickers will be on English soil before Lady MacMillian arrives, and that troubles me. It smacks of more intent than simply returning the Brotherhood to Britain—it suggests they may already have some nefarious purpose in mind. Why that possibility should surprise me,” he added with ironic humor, “I cannot think.”

  “There is still time to alert Manchester, isn’t there?” I suggested, feeling a degree of apprehension I had not experienced since my last encounter with the Brotherhood.

  “Possibly,” said Holmes darkly.

  “Then I shall prepare an order, if you like,” I told him.

  “Yes. Do that. It is little enough, but it is better than nothing.” He lowered his head, brooding. “I am troubled that the Brotherhood has been able to act so quickly, and deceptively.”

  I rose to collect the embossed paper on which such orders were issued, and while I was at the secretary, Tyers returned to the study with the tea tray that contained—beyond the teapot, the sugar-bowl, and creamer—a basket of fresh scones and a tub of fresh butter, as well as a jar of potted ham.

  “Set that down if you would, Tyers,” said Mycroft Holmes, not bothering to look up from the paper before him.

  “That I will,” said Tyers, then added, “Sid Hastings has just returned. Shall I ask him to come up now, or would you rather speak to him later?”

  Holmes put the paper aside, turning it face-down in the process. “Tell him to come up now. My question is pressing.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Tyers, and left us in the study together.

  “Are you going to ask him about why he was not in his appointed place?” I inquired.

  “Yes. It is so much unlike him.” His frown was more eloquent than words would have been. “What troubles me most is that he can be threatened. After all, he is a man with a family and I cannot ask him to put my interests, or those of the government, above those of his wife and children.” He smiled, a trace of sadness in his demeanor. “Men like Hastings cannot make such choices without being broken by them. I would offer him a poor reward for his long devotion if I required that choice of him.” He paused. “It is to his credit that he is so devoted to his family.”

  “I should say so,” I agreed; I went to pour a cup of tea for myself and for Mycroft Holmes.

  “No, Guthrie,” said my employer. “Many men of Hastings’ station are incapable of doing more than bringing children into the world and leaving them to grow up as mudlarks, or worse; we see the results of their indifference every day.”

  “Some of the highest ranks treat their children from the wrong side of the blanket worse than they treat their hounds,” I observed.

  “Sadly it is true. But not all men—high or low—are thus. Sid Hastings has always put the interests of his wife and children ahead of his own, and for that, he is a laudable example of what even a poor man may do to benefit his family.” He accepted the tea I held out to him. “That is why I would never want to impose upon him, for such a conflict of loyalties would be hard for him to bear.”

  “So might it for any man,” I said.

  Mycroft Holmes shook his head. “Guthrie, dear boy, I wish I could concur. But, alas, I cannot. And neither can you.” He reached for a scone, broke it and buttered the smaller portion, then popped it into his mouth.

  “Every man has some loyalty,” I said. “It may not be to family, but there is something that commands his allegiance.” I meant what I said, and apparently Holmes understood that.

  “You are still an idealist, my lad,” said Mycroft Holmes with a faint air of self-deprecation about him. “I am grateful for that.”

  I took a mouthful of tea and swallowed, finding the heat most welcome. “Why do you say that, sir?”

  Whatever his answer, I was destined never to hear it, for Tyers knocked on the door just then, saying that Sid Hastings was with him.

  “Come in, come in,” sang out Mycroft Holmes. “Have a cup of tea— Tyers, bring a cup for Hastings, will you?”

  “Of course,” said Tyers, and withdrew.

  Sid Hastings seemed dreadfully uncomfortable standing before us, his cap in hand, his muffler loose around his neck under his thick tweed jacket. “I left my oilskin in the kitchen,” he explained, staring up at the ceiling.

  “Come, Hastings, don’t be ill-at-ease. Have a seat.” When Mycroft Holmes chose to, he could exude such bonhomie that any man would be hard-put to resist it; Sid Hastings sat down in the one straight-backed chair available.

  “I’m told you wanted me to stay on duty this morning,” said Hastings, turning brick-red at his own boldness.

  “I was rather surprised when I did not find you at the agreed-upon place,” Holmes said mildly. “It struck me as most unlike you, not to be at our appointed place. I hope it does not mean any misfortune had befallen your family?”

  “No, no, sir,” said Hastings, all but pulling his forelock. “All’s well with them, even my daughter, thanks to you. We have naught to complain of, especially since you took an interest in our Fanny, as she calls herself now.” He spoke of his child whose mathematical skills had secured her a position in a casino on the Continent where she was flourishing.

