The Flying Scotsman by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Bill Fawcett

were singing in the bath, sir?” I ventured to ask, as Mycroft Holmes took his first long sip of tea.
    “One of the reasons, Guthrie, yes.” He smiled at me, his expression so benign that I was almost afraid to move. “While the Chief Inspector is here, I want you to follow my lead.”
    “Of course,” I said, wondering why he should take such pains to remind me to do the very thing I had done from the first hours of my employment.
    “Good. Very good, my boy,” he approved as he drank more tea. “You have become most astute in the last few years.”
    Surprised at this unexpected praise, I tasted my tea as well, noticing only that it was a trifle too hot. I sat a bit straighter in my chair. “It’s what you’ve been watching for since Prince Oscar arrived. You have expected something of the sort from the outset. There is more to this than the assassination attempt, isn’t there? It is not so simple as you have implied; more is at stake.”
    “I believe so,” said Mycroft Holmes, taking a scone and smearing lemon curd on it. “And I rely upon Tyers to bring me the confirmation of my suspicions in the next hour.” He bit down firmly and chewed.
    “The Brotherhood, no doubt,” I said feeling a combination of fatigue and exhilaration at the realization that I would once again be in the fray.
    “No doubt,” Mycroft Holmes agreed through a bit of scone. “They want Prince Karl Gustav on the throne one day, allied with Germany and aiding their cause of European collapse. No doubt you have noticed how often the Brotherhood works most injuriously in the nations around Germany, undermining their integrity and binding them to German purposes.”
    “That is the aspect I cannot understand: why would a man of Prince Karl’s stature and position want to belong to an organization dedicated to the destruction of the very institution to which Karl himself has been born?” I was not hungry—nerves were robbing me of my appetite, a development I found disturbing for it was not one I often encountered.
    “He has most certainly been promised a favored position with the Brotherhood when they triumph. Karl Gustav is a younger son, and in the usual course of things, he will live his entire life in the shadow of Prince Oscar, who, barring mishap, will one day be King of Sweden-and-Norway. How ignominious for Karl Gustav, perpetually condemned to the conscripted life of royalty, with responsibilities and obligations that would make the average man shudder, with little or no chance to achieve the position that all the demands support. No, Karl Gustav had no reason to eschew the privileges the Brotherhood has promised and no reason to refuse to aid Germany, for their policies could provide him the advancement that he, like Hamlet, so conspicuously lacks.” He had another decisive bite of the scone.
    “But isn’t he making, well,”—I felt myself redden at this lurid comparison—“a deal with the devil?” I could see that my choice of image amused my employer.
    “In more ways than one,” said Mycroft Holmes, after he took a long sip of tea. “For whether or not Karl Gustav ever achieves his desire to supplant Prince Oscar, he will always be at the beck and call of the Brotherhood. It is their damnable practice to aid you so you will be beholden to them, and then to compel you to do their bidding in all matters that suit their purpose.” He poured more tea, using the strainer to keep the dark leaves from getting into his cup; it was a fastidious gesture, reminding me of the narrow, restricted life he was believed to live and how far that carefully maintained façade was from the truth.
    “Do you think Prince Oscar is aware of the problem?” I had heard many of the discussions that passed between my employer and the Scandinavian Prince and I could not recall any remark His Highness might have made directly on the subject.
    “He has been told, of course. Whether or not he is convinced is another matter.” He stirred