THREE muffled chimes marked the hour as Mycroft Holmes looked down at the maps spread out on the study table. “Gentlemen, it is late and yesterday was eventful.” He stretched, joints cracking audibly. “Time to get some sleep. Guthrie, you need not return until eight. I need you rested and fresh.”
“Much appreciated, sir,” I said, rising from my chair and preparing to depart.
“Dress for a formal business meeting.” It was an order; he and I both knew it.
“That I will. Thank you, sir,” I said from the doorway.
“Very good,” said Mycroft Holmes as he bent over the sheets of paper with their endless scrawling. “I’ll need you to copy these when you first arrive, while I breakfast. Make sure you allow enough time to do it well.”
“Certainly, sir,” I said, trying to decide if I should come half an hour earlier; Mycroft Holmes’ specific instructions in regard to the hour made me decide that I had better arrive at the time he stipulated or risk interfering with some other aspect of his plans. As I reached for my coat, which was only slightly less damp than the last time I had worn it, I said, “Do you know where I might flag a cab? With the police about—”
“The Admiralty should have a trap across the street, not elegant but utilitarian enough to serve.” He yawned. “Our trials are not yet over, my lad. I rely on you to continue your splendid efforts.”
“I’ll do my best, sir,” I told him as I let myself out of the flat. Descending the stairs, I thought of Tyers, who would be up before six, which now seemed barely half an hour away. As I stepped onto the pavement, I saw the trap waiting in the service alley beside the Diogenes Club, a fellow in a heavy naval cloak sitting on the driving box. I waved to him as I crossed the street and noticed four constables emerging from their posts in the shadows. “Mycroft Holmes tells me you’ll drive me to Curzon Street,” I called out, a bit too loudly to be polite at this hour.
“Yes. I know about you,” said the driver from the depths of his muffler and cloak; his voice, I supposed, was gruff from waiting in this inclement weather.
Climbing into the trap, I thought, but for the voice, he might have been anyone under that mass of clothing—he might have been a bear. “Sorry to keep you up so late.”
“Nothing to worry about,” he responded, and gave his chestnut the office.
I sat still for the journey, trying to find some obvious flaw in Mycroft Holmes’ plans; he had taught me to do this almost eight years ago and I continued the practice ever since. I was too worn out to think clearly, so most of the exercise was in vain, but at least it kept me awake until we reached Curzon Street. As I got out of the trap, I managed to thank the driver.
“Duty, sir,” he explained. “Your usual driver will fetch you tomorrow morning.” With that he kissed the air noisily and his chestnut walked on.
I made my way up to my rooms and all but staggered to my bed. Fatigue had made my muscles taut from my long hours of forcing myself to remain awake and attentive. As I undressed my hands trembled, a sure sign I was past my limit. Once my clothes were hung up, I found my nightshirt, drew it on, washed my face and toweled my hair and then got into bed, certain I would not relax enough to fall asleep for some time. I heard the clock in the parlor beneath me ring the half hour, but nothing more until an urgent pounding on my door brought me awake just as the night sky was beginning to lighten with the promise of dawn. I must have been dreaming, for I was momentarily disoriented, my thoughts back in Bavaria that was also Constantinople, and the members of the Brotherhood were preparing to burn down the Houses of Parliament, which was also in this fantastical dream-landscape.
“Mister Guthrie!” I recognized the voice of Mycroft Holmes’ jarvey. I flung back the blankets and rushed to the door, imagining the worst had happened. I unlocked the door and pulled it open so quickly that I nearly overbalanced Sid Hastings as he strove to rouse me.
“Sid!” I exclaimed. “What is the matter?”
“Mister Holmes wants you at once,” he declared in a tone that did not encourage dawdling, or many questions.
“I’ll get dressed,” I promised him, making an effort to open my armoire to retrieve my clothes. “What time is it?” I had not intended to ask, knowing whatever he told me, I would dislike his answer. I felt groggy and faintly dizzy, a sure sign I had not slept enough to relieve my fatigue.
“It’s gone half-five, sir. Sun’ll be up in a couple of ticks.” He turned around so I could get out of my nightshirt without embarrassment.
