Chapter 12 #2
Tennant climbed in after her. They rocked along silently, with Julia looking out the window.
He studied her profile: her high cheekbones, firm chin, and chestnut hair pinned back beneath her hat.
Just then, she looked like a young version of Lady Aldridge.
He thought, I know what she’ll look like when we’re old and gray.
She’ll still be a handsome woman, just like her aunt.
Julia turned her head and looked at him.
He asked, “What were you thinking just now?”
“Secrets,” Julia said. “I suppose all families have them. Lady Middlebury and Lizzie Dowling. There’s a mystery there. The two princesses have their troubles, as well.” Julia sighed. “And Susan worries about them all.”
“Lady Styles is ‘a woman who lives in other people’s houses.’ She said that once to me. The lady leads a strange life, and I doubt her salary is large enough to make their problems hers. Yet, she does.” Tennant smiled. “And now there’s you, drawn into their orbit.”
“Oh, I’m a very minor moon of Jupiter,” Julia said lightly as the carriage slowed and stopped at the back entrance to the Yard.
“No. You’re just the same.” Tennant climbed out of the cab. “You’re never ‘in for a penny.’ It’s always a pound.” Before he closed the door, he said, “I wouldn’t have you any other way at any price.”
On Monday morning, Susan, Princess Louise, and Sir Lionel, accompanied by a groom, rode on horseback from Marlborough House to Hyde Park. Susan had suggested the ride to Lionel as a distraction for Louise.
They entered at Hyde Park Corner and turned their mounts toward Rotten Row, the park’s oddly named bridle path. Princess Louise lasted five minutes on the sedate stretch where London’s fashionable riders went to see and be seen.
“I’m going for a canter along the North Ride,” the princess said. “I’ll meet you at the far end of the row.” She pulled away and headed toward the Serpentine Road, the groom trailing her.
“I didn’t think she’d last long at this leisurely pace,” Susan said. “A gallop will be good for her.”
Ahead, a crowd had gathered at a section of the low fence that separated the bridle path from the footpath.
Most onlookers were there to see Catherine Walters.
“Skittles” was London’s most famous courtesan and was a superb horsewoman.
Her riding costumes, tailored by Henry Poole of Savile Row, clung to her like a seal’s skin.
That morning, Skittles wore a jet jacket and skirt with snowy lace at the cuffs and throat.
She’d massed her dark curls at the back of her head.
A top hat tipped forward at an acute angle shaded her eyes from the morning sun.
A creamy ribbon streamed from its crown.
“Miss Walters hasn’t disappointed,” Susan said. “The curious have turned out to see what she’s wearing. But I had read she was in Paris.”
“Skittles is back from the City of Light, having bowled over a finance minister and the French emperor, if the rumors are true. But I’m surprised that Susan, the Dowager Lady Styles, follows her dubious career.”
“‘Dowager’ makes me feel in my dotage, Lionel.”
“Nonsense, my dear. Ah … what have we here? FitzGerald and another fellow have reined their horses, and the major has tipped his hat to the lady. What do you suppose FitzGerald is about? Some ‘sleight of hand,’ perhaps?’”
“What do you mean?”
“‘Sleight of eye’ might be more apt. Rumor has it that Skittles is ‘entertaining’ the major, so logic dictates they’d avoid public encounters. And nothing is more public than Catherine Walters riding in Rotten Row. Therefore …”
“Therefore, what?”
“Meetings in the park telegraph that there aren’t private rendezvous behind closed doors …” Dermott waggled his brows. “A neat double bluff.”
“Lionel, your brain is overactive.”
“I’ll remind you of this conversation when Harriet sues for divorce. It’s the second time I’ve spotted FitzGerald and Skittles riding together. Both times, he’s been in the company of that chap as chaperone. More window dressing?”
“He’s the major’s groom and coachman. Harriet doesn’t enjoy riding, so the groom keeps her horse exercised.”
“Hmm … perhaps. There must be some reason for dragging the fellow along. Perhaps he knows his horseflesh and keeps his eye on FitzGerald’s racehorse.”
“He owns one?”
“Yes. He named the beast ‘Marmalade’ in honor of his father-in-law’s jam.” Dermott shook his head. “If FitzGerald thought the gesture would make the old chap sweet on the deal …”
“You think not?”
“Fitz doesn’t understand the merchant class.
Sensibly, they believe in earning their money, not risking it on something as chancy as horse racing.
” Lionel cocked his head and looked down at her with a slight smile.
“Speaking of taking chances … There’s a solution, Lady Styles, if you’re interested. ”
“A solution to what?”
“Ditching the ‘dowager’ in your title. You could—oh, blast.”
