The Scottish Ploy (9 page)

“Thank you,” said Mister Kerem stiffly. “On behalf of my brother.”

“I don’t want to add to your grief,” said the attendant apologetically.

“Of course not,” said Mister Kerem. “You have been most helpful.” He spoke mechanically now, as if he could not continue to speak if he admitted any emotion.

“Now, you two gentlemen,” the attendant went on, “you will need to sign here as witnesses of this identification. The police might ask you about it, or they might not. Just your name and direction, if you would?” He held out the pen to Mycroft Holmes, who took it and scrawled his name on the line indicated, and added his direction as the Diogenes Club beneath. When he offered me the pen, I dipped the nib in the inkwell, wrote my name and Curzon Street. “Very good,” said the attendant as he took out an old square of blotting paper. “Thank you.”

“Are we finished here?” Mister Kerem asked.

“I should think so, Mister Kerem,” said Mycroft Holmes in a self-effacing voice that seemed comical to me, “perhaps we should report to the police now. Let this fellow get on with his work.”

“Yes,” said Mister Kerem. “This is an oppressive place, and I do not want to remain here.” He took a half-crown from his pocket and handed it to the attendant. “For seeing that my brother’s body is shown more respect.”

The attendant took the coin, paying no heed to the critical look Mycroft Holmes gave him. “Why, thank you, sir,” he said, and pocketed the coin.

“For that, be certain Mister Kerem’s wishes are honored,” said Holmes in an emphatic way.

“That I will,” said the attendant, and I, for one, believed him.

As we climbed the stairs to the ground floor, I studied my employer’s demeanor, for it was apparent he was wrestling with various concerns. I was reluctant to intrude upon his thoughts, but I knew I should say something to him, if only to make it apparent to Mister Kerem that we had his interests at heart. “Do we go to Scotland Yard?” I asked as we emerged on the ground floor.

“I suppose that would be wisest,” said Mycroft Holmes. “They must be the ones dealing with the case.”

His tone told me that he was not eager to do this, and I wondered how much his apprehension about police corruption was coloring his response now. “To whom should we speak?”

“We must learn first to whom the case is assigned. Then we will know.” He shook his head. “You do not think that this murder will command the attention that others might.”

“Why not? A foreign national found horribly killed,” I said. “The yellow press will take to it as happily as to a royal scandal.”

Mycroft Holmes addressed Mister Kerem. “You must pardon my secretary. He has a biased view of the press.”

“I do not,” I protested.

“Mister Guthrie has the odd notion that the press is interested in truth,” said Mycroft Holmes, lifting one eyebrow.

“That is what they claim,” I reminded him. “I have come to doubt that.”

Holmes went on ruthlessly. “He forgets that what is truth to the press is news. It is news that the press seeks, and it is news it trumpets. A case such as your brother’s may strike the press as news, in which case it will be blazoned on every broadsheet from Fleet Street. If it is seen as just another unfortunate killing, they will ignore it.” He paused in the doorway to the carriage. “I want you to prepare yourself for either eventuality. Do not be disappointed in anything you read, Mister Kerem. The press are a capricious lot.”

“On that we agree,” I said with feeling, and stepped through the door into the rainy bluster of the afternoon.

Sid Hastings appeared as if conjured from the steady downpour. “There’s a hot brick for your feet, Mister Kerem,” he said as he lowered the steps for us; I got in, followed by Mister Kerem.

“Thank you,” said Mycroft Holmes as he climbed into the cab. “We’ll go to Scotland Yard, I think. If you will leave us and call back in an hour, I would be most appreciative. I will need you to be prompt in fetching us. Our duties are not finished. We still have the meeting with Baron von Schattenberg to attend this afternoon.”

“That I will; we’ll get you where you’re going, no fear,” said Hastings as he set Lance in motion. “Oh, sir, I think I should tell you: we are being followed.”

Mister Kerem looked alarmed, but Mycroft Holmes nodded his acceptance. “Tell me as much as you can.”

“There are two of them. On horseback. They picked us up in Pall Mall and I saw them again as I drew up for you now.” Hastings threaded his way into the traffic, glancing back once. “Yes. Still there.”

“Two of them, you say?” Holmes asked.

“On horseback. I can’t make out much more than that.” Hastings sounded apologetic.

“One horse has a loose shoe?” Holmes waited for the answer.

“Sorry, sir. I can’t tell. Too much noise,” said Sid Hastings.

“Well, try to keep a watch on them, if you can do it without being obvious,” said Mycroft Holmes, and sat back out of the rain.

