The Scottish Ploy by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Bill Fawcett

Halil Kerem. “And your behavior was also a bit ... misleading.”
    “Misleading in what sense?” asked Holmes with the innocence of a babe.
    “One would have thought you could not free a cur from the dogcatcher, as the saying has it,” I said, a bit curtly.
    Holmes smiled. “Well, do you know, Guthrie, when someone tries as hard as Mister Kerem to manipulate me, I want to reduce his hopes of any success in such matters.”
    I nodded. “Yes. And yet, I cannot help but suppose that there is more to it than you have intimated; your suspicions are roused, and you are on guard.”
    “How perceptive you are,” said Mycroft Holmes, then straightened up. “How is the courier?”
    “I have not checked him in the last several minutes,” I admitted. “I did not like the look of him when I went to see him.” I sighed. “He said something very strange: That’s the other Holmes. He claims he heard it just before he was shot.” I stopped, then offered my theory. “It strikes me the reference was to your brother. If he, indeed, heard anything.”
    “An odd phrase to imagine; still, it may or may not have any bearing on his misfortune,” said Mycroft Holmes, coming into the hallway. “I assume Sutton has arrived?”
    “Grand as a Hapsburg and as gaudy,” I said, smiling my appreciation. “Mister Kerem had a brief look at him. I think he was impressed at such a splendid fellow.”
    “The Graf von Mutigheit?” Holmes surged past me, his hand out in welcome. “Good morning, Sutton. Or should I say Graf?” He gave the actor a quick perusal. “Very good.”
    “For an improvisation, superior,” said Sutton in the manner of the Graf. “I was nonplused when I saw the cock, I can tell you,” he added in his own forthcoming way. “There has been some trouble, has there?”
    “An Admiralty courier was shot coming up the rear steps last night,” said Mycroft Holmes, looking tired as he spoke.
    “Gracious!” Sutton exclaimed, no trace of the Graf left in him. “Seriously?”
    “I am afraid so. Tyers fetched Watson.” Holmes went toward the window and looked down at the early morning activity in Pall Mall. “I am not at all sanguine about it,” he said. “Not with the Brotherhood trying to establish itself in Britain again.”
    “You have proof?” Sutton was alarmed, but he also sounded intrigued.
    “I believe so,” he said, and looked around as he heard a door slam at the rear of the flat. “If you will excuse me—” He swung around and started for the kitchen.
    Perforce, Sutton and I followed after him.
    Tyers met us in the kitchen. “Doctor Watson returned,” he said without preamble. “He is with the courier now.”
    “Very good,” Mycroft Holmes approved. “Have you been to the Admiralty yet?”
    “No. I want to give them a report on the courier.” Tyers went to the sink and refilled the kettle with water. “I am in need of tea. May I make some for you gentlemen?”
    Mycroft Holmes nodded, and I was relieved, for I could feel myself begin to slump. “What did Watson say?”
    “Only that he should not be disturbed while he is working on the lad.” Tyers poked up the firebox and added more fuel to it. “This should not be long.”
    Sutton occupied himself by unpinning the order and sash from his evening clothes. “I think I had best change into something less conspicuous.” He glanced at Mycroft Holmes. “If you will not need me for twenty minutes?”
    “Go ahead. And you, Guthrie. Take Tyers’ razor and shave; you might consider purchasing a second kit and leaving it here, as you do your change of clothes. You are beginning to look quite disreputable.” He smiled to show he was joking.
    “An excellent notion,” I said, rubbing my stubbled chin. “I had nearly forgot.”
    “You know where I keep my razors, sir,” said Tyers, a bit preoccupied; I realized that he wanted a word alone with Mycroft Holmes and did not want to say so directly. Had I been fully awake, I would have seen