I poured water from the ewer to the basin and managed a cursory wash before I began to shave, doing the work by touch more than anything my mirror revealed. It was moments like this one that made me long for a burnoose and a beard. I ended up nicking myself once, but got the job done and then pulled on my singlet and my shirt over that. Remembering Mister Holmes’ admonition from the night before, I chose clothes a thought more formal than those I usually wore to work. As I fixed my collar in place, I noticed the room brighten as the clouds in the east became luminous; Sid had been right about the sun. I finished dressing more handily now that I could see what I was doing, trousers on before socks and shoes. In less than four minutes I had my tie in place and my waistcoat buttoned. I pulled on my jacket, and swung around to Sid. “All right. I’m ready,” I told him.
“Then let’s be about it,” said Sid, holding my door for me, and waiting on the landing while I secured the lock.
The streets were far from empty at this early hour; delivery-wagons and vans made their way with everything from milk and cheese to live chickens and fresh fish. I wrapped myself in the rug Sid provided, hoping to preserve my collar and tie from the weather, but not at all certain I had taken sufficient precautions. The rain had slacked off but the morning was dampish, and the paving was slicked with mud, spattering as wheels went through it. The pace everywhere was urgent so that the brisk pace Sid Hastings set was not noticeable amongst the rest of the vehicles. As we drew up in front of Mycroft Holmes’ building, I saw the clutch of constables had moved from the door of the Diogenes Club to the front of the building from where the assassin had shot. Puzzled, I remarked on this as Sid let the steps down for me.
“Sad, that is,” he said, his Cockney accent making the words more brusk than they already were. As I stepped free of his cab, he touched the brim of his hat and moved away toward Charles II Street, where he would wait for my employer to send for him.
Knowing that something had gone very wrong, I hastened up the stairs to Mycroft Holmes’ flat on the top floor, my imagination working faster than my feet. Only the knowledge that Prince Oscar was safe in Baker Street kept me from losing heart. Trying to overcome the residue of sleep that held me, I rapped on the door with my knuckles and two breaths later was admitted to the flat by Tyers, who looked fresh enough but for the circles under his eyes. His clothing was impeccable and he greeted me as if this were a usual morning. “Good morning, Tyers,” I said as I stepped inside. I saw that it was just after six, and trusted I had been timely enough to suit my employer.
“And to you, Mister Guthrie,” said Tyers in unflappable calm.
“Mister Holmes—” I pointed to the corridor.
“—is in the study. He’s expecting you,” said Tyers as he secured the front door once again.
I left my topcoat on the rack behind the door and went along to the study. I rapped on the door, which was ajar, and said, “Mister Holmes—”
“Do come in, Guthrie, dear boy,” he called out from within. “We’re about to have some tea and scones. Heaven knows we need something.” He was standing near the fire, dressed as if for a day at the Admiralty. His features looked glum, making him appear older than his fifty-three years.
Sitting beside him, Edmund Sutton seemed as always a paler, younger echo of him. “It’s too bad,” he said, as if I had not yet discerned this.
“It’s damnable,” said Mycroft Holmes. “It is also most ... appalling.”
“Dear God,” I exclaimed, horrible possibilities forming a catastrophic parade in my thoughts. Surely there had not been an assassination at the Diogenes Club? Had some important member been shot? Had there been—I made myself stop. “Tell me.”
“The constable—Childes, his name was—guarding the roof where the assassin waited was found murdered this morning.” Holmes sighed heavily. “He was shot at close range, high in the back. There is no sign of a struggle.”
“It must have been very sudden,” I said, shocked to disbelief. I made myself speak the ideas that swarmed my brain. “The devil must have hidden somewhere on the roof, or hung over the side, like Amoud, in Constantinople.”
“It rained last night, Guthrie,” said Mycroft Holmes quietly.
“Yes?” I spoke more harshly than I had intended.
“He could not have hung over the side of the building. Everything was slick. And the roof was thoroughly searched.” He shook his head. “No. Unsettling as it is, we can come to only one conclusion: the constable knew his killer, and trusted him enough to allow him to stand behind him.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to say “her,” as Penelope Gatspy’s lovely countenance filled my mind’s eye. I shut such useless thoughts away. “Because he came so close? How close is that?”
