The Scottish Ploy (4 page)

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.”

The courier drank as I tried to hold the mug for him. Some of the liquid rolled down his chin, and I was annoyed with myself for failing to bring a serviette to wipe his mouth for him. He sighed, and more of the liquid sloshed out. Then he tried to swallow and ended up coughing.

“Take it easy,” I recommended, moving the mug so that it would not spill any more while he recovered.

“Sorry,” he muttered, and his head rolled to the side, off my supporting hand.

I feared the worst had happened, and I put my hand to his forehead only to hear him moan. “You lie still,” I told him, and rose. “You’re pretty badly hit.”

“I am,” he agreed vaguely. “Cold.”

“No doubt,” I said, remembering how I felt after I had suffered a flesh wound the first time. “The doctor will call soon. Be sure he’ll fix you up all right and tight.”

The courier sighed again. I could not think of anything else to say. In a moment I went back through the hanging garments and into the kitchen, setting down the mug near the sink.

Tyers glanced at the mug and shook his head. “Is he complaining of cold?”

“Yes,” I said, knowing it boded ill.

“Then we must hope Watson will come quickly,” he said. “I shall be off in a shake.” He had the tray almost ready. “If you’ll carry this for me, I will be most grateful, Mister Guthrie.”

“If it will mean more speed to help that poor wretch,” I said, and reached for the tray.

“Tell Mister Holmes that I have gone out on an errand. He will take my meaning.” He removed his apron and reached for his frockcoat that hung on a peg on the back of the door. “I think I will go to Watson first. Then to the Admiralty. I fear the courier needs help more urgently than I supposed at first.”

“He may do so,” I said, not wanting to sound panicked. “Best hurry.”

“I will be back before sun-up,” said Tyers, and went out the rear door as I turned toward the front of the flat.

Mycroft Holmes was nodding sympathetically as I came into the room. “Mister Kerem, any reasonable man must feel for your predicament.”

“Do you suppose Englishmen are troubled by Turkish youths being sold as slaves in their brothels?” Mister Kerem countered. “I think not. I think Englishmen who want boys to serve them do not care how the boys came to that state.”

“No doubt you are right,” said Holmes with a subservient manner that was so startling to me that I almost
dropped my tray. “Ah, there you are, Guthrie,” he said as if he had only just noticed me. “In good time.”

I put the tray down beside the tea-tray on the table. “Tyers has gone out on an errand,” I told him as I made sure the tray was fully
supported. “Baked eggs, bacon, scones, marmalade, honey, butter, and a fruit comfit.” I pointed these out as I drew up my chair and chose a cup-and-saucer for my tea. I was now quite hungry and awake enough to know I needed food.

“At home I would have figs and yogurt,” said Mister Kerem. “And coffee. But this is quite handsome.” He took a plate and filled it with helpings of all
that was offered.

“Mister Kerem has been telling me about this curious reverse white slavery. I think he may have stumbled across something quite significant. I shall have to make a full
report of it to the Prime Minister at our next briefing.” He had assumed that deferential manner that I knew to be most uncharacteristic of him. “It may demand our attention.”

Something in the tone of his voice warned me to pay attention. I poured my tea and said, “It is an embarrassment to the government if it is true.”

“No doubt,” said Holmes, watching Mister Kerem as he began to devour his food. “I am shocked that so great an outrage as this should have existed for as long as Mister Kerem informs me it has, and we know nothing about it.”

“Criminals can be very subtle,” I said, trying to suit my remarks to his purpose.

“That they can.” He took two baked eggs and three rashers of bacon, and began to eat them, chewing thoughtfully.

“May I pour you some tea?” I asked, seeing that his cup was empty.

“Yes, thank you, Guthrie,” Mycroft Holmes answered, his face turned away just long
enough to whisper, “Return to the kitchen.”

Baffled, I did as he ordered. “I believe I have left the kettle on the cooker,” I told
Mister Kerem as I made my way to the door. Once there, I helped myself to a bit of egg still in the pan before going to check on the courier once again.

