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

promised him, making an effort to open my armoire to retrieve my clothes. “What time is it?” I had not intended to ask, knowing whatever he told me, I would dislike his answer. I felt groggy and faintly dizzy, a sure sign I had not slept enough to relieve my fatigue.
    “It’s gone half-five, sir. Sun’ll be up in a couple of ticks.” He turned around so I could get out of my nightshirt without embarrassment.
    I poured water from the ewer to the basin and managed a cursory wash before I began to shave, doing the work by touch more than anything my mirror revealed. It was moments like this one that made me long for a burnoose and a beard. I ended up nicking myself once, but got the job done and then pulled on my singlet and my shirt over that. Remembering Mister Holmes’ admonition from the night before, I chose clothes a thought more formal than those I usually wore to work. As I fixed my collar in place, I noticed the room brighten as the clouds in the east became luminous; Sid had been right about the sun. I finished dressing more handily now that I could see what I was doing, trousers on before socks and shoes. In less than four minutes I had my tie in place and my waistcoat buttoned. I pulled on my jacket, and swung around to Sid. “All right. I’m ready,” I told him.
    “Then let’s be about it,” said Sid, holding my door for me, and waiting on the landing while I secured the lock.
    The streets were far from empty at this early hour; delivery-wagons and vans made their way with everything from milk and cheese to live chickens and fresh fish. I wrapped myself in the rug Sid provided, hoping to preserve my collar and tie from the weather, but not at all certain I had taken sufficient precautions. The rain had slacked off but the morning was dampish, and the paving was slicked with mud, spattering as wheels went through it. The pace everywhere was urgent so that the brisk pace Sid Hastings set was not noticeable amongst the rest of the vehicles. As we drew up in front of Mycroft Holmes’ building, I saw the clutch of constables had moved from the door of the Diogenes Club to the front of the building from where the assassin had shot. Puzzled, I remarked on this as Sid let the steps down for me.
    “Sad, that is,” he said, his Cockney accent making the words more brusk than they already were. As I stepped free of his cab, he touched the brim of his hat and moved away toward Charles II Street, where he would wait for my employer to send for him.
    Knowing that something had gone very wrong, I hastened up the stairs to Mycroft Holmes’ flat on the top floor, my imagination working faster than my feet. Only the knowledge that Prince Oscar was safe in Baker Street kept me from losing heart. Trying to overcome the residue of sleep that held me, I rapped on the door with my knuckles and two breaths later was admitted to the flat by Tyers, who looked fresh enough but for the circles under his eyes. His clothing was impeccable and he greeted me as if this were a usual morning. “Good morning, Tyers,” I said as I stepped inside. I saw that it was just after six, and trusted I had been timely enough to suit my employer.
    “And to you, Mister Guthrie,” said Tyers in unflappable calm.
    “Mister Holmes—” I pointed to the corridor.
    “—is in the study. He’s expecting you,” said Tyers as he secured the front door once again.
    I left my topcoat on the rack behind the door and went along to the study. I rapped on the door, which was ajar, and said, “Mister Holmes—”
    “Do come in, Guthrie, dear boy,” he called out from within. “We’re about to have some tea and scones. Heaven knows we need something.” He was standing near the fire, dressed as if for a day at the Admiralty. His features looked glum, making him appear older than his fifty-three years.
    Sitting beside him, Edmund Sutton seemed as always a paler, younger echo of him. “It’s too bad,” he said, as if I had not yet discerned