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

of oxtail soup waited to be heated for our supper. Next I set out spoons and serviettes while the kettle began to thrill. I recalled I should have prepared three baked eggs for Mycroft Holmes, but it had slipped my mind; and even after all these years I was not that familiar with the cooker. I turned to my employer and prepared to apologize.
    “My dear Guthrie,” Mycroft Holmes exclaimed, “I could not manage half so well were I in your shoes. When Tyers returns, if he has time between tea and supper, he can bake eggs if we require them. I doubt I’ll want them.” He looked at the tray. “Quite masterful, upon my word.”
    “Thank you, sir,” I said as I went to pour the water, just on the boil, onto the leaves in the teapot. The sharp scent of black tea rose with the steam as I put the kettle down once again, this time on the cool part of the range. I checked the butler’s tray to be certain everything we required was in place, then I picked it up and started for the hallway.
    “Let me open the door wider, Guthrie,” Mycroft Holmes volunteered. “You will want to be able to move easily.”
    “I’d appreciate that, sir,” I said, surprised at how heavy the butler’s tray was thus laden. Holding it, I made my way down the hall crab-fashion; the brass handles of the tray were polished and a bit slippery, making the grip hard to maintain. All in all, delivering the tea was trickier than I thought it would be.
    “I’ll clear a place on the tea table,” Mycroft Holmes offered, gathering up the schedules in a single gesture. “There you are.”
    I set the tray down with relief. “Thank you, sir.”
    “Nothing, I assure you,” he replied in as good form as he would show an ambassador. “I’ll pour, if it’s all the same to you.”
    “Thank you,” I repeated, wiping my hands on the nearest serviette. “We should have our supper ready an hour after Tyers returns.”
    Mycroft Holmes sat down, his long head angled forward as he prepared to pour the tea. “Do you think we will be able to find a safe route for the Prince?”
    “It will be difficult,” I admitted as I sat down. “The Prince has said he does not want to travel on a Royal Navy ship, for fear of offending Germany.” It had been a matter of contention from Prince Oscar’s arrival in Britain, and one upon which he had remained firm. “He must not be given a military escort. Since the PM agrees with him, there is no more to be said.”
    “Yet finding appropriate civilian transportation is proving difficult. Have you considered the royal yacht?” Mycroft Holmes held out a cup-and-saucer to me; I accepted it awkwardly, for it seemed strange to have him serve.
    “I thought it was not available for this service. Too many of Her Majesty’s relatives would take offense at so singular a display of favor.” I had taken notes at two meetings when this had been considered, and I recalled how vehemently the Swedish Ambassador had insisted that such a distinction was unwelcome to Prince Oscar, for it could lead to the kind of upset that could color diplomatic dealings. “I don’t think the Prince will change his mind simply because the transportation is—”
    “Confusing,” Mister Holmes finished for me. “I think you have read the situation aright. Sadly, wiring for the Prince’s yacht at this point would be a concession that the government would not like, an admission that we cannot vouch for his safety.” He paused as he added sugar to his tea. “There is also now the necessity of a decoy.”
    “A decoy?” I repeated, feeling rather foolish.
    “For the assassin to follow. Surely you see the need of it, Guthrie; you comprehend the importance of Sutton so well,” Mycroft Holmes said, so confidently that I could only nod. “We must assume the assassin will not stop with a single attempt, and that when he continues his efforts he will be more determined. Therefore we must contrive a decoy to keep the Prince safe.”
    “Was that why you