We rode most of the way in silence, as if speaking might somehow put our followers on alert. The jumble of traffic kept Hastings busy, and when he finally let us down, he said to Holmes, “Still there.”

Mycroft Holmes nodded. “We’ll see you in an hour.”

“Right you are,” said Hastings as he went off.

Scotland Yard was a warren of activity through which Mycroft Holmes led us until he reached an enclosed desk and addressed the harried gentleman behind it. “Inspector Wallace,” he said. “Perhaps you could help us?”

The Inspector winced at the sound of Holmes’ voice, and scowled when he turned to see who was addressing him. “Oh, Good God,” he expostulated. “You.”

“I,” Mycroft Holmes agreed.

“What do you want?” Inspector Wallace was suspicious and made no effort to conceal it.

Mycroft Holmes did not answer directly. “There was a murder, a young man, foreign, with ... significant mutilations. This man’s brother, in fact.” He put his hand on Mister Kerem’s shoulder. “We have only just come from the morgue, and now we would like to speak to the officer assigned to the inquiry.”

Inspector Wallace had begun to thumb through papers on his desk. “That would be Inspector Lionel Featherstone. You can find him up on the first floor. Ask for directions at the top of the stair.”

“There—you see how little you had to fear?” Mycroft Holmes said with an inclination of his head. “Thank you, Inspector Wallace. I’ll remember your kindness.”

“No need,” said Wallace with unseemly haste as we went off toward the stairs to the first floor.

There was more confusion as we reached our goal, but finally we were pointed to an office off the central corridor where we found Inspector Lionel Featherstone deep in discussion with three uniformed constables. At the sight of us, they all fell silent, staring at us as one. Lionel Featherstone was of moderate height but built like a steam-engine and seemed to contain as much energy. He wore a non-descript suit of clothes in a color between dark-brown and navy-blue. His face was guarded, but his eyes were lively, brown-shot-with-green hazel.

“Inspector Featherstone? My name is Holmes. I do some work for the Admiralty.” He managed to make this sound as if he were a minor aide or other supernumerary. “This is my assistant, Mister Guthrie.”

“Oh, yes?” said Inspector Featherstone, clearly reserving his opinion.

“I have come here with Mister Kerem to discuss your progress in the investigation of his brother’s murder.” He waited a moment. “I am afraid my time is limited, so I will not be able to stay with you for much more than forty minutes.” He pulled his watch from its pocket and read it. “If you will spare us the time?”

Inspector Featherstone waved the constables away. “Find out about any grudges that might have been held against the victim. We’ll meet again in an hour.” As his men filed out of the small office, he gave his attention to Mister Holmes. “All right: what can I do for you, Mister Holmes.”

Mycroft Holmes regarded the Inspector for a long moment. “Mister Kerem has just come from the morgue at Saint Elizabeth’s where he identified the body of his brother. My secretary and I served as witnesses.”

Inspector Featherstone nodded twice. “I see. And how did you hear about this?”

“What do you mean?” Holmes asked, glancing at Mister Kerem.

“I mean, no one has made a report on that body beyond filing its admission to the morgue and the assumption of foul play in the death of the young man.” He tapped one finger on the desktop, “I am curious as to how you learned of this?”

Mister Kerem coughed a bit, then said, “I had a note left for me at my hotel. It told me the police had found the body, and so I assumed the police had left the note.” He looked about in confusion. “If you did not, then who might have—?”

“The murderer, for one,” said Inspector Featherstone. “Who else would know about it?”

Mycroft Holmes cocked his head. “This is most troubling. For if the note was left by the murderer, it means that the murderer knew you had come to London to search for your brother. How might he have known that?” He looked deeply concerned.

“I have no idea,” said Mister Kerem, adding, “I should not have thrown the note away, should I?”

“Probably not,” said Inspector Featherstone. “It would have been useful to have it. Still, we must make do with what we have.” He indicated one of the wooden chairs in his office. “Perhaps you had better sit down and tell me more about this, Mister Kerem. Incidentally, my condolences on the loss of your brother.”

“Most kind,” said Mister Kerem, choosing a chair. “It is a great loss to my family.”

Inspector Featherstone was pulling a notebook from his desk as he said, “It’s always hardest when they die young.”

Mister Kerem bowed his head in acknowledgment. “I wish to assist in any way that will help capture the criminal who did this,” he said in a muffled tone.

“Of course. You shall.” The Inspector selected a pencil. “If you don’t mind, tell me how and when your brother came to England.”

As Mister Kerem began to speak, Mycroft Holmes pulled me aside and said, “We will wait until this inquiry is properly underway and then you and I must leave.”

