The Scottish Ploy Read Online Free PDF Page A

time.
    I will have to find a way to warn Sutton not to approach this flat from the front, or to come in disguise, I expect him within the hour, when we will have to improvise, for MH does not want Sutton seen at this flat, except in his disguise as MH himself.

I SAW doubt war with apprehension in Mycroft Holmes’ features, and I realized he must have heard something of this before now, or he would not have been so quickly ambivalent. I glanced toward our visitor, and addressed him myself. “Why do you say this, Mister Kerem? Have you proof? It is a most infamous accusation you are making.”
    “Alas, I have only tangential proof, not anything direct but what I have been told, and what I have surmised,” said Mister Kerem. “It is not to my liking to have nothing more substantial to offer you, but—” He shrugged in a hopeless way. “You may find it incredible, yet what I know I will impart, and pray Allah will give you more wisdom than He gave me.”
    “That is very good of you,” said Mycroft Holmes, recovering himself somewhat. “Do you say there are those in England who support this most nefarious of trades?”
    “I fear it is so,” said Mister Kerem. “My brother tried to warn me, I think, but I did not listen. I could not attribute such villainy to any European. It seemed so far-fetched: a European in the slave-trade to Europe, where, as you say, such business is illegal. But when he vanished, and then the policeman investigating his disappearance was found hacked to death near the harbor, I knew I had been a fool. I should have given my brother as much faith as I gave my various employers.” He gazed into the middle distance. “He was a good boy, my brother. Yujel. Not a name that comes easily to English lips, but as good a name as any in Turkish.” He attempted to smile and failed utterly.
    “This Yujel was taken, you believe?” Mycroft Holmes asked with a crispness of tone that implied he was not eager to be detracted by memories.
    “He was,” said Mister Kerem. “There was a man in our town, a foreigner, a European, who said he was looking for places to plant orchards, but he spent most of his time watching the young men.” He made a resigned gesture. “As what man does not?” Mister Kerem glanced at me and then at Mycroft Holmes, one eyebrow lifted knowingly.
    I could think of nothing to say to this, but fortunately my employer was not as nonplused as I.
    “Indeed,” he said in a very urbane tone. “Tell me more of this foreigner who claimed to be planting orchards.”
    There was a burst of sound from the kitchen. Tyers must be busy, I thought, and continued to write.
    “Well, he was much like many Englishmen. He might have been a Dutchman, or even a Swede. He was fair and his face was florid. He walked with a limp. He was of middle years, and he spoke with an accent that some said was French, but I did not think so. His words were harsher.” Mister Kerem cleared his throat. “I did not speak to him more than once myself, and that briefly and in English, so I cannot tell you very much about that. I only saw him a few times.”
    I realized the man he was describing could be Jacobbus Braaten, a notion that chilled me.
    “Did you have any reason to think he was planning an abduction? Was there anything obvious about him?” Mycroft Holmes asked; if he had noticed the man’s resemblance to Braaten, he gave no indication of it.
    “Not as such. Why should I suspect such an infamous thing?” Mister Kerem frowned. “This man was a stranger, and so we all watched him, but we also ignored him.”
    “How do you mean?” I asked, for although I had had a brief sojourn in Turkey, I could not claim that I understood the Turks.
    “I mean that he was kept apart, not so obviously that he would be offended, but enough to indicate he was a stranger among us. He was aloof by nature, I supposed, as so many Europeans are. So no one extended themselves to befriend him, but also no one was wholly