He was not improving. His breath was shallow, and his pulse, when I tried it, was thready. He was only half-ware of me, and that, too, was distressing to me. I put a second blanket over him and wiped his brow. Watson had better arrive quickly, I thought, or he will have wasted his journey.

As I turned to go, the courier spoke. “I ... was shot.”

“Yes, old fellow, I know,” I said in as calm a tone as I could.

“It was ... ambush.” He panted now to get enough breath to finish.

“Yes; on the rear stairs,” I said, paying closer attention now that I realized he was not wandering in his thoughts as much as I feared.

“It was ... intended for ... for Mister Holmes,” said the courier. There was a febrile shine in his eyes, and an urgency that compelled my interest.

“How can you be certain?” I asked, fearing this might be a delusion resulting from his wound, and, at the same time, fearing it might not.

The courier blinked and strove to organize his recollection. “I heard ... someone say,
That’s him. That’s ...
the other Holmes.”

“The other Holmes?” I repeated, disbelievingly. “Are you certain that is what you heard?”

“It struck ... me as odd,” he said, almost apologizing. “I stopped on ... the stairs because it was ... odd.” He was weakening quickly.

I put my hand on his sound arm. “Good work, lad,” I said, wondering as I did what it might mean. The courier was fairly tall—he took up the length of the cot—and a cloak might give him the appearance of a more portly body than the trim young man possessed. But why should any assassin expect Mycroft Holmes to come up the rear stairs? Unless, I thought suddenly, they were looking for his brother, who, though as tall, was slighter. He had often come to the flat up the rear stairs, and he had his share of enemies among London’s criminal element.

Withdrawing from the protected area behind the costume rack, I mulled over my reflections and decided that there had to be some merit in my conclusion. Now I was annoyed that Mister Kerem was with us, for I could not discuss this deduction with Mycroft Holmes while the Turk was here. No matter how pressing his problem, I could not help but believe this was rather more urgent. I returned to the front of the flat and tapped on the study door. “Sir?”

“Come in, Guthrie. Come in,” Mycroft Holmes greeted me sincerely through the door.

I did as he asked, noticing that the study was now quite warm. I could see that Mister Kerem was more comfortable now than Mycroft Holmes; the Turk was sitting at his ease, putting honey into his tea. “Tyers is still out,” I said.

“He may be some little time,” said Holmes as if untroubled by such a prospect.

“I hope he may be swift enough,” I remarked.

Mycroft Holmes lifted a heavy eyebrow at my observation, but said only, “You must help yourself before the eggs are entirely cold.”

“That I will,” I said, and took up a plate, discovering as I did that my appetite had deserted me. I knew I had to eat something, and so I contented myself with a single baked egg and a scone. As I poured out the strong, black tea into my cup, I tried to think of some way I might gain a few moments with my employer to tell him all I had learned.

“Mister Kerem has presented a most persuasive argument,” said Mycroft Holmes, again in a self-effacing manner that was at once amusing and unnerving.

“He has?” I said, taking my seat and putting my cup-and-saucer on the small end-table next to my chair.

“It is something that we must investigate, or so I now believe,” said Holmes, refilling his cup and adding milk and sugar. “There are so many unanswered questions.” He nodded to Mister Kerem. “This man has suffered a great deal, and I must conclude his is not the only family to be so disrupted.”

“No, indeed,” said Mister Kerem, drinking his very sweet tea with gusto.

“And it troubles me that we in England should have any role in this unsavoury business.” He shook his head. “It must be looked into, and in a timely manner.”

I was somewhat startled by this announcement, for while I knew Mycroft Holmes to be opposed to slavery in general, I did not suppose he would submit it to the Admiralty for action. “When might that be, sir?” I asked, trying to negotiate the conversational maze he had laid in my absence.

“Why, at the weekly review I attend,” he said, waving this away with a negligent gesture, which told me more than anything that he was misleading Mister Kerem for some purpose of his own: he had daily dispatches from the Admiralty, and there was no weekly review he attended.

“An excellent venue, sir,” I said, guessing this was expected of me.

“I should hope so,” Mycroft Holmes said unctuously.

Mister Kerem smiled and finished his tea.

