The Flying Scotsman by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Bill Fawcett Read Free Book Online

have to take into account the fact that a footman, not the Prince, was killed. Although I think it remote, I cannot dismiss out of hand that the assassin was actually in Prince Oscar’s pay, under instructions to make the event appear to be an attempt on the Prince’s life. While I deem it highly unlikely, this may be part of a convoluted plot to eliminate his brother from the succession entirely—in self-defense.”
    I regarded Holmes dubiously. “Highly unlikely,” I seconded.
    “Oh, no doubt, my boy, no doubt. Some of these possibilities are indubitably more likely than others, but without hard evidence of the assassin’s employer it behooves us not to dismiss any possible source for the threat.” He had another sip of port, rolling the wine on his tongue appreciatively. “There is, finally, the most obscure possibility of all—that the footman was not only the target, but an integral part of a conspiracy to frighten Prince Oscar into capitulation or submission to those whom the footman supported with his life.”
    “I will endeavor to keep this all in mind, sir,” I said with feeling; the complexity of the diplomatic world never failed to astonish me; that Mycroft Holmes had it all in his thoughts, at the ready, every hour of the day and night commanded my highest admiration.
    “Yes. Well, see you put your observations to good use. I will be leaving in a short while; I expect to see progress upon my return.” He clapped once as if to conjure results from the air like a magician. “You know where the maps are kept.”
    “Indeed yes,” I said, hoping to show a good level of dedication. Mycroft Holmes chuckled. “This isn’t Alexandria or Constantinople, my dear boy. You may be at ease.” He made his way to the door, his steps ponderous, as if visiting the Diogenes Club weighed him down with obligation and responsibility by virtue of his membership.
    “Yes, sir,” I said, rising out of respect as was my habit.
    I watched him leave from the front landing, going into the long spring sunset to cross the road, walking as if oblivious to the traffic around him. I wondered again at the mercurial nature of this most steadfast of men, that these two extremes should exist within him in successful juxtaposition. As I went back into the flat, I paused for a moment, listening. Then I made my way back to the study and began to puzzle out an itinerary that would take Prince Oscar back to Stockholm without exposing him to any more incidents. Beyond all doubt, the British government could not sustain the embarrassment that the assassination of a foreign royal while in British protection would lead to; that was obvious to the meanest intelligence. I had been about the world enough now to know that prestige was as valuable as the coin of the realm—sometimes more valuable.
    For the next hour I worked with the various schedules Mycroft Holmes had provided, covering a sheet of foolscap with my notes and growing increasingly dissatisfied with the possibilities. I had almost come to the conclusion that it might be better to invite the Scandinavian navy to come to escort their Prince home, if such a request would not have dreadful implications for British-Scandinavian relations in the immediate future, which would render the work of the last two weeks useless. With a sigh I put my pencil aside and rubbed my eyes, then rose to my feet and stretched. I told myself that more than my shoulders and hip were growing stiff, and that I needed a turn around the room to limber up my brain as much as my muscles. I noticed a new addition to the framed drawings on the wall—a charcoal study of a ruined Cornish castle, vacant and forlorn on a spit of rock over the clawing breakers. I stopped to study it and noticed the ES signature in the lower right-hand corner of the work. Another one of Edmund Sutton’s sketches, I thought, recalling the portfolio of stage designs he had brought here several months ago. He had reminded me then that