The Scottish Ploy (7 page)

“Then why propose adding Sir Cameron to the discussion?” I asked. “Sir Cameron is stubborn as a Derby pig and self-centered as a Bishop’s cat.” I made no apology for my animadversions.

“And drunken to boot,” said Mycroft Holmes. “And once he decides a position is to his advantage he will not budge, though the earth crumble before him.” He nodded twice. “Exactly. All
we must do is show him that what Baron von Schattenberg expects is to his disadvantage and he will oppose it until the Thames flows backward.”

“That he will,” I said, comprehending now what my employer planned. “If they give him any of the schnapps, he will very likely consume it in quantity, as well, and that will only serve to add to his implacability.” I could not help but chuckle. “I hope the Baron isn’t too distressed.”

“I hope that he is, so he will give away something—anything—that will give us some means of assessing the danger of the Brotherhood’s current activities. The way things stand, we are operating in the dark.” He stopped abruptly and held up his hand for silence; the throngs around us parted and rejoined as if we were islands in a stream.

“What is it?” I asked, nervous in spite of myself.

Mycroft Holmes shook his head several times, and I held my tongue. Finally he lowered his hand. “I think I was in error. For a moment I thought I heard the two horses from last night. The loose shoe—I thought I heard it.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t notice ...” I began, and let the words trail off.

“With all the noise, it is an easy thing to mis-hear a sound,” said Mycroft Holmes as if trying to convince himself. At the corner, we turned toward Pall Mall, making our way at a steady pace as night settled in over London.

By the time we reached the steps to his flat, Mycroft Holmes had stopped twice more to listen for the sounds of pursuit, and twice more assured himself that he had erred; I was jumpy as a springtime cricket, for every carriage passing in the streets now seemed the haven of sinister Brotherhood assassins, as had been the case in Constantinople, not so many months ago. It was most unnerving to believe there was an unknown and unseen enemy pursuing us. At least I had sufficient presence of mind to keep from being overcome by my anxieties, but they were preying upon me.

“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 allowed 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.”

“That seems an excellent notion; I had best begin at once,” I said, and pulled my chair to the table before going to get the inkwell, pens, and nibs for the work ahead of me. “The cream-laid?” I asked, wanting to know what grade of paper he wished me to use.

“That is quite satisfactory,” said Mycroft Holmes as he picked up his plate and put his silverware on it. “I’ll leave you to it. Tyers will bring you your tea directly.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, preparing to set to work.

“Oh, and Guthrie,” Holmes said from the door. “Did you happen to notice if you were followed here this morning?”

I shook my head. “It was pelting down rain so much that I thought only of trying to stay dry.” This admission bothered me, as if it indicated a failure on my part.

“Well, no matter, I suppose,” said Mycroft Holmes, and closed the door.

For the next hour I worked at as rapid a pace as I dared, copying the notes that my employer had made and doing my best to sort them into like groups, but that proved hard-going: the language of phrenology was not always easily grasped, and I did my utmost to make sure I misinterpreted nothing of Mycroft Holmes’ observations; the quality of his handwriting—often somewhat erratic in his notes—was affected by the speed at which he had jotted down his responses to the material and gave me occasional starts as I attempted to decypher the hastily made reflections. In addition to the riddle of Mycroft Holmes’ fist, I struggled with the notions put forth on the pages, and thought it would be easier if I had the benefit of one of the charts to which the notes so often referred.

When Tyers finally brought my tea, I had completed roughly half the work, and I could hear Holmes singing in the bath.

“What is this passion he has for Bellini?” I wondered aloud, for Holmes was giving his own rendition of
Druid’s Chorus
from the first act of
Norma,
relishing the repeated vow that the city of the Caesars would fall.

“Better this than the German ones,” said Tyers with a shrug. “Or what he does to Rossini.”

I chuckled and nodded.
“La Calunia,”
I said knowingly, mentioning the famous aria from
The Barber of Seville.
A year ago, Holmes had struggled with it for almost four months before returning to the strains of Bellini.

