Chapter 10 #2
He retraced his steps to the station. There was no need to rush; he had ample time until his train.
And a man in a hurry was a man remembered.
He brushed at his sleeves, plucking a small goose feather that clung to his coat.
At the station, he passed a stream of excited Eton schoolboys in wide, white collars, ears protruding from under the brims of their top hats, waving cricket bats to their friends.
Harried parents followed in their wake. The beginning-of-term pandemonium was ideal for getting lost in a crowd.
That afternoon’s work had been an unfortunate necessity, but the previous one had been his pleasure. So, the next would be.
And then the last.
On Monday at noon, Lady Styles slipped out of the side entrance of Marlborough House and lifted her face to the sun.
There was just enough time for a walk around the grounds.
The stretch of cold but clear weather continued for a sixth day into the new year, and it was a pleasure to be out of doors.
Susan circled the east garden and sat on the bench on the great lawn.
She opened the letter she’d received that morning and reread it, smiling.
“May I join you?” Princess Louise called, striding across the lawn. “I saw you from my window.”
“Of course.” Lady Styles pulled away her skirts to make room on the bench and folded her letter.
Princess Louise said, “Please, not on my account. Finish it.”
“It’s from my bank manager, and I’ve read it twice.” She tucked it into her pocket. “My royal stipend and a small legacy from an elderly aunt have my affairs in order. He can put a scheme of mine in motion.”
“A plan you can share, or would you prefer to wait until it’s in place?”
“I’ll tell you at once. My banker has reviewed the leasing arrangements for a small flat. Now, in the months I’m not waiting on Princess Alexandra, I have somewhere to go besides my brother and sister-in-law’s house.”
Princess Louise sighed. “How I envy you, although most would think me spoiled to say it. What care in the world could a royal princess have?”
Susan reached for her hand. “I know things are difficult. Your life isn’t all you’d wish it to be. I’m sorry.”
“I’m twenty this year, and Mama has begun to discuss marriage. I’m sure she plans to marry me off to some … some German princeling or other.” Louise flicked a dismissive hand.
“Like your sisters.” Susan had learned something in royal service: the queen’s adult children were also Her Majesty’s subjects. And daughters are more subject than sons.
“Those marriages were Papa’s dearest wish.
Alice … I’m not sure she’s happy, but Vicky adores Fritz.
It’s Prussia she loathes. There she is, the Princess Royal of England, a captive in a foreign land.
” Louise slumped on the bench. “I cannot bear the thought of leaving my homeland. To be away from … everything.”
A hansom cab rattled through the side gate and stopped before it reached the front entrance. Sir Lionel Dermott paid off the driver and strode across the lawn.
“Thank goodness.” He bowed to the princess and took Susan’s hand. “If you are out here, I’m not late for luncheon in there.” He cocked his thumb at Marlborough House.
“You’ve arrived in good time,” said Princess Louise, “and we could use a bit of cheering up.”
“Ah, court jester. My favorite role. You’ll permit me to join you?” Lionel extracted a large paisley handkerchief from his pocket, arranged it on the lawn, and sat cross-legged. “Now, what are we talking about?”
“Marriage, as it happens,” Princess Louise said. “What is your opinion? But perhaps you’re not the best judge. I notice you haven’t rushed to sample its joys.”
“Marriage …” Lionel stroked his chin. “Now that depends. If you mean matrimony in general, I approve. If you are speaking of one in particular … as a rule, I advise caution.” He smiled. “Princess, my lady, please consult me before taking any drastic step.”
Susan turned at the sound of a rider. Oliver Montgomery had entered on horseback. “Alix’s last luncheon guest has arrived,” she said.
Lionel sighed. “Ollie makes me quite ashamed. I really must exercise my filly more often. Can I persuade you ladies to join me for a ride sometime this week?”
“Only if you promise us a good canter,” Louise said.
“Perhaps we should go in?” Susan said. “It must be nearly time.”
Lionel uncrossed his legs and rose in a fluid motion. Then he swept up his handkerchief, flourished it in a circle, and stuffed it into his pocket.
“Neatly done, Sir Lionel,” Louise said. “An acrobat as well as a jester.”
“My dear Princess, one learns to be nimble in government service.” Dermott offered his arms to the ladies. “Who else is expected at luncheon?”
“Peter FitzGerald and his wife,” Louise said.
“Harriet FitzGerald … Do you know, I imagined I saw Your Royal Highness on Bond Street last Thursday,” Lionel said. “I had prepared my best bow when I saw it wasn’t the princess after all. It was Harriet.”
“So, you made your second-best bow?” Susan said.