“Baron von Schattenberg,” I said. “And Sir Cameron.”

“Exactly.” Mycroft Holmes frowned, directing his stare toward Mister Kerem. “I shall have to inform the Admiralty of this latest development.”

“Will not the police do that?” I asked, puzzled that he should make such a remark.

“I hope so,” was Holmes’ equivocal answer.

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

Sutton has returned from his surveillance of Sir Cameron’s arrival and is off to the theatre. He has informed me that apparently the Scot has decided to remain sober for his meeting, although he was hectoring the porters and his valet. Sir Cameron was taken to his hotel and, after changing rooms twice, is now in a suite to his taste; when Sutton came away, Sir Cameron had just ordered a good-sized dinner. He mentioned that he thinks Sir Cameron was being followed by more persons than himself Sutton has three performances tonight—one as MH, two as MacBeth.

It being Saturday, no courier brought Admiralty dispatches today, although a note was sent round regarding the Kerem investigation. It would appear that Mister Kerem has been busy approaching his government’s representatives in the hope of spurring some action on the part of the police. This means that the Turks will be watching to determine if we are being forward-looking enough in regard to the young man’s disappearance. The government is worried about the possibility of trade in prostitutes, male and female, not simply because of potential embarrassment, but because of the problems it would imply for customs and all manner of foreign trade ...

MH and G should return shortly. I have clothing set out for them both. Barring any more unpleasantness, such as was encountered yesterday, the meeting with the Germans should finally go well, if Sir Cameron remains sober and reasonable ...

I FINISHED
changing clothes in record time, and was combing my hair when Mycroft Holmes came into the sitting room, very grand in his formal kit.

“I do hate these occasions,” he said. It was a familiar refrain, and one that I had come to look upon as a rite: any time Mycroft Holmes had to make himself seen beyond his supposed circumscribed routine, he disliked it.

“Think of what good it will do. You may be able to keep Lady MacMillian from bringing her uncles with her. That would make the momentary discomfort worthwhile, wouldn’t it?”

“Very likely,” said Mycroft Holmes. “We should depart on the instant,” he added, going to the entryway and taking down his opera-cloak. “Are you ready?”

“Half a tick,” I said, and slipped my comb into its handle, then turned to face him. “I have my portfolio ready, of course.”

“Excellent,” Mycroft Holmes approved. “Then we must be off. I do not want to arrive late, and give Baron von Schattenberg an excuse to be uncooperative. Once we are delivered to Berkeley Mews, I will send Hastings round for Sutton, to get him to the theatre while we are with Baron von Schattenberg and Sir Cameron.” He pursed his lips in disapproval. “I believe Sutton will have the more pleasant evening, enacting a tragedy.” Pointing to the corridor, he added, “Tyers will have a late-night supper ready for us upon our return. I do not mean to starve you, dear boy.”

“No fear of that,” I assured him as I picked up my portfolio and went to take my evening coat off its hook. “At your service entirely.”

“Come along, then,” he said, and led the way down to the street and into the last weeping drop of the storm. We went along to the corner where Sid Hastings was waiting for us. “Any constables talk to you, Hastings?” Holmes asked; he climbed into the cab while Sid answered. I got in behind him and pulled the steps up.

“No constables, no,” said Hastings. “But I think we may be observed,” he added conscientiously.

“Oh? By whom?” Mycroft Holmes asked as he slewed about in the cab trying to look behind us as Hastings set off into the afternoon traffic.

“I think there may be someone on horseback.” He guided Lance through the confusion, his attention on the road more than whatever might be behind us.
“It’s hard to tell.”

“Just one person?” Mycroft Holmes asked. “There were two before.”

“That’s my point, sir,” said Sid Hastings. “If this one rider is following—and mind you, I don’t say as he is—it isn’t like before.” He turned right at the next corner. “No. He’s not coming after us. Sorry, sir. My mistake.”

“It’s all right, Hastings. I would rather you err on the side of caution than ignore what could be real danger.” Holmes settled back against the squabs and looked over at me. “Are you prepared to deal with Sir Cameron?”

“Prepared may not be the word; resigned is more like it.” I did my best to smile to show my intention was humorous, but I found it difficult to coax my face into that expression. “I am wary of him, sir.”

“The voice of experience. He is difficult; no argument there,” said Mycroft Holmes. “I keep thinking there must be some way to show him how his conduct might be improved, but I have yet to hit upon it.” He stared out into the street. “I should remember to inquire after the courier who was shot. It troubles me that I have not been able to devote more time to working out—” He stopped. “Well, I cannot pursue it now. I have Sir Cameron and the Brotherhood to deal with.”

