Chapter 10
Inspector Tennant and Sergeant O’Malley were the first to arrive for the meeting with the home secretary.
Mr. Gathorne-Hardy’s assistant ushered Tennant and O’Malley into a conference room. The bald and bespectacled Mr. Greaves was as starchy as his shirt’s stand-up collar and looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. He pursed his lips, commanding them to wait rather than inviting them to sit.
“Frosty bugger,” the sergeant muttered after the door closed.
Tennant circled the empty room, examining the portraits of past home secretaries.
Minutes ticked by, and Greaves opened the door again.
Mr. Gathorne-Hardy bustled in, taking the seat at the head of the mahogany table.
Sir Lionel Dermott and Sir Richard Mayne followed, nodding to Tennant and O’Malley.
Mister Greaves ushered a fourth gentleman to the table and closed the door.
The newcomer sported a drooping mustache, lavish side whiskers, and the blue frock coat and red-striped trousers of an officer in the Cold Stream Guards.
The home secretary waved Tennant and O’Malley to chairs and nodded to Sir Lionel.
Dermott made the introductions. “Inspector Tennant, you know everyone except Colonel William Fielding. He’s heading up the Fenian division. Colonel, Patrick O’Malley is the inspector’s sergeant.”
Gathorne-Hardy cleared his throat. “Thank you, Sir Lionel. Our subject is the outrage yesterday morning at Marlborough House. Her Majesty’s government is dismayed by the incident. ‘Dismayed’ is a poor word to describe our reaction to the most recent debacle in a string of Yard failures.”
Sir Richard scowled. “I take exception—”
“But it wasn’t exceptional, was it?” Sir Lionel ticked off on his fingers, “A dead Manchester police sergeant, the Irish prisoners he guarded in the wind, and the Clerkenwell Prison blown to bits. Scotland Yard seems singularly out of its depth.”
“The Yard got wind of both those plots from a trusted source,” Colonel Fielding said. “Local police bungling is responsible for the failures on the spot.”
Dermott shrugged. “Contrast that with policing in Ireland, Colonel. Over the past year, Dublin’s coppers thwarted every Irish scheme without a stumble.”
“Talking of plots and blunders,” Tennant said. “What about the stolen rifles shipped from France? Shouldn’t they have turned up by now?”
“It’s too early to assume the worst,” Sir Lionel said with a flicker of a smile. “But point taken, Inspector.”
“These damnable Yankee Irishmen …” Colonel Fielding smacked the tabletop with the flat of his hand. “Why don’t they stay on their side of the Atlantic?”
After a brief silence, O’Malley said, “They’ll not be forgetting the famine and their starving mothers giving them the bread from their mouths. An ocean isn’t wide enough for that.”
The colonel’s drooping mustaches wobbled. “Damn it, man, you’re not in sympathy with these brotherhood bastards, are you?”
The home secretary raised his hands. “Gentleman, let us set history aside and address the present. Colonel, what about this ‘trusted source’ you mentioned?”
“Trusted?” Dermott said. “He warned of phantom attacks on the queen at Balmoral and Osborne but stayed silent about the arson at Marlborough House. Why is that, Colonel?”
Fielding scowled. “I don’t know. Our man has … disappeared. He left his lodgings the night of the fire and hasn’t returned.”
Tennant and O’Malley exchanged glances. The inspector asked, “Is your source a man of average height with broken teeth along his upper left jaw?”
“But how …” Fielding stuttered. “See here, how do you—”
Sir Lionel smiled above tented fingers. “Does that describe the charred victim at Marlborough House?”
“Yes,” Tennant said. “Someone silenced your reliable source. What was his name?”
“Boyle,” Colonel Fielding said. “Daniel Boyle.”
Sir Lionel noted the name. “Kindly send me what you have on the man, Colonel.”
“Inspector, where do we stand?” Gathorne-Hardy asked.
Tennent spent ten minutes reviewing the murder cases and tracing their linkages to the Dowling sisters’ deaths. Colonel Fielding refused to concede the connections.
“A knife wound to a cabdriver’s neck?” The colonel snorted. “That’s your evidence? Surely, it’s commonplace among the ruffians you see in your line of work, Tennant.”
“There is something singular about these throat wounds.”
“He didn’t stab the girl on the Isle of Wight,” the home secretary said.
“I think our killer wanted to mask that first murder, sir. Make the authorities believe the suicide or accident theories.”
