The Flying Scotsman by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Bill Fawcett Page A

his tea as he dropped in sugar. “I have tried to alert him, and I know he is aware of the actions of the Brotherhood; but I am less certain he understands the role his brother is playing in the Brotherhood’s activities. I very much doubt he would entertain the notion that Karl Gustav could have had any role in the event today.” He lifted his cup. “More’s the pity.”
    The door to the kitchen opened and Tyers called out, “I am returned,” his voice sounding a trifle breathless, suggesting he had rushed up the backstairs. “I have two replies. Others will be carried ‘round by nine in the morning.”
    Mycroft Holmes nodded in satisfaction. “Were you followed?”
    Tyers appeared in the doorway, still unwrapping his muffler. “Yes, sir, I was. And I was most particularly careful to observe my followers.” He pulled a small portfolio from inside his coat and handed it to Mister Holmes. “The information you requested. The two replies are with it.” He bowed a bit.
    Holmes took the portfolio and put it on the arm of his chair, a gesture so negligent that I knew it had to be deliberate. “Thank you, Tyers. Now, about the man following you?”
    “When I left—by the front, as you ordered—I was observed by a young man, no more than twenty-five, fair, with a moustache and a French necktie. He was well turned out and probably fancied himself a cut above most of those around him, a bit of self-delusion in Pall Mall. His suit was a good copy of Bond Street tailoring, probably done by one of the Chinese tailors offering such suits. He had what appeared to be a tattoo on his wrist, but aside from catching a glimpse of its color—which was bluish as so many tattoos are—I cannot tell you anything more about it. He followed me for my first two calls, bur I lost him near Saint Martins-in-the-Field, as you instructed I should. I was able to satisfy myself I had got clear of him before I continued on my errands.” His expression changed slightly, showing his appreciation for his skill in eluding his pursuer. “After my third call, a man looking like a West Country squire gone to seed followed me.”
    “Is that Vickers’ man?” I asked sharply, remembering my first work for Mycroft Holmes that had taken me to the men of the Brotherhood in England.
    “I would think so,” said Mycroft Holmes, frowning.
    I could not entirely suppress a shudder. “If that’s the fellow I think it is, he has a whiff of corruption about him.” My own dealings with him had been brief but their impact remained, like the smell of a dead rat under the floorboards.
    “That is the man and most certainly the whiff,” said Mycroft Holmes, his tone as dry as his features were unreadable. “The man is known to whip the bottoms of the boys attending his school for the most minor trespasses.” He took a deep breath. “He will undoubtedly report your calls to Vickers, wherever he has gone to ground.”
    Foolish though it was, I could not keep from a moment of recollection, and the image of Vickers’ face before my mind’s eye was enough to chill me to the bone. “Is he still in England, I wonder?” I asked. “He was gone long enough that he might have decided to return to the Continent.”
    “Or Ireland,” said Mycroft Holmes. “I shouldn’t wonder if he hasn’t decided to go there and stir the pot.” His face had hardened, seeming now to be hewn from granite. “I will find him.”
    I did not doubt for an instant that he would.

    FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS
    Having returned from the errands MH sent me to do, I had supper to make for the arrival of Chief Inspector Somerford, who, fortunately, was ten minutes late and was willing to have a second pony of sherry before sitting down to eat. The soup is almost ready, an oxtail with barley, and I will have it in the tureen shortly and then put my concentration on the main course—in this instance I am grateful MH likes his lamb served rare. I seasoned it with garlic,