Chapter 6 #2
Tennant shifted his weight, sliding his hat brim through his fingers. “Well … the train leaves at one. I return on Sunday.”
Julia said, “Safe journey.”
After the door closed behind him, she winced at the formal awkwardness of their exchange. How long will it take? Julia wondered. How long before they returned to something close to normal?
At Waterloo Station, a porter with a clipboard stood by a locomotive.
Iron pillars rose to a metal-and-glass honeycombed ceiling.
The station was eerily deserted. The inspector’s boots echoed along an empty platform that usually bustled.
In the distance, a porter stood by a locomotive with a clipboard.
Tennant gave the man his name and showed his warrant card.
“The first saloon car is Her Majesty’s,” the porter said. “As the queen is not traveling, it is unused today. The Prince and Princess of Wales will occupy the second carriage. Take your seat in the third car, sir.”
Tennant walked the length of Victoria’s claret-and-gold painted saloon.
He caught glimpses of the luxury inside: the richly upholstered blue-and-gold seating section, sleeping compartment, and dining car.
Gold-tasseled shades obscured his view of the second car, the “Prince of Wales” saloon.
A standard first-class compartment followed, and two additional cars completed the string.
“In here, old man.”
Sir Lionel Dermott sat on the burgundy leather seat facing the engine, legs crossed. He had the day’s newspapers on his lap and a hinged leather case at his feet. He’d tossed his formal frock coat and overcoat on the seat beside him.
Sir Lionel eyed Tennant’s bandaged right hand and reached for the inspector’s carpetbag. “Let me relieve you of that.” He lifted the case and slid it onto the metal shelf above the opposite seat. “Cheer up, old man. You’ll be back in London in two days.”
“Unless Mister Gathorne-Hardy has more plans for diverting my attention.”
“You don’t like him, do you?”
Tennant raised an eyebrow. “Why do you say that?”
“I suspect you hold the home secretary responsible for the unfortunate end of your last case.”
“You’re well informed, Sir Lionel.”
“Information is my stock in trade.” Dermott sat back, eyeing Tennant under half-closed lids. “You’re wrong about my guvnor, you know.”
“You’ll never convince mine of that. Chief Inspector Clark sees the evils of the ‘old boys club’ at work, letting the well-connected escape justice.”
“Your chief is wrong. Gathorne-Hardy is a moralist at heart. No, the decision not to prosecute came from higher up.”
“Higher than the Home Office narrows it to—”
“Yes, Inspector. The prime minister thought it wise to avoid a lurid scandal that would taint his party.” Dermott knitted his hands behind his head, stretching his legs. “That should clear the air of any suspicions you harbored.”
“You’re certain you know my thoughts, Sir Lionel?”
“Oh, I know quite a lot about Richard Wellesley Tennant.” Dermott ticked a list on his fingers. “Captain in the Grenadier Guards, had a bad time of it in the Crimea, overlooked—criminally—for the Victoria Cross, and things not looking up when you got home.”
“You are well-informed. I’m flattered.”
“One thing surprises me: your godfather didn’t lend your services to the new Irish branch, although I suspect the commissioner thinks it’s a colossal waste of time.”
Tennant said dryly, “I believe he thinks I’m more useful working on routine Yard business. Now, you tell me something. Why do you want Sir Richard to think you’re a fool?”
A slow smile spread. “A reflexive bad habit, I’m afraid.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Tennant waited, and Sir Lionel sighed. “I see I am up against that most formidable of persons, the patient man. Do you object to a pipe while I consider your question?”
“Not at all.”
“I’ll let in some air.”
Dermott unlatched the window. Then he reached into his coat pocket and extracted a briar pipe burnished to a glossy amber.
He packed the bowl with tobacco, struck a match, and passed the flame over the top layer.
Then he tamped a second and a third time.
With each repetition, he drew on the stem until the tobacco flamed.
Sir Lionel moved the pipe to the corner of his mouth. “The pater taught me the proper way to do it. Lighting a pipe is a bit like you, Inspector. It rewards patience.”
After a few more puffs, he said, “Why do I play the fool? I’ve found that the English upper classes say the most extraordinary things in front of two sets of people.
Servants and twits.” His slow smile came again.
“It’s most convenient for information gathering if one is assumed to be amongst the latter. ”
“I must keep your method in mind,” Tennant said.
“Now, those who unmask me …” Dermott pointed his pipe stem at Tennant. “They intrigue me. I think my unmarried state must lower me in your catalog of suspects.”
“What makes you think you’re on the list?”
“Tut, tut, Inspector.” He shook his head in mock disapproval. “Don’t disappoint me now. I know you interviewed the lovely Lady Styles. You’ve done the simple sum, concluding two and three are five.”