Fielding flicked his hand as if brushing away an annoying gnat. “I say it’s thin. Irish rebels, arson, and murdered servant girls? A link is farfetched. A fiction.”
O’Malley cleared his throat. “With respect, Colonel, are you forgetting the theatrical disguises? The taxi passenger with the ginger beard and the mustachioed man driving the milk wagon.”
“The wire frames are similar,” Tennant said. “I’d say coincidence as an explanation is farfetched.”
The colonel glared at the repetition of his word. “Damn it, Tennant, you’re saying the queen’s servant girl was—”
“Linked, somehow, to an Irish Republican Brotherhood conspiracy.” Dermott smiled. “Dashed inconvenient.”
“No, by God,” Fielding shouted. “It’s damned preposterous!”
After the meeting broke up, Dermott invited Tennant and the sergeant to his office. Sir Lionel pointed them to a pair of comfortable leather club chairs, lined three glasses on his desk, and produced two bottles from his bottom drawer.
“Scotch whisky or Irish, gentlemen? I’m making a life study of my preference. Sergeant, I’m guessing you vote for the nectar of your native heath.”
“That would be grand.”
Sir Lionel poured three tots of Bushmills and raised his glass. “To your very good health, and apologies about that Scotland Yard crack.”
O’Malley said, “Sláinte,” followed by Tennant’s “Cheers.”
Dermott sipped and settled back in his chair. “A pity Her Majesty’s government didn’t send Colonel Fielding to Egypt or the Sudan. So much lovely sand for head sticking.”
“The colonel seems unpersuadable,” Tennant said. “Not a constructive outlook for a man leading an investigation.”
“May I inquire about your next steps?” Dermott waggled his eyebrows. “Or would you infer nefarious motives behind my innocent question? Chief among your suspects, as I am.”
“We’ve had officers canvass the theatrical suppliers for the buyer of a ginger beard,” Tennant said. “We’ll send them back, asking about the mustache.”
O’Malley said, “The dairyman drove south from Camden Town, a three-mile trip to the center of London. Coppers on the graveyard shifts along the way are questioning the early risers.”
“And, like you,” Tennant said, “I want to know more about this informant, Daniel Boyle.” The inspector shrugged. “All this is standard police procedure. No state secrets, so no harm done … whatever your motives, Sir Lionel.”
Dermott sighed. “If only I could convince you of my innocence. Still, I see it’s hopeless, barring …”
“Barring what, Sir Lionel?”
“Why, the swift arrest of Peter FitzGerald, of course.”
On Sunday, a tall, thin man in a bowler hat took the train from London to Windsor and arrived shortly after one o’clock. He exited the station and blinked, his pale blue eyes sensitive to the bright sunlight.
A short walk down the High Street brought him to the churchyard.
Morning services had concluded, and he noticed no one about.
He pretended to look at the gravestones, his head down, his pale eyes shifting left and right, confirming that no one observed him.
Then he crossed St. Alban’s Street, entered the woods, and settled among a grove of yews.
From there, he had a clear view of a lone cottage at the edge of Windsor Great Park.
He struck a match, applied it to the bowl of his pipe, and flicked it away, waiting for the lady to take her afternoon walk. She never missed a day when the weather was favorable. And that afternoon was crisp and clear, a glorious January day for an English winter.
A few minutes after the tower bells rang twice, an elderly lady rounded the path and made her way to a bench within a quiet grove.
Nothing moved: not a sigh of wind, nor a darting squirrel, nor a flutter of wings amid the branches.
He knocked the remains from his pipe, circled the grove, and came upon her as if he were out for an afternoon stroll.
The man lifted his hat. “I wonder if you remember me, my lady?”
She didn’t. Not at first. No surprise, as he’d heard that her memory was fading. He’d been counting on it.
“May I?” he asked, gesturing to the space beside her on the bench.
They spoke about the weather. Then he asked if she remembered the royal visit to Ireland. She had. He brought the conversation around to a young servant girl the lady had befriended.
She supplied the name without missing a beat. “Lizzie Dowling. And her sister. We saved them from the nest. Not like those other poor creatures.”
Her mention of “nest” would have meant nothing to most listeners. But the man sighed. Nothing for it, he thought. No loose ends.
She smiled sweetly. “We saved them, the captain and I.”
Her last remark settled the matter, so he rose from the bench. “Let me rearrange your cushion.”
“Thank you, young man. Most kind.”
He slipped the pillow from behind her back, pushed her down, and covered her face until she was still. Then, he propped her up, her head tipping forward, and replaced the cushion behind her back.