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

having such eyes.”
    “Some parts of the world still do,” I said. “And woe betide those who have strange eyes, or scars, or birthmarks.”
    “True enough, true enough,” said Mycroft Holmes, indicating he wanted to get away from this digression as quickly as possible. “Tell me, Chief Inspector, are you hopeful that we will identify the shooter any time soon?”
    “I would like to do so, certainly?” he replied, doing his best to become serious once more. “But in matters of this sort, one must assume something more than simple aggravation is at work.” He shook his head. “I would not doubt that we will have clues aplenty by tomorrow, but which among them will be worth pursuing, who can tell?” He sighed. “These are dangerous times we are living in, Mister Holmes, make no doubt about it.”
    “That’s true, and the danger is many-faceted,” Mycroft Holmes opined.
    “I must agree with you,” said the Chief Inspector. “One has to do so many difficult things?”
    I recalled what he had told me about the police spy, and I very nearly forgave him his snobbery. I could not imagine what a shock such a discovery would be, let alone the obligation he must now feel to his dead associate. “And today has been more difficult than most,” I said, hoping to convey sympathy to the man.
    “And tomorrow won’t be any easier,” said the Chief Inspector, his tone bleak. “There is so much at stake?”
    “Isn’t there just?” said Mycroft Holmes, his profound grey eyes filled with determination and unfathomable apprehension.
    Watching him, I felt as a swimmer must who has gone out into the sea beyond his strength to return.

    FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS
    The Chief Inspector left half an hour before Sutton arrived. The CI was still feeling his wine, but had passed from the most inebriated state to truculent recovery. He was surly to the jarvy who picked him up. By the time Sutton came, I had had time to clear away the things in the parlor and ready the flat for a night of work. The sitting room has been turned into the center of activity for the late hours. G has been trying to persuade MH to reveal his purpose in goading CI Somerford more than once with remarks so far from his true character and convictions that G has gone from being perplexed to annoyance at MH’s continuing refusal to explain his intentions.
    Arrangements have been made with the Admiralty to have the courier deliver tomorrow’s dispatches to MH’s club across the street, another ploy that has made G exasperated, and who can blame him for this?
    A formal message sent round from the Palace and the PM informs MH that the Swedish Ambassador declines, for diplomatic reasons, to make the safety of Prince Oscar his responsibility. He has reminded the government that his country was assured of Prince Oscar’s safety and therefore entrusted His Highness to the British Crown and people, and will hold both accountable if any harm should come to the Prince during his stay. MH was less distressed by this communication than I supposed he might be. All he said was, “Damned Cecil,” and went about his business.

EDMUND SUTTON FLOURISHED a bow to the applause that Mycroft Holmes and I offered for his stirring recitation of an amalgam of Hialmar’s speeches from the third act of Ibsen’s The Wild Duck. “It’s a good part—a bit over-blown in its way, but—” He shrugged, relinquishing his posture and appearance of Hialmar and becoming Edmund Sutton once again. “It was a good run, but I was growing weary of it, and all the carping from Irving.”
    “Very good, very good, very good; I don’t know how you do it, turning into someone else, but I am damned grateful.” Mycroft Holmes approved. “As always, I am astonished that you are not renowned for your talent, but appreciative for the same, since if you were as recognized as you deserve to be, I would not have you as my double.”
    “And you would never have had to play Macbeth