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

Even as I followed Mycroft Holmes in his dash, I feared we were being herded into a trap, for as I swung back toward the alley courtyard, I saw the cab begin to move after us; as I ran, I dropped my overcoat, and would have tried to pick it up but that I heard the cab approaching. This goaded me on; as I rounded the corner once again, I almost tripped over Mycroft Holmes’ foot; he had taken shelter at the edge of the basement stairs of the building opposite the back of the one in which he lived.
    “Behind the dustbins, Guthrie!” he ordered me.
    I needed no more incentive than that. I slipped into the first open shed and leaned against the wall. The sound of the horse’s hooves grew louder, and I was compelled to attempt to shrink myself into the smallest possible space in the hope of remaining unseen while I railed inwardly at myself for not bringing my pistol. I clung to my portfolio and valise as if they could save me while I strove to keep out of the line of fire.
    There was an exchange of shots, one from across the alley where Mycroft Holmes was hidden, and two from a rooftop. I heard a window open somewhere above me, but could not see who had done it, or where. I hoped the opener would not regret that action. Then there was a fourth shot, very loud, and a fifth. The cab stopped, the driver swayed on the box, falling forward.
    Holmes emerged from his hiding place to catch the frightened horse before it could bolt; the animal and the cab provided him some protection. “Guthrie! Get onto the box!”
    I was aware this might be reckless, but I answered his summons at once, hurrying across the narrow space that separated me from the cab. I tossed my valise and portfolio into the box-well, sprang onto the rear of the cab and scrambled up to the box. The driver was slumped forward, a large patch of red spreading across his brown stuff jacket. I mastered my revulsion and moved the man away from the reins, taking them in hand and pulling the horse to order. “Done, sir!”
    I felt Holmes get into the cab, and then heard his tap on the frame. “Back out of here. They won’t shoot the horse. Too much attention.”
    Making the kissing-whistle I had heard jarvys use to back their horses, I began to coax the mouse-colored gelding back out of the alley. It was a tricksy business, for the horse was sweating, mincing, and flinging his head in distress. Finally we reached the road and I guided the cab into traffic, looking about for Sid Hastings as I went.
    “Go ’round to the Fatted Calf,” Mycroft Holmes told me, his voice calmer now.
    “Sir, I have a dead man here in the box with me,” I exclaimed, looking about to see if anyone had taken notice of this distressing fact.
    “Allthe more reason to go to the Fatted Calf. It’s where jarvys gather; if anyone should ask, say you are seeking help for him.”
    “Help?” I repeated incredulously. “He’s dead, sir. There will be no help for him.” I looked about in case I had been overheard, but it seemed I had not.
    “Ah, but few will know that if you appear to be tending to a stricken man. You are in clothing that, however scuffed, indicates a station well above the jarvy’s. So if you behave as if he has been taken suddenly ill, I doubt anyone will question you. Take the rug out of the well and put it over him, as if to keep him warm.”
    I did as he ordered, all the while repressing the scandalous urge to laugh. I noticed that one or two passers-by looked at us in curiosity, but no one attempted to detain us. I took this as a good sign for now, but wondered if the people in the street would be equally inattentive were I the one injured, or worse? And I began to wonder who had shot the driver of the cab.
    The Fatted Calf was a pub off Tottenham Court Road, an old building with an almost black front, and a large yard behind where jarvys put their cabs while they had a meal and a pint. I found a slot where the cab could go, steered it there and halted the