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

providing our food.”
    “Not so equal when you want your dinner, are you?” Chief Inspector Somerford said, smiling a bit.
    The laughter with which Mycroft Holmes greeted his witticism was far more than the remark deserved. I stared down at my plate, hoping to control my temper, for much as I knew that my employer was egging Somerford on, I was unable to keep from feeling much stung by the ungenerous remarks made. “I shall do the work myself,” I announced and rose to go to the kitchen just as Tyers came back into the flat.
    “Beg pardon, sir,” he said in an undervoice to me, then, more loudly, “I’m sorry to have taken so long.”
    “It’s all one to me,” I answered, and returned to my seat at the table.
    “So you’re back,” said Mycroft Holmes as Tyers came into the parlor. “How is everything over the way?”
    “It’s all in place,” said Tyers. He bowed again and went to get the side-dishes.
    “So you’ve put Prince Oscar in your club,” said the Chief Inspector, lifting his glass in a mocking toast. “Under guard?”
    “He is protected,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Today’s incident is one too many for us to face the possibility of another.” He shook his head and caught a morsel of lamb on his fork. “It would be worse than an embarrassment to have him harmed now, in any way.”
    “What do your fellow members think of having him there?” Somerford asked.
    “Each has his opinion, no doubt,” Mycroft Holmes replied with strong indifference. “I do not suppose that a single night can be intolerable.”
    “So they were not all for it?” The Chief Inspector managed a lopsided smile; I realized he had told the truth—he had no head for wine.
    “Who would expect them to be? Few of the members like to have attention—any attention—drawn to them, even to the extent of having special guards posted to protect His Highness.” Mycroft Holmes sighed. “But these men, like London’s criminals, are patriots and are willing to act to aid the country in this time of need.”
    “Commendable,” said Chief Inspector Somerford. “Loyalty of that sort is rare.” He finished the wine Mister Holmes had poured for him; his remark was directed at me. “You don’t see much of it in America.”
    “With such diversity, how could you have it?” Holmes asked with a derisive turn of his lip. “They are energetic and hardworking, but their lack of tradition is a stumbling block that may yet prove insurmountable.” Of all the remarks I had heard him make about America over the years, he had never before expressed himself in so pretentious a manner in regard to that country. He looked up as Tyers returned with our side-dishes. “Very good. We’ll have our port and cheese in the study.”
    “As you wish, sir,” said Tyers, more like a mannequin than I would have thought possible. He bowed and left us alone.
    I looked over at Mycroft Holmes as he helped himself to the buttered turnips while he nodded to the green peas in cheddar sauce, saying, “Have some, Chief Inspector.”
    “Glad to,” muttered Somerford as he struggled to spoon out some of the green-and-gold onto his plate. He fumbled and dropped a couple of the cheese-slathered peas. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have done that?”
    “No trouble. The cloth is going to the laundry tomorrow in any case.” Mister Holmes took the peas away from him and added some to his plate. “Guthrie, have the turnips and pass them on, there’s a good lad.”
    I did as I was told, though I knew I would not eat half of what I served myself. If I had been more at ease, I might have enjoyed the peas, but I could not make myself like turnips and never had done so.
    “Odd eyes you have, Guthrie?” said Chief Inspector Somerford.
    “So I have been told,” I said in my most neutral tone.
    “One blue and one green? Don’t see that often.” He used his fork to push the peas up against a piece of roll. “A hundred years ago they might have thought you a witch for