Chapter 7 #3
The captain shrugged. “Only strangers on the roads who wouldn’t know me from Adam.”
“The prince and Major FitzGerald were out riding as well. Who returned first?”
“I did. A gentleman might find your line of inquiry somewhat offensive, Inspector.” But Montgomery sounded more amused than affronted.
“A gentleman with something to hide might,” Tennant said.
“Well, that lets me out.”
“The circumstances surrounding Brigid Dowling’s murder in London suggest foreknowledge of her movements. Lady Styles discussed the girl’s arrival in front of you and others at the Marlborough House ball.”
“Someone may have followed her from Ireland. Or a London rough might have set out to rob her.”
“Overlooking the cabbie’s pocket, stuffed with half crowns and shillings?”
Montgomery shrugged. “It’s certainly a conundrum, Inspector. But sorting mysteries is your stock in trade, not mine.”
“Were you in London on Tuesday afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“Just to confirm … You were here on the Isle of Wight last July as well as in October. Is that correct?”
“That’s right. Readying my boat for the summer races. Here again in the autumn.”
“One last question. Did you see Major FitzGerald, Sir Lionel Dermott, and Frederick Locock here during those months?”
“Yes, Inspector. All of us, on the spot.” Montgomery grinned. “In both meanings of the phrase.” He ambled to the door with his hands in his pockets and stopped. “Bit of bad luck for Freddie Locock.”
“Meaning?”
“He wasn’t meant to be here in October. Just back from his wedding trip. Called down to see his father over something or other. Pity, or old Freddie would have been in the clear.”
Tennant wondered: was Montgomery’s nonchalance a careful pose or the sign of a clear conscience? The captain’s self-possession and air of amused boredom contrasted with his next and final interview at Osborne House.
Major Peter FitzGerald’s answers were terse, and his voice clipped.
He’d confined his ride on the afternoon of Lizzie’s murder to the estate grounds, he said, making his final inspection of Osborne Park before leaving for Balmoral.
His account tallied with the recollections of the head groom, but no one had seen FitzGerald riding around the estate.
“Major, as the queen’s equerry, you usually travel with her. Yet, you were here in July and again in October rather than at Balmoral.”
“I remained to begin the renovations of the queen’s stables and returned for a final inspection.”
“Can you tell me anything about Lizzie Dowling that might aid my investigation?”
FitzGerald raised an eyebrow. “I take little notice of the comings and goings of the female servants. Is that all, Inspector?”
“For the moment. Thank you, Major.”
He’s not as cool as he pretends, Tennant thought. The pink scar on his left cheek had turned a darker shade of rose by the end of their conversation.
Tennant’s notes didn’t take long. No witnesses and all the suspects were in the wind.
Tennant had murder sites in London and on the Isle of Wight, eighty miles apart.
And at any time, the royals could pack up and leave for one of their estates in a distant corner of the country, taking his chief suspects with them.
The thing’s impossible, Tennant thought, closing the study door behind him.
An hour later in Cowes, Tennant scanned the map of the Isle of Wight on Chief Constable Phillips’s wall. The inspector asked him, “How far is the murder site from Osborne House?”
“Quarr Abbey is four miles along two main roads. Lizzie Dowling traveled there by omnibus.”
“And if you went by horseback, wanting to avoid detection?”
“Well …” The burly chief smoothed his walrus mustache with his index finger and thumb. “I’d skirt the bridge over Wooten Creek and go cross-country.”
“Where is the Royal Victoria Yacht Club located?”
“Here.” Phillips pointed. “Just north of the bridge on the Fishbourne side of Wooten Creek. What’s your interest in the Royal Victoria?”
“It’s Sir Lionel Dermott’s club. He sailed from there on the day of Lizzie’s murder and lodged at the nearby Fishbourne Inn.”
“It’s an easy walk to Quarr Abbey,” Phillips said, tracing the line with his forefinger.
Tennant resumed his seat. “Six men were on the Isle of Wight during the months in question. This morning, I took statements from four of them.”
“Who are they?”
“Major FitzGerald, Captain Montgomery, the valet of the Prince of Wales, Stanley Hackett, and the queen’s house steward, Michael Bolger.”
The chief constable blew out his cheeks. “Two royal equerries and a pair of royal servants? By God, Tennant, you don’t do things by half measures.”
“Can you point me to a stable where I can hire a horse? I want to cover the ground to Quarr Abbey and see the murder site for myself.”
“I’ll do better. I’ll lend you a horse and accompany you.”
“Thank you,” Tennant said. “Three men on my list were out riding on the afternoon of Lizzie’s murder. Major FitzGerald, Captain Montgomery, and the Prince of Wales.”
Phillips stared. “Is that a ruddy joke?”
“The head groom said he’d ridden to Newport and back. We cannot overlook His Royal Highness.”
At eleven the following morning, the crunch of carriage wheels on a pebbled roadway announced an arrival at Osborne Cottage.
Tennant parted the curtains, expecting to see the pony cart that would carry Dermott and him to the Southampton steamer dock.
Instead, a carriage with a VR cipher stopped at the door.
Sir Lionel emerged from his room, combing his hair. “Is that our transport? It’s early.”
“No. Royal visitors.” Lady Styles and two women Tennant recognized as Princess Alexandra and Princess Louise walked up the path.