  “Good of you to say,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Give her my regards when next you write to her.”

  “Don’t do that often,” said Hastings. “But the Missus’ll be sending her a letter at Christmas, as she does. Good with her letters, my Missus is. Writes regular. You may be sure we’ll include your kindness to her.” He had begun to relax a little. “We had a letter from her not long ago: she’s saved more than an hundred pounds since taking up her post; she says she
wants to buy shares in a railroad. I near to fell over when I heard that. Shares in a railroad! Who’d’ve thought she’d—” He stopped. “Not to take up your time, sir.”

  “I, for one, would have thought she would find a way to make her earnings work for her,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Still, you’re right—oh, thank you, Tyers”—this was for the cup-and-saucer Tyers brought from the kitchen—“we should discuss how you came to leave your place this morning.”

  “Well, I did what the copper told me to, didn’t I?” Hastings said, a little too loudly.

  “Did you?” Mycroft Holmes asked with no trace of blame in his voice. “What copper was that?”

  “The one you sent,” said Hastings, not touching the cup-and-saucer.

  “Tell me about him,” said Mycroft Holmes; I listened intently as well.

  “Well, he was ... just a copper. A proper constable. I know a right copper when I see one, and he was right to his boots. He said I was to go on until the afternoon, when I would be wanted again. He pointed to your rear door and said you were occupied with a Turkish gentleman, or you would tell me the same yourself. Since he was a policeman in uniform, I decided it was all right to obey him.” He paused. “I shouldn’t have, should I?”

  Mycroft Holmes stared down into his tea. “No, Hastings. You did as you ought.” He raised his eyes. “But I find it most perturbing to realize that the man who shot the courier and attempted to kill me is a member of the police.”

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

  It has been a difficult afternoon and the evening is no less so: I have just given Sid Hastings a sandwich and sent him on his way, and must shortly seek out former Police Inspector Durward Strange. MH tells me that this is one of the few men who can be trusted to be wholly candid about police matters. It seems that MH is reluctant to go directly to Scotland Yard with his newest revelation for fear that if what Hastings says is accurate, admission of the danger would serve only to escalate it. Therefore, it is MH’s intention to speak with PI Strange for the purpose of gaining as objective an opinion as possible. I understand that PI Strange is considered bitter by many on the force, and for that reason alone is not much sought-out ...

  Sutton is off at the theatre and will not return until well into the night. He has said that these last few performances are important to him, as they are very likely the last time he will essay such a major role in so important a theatre in London. He says it is not wise for him to become too recognizable, as continuing major roles would cause him to be, so he intends to make the most of this opportunity. He looks upon this as a grand gesture, one that will bring him the satisfaction of having made his mark among the important MacBeths of this decade. He is resigned to playing in less prestigious theatres and in less well-known works, but he is not above being pleased that his work has been well-received, and in so demanding a role as Macbeth.

  Another package has been sent by Sir Marmion with the admonition that he must have its contents returned by no later than day after tomorrow. I have conveyed this to MH, who has said it is most frustrating to have so monumental an opportunity and so little time in which to take advantage of it. He has sworn to read the material provided until Sutton returns.

  G has returned to Curzon Street for the night and will likely not be back here until six-thirty tomorrow morning to resume his duties. I have told him he will not be disturbed except in an emergency, which is a prudent thing to do, as it is most important that G, who is MH’s right hand and second pair of eyes, be fully alert in these next few days.

  I WOKE at seven-thirty in the morning, and, having realized the hour, was filled with chagrin. I should have been at Mycroft Holmes’ flat before now, ready to work. I dressed in haste, had nothing more than a muffin before I bolted out the door into a rainstorm that washed over the city with Biblical enthusiasm. Splashing through the street, I attempted to hail a cab, and finally succeeded. “Pall Mall,” I told the jarvy. “And quickly. I’m late.”

  “Right you are,” said the jarvy, and set his horse in motion through the downpour.

  Arriving at Mycroft Holmes’ flat some twenty minutes later—our progress having been slowed by an overturned drayage van—I rushed up the stairs, and presented myself with apologies.

  “Do sit down and recover yourself, Guthrie, there’s a good lad,” said Mycroft Holmes, who wore a dressing gown of plush hunter-green velvet over his trousers and shirt as he sat finishing his breakfast. “I slept in a bit myself. I didn’t rise until nearly seven. Just as well that you took a little time to get here.”

