The Scottish Ploy by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Bill Fawcett

loose around his neck under his thick tweed jacket. “I left my oilskin in the kitchen,” he explained, staring up at the ceiling.
    “Come, Hastings, don’t be ill-at-ease. Have a seat.” When Mycroft Holmes chose to, he could exude such bonhomie that any man would be hard-put to resist it; Sid Hastings sat down in the one straight-backed chair available.
    “I’m told you wanted me to stay on duty this morning,” said Hastings, turning brick-red at his own boldness.
    “I was rather surprised when I did not find you at the agreed-upon place,” Holmes said mildly. “It struck me as most unlike you, not to be at our appointed place. I hope it does not mean any misfortune had befallen your family?”
    “No, no, sir,” said Hastings, all but pulling his forelock. “All’swell with them, even my daughter, thanks to you. We have naught to complain of, especially since you took an interest in our Fanny, as she calls herself now.” He spoke of his child whose mathematical skills had secured her a position in a casino on the Continent where she was flourishing.
    “Good of you to say,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Give her my regards when next you write to her.”
    “Don’t do that often,” said Hastings. “But the Missus’ll be sending her a letter at Christmas, as she does. Good with her letters, my Missus is. Writes regular. You may be sure we’ll include your kindness to her.” He had begun to relax a little. “We had a letter from her not long ago: she’s saved more than an hundred pounds since taking up her post; she says she wants to buy shares in a railroad. I near to fell over when I heard that. Shares in a railroad! Who’d’ve thought she’d—” He stopped. “Not to take up your time, sir.”
    “I, for one, would have thought she would find a way to make her earnings work for her,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Still, you’re right—oh, thank you, Tyers”—this was for the cup-and-saucer Tyers brought from the kitchen—“we should discuss how you came to leave your place this morning.”
    “Well, I did what the copper told me to, didn’t I?” Hastings said, a little too loudly.
    “Did you?” Mycroft Holmes asked with no trace of blame in his voice. “What copper was that?”
    “The one you sent,” said Hastings, not touching the cup-and-saucer.
    “Tell me about him,” said Mycroft Holmes; I listened intently as well.
    “Well, he was ... just a copper. A proper constable. I know a right copper when I see one, and he was right to his boots. He said I was to go on until the afternoon, when I would be wanted again. He pointed to your rear door and said you were occupied with a Turkish gentleman, or you would tell me the same yourself. Since he was a policeman in uniform, I decided it was all right to obey him.” He paused. “I shouldn’t have, should I?”
    Mycroft Holmes stared down into his tea. “No, Hastings. You did as you ought.” He raised his eyes. “But I find it most perturbing to realize that the man who shot the courier and attempted to kill me is a member of the police.”

    FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS

    It has been a difficult afternoon and the evening is no less so: I have just given Sid Hastings a sandwich and sent him on his way, and must shortly seek out former Police Inspector Durward Strange. MH tells me that this is one of the few men who can be trusted to be wholly candid about police matters. It seems that MH is reluctant to go directly to Scotland Yard with his newest revelation for fear that if what Hastings says is accurate, admission of the danger would serve only to escalate it. Therefore, it is MH’s intention to speak with PI Strange for the purpose of gaining as objective an opinion as possible. I understand that PI Strange is considered bitter by many on the force, and for that reason alone is not much sought-out ...
    Sutton is off at the theatre and will not return until well into the night. He has said that these last few performances