Lionel grinned. “I ducked into a doorway and avoided it altogether.”
“What an odd mistake,” Louise said.
“I had the same sensation at the ball,” Susan said as they walked across the lawn. “It’s the style of hair and manner of dress that are similar.”
Lionel said, “They say imitation is flattery, Princess.”
They parted briefly inside the house for the ladies to dispose of their wraps and hats and freshen up in their rooms. Ten minutes later, Susan joined Lionel at the dining room doorway.
Dermott took her elbow and drew her aside. “I hope your first experience—and the unhappy examples around you—haven’t turned you against the married state.”
“Whom do you mean?”
Lionel looked meaningfully at the Prince of Wales as he handed Princess Alexandra to her seat. “And Harriet FitzGerald. It looks like the bloom is off that rose,” he said softly. “She and the major seem to lead separate lives these days.”
“Harriet prefers London to Windsor and Balmoral.”
“A pity. The queen avoids Buckingham Palace as if it were a plague site. Still, FitzGerald manages to get away to the capital for … entertainments of his own.”
“What are you saying, Lionel?”
Princess Louise’s appearance, followed by a footman, spared him a reply.
“Excuse me, Your Royal Highness.” The servant offered the princess a silver platter. “A message.”
She read it and smiled at her brother. “Bertie, I’m borrowing your private secretary this afternoon. Mister Fisher is taking me to the telegraph office to send a cable.”
On Monday, Sergeant O’Malley dropped a stack of reports on Inspector Tennant’s desk with a grunt of disgust.
“Days of asking and still nothing from the canvass of the milkman’s route. High time one of our coppers turned up something.”
“I wouldn’t count on it, “Tennant said. “Our murderer is a disciplined fellow. Discipline reminds me …” He leaned back in his desk chair and contemplated the cracks in the ceiling plaster. “The military is well represented among our suspects.”
“’Tis true,” O’Malley said. “We have two captains—Montgomery and Locock—and Major FitzGerald in the frame.”
“Then there’s Sir Lionel, who resigned his commission as captain several years ago. I need a better sense of them as men.”
“Three of our pigeons belonged to the same Guards regiment.”
“Yes … the Blues,” Tennant said. “Except for Major FitzGerald, who was in the 4th Royal Irish Dragoons.”
O’Malley shrugged. “’Tis a shame none of them were in the Grenadier Guards. You’d be knowing them, I’m guessing.”
Tennant righted his chair. “That’s a thought, Paddy. Ask around the Yard. Coppers who served in the ranks in Crimea. See if you can find someone who fought with either regiment.”
“Ought to be someone. Or someone who knows someone.”
“Meanwhile, I had it from the constable who walks Captain Locock’s beat that he’s back from the Isle of Wight. I thought of sending him a note at the Colonial Office, but I’ll arrive unannounced.”
“Sure, an interview with the fella is overdue,” O’Malley said.
“I’ll push him hard and see what turns up.”
The Colonial Office was a short walk down Whitehall Road, well within the tolerance of Tennant’s leg.
As was true of the world, the Colonial Office building encompassed petty kingdoms and great ones, too.
A walk down a long corridor brought the inspector to a distant room.
With little space to spare, the door announced its occupant: ASSISTANT TO THE PERMANENT UNDERSECRETARY OF STATE FOR THE COLONIES.
Smaller letters underneath informed a visitor that “Captain Frederick H. L. Locock” served as “Director of Affairs for the Crown Colony of Malta.” Tennant knocked and entered at the command, “Come.”
A lanky, dark-haired man pushed a pile of newspapers aside and hauled himself out of his leather chair. Six-foot-two, if he’s an inch, Tennant thought. Locock’s Monday copy of The Times looked pristine, but Tennant spotted the masthead of the Sporting Gazette peeking from under it.
Tennant removed his hat. “Detective Inspector Tennant from the Metropolitan Police. You are Captain Frederick Locock?”
The man’s welcoming smile and outstretched arm froze. Then he blinked and grasped Tennant’s hand as if released by some hidden spring. “That’s right, Inspector.” Locock gestured to the club chair in front of his desk. “Grab a pew.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
Captain Locock said, “I spoke with Oliver Montgomery at Christmas, so I have a general idea of why you’re here.”
“That saves time. I have a pair of Irish sisters murdered in London and on the Isle of Wight. Two nights ago, an Irish police informer burned to death on the grounds of Marlborough House. Physical evidence links that death to the murder of the second girl, Brigid Dowling.”
“Your summary is clear but incredible, Inspector. I cannot fathom the connection.”