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

fresh.”
    “Much appreciated, sir,” I said, rising from my chair and preparing to depart.
    “Dress for a formal business meeting.” It was an order; he and I both knew it.
    “That I will. Thank you, sir,” I said from the doorway.
    “Very good,” said Mycroft Holmes as he bent over the sheets of paper with their endless scrawling. “I’ll need you to copy these when you first arrive, while I breakfast. Make sure you allow enough time to do it well.”
    “Certainly, sir,” I said, trying to decide if I should come half an hour earlier; Mycroft Holmes’ specific instructions in regard to the hour made me decide that I had better arrive at the time he stipulated or risk interfering with some other aspect of his plans. As I reached for my coat, which was only slightly less damp than the last time I had worn it, I said, “Do you know where I might flag a cab? With the police about—”
    “The Admiralty should have a trap across the street, not elegant but utilitarian enough to serve.” He yawned. “Our trials are not yet over, my lad. I rely on you to continue your splendid efforts.”
    “I’ll do my best, sir,” I told him as I let myself out of the flat. Descending the stairs, I thought of Tyers, who would be up before six, which now seemed barely half an hour away. As I stepped onto the pavement, I saw the trap waiting in the service alley beside the Diogenes Club, a fellow in a heavy naval cloak sitting on the driving box. I waved to him as I crossed the street and noticed four constables emerging from their posts in the shadows. “Mycroft Holmes tells me you’ll drive me to Curzon Street,” I called out, a bit too loudly to be polite at this hour.
    “Yes. I know about you,” said the driver from the depths of his muffler and cloak; his voice, I supposed, was gruff from waiting in this inclement weather.
    Climbing into the trap, I thought, but for the voice, he might have been anyone under that mass of clothing—he might have been a bear. “Sorry to keep you up so late.”
    “Nothing to worry about,” he responded, and gave his chestnut the office.
    I sat still for the journey, trying to find some obvious flaw in Mycroft Holmes’ plans; he had taught me to do this almost eight years ago and I continued the practice ever since. I was too worn out to think clearly, so most of the exercise was in vain, but at least it kept me awake until we reached Curzon Street. As I got out of the trap, I managed to thank the driver.
    “Duty, sir,” he explained. “Your usual driver will fetch you tomorrow morning.” With that he kissed the air noisily and his chestnut walked on.
    I made my way up to my rooms and all but staggered to my bed. Fatigue had made my muscles taut from my long hours of forcing myself to remain awake and attentive. As I undressed my hands trembled, a sure sign I was past my limit. Once my clothes were hung up, I found my nightshirt, drew it on, washed my face and toweled my hair and then got into bed, certain I would not relax enough to fall asleep for some time. I heard the clock in the parlor beneath me ring the half hour, but nothing more until an urgent pounding on my door brought me awake just as the night sky was beginning to lighten with the promise of dawn. I must have been dreaming, for I was momentarily disoriented, my thoughts back in Bavaria that was also Constantinople, and the members of the Brotherhood were preparing to burn down the Houses of Parliament, which was also in this fantastical dream-landscape.
    “Mister Guthrie!” I recognized the voice of Mycroft Holmes’ jarvey. I flung back the blankets and rushed to the door, imagining the worst had happened. I unlocked the door and pulled it open so quickly that I nearly overbalanced Sid Hastings as he strove to rouse me.
    “Sid!” I exclaimed. “What is the matter?”
    “Mister Holmes wants you at once,” he declared in a tone that did not encourage dawdling, or many questions.
    “I’ll get dressed,” I