“What is it?”
“Greaves,” Dermott said. “Gathorne-Hardy’s private secretary. I’ll wager he’s looking for me. He’s walking along the footpath, bobbing his head like an inquisitive goose.”
Dermott turned his horse and headed to the edge of the bridle path. “Mister Greaves?”
“You’re wanted at the Home Office, Sir Lionel. The French rifles have turned up.”
Lionel had expected to find an exultant gathering in Gathorne-Hardy’s conference room. Instead, the faces of Commissioner Mayne and Inspector Tennant matched the home secretary’s habitual gloomy expression.
“Nine hundred French guns turned up in Waterford, Ireland, on Saturday,” Sir Richard said bitterly.
Dermott looked around the table. “But that’s good news.”
“Aside from the missing hundred rifles,” Tennant said.
“Who found them?” Lionel asked.
“The local Irish coastguard,” the home secretary said. “They caught a band of Irish Americans offloading the crates near Waterford.”
“Well, the French will be delighted to have the lion’s share of their weapons back,” Dermott said. “And so should we. The threat is reduced by ninety percent. Why the long faces?”
Sir Richard slammed his fist. “Because it’s a complete cock-up on our side.”
Tennant said, “Evidence seized tells us that the guns landed in Southampton, but slipped through the port inspection undetected. And those missing hundred rifles may have remained behind in Britain.”
On Wednesday morning, Julia returned to Marlborough House to attend the Princess of Wales. She’d finished her examination and found Susan Styles pacing outside Alix’s sitting room door.
Julia said, “You can rest easy. The princess is calmer this morning, and she managed to sleep the last two nights.”
Susan shook her head. “It’s something else. Can you come to my sitting room? Something confounding has happened, and I was about to write a note to Inspector Tennant.”
Julia followed her into a bright, ivory-painted room with well-stocked bookcases and a writing desk. An unfolded map lay across it. They sat in the claret wing chairs by the fireplace.
“It’s about Hackett, the prince’s valet. The butler and Elsie came to see me this morning. She’s the long-serving head laundress at Marlborough House, and she strikes me as a shrewd and sensible person. What Elsie told me … well, it’s been going on for months.”
Susan explained that items in the prince’s wardrobe were disappearing. At first, Elsie attributed their absence to Bertie’s changing tastes. But the laundress checked his wardrobe and found that recently acquired items were missing, too.
“Twice since the family returned from the Isle of Wight, Elsie noticed something odd,” Susan said. “She saw Hackett leave with a bulging carpetbag on his half day off. Yesterday, it happened a third time. But Witcombe, the butler, was waiting and followed Hackett’s taxicab.”
Julia raised her eyebrows. “Playing detective, was he?”
“And enjoying himself thoroughly. He loathes Hackett.”
“Is he loathsome?”
Susan considered. “Oily.”
“Still, I’m not sure Inspector Tennant is the one to consult about household theft. Maybe the local police?”
Susan stood. “Come, look at this map.” Julia followed her to the desk. Susan drew her finger down from St. Paul’s Cathedral, pointing to a spot near the river. “There,” she said. “That’s where Hackett got out of his cab and continued on foot to a warehouse.”
Julia’s eyes widened. “Trig Wharf. But that’s—”
Susan nodded. “Just off Trig Lane, where they found Brigid Dowling’s body. They named the street in the newspapers.”
“That certainly changes things. Write your note to the inspector, and I’ll carry it to Scotland Yard on my way to the clinic.”
Late in the afternoon, Tennant returned to the Yard and found Susan’s note. “Paddy,” he called to his sergeant. O’Malley appeared in the doorway. “Fetch four constables and a police wagon. We’re heading back to the river.”
On Upper Thames Street, a hackney cab and a police wagon rolled to a stop at the top of Trig Wharf.
On foot, Tennant and his officers started down the darkening canyon of brick warehouses.
Mist rose from the cooling river, and the slapping water against creaking pilings sounded eerie in the fog.
The inspector counted down three warehouses on the left.
The butler had spotted Hackett unlocking its door.
Tennant saw lights and movement by the building and signaled his officers to stop.
A man in a dark cap and peacoat fumbled at the lock. As the door swung open, Tennant sent two constables forward, and they grabbed him under the arms.
A second man had been waiting by a wagon. He scrambled away, dashing around the corner to Trig Lane. Tennant dispatched the second pair of constables after the man. Five minutes later, they frog-marched him back to the inspector.
“Heading for a dinghy tied up at the bottom of the steps,” the taller copper said. “Couldn’t see it in the fog, but a steamboat fired its engine and chugged off.”