Free The Scottish Ploy by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Bill Fawcett

minutes. Gather your things and get your overcoat. It is drizzling and no doubt we will have rain within the hour.” He waved me from the room, then addressed Sutton. “When you cross the street, have a care. Do not linger on the steps. Report any irregularity to Tyers. And have another superb performance tonight.”
    I went down the hall to the sitting room where I gathered up my clothes and shoved them into a valise I kept at Holmes’ flat for that purpose. I would leave the valise with Sid Hastings, but I would carry my overcoat and portfolio with me.
    “With all we have dealt with today, I suppose I should be grateful that it is only Germans we must face—not Hottentots or Chinese or Red Indians.” Holmes grumbled as we met in the corridor. He had his tiered cloak over his arm and was pulling on his gloves. “We’re going out the rear door, and through the alley. Be prepared to run.”
    “Aren’t we tempting fate—going out where the courier was shot?” I could not bring myself to be at ease about his decision.
    “We may be,” Mycroft Holmes replied, “but a shooting in Pall Mall would cause a panic that I cannot accept. We will take our chances in the alley.”
    “But surely we should be armed,” I said.
    “The Germans would be offended.” Mycroft Holmes gave me an abrupt stare. “If there is going to be trouble, best to be near the cab for escape, and in a place where there will not be confusion.”
    This seemed unlike my employer, but he had been putting forth an impression of himself today that was peculiar as any I had seen. “Would the attackers be so foolish? To attack in a busy street?” I asked, unwilling to think it possible.
    “Boldness and foolishness are often judged by their success or failure,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Get ready.” He started toward the kitchen with an energy I found hard to summon in myself. I hurried after him, wondering if I should have my pistol in my pocket as a precaution.
    “Is Sutton staying in the flat?” I asked.
    “Until he has to go to the club in my stead, yes.” As he secured the door from the outside, Mycroft Holmes made a swift scrutiny of the alley. “I think we will do well enough if we hurry.”
    I felt a trifle silly as I began to rush down the stairs. I was on the second landing when I heard the crack of a rifle and saw the wood of the railing next to me splinter. I faltered for only a moment, then plunged ahead, holding my portfolio to guard my head. Behind me, Mycroft Holmes moved with an alacrity that would have astonished me during my first year in his employment, but which I now recognized as typical of the man. Portly he might be, but active he certainly was. I increased my speed until I was afraid I would plunge headlong to the paving stone. At this hectic pace I was almost to the alley when a second shot rang out and I heard Mycroft Holmes curse.
    Reaching the cobbles of the alley, I paused long enough to try to see where the shot had come from. Then I turned back to see Holmes wiping blood from his forehead. “Sir!” I expostulated. “You’re hurt.”
    “And I don’t want to be shot again, thank you, Guthrie,” he responded, his terseness filling me with relief. “Keep moving. Hastings will be waiting at the corner.” He was running, keeping up with me and sounding only slightly breathless. “Hurry!”
    I complied, racing as fast as I could on the slippery, uneven stones. I rounded the corner and saw the cab waiting. In a last rush, I made for the cab, Mycroft Holmes immediately behind me.
    “Guthrie!” Holmes cried suddenly, halting two steps behind me. “Stop! That’s not Hastings!”
    I skidded to a stop on the cobbles and looked in dismay. “Not Hastings?” I called out.
    “Look at the horse!” he shouted, and turned with remarkable agility to run the other way. “It’s not Lance!”
    To be sure, the horse between the shafts, now I came to look at it, was a mouse-colored gelding, not Sid Hastings’s new bay.