“There were burns on the constable’s clothes. The killer may have muffled the report with the constable’s cloak.” He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “His relief found him at five.”
“How long had he been dead?” I was astonished at how quickly I fell into the habits of inquiry Mycroft Holmes himself had taught me. My distress would have to wait or the constable would not be avenged.
“I would say no more than two hours, given the state of the body.” He coughed. “I should not have been so sanguine about this whole operation. I have made the mistake of assuming I had assessed the whole, and clearly I have not. I thought because Prince Oscar was safe that we had nothing more to worry about. I hoped we would trap the assassin while delivering the Prince from all harm, and nothing to pay for it.” He began to pace, his head sunk down on his chest.
“He’s been like this for the past hour,” said Sutton, sympathy and exasperation nicely mixed in his delivery. “Holmes, you couldn’t have known you were dealing with a bent copper.”
I rarely heard Edmund Sutton use such slang and it struck me all the more because of it. “What does he mean, a ‘bent copper’?”
“I think the meaning is obvious,” said Mycroft Holmes gravely. “You think a policeman did this?” I wanted to be more stunned by this supposition than I was.
“Who else?” Mister Holmes asked, his demeanor bleak. “One of the police assigned to this case is in league with the assassin, and—we cannot ignore the possibility, can we?—the Brotherhood.” He put the tips of his fingers together and pressed his index fingers to his lower lip.
“Do you have any notion yet? Who is the ... er ... bent copper?”
“There are three possibilities that I can see.” He was preparing to enumerate his suspects when Tyers arrived with the butler’s tray laden with tea, scones, butter, and a brandied fruit compote as well as a few slices of cold, rare sirloin.
As he put this down, he said, “I have a pot of shepherd’s cheese warming, and diced potatoes browning with the bacon. They will be ready shortly.” He offered a quick smile, handing out plates to each of us. “This will serve as breakfast.”
“Excellently,” said Edmund Sutton, and turned to Holmes. “Come. You’ll feel more the thing when you’ve had something to eat. You’re tired and hungry. Nothing ever puts me so off my performance as being tired and hungry.”
Mycroft Holmes was about to shake his head in refusal, then saw the sharp look in Tyers’ eyes. “Oh, very well. You’re probably right.” He came back to his chair and tugged the occasional table around to a more convenient angle. “Tea first. I must wake up and clear my thoughts.”
“Very good,” said Tyers, beginning to prepare a plate for our employer. Edmund Sutton motioned to me to sit down; I complied at once, and not because I was hungry. When Tyers poured tea for me, he put in sugar but no milk, as I liked it in the morning. “If there is anything more you want?”
“Not just at present, thanks,” I said, my attention more on Mycroft Holmes than on Tyers.
“It is a very troubling development,” said Mycroft Holmes after his first sip of tea. “I cannot but wonder how deep the rot goes.”
“And who can root it out,” added Edmund Sutton. “You do not want to trust anyone who might be in the other camp.” He took his cup of tea with a nod of acknowledgment.
“Precisely,” said Mycroft Holmes, some of his usual purpose returning to his visage.
“You will have to learn who the turncoat is,” I said. “If he has accomplices, you will have to unearth them as well.”
“Very true, and without putting Prince Oscar at any more risk than we already have,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Which means we must have not one but two doubles, sent on two different ships, with two different sets of guards. And it all must be arranged today.”
I sat bolt upright so quickly I very nearly overset my tea. “Today? Why today?”
“Because tomorrow, dear boy, you and I and the Prince are leaving for Scotland by rail.” He must have read incomprehension in my face, for he chuckled. “Well, what is more sensible? I am going to call upon the Directors of the North Eastern today, to arrange for—”
“The Flying Scotsman!” I burst out. “Of course.”
“If the Directors of the railroad can be made to agree to a few ... stipulations. They have accommodated unusual situations before—not often, but often enough to give me hope.” He smiled at me, an expression a crocodile might want to imitate.
“Those are the Directors you intend to address,” I said, relieved to know his purpose. “You want their support for your plan.”
“Bravo, old boy. Astute as always, although I want rather more than that,” said Mycroft Holmes. He sipped his tea. “We will have to be very careful what we vouchsafe them.”