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

The Admiralty courier is badly hurt, I fear. Watson has said he cannot remove the bullet here; I do not know if he can be saved, without such surgery, for the man’s condition is deteriorating; Watson agreed. In any case, I despair of moving him safely, and not simply because of the gunman who might still be waiting to finish his work; the courier is so weak. If there is any reason to hurry, the welfare of that young man provides it. I will try to arrange for his removal to hospital at once. I shall not linger over these pages any longer ...

“I DON’T
comprehend how slaves can be brought into England. There are rules. Customs officials take a most dim view of abusing the law.” Mycroft Holmes had finished eating and was sitting, sprawled in a posture most unlike himself, on the small divan under the window.

“I have heard tales of bribery,” said Mister Kerem cautiously.

“Bribery, poppycock!” Mycroft Holmes protested. “It’s one thing to look the other way for a handful of gems or to plate gold in brass in order to pay a lower duty on it. But human beings are not such objects. They act. They speak. They must have food and shelter.”

“All this can be managed with planning,” said Mister Kerem, dismissing Holmes’ protestation with a wave of his hand.

“But you cannot be accusing Customs officials of overlooking something so egregious as this,” Mycroft Holmes exclaimed.

Listening to him, I began to wonder why my employer had roused me so early. Surely this discussion, as upsetting as it was, could have waited until morning. Then I thought of the courier in the back of the flat and I knew there was more at stake here than was readily apparent. I was puzzled by the two events, for they had no apparent connection, yet from my work with Mycroft Holmes I had learned to be suspicious of anything presented as a coincidence. And that unfortunate young officer was proof that whatever lay behind these events was extremely serious. So I made myself listen to Halil Kerem, paying close attention to all I heard, certain that he would reveal the nature of his connection to the courier, no matter how tenuous it might be.

“So I was determined to find my brother,” Mister Kerem said as he neared the end of his account. “I booked passage to London and arrived to discover he had disappeared.”

Mycroft Holmes frowned. “You must have been aware that something of the sort could happen,” he said, leaning forward as if implying his sympathy was colored by his opinion of the Turks—which it was, but not in the way Holmes’ behavior would give one to assume.

“When searching for my brother,” said Mister Kerem with great feeling, “I cannot be turned back by complications or disappointments.”

“No; no of course not,” said Mycroft Holmes, and looked up at the sound of the bell. “Tyers is still out, I suppose?” He looked at me. “Guthrie, would you be good enough ...”

I put the remains of my breakfast aside and rose, saying, “Of course.”

“I apologize for this interruption, Mister Kerem. The Admiralty has some business that needs my prompt attention.” He motioned me away as the doorbell summoned me again.

I left the study and went down the hallway, hoping as I went that this early caller would be Doctor Watson returning. But as I opened the door, I saw I had been mistaken. There, in full evening dress and with a shining German order blazing on a scarlet sash, stood Edmund Sutton. All I could do was open the door and say, “Good morning, sir.”

He stepped inside and said to me in very good German, “Good morning to you, my good man. Is Mister Holmes available?”

I answered in the same language. “He is with someone just now. If you would like to wait in the sitting room?” I indicated the way as if Sutton did not know it. “Whom shall I say is calling?” I was curious to hear the answer; I nodded toward the settee near the fire where a few embers still burned, making little headway against the morning chill.

“Say that Graf von Mutigheit is here,” he told me without so much as the hint of a smile. “I will have a brandy, if you will.”

I had to bite back a retort. “Of course, sir,” I said, pretending to be Tyers, and left him. Before I fetched the brandy, I stopped in the study. “Graf von Mutigheit is here, sir,” I told Mycroft Holmes. “He asked for a brandy.”

“Then by all means get him one,” said Mycroft Holmes with a kind of fussiness I might expect of a minor official, not a man who was near the apex of power in Britain.

“At once,” I said, and was about to withdraw when Holmes stopped me.

‘Tell the Graf that I will be with him in twenty minutes,” he said, and glanced at Mister Kerem. “That will be sufficient for now, will it not?”

“Most certainly,” said Mister Kerem with an expression that conveyed the opposite. “I am grateful that you have heard me at all.”

