Chapter 9
“Wake up, Doctor Julie.” Kate shook the doctor’s shoulder and then dragged open the drapes.
“What time is it?” Julia said, propping herself on her elbow. She covered her eyes against the streaming light.
“It’s just gone six. Sergeant O’Malley is waiting downstairs. There’s been trouble at Marlborough House.”
An hour later, Julia and Tennant stood over the charred remains of a corpse. A line of six constables crossed the nearby grounds, searching for evidence.
“We found the Downey and Son wagon where you see it,” the inspector said. “The milkman’s body is inside. A young man in his twenties, at a guess. The arsonist tied a cloth around the horse’s eyes to keep it from bolting.”
“Downey and Son. Singular,” Julia said. “The poor father, if the dead man is his son.”
“The guardsman at the gate identified him. Sergeant O’Malley is breaking the news to Mr. Downey now. The victim has a single puncture in his throat, just under the chin. It looks like the wound we found on Brigid Dowling’s cabbie.”
“I’ll need to see Doctor MacKay’s autopsy report to compare them.”
“You’ll have it,” Tennant said. “The arsonist carried two milk cans filled with paraffin and dumped them at the side door.”
A second pair of overturned cans lay nearby on the pathway. Twenty feet away, servants removed the last traces of paraffin from the steps.
“Somehow, he accidentally set fire to himself while delivering the second set of cans.” Tennant shook his head. “It seems staggeringly inept. He ended up here, twenty paces into the grass.”
“The impulse to run is strong. He should have fallen and rolled in the gravel, but …” Julia looked around. “I see nothing to run to … there’s no fountain at this end of the garden.”
“One of the guardsmen on sentry duty tried to fetch water from the house,” Tennant said. “He slid on a paraffin-coated step and broke his leg, poor fellow. They took him to Westminster Hospital.”
Julia looked up at the house. “Was the royal family …”
Tennant nodded. “In residence.” He pointed to a pair of corner windows two floors above the side door. “The nursery, a footman told me.”
“Good God,” Julia said. She turned away, shaken.
A tall, slim gentleman dressed in gray striped trousers, a charcoal overcoat, a bowler, and a starched, stand-up collar rounded the front of the house. He hailed the inspector.
“One of our suspects,” Tennant murmured to Julia as the man approached. “Doctor Julia Lewis, this is Sir Lionel Dermott, representing the Home Office.”
Dermott touched the brim of his hat and offered his hand. “Doctor Lewis. Under other circumstances, I’d be charmed. But this ghastly sight …”
Tennant said, “It seems our channels of intelligence weren’t—”
“We’re a pack of fools played by knaves.”
“Why ‘played,’ Sir Lionel?”
“We had one hundred and fifty Scots Fusiliers at Osborne House, guarding the queen against an impossible assault, while here …” He turned up his palms and looked around.
“Who protected the heir to the throne in the heart of the capital? Pairs of guardsmen on sentry duty at the front and side gates and two sleepy bobbies patrolling the perimeter.”
Tennant said, “Sir Lionel, those sentries—”
“I meant no criticism of them,” Dermott said, flicking his hand. “The fault lies with their senior officers and Her Majesty’s government.”
“The young guardsmen at the side gate admitted a man in a dairyman’s coat driving the expected milk wagon. He’d bundled up heavily about the neck and chin and below his prominent mustache. They exchanged only a few words as the man had a hacking cough.”
“A mustache and a cough. Damnably clever.” Sir Lionel touched his brim. “I’ll let you and Doctor Lewis get on with your investigation.”
Dermott walked away, kicking a stone. He headed toward the house and then changed direction, pulling a pipe from his pocket. Julia watched him drop onto a bench and light it. Lady Styles crossed the lawn and sat next to him.
“The mask has slipped,” Tennant said. “You’ll know what I mean when you see more of Sir Lionel Dermott.”
“Where will the examinations take place? Horseferry Road?”
“Yes. As soon as that infernal police wagon arrives to transport the corpse. It’s late.”
“The milkman’s body may tell us something. But given the state of this charred corpse, there’s probably little it will reveal. Still, I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will. And like Sir Lionel, I wish the same were true about others.” Tennant sighed. “That includes Sir Richard, but I’d say that to no one else.”
Julia knew Tennant’s loyalty and affection for his godfather ran deep. She touched his sleeve. “I’ll speak to Lady Styles and meet you at the mortuary.”
When Julia approached the bench, Sir Lionel uncrossed his long legs and got to his feet, offering the doctor his seat.
Julia nodded her thanks and sat next to Lady Styles. “How is Princess Alexandra?”