“Naturally. The Prince’s safety is paramount,” I said, warming to the whole plan.
“The disadvantage is, of course, if the Brotherhood or any of the other enemies of Britain or Prince Oscar learn of this plan, in which case we all become sitting ducks, as the saying has it.” He finished his tea, retreating into thoughtful preparation.
“I’ll stay here, to cover,” said Edmund Sutton, his assurance welcome though it was obvious. “All day and all night, so that anyone watching will not have reason to think there has been a substitution.”
I had another sip of tea. “Just so,” I said, having trouble swallowing as the potential dangers were borne in on me. If the police could not be trusted, how were we to maintain the ruse that had been successful for years?
“Cecil has already sent a memorandum,” said Mycroft Holmes suddenly. “He reminds me that Prince Oscar’s protection is my responsibility, and that the Swedes have washed their hands of the problem. If anything happens to His Highness, then I may present my resignation at once, and Cecil will do the rest.” He frowned and looked up toward the ceiling. “Spare me the wiles of politicians.”
It was rare for Mycroft Holmes to refer to the Prime Minister by his title, and rarer still by his name. I realized that Holmes was as angry as he was irked by the man’s interference. “You will yet have his apology, sir,” I said.
“From Robert Arthur Talbot Gascoyne-Cecil, third Marquis of Salisbury?” Holmes asked incredulously. “He would rather have leprosy than apologize—to anyone. Apology is worse than scandal to him, and he abhors the necessity of it; I would have had a better chance with Primrose.” His reference to the current Prime Minister’s immediate predecessor brought another purse of his lips. “When Cecil has made concessions, he has always exacted a price for it. No, no, Guthrie. Better to get out of this neatly and unnoticed, and hope Cecil forgets about it until he’s out of office again.”
“Whatever is most appropriate,” I said, still mildly disconcerted. The half-hour chimed from the clock in the hall, recalling me to our purpose. “What time is our appointment with the Directors of the North Eastern? Do we have that set?”
“Ten this morning. In the Strangers’ Room at the club. It’s all settled. We will have it to ourselves until noon. That’s all arranged,” said Mycroft Holmes as if such an arrangement were obvious.
“Do you intend to have me present?” I asked, aware that this meeting was a most unusual one and possibly intended to be wholly clandestine.
“Certainly, my dear Guthrie. I would not attempt this without you.” Holmes was regaining his unflappability before my eyes. “Not only do I want a written record, but a second set of eyes and ears, the better to discern anything and everything that might be amiss.”
“Not unlike dealing with the Japanese,” I said, “or the Imam.”
“Exactly,” said Holmes, and poured more tea into his cup, adding three teaspoons of sugar and a bit of milk. “There is so much that is hidden, and that we must conceal. It will take careful going to negotiate these waters.” He became more brisk, with stronger intent in every word and action. “Come afternoon, I will have memoranda for you to copy and file; for this morning I have the dreary duty of talking with Superintendent Spencer and Chief Inspector Somerford about the murdered constable.”
“Don’t you want me to accompany you?” I asked, startled that he would not want me present.
“Not this time, Guthrie. If our appointment were not so early with the Directors, then I might say otherwise; but as this is largely pro forma, by necessity, you will be well-advised to remain here.” He rolled one of the slices of sirloin and bit it in half. When he swallowed, he added, “Until we know more about the extent of the corruption in the police, I will say nothing of substance to either of those men.”
“You surely don’t think they could be involved?” I asked, dismayed afresh.
“I think we cannot afford to ignore that possibility no matter how remote it may be. And it is possible that if we reveal too much, one or the other may inadvertently warn the real culprits of our scrutiny.” He ate the rest of the roast beef slice and reached for another, rolling it as he had the first. “This will be another long day, my friends. And tomorrow will be more so, if we accomplish our purpose today.”
“God willing,” said Edmund Sutton.
“Amen,” said Mycroft Holmes in such a tone of voice that I could not tell whether or not he was joking. He drank down all his tea and took a scone from the basket.
“Tomorrow?” I said as the full import of it sank in on me. “You do mean to go to Scotland tomorrow?”
