WHEN I returned to my employer’s flat in Pall Mall, it was midafternoon and clouds had blown in, blotting out the glorious blue of heaven’s canopy, and my hip was underscoring this change with a dull, muffled ache that told me it would rain before the next morning. I found the sitting room closed off and the flat ringing with an uneven rendition of the duet “Suoni la tromba” from Bellini’s I Puritani, executed—if that is not too strong a word—by solo bass: Mycroft Holmes often sang in the bath when he had solved a problem to his satisfaction, and today, eventful though it was, was no exception. I smiled with relief as I hung up my overcoat on the rack just inside the door.
Tyers, who was preparing to leave, rolled his eyes upward and whispered, “At least he has a plan. Better him singing than brooding. He’s got the front of the flat empty, in case we’re being watched. He’s fairly certain we are. I’ll confirm it for him.”
I chuckled softly; five years ago I would not have been so bold, or so unconcerned, but after the hectic life Mycroft Holmes had thrown me into I had begun to revere him less and respect him more and to understand his enjoyment in the game. “I have my pistol. Shall I need it?”
“Probably not, at least not here,” said Tyers. “I should return in less than two hours; if I am gone more than three, alert the police. There’s tea ready on the cooker.” With that he pulled his muffler around his head and ducked out the front door. I closed the door behind him and shot the lock-bolt home.
“That you, Guthrie?” Mycroft Holmes called out, interrupting his assault on Bellini.
“Yes, sir,” I replied at once. “At your service.”
There was a vigorous sloshing while my employer climbed out of his tub. “I’ll be with you directly. There’s port in the study. Pour for yourself and fill a glass for me. We have work to do.” The energy in his tone warned me that it would be a demanding evening.
“Yes, sir,” I said, and went along to the study, sliding back the doors and going to turn up the gaslight. The bright, warm glow suffused the room, and I looked about with the pleasure of being in a familiar place. The port was in a decanter on a Spanish silver tray, with four thistles beside it. I chose two and poured the dark wine into them, relishing the strong, nutty aroma that rose from the thistles. I set one on the occasional table next to Mycroft Holmes’ preferred chair and sat down in the one opposite it. I put my glass aside while I waited for my employer to join me.
Ten minutes later Mycroft Holmes strolled into the study; he was properly attired for a convivial evening, and I supposed he would shortly leave to visit his club across the street. He nodded his approval at my more practical attire—I was dressed in a dark tweed hacking jacket over a rolltop jumper and driving trousers, as Mister Holmes had requested. “Very good. That is exactly what I requested. You could blend into almost any public place in London but the opera or a Whitechapel stew.” He sat down and picked up his thistle of port. “Thank you, Guthrie. Today has been a trifle taxing.”
“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 leaving 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 should 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.”
“Was that why you were singing in the bath, sir?” I ventured to ask, as Mycroft Holmes took his first long sip of tea.
“One of the reasons, Guthrie, yes.” He smiled at me, his expression so benign that I was almost afraid to move. “While the Chief Inspector is here, I want you to follow my lead.”
“Of course,” I said, wondering why he should take such pains to remind me to do the very thing I had done from the first hours of my employment.
“Good. Very good, my boy,” he approved as he drank more tea. “You have become most astute in the last few years.”
Surprised at this unexpected praise, I tasted my tea as well, noticing only that it was a trifle too hot. I sat a bit straighter in my chair. “It’s what you’ve been watching for since Prince Oscar arrived. You have expected something of the sort from the outset. There is more to this than the assassination attempt, isn’t there? It is not so simple as you have implied; more is at stake.”
“I believe so,” said Mycroft Holmes, taking a scone and smearing lemon curd on it. “And I rely upon Tyers to bring me the confirmation of my suspicions in the next hour.” He bit down firmly and chewed.
“The Brotherhood, no doubt,” I said feeling a combination of fatigue and exhilaration at the realization that I would once again be in the fray.
“No doubt,” Mycroft Holmes agreed through a bit of scone. “They want Prince Karl Gustav on the throne one day, allied with Germany and aiding their cause of European collapse. No doubt you have noticed how often the Brotherhood works most injuriously in the nations around Germany, undermining their integrity and binding them to German purposes.”
“That is the aspect I cannot understand: why would a man of Prince Karl’s stature and position want to belong to an organization dedicated to the destruction of the very institution to which Karl himself has been born?” I was not hungry—nerves were robbing me of my appetite, a development I found disturbing for it was not one I often encountered.
“He has most certainly been promised a favored position with the Brotherhood when they triumph. Karl Gustav is a younger son, and in the usual course of things, he will live his entire life in the shadow of Prince Oscar, who, barring mishap, will one day be King of Sweden-and-Norway. How ignominious for Karl Gustav, perpetually condemned to the conscripted life of royalty, with responsibilities and obligations that would make the average man shudder, with little or no chance to achieve the position that all the demands support. No, Karl Gustav had no reason to eschew the privileges the Brotherhood has promised and no reason to refuse to aid Germany, for their policies could provide him the advancement that he, like Hamlet, so conspicuously lacks.” He had another decisive bite of the scone.
