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

gelding.
    Mycroft Holmes got out of the cab at once, shaking off his clothing as he stood beside the vehicle and I climbed down from the box, my valise and portfolio clutched in my hands. “Leave it as it is, my boy. He will be found soon enough, and I will wager you a month’s wages that it will be discovered that the man was no jarvy. I would reckon he will be unknown to all the jarvys in London.” He watched as I came down from the box, and as I stepped onto the flagstones, he began to swat at my coat. “Most untidy. We will have to give the Germans a plausible explanation for your unkempt appearance, and when we return this evening, do you give your coat to Tyers to repair.”
    I looked at my valise. “My suit-coat is in here, Mister Holmes,” I reminded him. “It is not as correct attire as this coat would be, but it is neat enough, and might be better than this.”
    Mycroft Holmes considered this; I saw the bloody line on his face had dried, and felt intense relief that he had not been seriously injured. “It is the lesser of two evils,” he conceded at last. “Very well. Change your coat. But be quick about it. We do not want to be discovered here.” He bent down and opened my valise, pulling out the coat inside and reaching up for the one I was removing. This he thrust into the valise and then he closed it as I shrugged into the other coat. “Come. Walk quickly but not too much so.”
    I did as he said, missing my overcoat as the damp wind cut through me. “What about Sid Hastings?” I asked as we walked.
    “I hope nothing has happened to him,” said Mycroft Holmes as we came to the front of the pub and crossed the street away from it. The sidewalk was busy, but not so crowded that we could not keep up a good pace. “We will flag down a cab a bit later. We do not want to be remembered in context with that dead man.”
    My stomach did a lurch at my recollection of his demise. “What of him?” I asked, rather more pointedly than I had intended.
    “What do you mean, Guthrie?” Mycroft Holmes inquired as he picked up the pace. “The Germans had better appreciate our efforts to meet with them.” As a joke it fell sadly flat. “Not that you or I will tell them about it.”
    “I should hope not,” I agreed, but I would not be put off the point. “Do you know who shot that man back in the cab?”
    “Of course I do, dear boy,” said Mycroft Holmes as if the whole of it were obvious. “And so should you.”
    I frowned. “Tyers was out,” I said, thinking aloud. Then I stared at him. “Gracious! You cannot mean that Sutton shot him? Sutton?”
    Mycroft Holmes nodded as he adroitly dodged a flock of mudlarks rushing along the street, their high, young voices rising above the general rumble of traffic. “Who else?” He chuckled at my expression of dismay. “He is not nearly as incapable as you think him.”
    “No,” I said as I increased my stride to keep up with Mycroft Holmes. “Apparently not.”

    FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

    The physicians on the courier’s case tell me his condition is grave, and not from loss of blood alone, but in the distress to his system he has suffered. They are planning to clean his wound in the hope of preventing a major infection, and they tell me the next forty-eight hours will tell the tale. Watson has said he is not as confident as his colleagues. From his years in the army, he has come to know something of these injuries, and he is more concerned about the cold the courier claims to be suffering from than from the wound itself. I have paid close attention to all he has said, for I put great stock in the wisdom of military doctors.
    I have also called upon Chief Inspector Alexander, who deals with Customs in regard to all manner of illegal activities and given him a report in regard to Mister Kerem’s claims. CI Alexander has given me his word to look into the matter as discreetly as possible. He has some useful connections in the criminal