“Not an enviable position, if I may say so,
sir,” I told him.

“You may, Guthrie; you may,” said Mycroft Holmes.

I chuckled in spite of myself, but said nothing more until we reached Berkeley Square and turned down Berkeley Mews to Dietrich Amsel’s house. Sid Hastings drew in and let down the steps, and I got out first, standing aside for my employer.

“Fetch us after you have delivered Sutton back to the theatre,” said Holmes. “If we are not waiting at the door, have the butler tell us that you are here.”

Sid Hastings touched the brim of his cap and pulled Lance around in the narrow confines of the street. “Wouldn’t like this place to be a foot narrower, and that’s the truth,” he said as he left.

Mycroft Holmes’ knock on the door was answered promptly by the butler, who relieved us of our overwear and informed us that Baron von Schattenberg was waiting in the drawing room. “Thank you; is Sir Cameron arrived?”

“Not yet,” said the butler. “He is expected directly.”

“Very good,” said Holmes as he made his way in the butler’s wake to the drawing room. I kept two paces behind my employer, knowing this was what the Germans regarded as appropriate conduct for an employee.

Baron von Schattenberg was as grandly arrayed as he had been yesterday, as if he expected to receive a formal visit from the Prince of Wales instead of Sir Cameron. He rose from the sopha by the hearth, bowing and smiling. “So we meet again, Mister Holmes.”

“As was our arrangement,” said Mycroft Holmes, without the effusiveness of the Baron. He nodded to the three aides, who were on the far side of the chamber as if seeking to make themselves partially invisible. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I trust I see all of you well?”

“Indeed,” said Baron von Schattenberg. “You are most gracious to inquire. We are all well here. And we are prepared to receive Sir Cameron, so that we may resolve the questions that have arisen in regard to his wife’s visit.” He indicated the sopha opposite the one he occupied. “Be comfortable, Mister Holmes. We are ready here to arrange matters to our mutual satisfaction; we are only waiting on Sir Cameron.”

“So I was informed. Given the hour, he should arrive shortly,” said Mycroft Holmes, more in hope than in certainty. He sat on the sopha as if it were a stiff-backed chair. “In the meantime, perhaps you can tell me upon which points you are willing to negotiate and upon which you are not. That will save us unnecessary bickering, and hasten our resolution of this matter.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” said the Baron. “A pity this cannot be accepted in a form that would most please Lady MacMillian, but—” He opened his hands in a display of helplessness.

Mycroft Holmes gestured his agreement. “You are not willing to have her visit Sir Cameron at his estate in Scotland: do I understand that?”

“Yes,” said Baron von Schattenberg. “It is too early in their efforts to permit such a concession. She would have to relinquish most if not all of her autonomy to him, as her husband. She will not stay at his London house, either, and for the same reason.” With elaborate casualness he added, “I assume you are aware that he has engaged a house in Deanery Mews?”

“I had heard something of the sort, but did not know what stock to put in it, it being such a capricious thing to do,” said Mycroft Holmes, who, until that moment, had known nothing about Sir Cameron leasing a house in London. Since my rooms in Curzon Street were a mere five blocks from our current location, and Deanery Mews another five blocks or so beyond that, I resolved to nip round to have a look at the place as soon as possible.

“Capricious or not, I have confirmation that he has done this. He will occupy the house on the first of December according to the estate agent who arranged the matter. I am told it is his intention to receive his wife there.” The Baron coughed. “Which is not entirely what is wanted. I am afraid that Lady MacMillian has said she must stay with her uncles at an hotel while she is in London. I had assumed this was understood already, but it now appears not. Lady MacMillian will not be assumed by his gesture. You must understand she is not yet willing to reestablish a household with Sir Cameron.” He did his best to smile. “I hope you will explain this to him when he arrives.”

“I will endeavor to do as you ask,” said Mycroft Holmes, his jaw tightening. “I am somewhat surprised that he should take such an action, knowing as he does that this meeting is only the beginning of their reconciliation, if, indeed, they decide to reconcile.”

“I perceive you comprehend the problem. It would be unwise of Sir Cameron to press Lady MacMillian too urgently; she will take it amiss. Her escort might then have to take action to protect her from Sir Cameron’s importunities.” Baron von Schattenberg flung up his hands. “Sir Cameron is a great hero, but such men are often impulsive and demanding.” He nodded to his aides. “You will make sure that Mister Holmes has all that he needs while our discussion continues.”

“Most kind,” murmured Mycroft Holmes. “But Guthrie manages such things for me.”

“Oh, yes,” said the Baron. “A reliable English servant.”