Sir Lionel pocketed his comb, opened the door, and bowed them into the hallway. “Your Royal Highnesses are out and about early. And Lady Styles. To what do I owe the honor and pleasure?”
“No church today,” Princess Louise announced gaily. “Too many soldiers and roadblocks between Osborne House and Whippingham.”
“Tut, tut, Princess,” Dermott said. “Should you sound so pleased to be missing Sunday services?”
“It’s all such nonsense,” Louise said. “I don’t mean church. I mean this invasion of soldiers in kilts. The queen is furious. Not even the absurd Brown can persuade Mama to take it seriously.”
“Princesses, may I present Detective Inspector Tennant of Scotland Yard, the officer in charge of the Dowling case. You find the inspector and me nearly on the fly. We are taking the twelve-thirty steamer from Cowes.”
“Oh,” Alexandra said. “Then perhaps …”
“We’re packed and prepared, Your Royal Highness, and have a quarter hour until the pony trap arrives.”
Lionel led the princesses to seats in the sitting room.
They presented a striking contrast. The Princess of Wales—thin and delicate, with dark curls pinned under a flat, angled hat—had the kind of pale skin that seemed nearly transparent.
She’d dressed elegantly but conventionally in a fitted blue jacket and skirt.
Princess Louise—robustly figured with fair hair cascading down her back—dropped her hat and cape in a pile on the sofa and then sat.
She wore a flowing, high-waisted claret gown in a relaxed, modern style and had a touch of the bohemian about her.
Tennant stood until Princess Alexandra said, “Please sit, Inspector.” Those were the last words she spoke until her farewell at the interview’s end. She looked at her sister-in-law and nodded.
Princess Louise peppered Tennant with questions about the discovery of Brigid Dowling’s body and the progress of the investigation, pressing him to speculate about a link between the sisters’ deaths. The inspector found a convenient refuge, claiming it was too early to draw conclusions.
Louise sighed in frustration. “I suppose we shall have to be satisfied with that.”
“I share your impatience, Your Royal Highness, but it is often thus at the start of an investigation.”
With the aid of her cane, the Princess of Wales stood. “Thank you, Inspector.” She offered her hand to Tennant, who bowed over it.
Louise tied her bonnet’s ribbons with careless impatience, allowing her hat to hang down her back. She thrust her hands into her muff. Then the princess looked up, the top of her head barely reaching his chin. She held his gaze.
“Lizzie was a lovely person, Inspector. She was the only one I could stand to …” She turned away abruptly, but not before Tennant saw her tears.
An hour later, Sir Lionel and Tennant passed a noticeable police presence patrolling the Cowes harborside.
“I pity the poor chief constable,” Sir Lionel said, signaling a porter. “So much on his plate. Irish invaders and the death of a queen’s servant. A case that’s wide open again. I assume you and the chief confirmed my unfortunate presence near the scene of the crime?”
“The Royal Victoria marina master and the clerk at the Fishbourne Inn were most obliging.”
“Tell me, did you share your entire list of suspects with the chief constable?” Dermott chuckled when Tennant nodded. “Hearing Bertie’s name amongst the potential culprits made his day, I’ll wager.”
When they reached the top of the steamer gangway, Tennant said, “Speaking of wagers. On our railway journey, I asked you to handicap the suspects. Major FitzGerald is your favorite. How does Captain Frederick Locock rate on your racing form?”
Sir Lionel shrugged. “I have nothing against Freddie.”
“That’s not an answer. Assess the man’s capacity for murder … and his motives.”
“I know nothing that could help you with either.”
“The Royal Victoria marina master said Locock recently purchased a yacht. An expensive hobby for a doctor’s son.” Tennant waited for a reply. Then he said, “Socially, Captain Locock seems an ‘odd man out’ in the prince’s set.”
“Does his social standing affect his status as a suspect?”
Once again, Dermott had deflected. “No. But it makes it harder for me to fit him into the picture frame.”
“He and Ollie Montgomery were in the same regiment, the Royal Horse Guards. Locock is in the Colonial Office now.”
“In a position of some confidence?”
“Not really.”
“Newly married, I understand,” Tennant said.
“Yes.”
“Do you know his address?”
“Don’t recall it offhand. I’ll send it to you.”
Somehow, either the loquacious Sir Lionel had grown bored with the game of coppers and culprits, or … or what?
Tennant said, “Should I have reason to suspect Major FitzGerald? Something beyond your dislike of the man.”
Dermott’s slow smile spread. “Now that I consider it, I can think of one reason FitzGerald might kill to cover up a dalliance.”
“What is that?”
“His father-in-law’s money. It cost FitzGerald a thousand pounds of the old Marmalade King’s tin to jump from captain to major. It’ll be thousands more to purchase the rank of colonel. And I hear Fitz covets the crown-and-star for his collar.”
“Then the major has a motive for good marital behavior … or its appearance.”
“Rumor is the old man tied his daughter’s money tighter than a sailor’s knot. Most of it jumps a generation, settled on the major’s ‘heir and spare.’”
“So, in a divorce—”
“Harriet FitzGerald’s lovely lucre vanishes …” Dermott fished a shilling out of his pocket, palmed the coin, and then opened his empty hand. “Just like that.”