“Will you want anything more than tea and toast just now, Mister Guthrie, or will this do?” Tyers smiled at me, his face so benign that I could not but thank him for his concern. When I had done that, he remarked, “I don’t know how it may seem to you, but I cannot help but think that Mister Holmes has too much on his plate. You might suppose it was a deliberate attempt at obfuscation.”

I nodded. “Yes. It does seem a bit that way to me, as well. But obfuscation of what? By whom? To what end?”

“Ah, if we could discern that,” said Tyers as he prepared to leave me alone, “then it would no longer be obfuscation, would it?”

“I suppose not,” I said, and poured my tea.

I had just finished copying the notes for Mycroft Holmes when the door opened again and Edmund Sutton strolled into the room. He looked like some minor functionary from a government office, or perhaps a senior clerk at a large counting house; I would have guessed his age at a decade older than I knew him to be. The most persuasive part of his ensemble was a pair of rimless spectacles perched on his nose, making his eyes seem much closer together than they were. He had slicked his hair to his skull with macassar-oil and affixed a moustache like a caterpillar to his upper lip. He affected a slightly stooped posture as well. I could hardly see MacBeth in the man at all. “Good morning, Guthrie,” he said, taking the chair nearest the hearth.

“Good morning, Sutton,” I replied. “I understand you are off to keep an eye on Sir Cameron.”

“So it would seem,” he agreed. “I should be invisible enough in this get-up, wouldn’t you say?”

“I should think so. I wouldn’t look at you twice, and I know you,” I said, making as neat a stack as I could of the pages.

“Is that the phrenology material?” he asked, as if the possibility had only just crossed his mind.

“Yes. The files must be returned shortly, and Holmes wanted his notes copied before then.” I picked up the teapot and realized it was nearly empty. “Shall I ask Tyers for more?”

“Not on my account,” said Sutton. “I have had three cups already this morning.” He fell silent, then said, “What do you make of it?”

“Of what?” I asked as I readied the files for their journey.

“Of phrenology,” said Sutton, touching the tips of his fingers together in an almost perfect mimic of Mycroft Holmes’ gesture.

“I know very little about it,” I said carefully.

“I may say the same,” Sutton reminded me. “But I am not sure the human character is so easily revealed as phrenology suggests.” Now that he had said it, he stared at me, his chin up, looking down his nose. “If all that was needed to grasp the whole of a man’s nature was to study his head, would that not have been learned long ago?”

“Possibly,” I said, wanting to draw him out. “But why should anyone have bothered?”

“Why bother now?” Sutton countered. “The trouble is, I’m an actor; science is not as engrossing to me as it is for many another. As an actor, I know that there is more to a character in a play than what is on the surface of him. In great drama, the most notable roles are so faceted that they can sustain many diverse interpretations without losing the coherence of the playwright’s work. There is much concealed, shaped by memory and circumstances. How could it be less complex for living men? How can all that befalls a man be writ on his skull and capture more than a sketch of the man who abides in it? Yet phrenology would make it so.”
He stopped. “Or so it seems to me.”

I had the feeling I was being pulled into the end of a debate, one that had gone on between Sutton and Mycroft Holmes. “I understand your concerns,” I said. “If I had a better grasp of the science, I would have an answer for you.”

Sutton smiled a bit. “You aren’t wholly convinced, either, are you?”

“Not wholly, no. But there is no denying that Sir Marmion has done some excellent work with the mad. His success with those held in asylums is beyond cavil. That cannot be regarded as mere chance.” I put my hand on the package I had just finished preparing. “It is impressive to see the progress he has made with those who were thought beyond all reach. He may not have the entire puzzle solved, but he has solved a few of the knottier problems.”

“Um.” Sutton rose. “Well, I must be off. Sir Cameron’s train is due in shortly. I will return in time to deliver my report, and before you have to meet with Baron von Schattenberg.” He went toward the door, his walk changed from an easy stride to a stork-like tread, his head carried forward on his neck. “Shall I need my bumbershoot?”

“You may. It was raining heavily when I arrived,” I said, resisting the urge to applaud his departure.