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

are important to him, as they are very likely the last time he will essay such a major role in so important a theatre in London. He says it is not wise for him to become too recognizable, as continuing major roles would cause him to be, so he intends to make the most of this opportunity. He looks upon this as a grand gesture, one that will bring him the satisfaction of having made his mark among the important MacBeths of this decade. He is resigned to playing in less prestigious theatres and in less well-known works, but he is not above being pleased that his work has been well-received, and in so demanding a role as Macbeth.
    Another package has been sent by Sir Marmion with the admonition that he must have its contents returned by no later than day after tomorrow. I have conveyed this to MH, who has said it is most frustrating to have so monumental an opportunity and so little time in which to take advantage of it. He has sworn to read the material provided until Sutton returns.
    G has returned to Curzon Street for the night and will likely not be back here until six-thirty tomorrow morning to resume his duties. I have told him he will not be disturbed except in an emergency, which is a prudent thing to do, as it is most important that G, who is MH’s right hand and second pair of eyes, be fully alert in these next few days.

I WOKE at seven-thirty in the morning, and, having realized the hour, was filled with chagrin. I should have been at Mycroft Holmes’ flat before now, ready to work. I dressed in haste, had nothing more than a muffin before I bolted out the door into a rainstorm that washed over the city with Biblical enthusiasm. Splashing through the street, I attempted to hail a cab, and finally succeeded. “Pall Mall,” I told the jarvy. “And quickly. I’m late.”
    “Right you are,” said the jarvy, and set his horse in motion through the downpour.
    Arriving at Mycroft Holmes’ flat some twenty minutes later—our progress having been slowed by an overturned drayage van—I rushed up the stairs, and presented myself with apologies.
    “Do sit down and recover yourself, Guthrie, there’s a good lad,” said Mycroft Holmes, who wore a dressing gown of plush hunter-green velvet over his trousers and shirt as he sat finishing his breakfast. “I slept in a bit myself. I didn’t rise until nearly seven. Just as well that you took a little time to get here.”
    I did my best to appear satisfied with his casual remark. “You’re very kind, sir: I should have been here sooner.”
    “Not on my account. Besides, tonight will probably be a late evening, so it is all one to me. Not that there is nothing to occupy your morning.” He pointed to his stack of notes. “Sort those out and copy them, if you will,” he went on as he cut into the last part of a thick slice of ham slicked over with the soft yolks of three eggs; two slices of toast with butter and marmalade spread on them awaited his attention. “I must have these files back to Sir Marmion shortly; he required that as part of the loan of them. It was a busy night, reading through them all. I feel as if I have been inundated with paper.”
    “No doubt,” I said, studying the file which must have contained more than a hundred closely written sheets. “Has this been worth your review?”
    “In what sense do you ask?” Mycroft Holmes pushed back from his table and gave me a direct stare.
    “In the sense that the science that Sir Marmion explores may be applicable to your own work. of course.” I was somewhat surprised by the questions.
    “All science is applicable to what I do, Guthrie. You would do well to remember that. In the case of Sir Marmion’s studies, however, there is an immediate importance to his researches that touches all of us. I must tell you that it is my belief that we must improve our understanding of the human mind if we are ever to use it to its fullest potential, and use it we must, or we will be overwhelmed by those who do