“I’d do it today if it could be managed,” said Holmes as if this was not an outrageous suggestion. “The longer Prince Oscar remains in London, the greater the chance of his discovery, which none of us want. With two doubles leaving, one this morning, one in the evening, we will, I hope, confuse our enemies long enough to get the Prince aboard the train without exposing him to any more trouble. If we can keep our enemies busy watching the ports here in the South, his departure from Scotland should be successful.” He looked up as Tyers returned with the potatoes and bacon. “Thank goodness. My last indulgence until day’s end, I fear.”
Sutton poured himself more tea then helped make more room on the butler’s tray for the small, oval platter Tyers had brought. “I will go along to my flat for my portfolio as soon as you leave to meet with the police,” he said, clearly confirming some agreement they had made before I returned to the flat at dawn.
“Um. Thanks,” said Holmes as he helped himself to potatoes and bacon. “This is the very thing that will hold me through the day, Tyers.”
Tyers nodded to show his acknowledgment of this praise. “You are good to say so.” He checked the teapot. “More hot water.”
Sutton suddenly stifled a yawn. “Oh, I beg your pardon. It’s being up all night after a performance.” He looked a bit like a schoolboy caught out after hours. “I’ll need a lie-down after I come back from my flat. Sorry, it’s beginning to catch up with me.”
Mycroft Holmes regarded him indulgently. “Whatever you must do, do it while it does not compromise with your impersonation.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.” He leaned back and yawned again. “More tea.”
“It’s coming,” said Tyers, who took up the pot and left the study.
“Guthrie,” Holmes said to me, “you might be well-advised to take a nap yourself. You have no duties so urgent that they cannot be postponed for an hour or two. Once we attend our meeting with the Directors, we may have to move very quickly, and I will need you alert and rested.”
I was about to say it was not necessary, but I knew that was pride, not good sense talking, so I responded, ‘Thank you, sir. I will do just that.”
“Use the day-bed in the sitting room. You won’t muss your clothes too badly on it.” He began to eat the potatoes and bacon with gusto, as if the very act itself increased his appetite. I had seen him this way before—in Constantinople especially—and I recognized it for the preparation it was. “You may excuse yourself if you like, Guthrie. I will not impose upon you until you’re needed. Sutton can manage to take a few notes for me, and Tyers will make sure you are awake and presentable for the meeting this morning.”
I put my plate aside, and put my cup and saucer on it. Six years ago I might have been offended by this suggestion, but I understood it now in the most pragmatic terms: Mycroft Holmes would need me refreshed and vigilant for at least thirty-six hours to come. “Thank you, sir,” I said as I turned and left the room.
FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS
Sutton is off to fetch his portfolio and G is still asleep on the daybed. MH has gone to have his discussion with the police. I have dispatched the memorandum MH prepared for the Swedish Ambassador, giving his assurance that every possible means of protecting HHPO was being employed, the details of which he would furnish upon the Prince’s arrival in Stockholm. The flat is quiet but for an occasional shout from the street below. I know what these hours of preparation can mean to the success of an operation, and one of this moment must demand a standard above that used for common occurrences.
Word came from Baker Street, brought by the landlady who was about her shopping, that HHPO is occupying his time there reading some of the more obscure texts. He is well and has obeyed our instructions to the letter. He has not gone near windows, nor spoken above a low voice and always in English. He says he enjoys this chance at invisibility, something that he rarely achieves. It would be as well if his enjoyment of this should last through the journey to Scotland. He has asked for a paper and a notebook, both of which I have supplied, along with MH’s instructions that he will come to this flat after dark, and that he should be prepared to leave tomorrow morning early in such clothes as will be provided for him.
The first of the doubles of HHPO has left the Diogenes Club under naval escort, not a lavish one, but sufficient to put our enemies on guard. The killing of that young constable has made the doubles far more chary about their work, but they will do as they must for their country.
It is unfortunate that the young constable should be murdered, but it is a far greater tragedy that the police should have been so much corrupted that this death was possible. I share MH’s anguish at the implications of it, and I am determined to do all that I can to aid in eradicating the corruption. Politicians are often venal, and advocates are equivocal: but police must preserve integrity or justice is unattainable. I have seen for myself how swiftly a compromised police erode all the workings of a society. It must not happen here.