“Oh, no need for that,” said Mycroft Holmes with every show of modesty. “I’m a public servant don’t you know. It is my duty to listen to all complaints.”

With this fulsome sentiment ringing in my ears, I went to get Sutton his brandy. I did not linger in the kitchen, but poured out some of the best into a snifter, put it on a tray, and took it to the sitting room at the front of the flat. “With Mister Holmes’ compliments and his assurance he will be with you in twenty minutes,” I said in English.

“Very good,” Sutton said, using a heavy German accent as he took the snifter. I saw he had flung his cloak over the back of the high-backed arm-chair in the corner, and although he must have been cold, seemed to be very much at his ease. If anyone were watching, they would be wholly persuaded by his performance. “You may go.”

I bowed slightly and withdrew, thinking as I did that as recently as a year ago, I would have found his manner offensive and would have asked for an apology. But now I appreciated the value of these personae he invented; I no longer bristled at Sutton, for it now was obvious to me that the roles he played were the same as those he played in the theatre, but without the benefit of direction or script.

Once again I entered the study and once again I saw Mycroft Holmes doing his utmost to seem self-effacing and perhaps a bit ineffectual. I went and took up my portfolio again, beginning to write on the foolscap pad I kept in it.

“I can’t think of anything more I can do, Mister Kerem,” Mycroft Holmes was saying. “I will, of course, request that a finding be sent to the Turkish government when we have completed our investigation, but until then, I fear I am not going to be much assistance to you.” He opened his hands to show how helpless he was; I did my best to stifle a laugh. “Bless you, dear boy,” Holmes said, as if I had sneezed.

“Thank you, sir,” I mumbled. I should not have had such a lapse, I realized. Sutton would be very disappointed in me.

“I fear I must soon give the Graf his assigned hour,” said Mycroft Holmes. “I apologize for any inconvenience this may give you, but you see, the Graft’s appointment is of long-standing.”

“No, no. You need make no excuses. I understand perfectly,” said Mister Kerem. “I am grateful to have had so much of your time, and I thank you for it.” He paused. “Do you think there is any chance my brother might be found?”

“Early days yet, Mister Kerem,” said Holmes with a shake of his head. “Still, something must be done.”

“Allah is great,” said Mister Kerem.

“Make a memo, Guthrie, to the effect that Mister Kerem’s claims must be investigated, and as quickly as may be. If he is right, and there are slaves coming into England, Her Majesty’s government must not tolerate it.” He sounded more bluster than intention, but I duly made the note and kept my eye on Halil Kerem.

“Well, it is the best I can hope for,” Mister Kerem said heavily. “I suppose I must content myself with your assurances.”

“I will do as much as any man in my position can,” said Mycroft Holmes, in a voice I knew was genuine, no matter how overwhelmed his manner suggested he was.

“For that I thank you,” said Mister Kerem, beginning to pull on his shoes. “And thank you for your kindness. I did not know how hard walking would be.” His laughter was brittle. When he finished buttoning his shoes, he got to his feet. “And thank you for this early morning meal. I had not realized how hungry I had become.”

“Feeding the hungry is a virtue,” Mycroft Holmes said with a piety I knew he did not feel.

Mister Kerem did not notice, for he said in perfect seriousness, “In both our faiths.”

Mycroft Holmes rose. “If you wish reports on the progress of the Admiralty’s investigation, you will learn more from that office than in applying to me. I can but put the gears in motion,” he said.

“Thank you. I will,” said Mister Kerem. “Now I will leave you to your German visitor.”

“You are very good,” said Mycroft Holmes in a manner that was as enigmatic as it was correct. He signaled me with a quick, covert sign.

I rose to escort the Turk to the door. “You may find a cab at the corner,” I told him as I opened the front door.

Mister Kerem craned his neck in an attempt to look into the sitting room, and in that instant I was aware of the wisdom of Edmund Sutton’s maintaining his German character. Had he made himself as comfortable as he was wont to do, Mister Kerem might well question the story he had been told only a few minutes ago. Finally he gave up, having had little more than a glimpse of Sutton. “The corner, you say?”