“But isn’t he making, well,”—I felt myself redden at this lurid comparison—“a deal with the devil?” I could see that my choice of image amused my employer.
“In more ways than one,” said Mycroft Holmes, after he took a long sip of tea. “For whether or not Karl Gustav ever achieves his desire to supplant Prince Oscar, he will always be at the beck and call of the Brotherhood. It is their damnable practice to aid you so you will be beholden to them, and then to compel you to do their bidding in all matters that suit their purpose.” He poured more tea, using the strainer to keep the dark leaves from getting into his cup; it was a fastidious gesture, reminding me of the narrow, restricted life he was believed to live and how far that carefully maintained façade was from the truth.
“Do you think Prince Oscar is aware of the problem?” I had heard many of the discussions that passed between my employer and the Scandinavian Prince and I could not recall any remark His Highness might have made directly on the subject.
“He has been told, of course. Whether or not he is convinced is another matter.” He stirred his tea as he dropped in sugar. “I have tried to alert him, and I know he is aware of the actions of the Brotherhood; but I am less certain he understands the role his brother is playing in the Brotherhood’s activities. I very much doubt he would entertain the notion that Karl Gustav could have had any role in the event today.” He lifted his cup. “More’s the pity.”
The door to the kitchen opened and Tyers called out, “I am returned,” his voice sounding a trifle breathless, suggesting he had rushed up the backstairs. “I have two replies. Others will be carried ‘round by nine in the morning.”
Mycroft Holmes nodded in satisfaction. “Were you followed?”
Tyers appeared in the doorway, still unwrapping his muffler. “Yes, sir, I was. And I was most particularly careful to observe my followers.” He pulled a small portfolio from inside his coat and handed it to Mister Holmes. “The information you requested. The two replies are with it.” He bowed a bit.
Holmes took the portfolio and put it on the arm of his chair, a gesture so negligent that I knew it had to be deliberate. “Thank you, Tyers. Now, about the man following you?”
“When I left—by the front, as you ordered—I was observed by a young man, no more than twenty-five, fair, with a moustache and a French necktie. He was well turned out and probably fancied himself a cut above most of those around him, a bit of self-delusion in Pall Mall. His suit was a good copy of Bond Street tailoring, probably done by one of the Chinese tailors offering such suits. He had what appeared to be a tattoo on his wrist, but aside from catching a glimpse of its color—which was bluish as so many tattoos are—I cannot tell you anything more about it. He followed me for my first two calls, bur I lost him near Saint Martins-in-the-Field, as you instructed I should. I was able to satisfy myself I had got clear of him before I continued on my errands.” His expression changed slightly, showing his appreciation for his skill in eluding his pursuer. “After my third call, a man looking like a West Country squire gone to seed followed me.”
“Is that Vickers’ man?” I asked sharply, remembering my first work for Mycroft Holmes that had taken me to the men of the Brotherhood in England.
“I would think so,” said Mycroft Holmes, frowning.
I could not entirely suppress a shudder. “If that’s the fellow I think it is, he has a whiff of corruption about him.” My own dealings with him had been brief but their impact remained, like the smell of a dead rat under the floorboards.
“That is the man and most certainly the whiff,” said Mycroft Holmes, his tone as dry as his features were unreadable. “The man is known to whip the bottoms of the boys attending his school for the most minor trespasses.” He took a deep breath. “He will undoubtedly report your calls to Vickers, wherever he has gone to ground.”
Foolish though it was, I could not keep from a moment of recollection, and the image of Vickers’ face before my mind’s eye was enough to chill me to the bone. “Is he still in England, I wonder?” I asked. “He was gone long enough that he might have decided to return to the Continent.”
“Or Ireland,” said Mycroft Holmes. “I shouldn’t wonder if he hasn’t decided to go there and stir the pot.” His face had hardened, seeming now to be hewn from granite. “I will find him.”
I did not doubt for an instant that he would.
FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS
Having returned from the errands MH sent me to do, I had supper to make for the arrival of Chief Inspector Somerford, who, fortunately, was ten minutes late and was willing to have a second pony of sherry before sitting down to eat. The soup is almost ready, an oxtail with barley, and I will have it in the tureen shortly and then put my concentration on the main course—in this instance I am grateful MH likes his lamb served rare. I seasoned it with garlic, olives, and cumin, as they prepare it in Egypt, one of the dishes I learned to make there. There is new bread and fresh-churned butter. I have to finish the buttered turnips and green peas in creamed cheddar in order to put all on the table in twenty minutes ...
When supper is on the table, I will prepare a full report of my errands and the two men who followed me. MH will want it in his hands before he retires.