“Scots, actually,” said Mycroft Holmes as I did my best not to bristle at the appellation he had used for me: servant indeed! I told myself that his comprehension of the language was imperfect, but that did not truly satisfy me. I had to assume the insult was done to rattle me and Holmes as well.

“Scots,” said Baron von Schattenberg. “As is Sir Cameron.” His unctuous smile was worthy of a cat.

“Yes,” said Holmes, and I knew from his tone of voice that he felt insulted.

“No doubt your man can help you to understand Sir Cameron,” the Baron approved, then shot a hard look at his aides. “Well, your man may sit near you, so long as he does not interfere with you or me or Sir Cameron, when he arrives.”

“Very well.” Holmes noticed a group of velvet-upholstered chairs behind him. “Guthrie, if you would be willing to sit there?”

“Of course,” I said, and went to take the nearest of the four chairs. From this vantage-point I could watch not only Mycroft Holmes and Baron von Schattenberg, but the three aides, as well: I noticed that Herr Kriede was nervous, while Farbschlagen and Eisenfeld were not. I wanted to discover the cause but could think of no reason to account for it.

Baron von Schattenberg rang for refreshments, saying, “It is getting on in the day, and it will soon be the hour when you English have tea. I will not demand that you miss it.”

“How good of you,” Mycroft Holmes said, and did his best to look happily anticipatory of this treat. “I am sure Sir Cameron will welcome his tea, also.”

“It is possible,” the Baron allowed, and sat back on the larger sopha. “A pity we have to wait for him.”

“He
is
the reason for our meeting,” Holmes reminded him diffidently. “Once he arrives, we shall get down to it, all right and tight.”

“Yes,” said the Baron, and fell silent.

The only noises in the room were the clatter of the fire and the subdued whispers of the three aides. Sounds from the street did not penetrate to this part of the house, and it seemed to me that the Baron had chosen this room over the library for just that reason. I busied myself with opening my portfolio and taking out my notebook and pencils in preparation for the discussion to come.

Baron von Schattenberg stood and went to face the fire, which action provided him an excellent excuse to slight the others in the room. He sighed in appreciation of the warmth, and at last turned around to address those before him. “We see that Sir Cameron is not prompt. A most unfortunate trait in a man of his position.”

“We do not know what has kept him,” Mycroft Holmes interjected. “There are any number of reasons he might be delayed.” I could tell from the edge in his voice what he feared one of those reasons might be: Sir Cameron’s love of brandy.

“He would do well to send a message to us explaining his change in plans,” said Baron von Schattenberg. “I am not used to waiting.”

“He is only ten minutes late,” Holmes said in a conciliatory manner. “The weather may be sufficient cause to account for that.”

“So it might,” said the Baron grudgingly. “The weather has been filthy.”

Mycroft Holmes was spared the necessity of reply by the arrival of the butler with the tea-tray, which he set down on the table between the sophas. “Your tea, sir,” said the butler, and bowed.

“Danke,”
said the Baron and waved the butler away.

“Cream cakes,” said Mycroft Holmes, surveying the bounty on the tray. “A rare treat. Sir Cameron will be pleased.”

“And raspberry tarts, which I understand he fancies as well,” said Baron von Schattenberg, as if it were unreasonable to like such food.

“What would you rather have?” Mycroft Holmes inquired. “Sausages and cheese, perhaps?”

“That would be more to my taste,” the Baron admitted. “Still, it is pleasant enough, in its way.” He came to the sopha. “Let us hope Sir Cameron arrives before all is cold.”

“Truly,” said Holmes with sincerity. “It would be a pity not to enjoy this at its best.”

That eventuality would not arise: there was a bustle at the front of the house, and then Sir Cameron’s bellow, “Holmes!
Holmes!
Get out here!”

My employer and I exchanged glances as he rose. “If you will permit me, Baron?”

“Of course,” said Baron von Schattenberg, apparently unaffected by the uncouth display at the front door.

“Guthrie. Come with me, if you please,” said Holmes, not waiting to see if I was behind him as he left the room.

“HOLMES!” Sir Cameron’s voice was louder than ever. “I know you’re here!”

Mycroft Holmes answered the summons quietly. “Sir Cameron. What do you require of me?”

I paused a step behind Holmes to scrutinize Sir Cameron: he was a bit heavier than he had been the last time I had seen him, and his ginger hair was thinning, but he still cut a fashionable appearance in his formal clothing. Just now his face was flushed and he was white around the mouth. It took me a moment to realize that he was not inebriated but in the grip of fear, and then I wondered what had so discomfitted him.