“Shaken. Appalled. Her windows overlook the garden. The man’s screams woke her, and she saw the full horror. But the prince asked us not to mention the paraffin under the door. At least, not yet.”
“And His Royal Highness?” Julia said.
Lady Styles looked at Dermott. “You were with him a little while ago.”
“I’ve never seen him this furious,” he said. “Bertie is a man who gives in to his appetites, but he controls his temper admirably. He has his provocations, God knows. Usually, only the absurd Scotsman, Brown, gets a rise out of him.”
Julia asked, “Has the press gotten wind of this?”
“It was a small kitchen fire, quickly extinguished,” Dermott said. “That’s the folderol we’ll peddle to the press.”
Sir Lionel turned at the sound of hooves scattering gravel. A horseman trotted up the Marlborough’s carriageway. He jumped from the saddle, tossed his reins to a footman, and dashed up the steps.
“The knight errant has arrived to console his princess,” Sir Lionel said. “And on a white steed, no less.”
Julia asked, “That gentleman is … ?”
“Captain Oliver Montgomery,” Lady Styles said. “He is an equerry to the prince.”
“And a slave to the princess.” Dermott’s mobile features flickered in amusement.
“Don’t mock, Lionel,” Susan said.
“Indeed, I don’t.” He turned to Julia. “Doctor, I am in awe of Ollie’s devotion. Truly. But alas, I would find his romantic self-sacrifice from afar quite … ah … unsatisfying.”
He accompanied the drawn-out word with a crooked smile, arched eyebrows, and a music-hall leer that telegraphed his meaning. Julia looked at Lady Styles, and they laughed.
“That’s the spirit.” He took each of their hands and kissed them in turn. “A doctor and a widow-lady. Absurd to be missish.” Then he trotted along the path to Marlborough Road, waving his gloves behind him.
“Sir Lionel is an acquired taste,” Lady Styles said.
“Inspector Tennant said something of the sort.”
“I’m happy to see you, Doctor, despite … but perhaps this isn’t the time to ask a favor.”
“What can I do?”
“I’d planned to write to you today with a request. Princess Louise wishes to visit your clinic if she may. On some suitable day, of course.”
Julia smiled wryly. “Planning an appropriate day at Whitechapel Clinic is tricky. One must forge ahead and hope for the best. So, any day that suits the princess.”
“Is tomorrow morning too soon? A visit would be a welcome distraction. That’s not the right word. It’s not a whim on her part. You’ll find that Princess Louise has a keen interest in medicine.”
“A diversion after this horror isn’t a bad thing.”
“And you wrote to me, asking about Lizzie Dowling’s employment. Princess Louise will tell you what she remembers. I questioned the housekeeper at Osborne over Christmas, but I’m afraid she wasn’t much help. She arrived several years after the girl first arrived.”
“Let’s say tomorrow at eleven?” Julia stood and offered her hand. “The police wagon is here, so I must go.”
Tennant entered the mortuary’s examining room with Dr. MacKay’s autopsy of Brigid’s cabbie tucked under his arm. Julia had completed the milkman’s postmortem and was working on the charred corpse.
Tennant handed her Dr. MacKay’s report. “Mister Downey Senior is here with Sergeant O’Malley.”
“His son’s body is ready for identification,” she said. “A young man in the prime of life.”
“Engaged to be married, Mister Downey told me.”
Julia sighed. “Poor girl.” She paged through the report until she found Dr. MacKay’s description of the cabbie’s stab wound. “I’d say the causes of death are consistent. A single thrust using a sharp, narrow blade, inserted at the top of the throat immediately under the chin.”
“A piece of physical evidence links the crimes, as well. A copper thought he found a pair of damaged spectacles in the grass. The metal ear hooks match the ones on the ginger beard found by our young mud larks.”
“So, this man, the arsonist …” Julia looked at the remains on the second table.
“Is likely the murderer of Brigid Dowling and the cabbie.”
At the Yard on Saturday morning, Tennant set aside the morning paper. A kitchen fire at Marlborough House. Sir Lionel was right about the story.
A constable knocked. “Parcel dropped off for you with the duty sergeant, sir. By Doctor Lewis’s coachman.”
Tennant untied the string, and two autopsy reports slid from the paper wrapper. He started with the shorter one, the burn victim’s examination, thinking, This won’t take long.
He reached the end of the first paragraph and swore. Then he grabbed his hat and overcoat and scrambled out the door.
At 11:00 a.m., staccato knocks on Julia’s door and Jackie Archer’s breathless “She’s here” announced the royal visitor. Her young orderly stood back to let the doctor pass through the office doorway.