Free The Flying Scotsman by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Bill Fawcett

as coolly as I could, “He’s proven his loyalty on more than one occasion.”
    “As well he should,” said the Chief Inspector, unimpressed. “It is his duty.”
    Mycroft Holmes was busy slicing the rack and putting our portions onto our plates, so he did not say anything at first. When all the meat was distributed, he said, “But so many are lacking in duty in these days, Chief Inspector. Think of how many men of Tyers’ position have run off to America rather than fulfill their obligations. They do not go to India or Australia or even Canada, for fear they might have to answer the call of duty if they remain within the embrace of the Empire. So they go to where the raff-and-scaff go. Not that for Tyers. Nor for Guthrie.”
    I had to struggle not to stare. “At least in America a man may make his way on ability and industry, not by rank or privilege.” I spoke in response to a slight, subtle pressure on my toe from Mister Holmes’ shoe.
    At that Mister Holmes chuckled. “You must forgive Guthrie, Chief Inspector. He has a tendency to leap to the defense of any he thinks may be downtrodden, and he has a high opinion of American principles. A very strong, egalitarian spirit wells in his bosom.” He smirked, looking from me to Chief Inspector Somerford. “We have debated this issue time out of mind but he will not relinquish his commitment. You, having been there, may be able to show him his folly. I may doubt his basis for support of such sentiments, but I do admire his tenacity.”
    Chief Inspector Somerford took a long draught of water before he spoke. “You are a most tolerant man, Mister Holmes. Few men of your position would be willing to employ anyone whose opinions were so different from his own.”
    “Yes. Well, he is very good at languages. His German is excellent and his French is impeccable. I will put up with a deal of disagreement for such skills as Guthrie has.” He poured wine for himself and absentmindedly filled the Chief Inspector’s glass as well.
    “And Swedish? Has he learned Swedish?” Chief Inspector Somerford drank in the same mildly distracted manner that Mycroft Holmes had poured.
    “A little,” was Holmes’ reply as he made a small gesture to me to keep quiet. “In time, if we have more negotiations with the Swedes and Norwegians, it may be necessary for him to increase his vocabulary. For now, he knows enough to know when the translators are not being accurate, which is useful.”
    I hated being spoken of as if I were not in the room, so it was an effort for me not to protest; I knew my employer was up to something, though I could not guess why he wanted to create a trap for Chief Inspector Somerford. I had seen Mycroft Holmes pose successfully as a Turk, as a Frenchman, and as a Hungarian, but never in Turkey, France, or Hungary, and, I thought with a certain furious delight, I had seen him attempt to play Shakespeare. I managed to curb my rising indignation and attempted to suit my responses to the subtle clues I was receiving from Holmes as part of this outlandish portrayal. This current impersonation seemed more difficult since he and Chief Inspector Somerford were English and in the heart of London; as irritating as I found his behavior, I knew better than to question it. I began to cut my lamb, although I had no appetite now, nor any likelihood of having mine restored at any time soon.
    Chief Inspector Somerford laughed aloud. “I’ve thought for some time that would be a problem for diplomats. Having someone like Guthrie there would be an edge?” He sipped his wine again; Mycroft Holmes topped off the glass before he put the decanter aside and went to work on his meat.
    I recalled there were side-dishes still to be served; had we been dining alone, I would have gone to the kitchen to fetch them myself. Given Mycroft Holmes’ performance tonight, I thought better of it. “Mister Holmes,” I said a bit stiffly, “when Tyers returns, let us hope that he will finish