  I did my best to appear satisfied with his casual remark. “You’re very kind, sir: I should have been here sooner.”

  “Not on my account. Besides, tonight will probably be a late evening, so it is all one to me. Not that there is nothing to occupy your morning.” He pointed to his stack of notes. “Sort those out and copy them, if you will,” he went on as he cut into the last part of a thick slice of ham slicked over with the soft yolks of three eggs; two slices of toast with butter and marmalade spread on them awaited his attention. “I must have these files back to Sir Marmion shortly; he required that as part of the loan of them. It was a busy night, reading through them all. I feel as if I have been inundated with paper.”

  “No doubt,” I said, studying the file which must have contained more than a hundred closely written sheets. “Has this been worth your review?”

  “In what sense do you ask?” Mycroft Holmes pushed back from his table and gave me a direct stare.

  “In the sense that the science that Sir Marmion explores may be applicable to your own work. of course.” I was somewhat surprised by the questions.

  “All science is applicable to what I do, Guthrie. You would do well to remember that. In the case of Sir Marmion’s studies, however, there is an immediate importance to his researches that touches all of us. I must tell you that it is my belief that we must improve our understanding of the human mind if we are ever to use it to its fullest potential, and use it we must, or we will be overwhelmed by those who do not hesitate to capitalize on the power of their minds.” He folded his hands on his chest and favored me with a thoughtful look. “Imagine what we might do if we could but comprehend the workings of the human mind, its strengths, its weaknesses, its unexplored capabilities. Once we had such knowledge, there would be no more madness, no more criminality, no more senility or apoplexy, and, once the mechanism was comprehended, no more poverty, for each man should know how to employ the strength of his thoughts, not be subverted by their weaknesses.”

  “A laudable goal,” I said, making no apology for my skepticism.

  “You think it is not attainable.” He waved his hand to stop my protestations before I could make any. “Well, for now you have the right of it. But for the future, I do not agree. A capable, disciplined mind: the mind is the secret, Guthrie. All our potential is locked within it; science shows us that if it shows nothing else. Sir Marmion seeks to give us some access to it, and I, for one, applaud his efforts, and the efforts of all who seek to comprehend the whole of it. We have discovered so much in the last decade, we must persevere to the limit. I will not be stopped by fashions in thinking, nor by public outcry, for there is too much at stake.” He rose from his chair.

  “And what if the highest potential of a mind is for greater criminality, or more fecklessness?” I asked. “There may be such predilections even as there is talent for music and science.”

  Mycroft Holmes nodded. “Indeed, there may be such, and if there are, the sooner we know them, the better. In those cases Sir Marmion may provide the key to identifying those inclinations early enough in life when they might be redirected into more useful applications.” He came over to me. “For example, if Sir Cameron had received appropriate instruction early in life, he might not be the drunken, cocksure wastrel he is now.”

  “It is possible,” I allow
ed in a tone that said I did not think it likely.

  “You do not think it could be so; you are not persuaded by what you have heard in this regard,” said Mycroft Holmes, wagging a finger at me as if he were a schoolmaster and I a wayward student. “Yet I tell you each man has it within him to be a tyrant or a saint, to be a beacon of achievement or a sink of depravity. It is all a matter of emphasis and application, and of education.” He began to pace the room. “I repeat: the mind is the secret. Do not deny the truth of it. You, of all men, should appreciate the power of the mind.”

  “I do not question it,” I said. “I do question its diligence, and the ends to which it is employed.”

  “That is precisely what Sir Marmion’s studies seek to address,” said Mycroft Holmes. “And speaking of Sir Cameron,” he went on in another voice, “I fear we must prepare to meet him at his London club. He has telegraphed early this morning that he does not wish to be met at the train.”

  “That is not reassuring,” I said as I went to gather up the notes Mycroft Holmes wished me to transcribe.

  “No. It suggests he had been drinking or has a doxy with him he does not wish anyone to see. It will not do, to have him arrive in this havey-cavey manner. Not that we would seem to have any choice in the matter.” Holmes pulled at his lower lip. “And there is the meeting with Baron von Schattenberg. It would not be to our advantage to have Sir Cameron attend our deliberations drunk.”

  “No, it would not,” I said, thinking of all the times we had had to deal with just that eventuality.

  “I think I am going to ask Sutton to put on one of his disguises and go watch Sir Cameron arrive. If he follows him to his club, there will be ample opportunity to discover what state he may be in.” He pointed to the notes. “Well, first things first. You may have two hours for that task, and then Tyers will return the file, as Sir Marmion requested.”