The Scottish Ploy by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Bill Fawcett Page A

this at once.
    “That I do, and thank you, Tyers.” I swung around and started out of the kitchen, Sutton right behind me.
    We were both bound for the dressing room that connected Mycroft Holmes’ bedroom with the bathroom. Sutton shrugged out of his coat and began working the studs out of his shirt before we reached it; I had come to see this skill at rapid changing of clothes as one of the unusual benefits of his profession.
    “He’s worried,” Sutton remarked as he entered the dressing room.
    I opened the drawer that contained Tyers’ grooming and toilet items. There were three razors and I chose the one with the horn handle. “Yes. He is.”
    “He doesn’t want us to worry,” Sutton went on, his voice muffled as he continued undressing.
    I went back to the bathroom, leaving the adjoining door open so that Sutton and I could continue our conversation. “That’s obvious,” I said as I got the lather-mug and the brush and started to stir.
    “Is it just the Brotherhood, or is there more to it?” Sutton asked.
    “I don’t know,” I replied, annoyed at myself for not being more on the qui vive.
    “Then there is,” said Sutton. A shoe clumped to the floor; a moment later so did the second.
    “I suppose you’re right,” I said as I began to lather my face while staring in the mirror. There were circles under my eyes, seeming to be different shades because my left eye is blue and my right eye is green. I was vaguely aware that there was a touch of grey at my temples, hardly more than a few strands, but still, I thought. I had turned thirty-four in May; my mother had been far greyer when she was my age. This notion did not console me, for I knew I still had much to do in my life, and wanted no reminders of my mortality: gunshots and assassins took care of that only too well. I put the mug down, opened the razor, and set to work.
    “Who is the Turk?” Sutton asked a bit later.
    I was doing the short strokes under my nose, and so did not answer at once. “He claims his brother was brought to England, the victim of reverse white slavery,” I said as I rinsed the razor and went to work on the area at the corner of my mouth.
    “That sounds a bit far-fetched,” said Sutton.
    “So it does,” I agreed when I could speak safely.
    “Do you believe him?” Sutton asked.
    “I suppose so—to the extent that I believe his brother is missing and may have been taken for immoral purposes,” I said, tipping my head back and scraping at my under-jaw and neck.
    “What does Holmes think?” Sutton waited for my answer, which was just as well, as I had to consider it while I shaved.
    “He hasn’t confided in me,” I said. “But he was playing a role for Mister Kerem—you would have been proud of him—and I am convinced he had an excellent reason for doing so; he explained his intention to me after Kerem departed.”
    “What kind of role?” Sutton asked, emerging from the dressing room in golfing breeches and a roll-top pull-over as if he had just come in from the country and would soon be going back.
    I had become somewhat accustomed to his periodic transformations and so I only glanced at him briefly before finishing my shave. “You would have thought he spent every day in an office, dealing with nothing but paperwork.”
    “Well,” said Sutton with a hint of a smile. “That is what he intends people to think generally. That is why he hired me.”
    “Yes, and established the appearance of a monotonously regular life,” I conceded. “This was more than his usual illusion. He seemed reckless, even timorous, incapable of any real action.”
    “And you think he did it deliberately?” Sutton handed a towel to me.
    I used it on my face and neck. “Yes. I do. As you would have done had you seen him.” I put the towel into the hamper and closed my collar-button once again, then went to work on my tie.
    “I wonder why,” Sutton mused aloud.
    Anything I might have said was lost; Tyers rapped on the outer