“Would you mind spelling out the arithmetic for me?”
“Gladly, despite the mixed metaphor. It was at the Marlborough House ball the night the fateful travel arrangements were disclosed. Three gentlemen who were present are married men. Two are single. In the case of a pregnant servant, a husband has more to lose than a bachelor.”
“Were you on the Isle of Wight last summer and in October?”
“Yes, as it happens. Spot of yacht racing over the summer and hauling her out in the autumn.”
“Were you sailing the day of the murder?”
“My last run of the season. Had the old girl taken out of the water the next day.”
“The marina owners in Cowes will confirm that?”
“I belong to the Royal Victoria on Wooten Creek, worse luck.”
“Why unlucky?”
“Quarr Abbey is an easy walk from the marina. So is the Fishbourne, the ‘ye olde’ Tudor inn where I lodged that night.” Dermott smiled his slow, lazy grin. “Most unfortunate for me.”
A sudden flurry announced the royal party’s late arrival. Porters wheeled cases to the storage car, and household servants passed their window looking for seats in the rear carriages. Sir Lionel dangled his arm out the window, banged the tobacco from the bowl, and closed the glass panel.
“Those five men at the ball may have told others,” Tennant said. “If so, the list expands. And you’ve left someone off. A sixth person and a married man.”
Dermott raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”
“The Prince of Wales.”
A tap on the window interrupted them. A sandy-haired man with a neat mustache gestured to Sir Lionel. “Excuse me,” Dermott said, opening the door and stepping down.
They spoke with their backs to the window. Sir Lionel mostly listened as his companion raked fingers through his hair and pointed to the royal car. At the sound of a whistle, the man looked over his shoulder and strode away.
Sir Lionel resumed his seat. “One of your suspects, as it happens. Oliver Montgomery.”
“Equerry to the Prince of Wales.”
Sir Lionel nodded. “And you’ll meet another when we arrive at Osborne House. Peter FitzGerald, the queen’s equerry.”
“Captain Montgomery seemed agitated.”
“He related the latest intelligence from the Home Office. Plans were in flux when I left Whitehall. Inspector, we aren’t alone on our way to Osborne House. Some one hundred and fifty Scots Fusiliers will join us. The soldiers will bolster the usual police presence on the ground.”
“What has happened?”
“The Home Office received word that an attempt will be made at Osborne on Her Majesty’s life.”
Three hours later, Tennant and Sir Lionel waited on the quay for the royal party to board the HMS Black Eagle, the royal steam yacht that would take them across the strait to Cowes.
“Three masts for canvas and a steam-driven paddlewheel,” Sir Lionel said. “I like a ship that hedges its bets.”
Tennant pointed out to sea. “It looks like the Royal Navy is taking no chances, either. They’ve dispatched half the fleet to patrol the stretch between Portsmouth and Osborne House.”
“The Irish are madder than I thought,” Dermott said. “Two boatloads of rabid nationalists sailing from New York plan to invade through this naval thicket? Suicidal.”
“Is the queen alarmed?”
“Annoyed, I understand,” Sir Lionel said.
“When is our audience with Her Majesty?”
“This evening at seven.” Lionel grinned. “I thought, no mucking about. Get the tooth out right away.”
Tennant and Dermott hung back, waiting for the royal party to finish boarding. Captain Montgomery trailed behind. Tennant asked, “Who are the three married gentlemen you think are on my list?”
Dermott ticked them off. “George Trevor, Freddie Locock, and Peter FitzGerald. Trev is out of the race, I think. He only returned from India in September.”
“Was Frederick Locock on the island last July?”
Dermott hesitated. “Yes, as it happens. He crewed for the Prince of Wales. And before you ask, Freddie was there with the rest of us in October. Just back from his wedding trip.”
“You’ve named the suspects. Now, handicap the horses for me. Who’s your favorite?”
“Oh, Peter FitzGerald. Absolutely.”
“Why?”
“Can’t stand the fellow,” Lionel said cheerfully. “So, I’d like it to be him.”
“I suggested a fourth married man …”
“Bertie? I thought you were joking.”
“Not the prince himself,” Tennant said, “but some obliging member of the Marlborough House set … someone who might remove an embarrassment for him?”
Dermott threw back his head and laughed. “Have you followed the prince’s dalliances in the illustrated press? London would be littered with female corpses.”
The great engine began to churn, and the Black Eagle slipped its mooring. Sir Lionel grabbed his hat brim and removed it as the wind picked up. He leaned against the rail, looking at the horizon. Amusement had vanished from his face.