“Yes. You can spare yourself more discomfort if you don’t walk too far on that blister,” I said, feeling nervous, remembering how the courier came to be shot on the rear steps.

“True enough,” said Halil Kerem, and put on his hat. In the first morning light, he cast a very long shadow.

For some reason I could not define, I was relieved to close the door on him.

Mycroft Holmes emerged from the study with an expression of aggravation on his powerful visage. There was now no trace of the timorous functionary about him. He put his hand on the doorframe and leaned on it. “What do you suppose that was all about?” he asked me.

“A Turk wanting to bring something to the government’s attention?” I said, knowing it was not the answer my employer had in mind.

“Don’t be daft, my boy. This was far more subtle than it appeared. That man sought me out, not the government, not the Admiralty: me. He had a purpose of his own.” He stared at the framed maps on the wall opposite the door. “Most perplexing.”

“No matter what the truth may be,” I agreed; I could not rid myself of the sinister impression I had of Mister Halil Kerem. “And your behavior was also a bit ... misleading.”

“Misleading in what sense?” asked Holmes with the innocence of a babe.

“One would have thought you could not free a cur from the dogcatcher, as the saying has it,” I said, a bit curtly.

Holmes smiled. “Well, do you know, Guthrie, when someone tries as hard as Mister Kerem to manipulate me, I want to reduce his hopes of any success in such matters.”

I nodded. “Yes. And yet, I cannot help but suppose that there is more to it than you have intimated; your suspicions are roused, and you are on guard.”

“How perceptive you are,” said Mycroft Holmes, then straightened up. “How is the courier?”

“I have not checked him in the last several minutes,” I admitted. “I did not like the look of him when I went to see him.” I sighed. “He said something very strange:
That’s the other Holmes.
He claims he heard it just before he was shot.” I stopped, then offered my theory. “It strikes me the reference was to your brother. If he, indeed, heard anything.”

“An odd phrase to imagine; still, it may or may not have any bearing on his misfortune,” said Mycroft Holmes, coming into the hallway. “I assume Sutton has arrived?”

“Grand as a Hapsburg and as gaudy,” I said, smiling my appreciation. “Mister Kerem had a brief look at him. I think he was impressed at such a splendid fellow.”

“The Graf von Mutigheit?” Holmes surged past me, his hand out in welcome. “Good morning, Sutton. Or should I say Graf?” He gave the actor a quick perusal. “Very good.”

“For an improvisation, superior,” said Sutton in the manner of the Graf. “I was nonplused when I saw the cock, I can tell you,” he added in his own forthcoming way. “There has been some trouble, has there?”

“An Admiralty courier was shot coming up the rear steps last night,” said Mycroft Holmes, looking tired as he spoke.

“Gracious!” Sutton exclaimed, no trace of the Graf left in him. “Seriously?”

“I am afraid so. Tyers fetched Watson.” Holmes went toward the window and looked down at the early morning activity in Pall Mall. “I am not at all sanguine about it,” he said. “Not with the Brotherhood trying to establish itself in Britain again.”

“You have proof?” Sutton was alarmed, but he also sounded intrigued.

“I believe so,” he said, and looked around as he heard a door slam at the rear of the flat. “If you will excuse me—” He swung around and started for the kitchen.

Perforce, Sutton and I followed after him.

Tyers met us in the kitchen. “Doctor Watson returned,” he said without preamble. “He is with the courier now.”

“Very good,” Mycroft Holmes approved. “Have you been to the Admiralty yet?”

“No. I want to give them a report on the courier.” Tyers went to the sink and refilled the kettle with water. “I am in need of tea. May I make some for you gentlemen?”

Mycroft Holmes nodded, and I was relieved, for I could feel myself begin to slump. “What did Watson say?”

“Only that he should not be disturbed while he is working on the lad.” Tyers poked up the firebox and added more fuel to it. “This should not be long.”

Sutton occupied himself by unpinning the order and sash from his evening clothes. “I think I had best change into something less conspicuous.” He glanced at Mycroft Holmes. “If you will not need me for twenty minutes?”