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

actors must know how to draw, not only to paint scenery and props, but to put on makeup. Inthe time I had been in Mycroft Holmes’ employ, my opinion of Sutton’s profession had improved so that I now began to expect that in his own way Edmund Sutton was as remarkable a fellow as the man who employed us both, an observation Sutton found ludicrous when I suggested it to him some three months since. I thought he underestimated his talent, but he would not agree: he told me that had he a greater gift, he would have continued to pursue leading roles he had once attempted instead of the character parts he now essayed. I turned my attention to a handsome watercolor of the Lake District in high summer. I supposed the lake in the watercolor must be Windermere, but that was probably because I thought all the lakes were Windermere.
    I had just resumed my work when Mycroft Holmes returned from his club. Dusk had turned the flat gloomy, long purple shadows engulfing the rooms. He turned up the lights in the hallway, remarking how eager he was for tea. “Not that the port and brandy are not superb at the Diogenes Club, for they are, but I fear I have to keep a clear head this evening and tea is just what’s wanted.”
    I recalled that Tyers said the kettle was ready in the kitchen. “I’ll attend to it.” When I was young, I often helped my mother prepare tea. No one in the family thought it odd that a son should help with such work for, as my mother said often, “You must not rely on women and servants to look to your comfort, my lad; they may not always be available to you.” Our family had one servant, and as she grew older, it fell to me, as the son of the household, to help with things Hatley could no longer do. I went to the kitchen and moved the kettle onto the hottest part of the cooker, as I had been taught to do while still a schoolboy. The sugar caddy and milk jug were set out on the preparations table, and these I set on the brass-fitted butler’s tray while I warmed the good stoneware pot Mister Holmes insisted upon.
    “Guthrie,” Holmes called from the study, “are these your notes?”
    “On the foolscap—yes, sir.” I measured out tea from the tin, choosing the Assam that Mister Holmes favored when he was faced with long hours of study.
    “Not much worthwhile, is there?” His voice was louder and his step in the hall warned me of his approach.
    “It has ... difficulties, sir,” I said, choosing my words carefully.
    “So it would appear.” He was standing in the door, my pad of paper in his hand; he scowled down at my notes. “Dear me, I had no notion we had allowed such disorder to arise.”
    “Such disorder?” I asked, my attention more on preparing tea than on his observations. The smell of roasting lamb was very strong, honing my appetite. There were cups on their racks, with saucers behind them. I took two down and placed them on the tray.
    “There is almost no coordination with British schedules. Oh, the trains are not too inconvenient, but other posted sailing times—Good Lord, man. Have you ever seen such stuff? You would think the world still ran by sails and tides to look at these.” He tapped the page with an accusing finger.
    “For some, they still do,” I reminded him, for steam had not wholly taken over the sea-lanes yet.
    “But not enough to justify some of these schedules. They have accommodated their old schedules when they no longer have to.” He snorted with impatience. “The Prince would be as obvious as a boil on a nostril if we had to guard him at one of the ports between here and Stockholm.” He peered into the kitchen as I continued to set out lemon curd and preserves to accompany scones and Scotch petticoats. “We must find another way, Guthrie. This will not do.”
    “No, sir,” I said, mildly distracted. For a couple of ticks, I could not remember where Tyers kept the clotted cream, and then I opened the cooler and brought it out; on the lowest rack a large jug