Chapter 12 #3
“What’s all this then?” O’Malley shone his bull’s-eye lantern into the wagon. The light illuminated four wooden crates marked MARTELL V.S.O.P COGNAC. The shipping labels read OSBORNE HOUSE.
Tennant said, “Let’s have a look inside the warehouse, Paddy.”
The sergeant found four bundles stashed inside two seaman’s bags. He tore the wrappings off one and pulled out two silk shirts and a paisley cravat. “Prince Bertie would like these back, I’m guessing.”
They found eight additional crates of expensive cognac hidden under a tarp.
All had shipping labels for Osborne House.
Then O’Malley raked the beam of his bull’s-eye lantern across the back of the warehouse, illuminating a bulky pile hidden by an oilcloth.
He pulled away the covering, unearthing a stack of wooden boxes with markings Tennant recognized from the Waterford Police report.
“Well, well, Paddy. Our missing French rifles.”
Sir Lionel entered the smoking room of the Army and Navy Club.
He spotted Frederick Locock sunk in a leather armchair.
Dermott was about to clap him on the shoulder when he stopped.
Locock looked like a sailboat that had been through rough seas, mainsail sagging, and lines in a tangle.
An untouched glass of port sat at his elbow, and an open newspaper tented his knee.
Lionel took the chair next to him. “Freddie, old man,” he said. “Haven’t seen you since Alix’s ball. Were you in London for Christmas?”
Locock roused himself and sat up. “We spent it on the Isle of Wight with my father.”
“And your lady-wife and the little chap, how are they? Thriving?”
“Yes, although Mary is apt to fuss.”
“Ah, women. And you, Freddie. How are you?”
“I’m well.” Locock looked away, making a business of folding the paper and setting it aside.
Dermott waited. “Forgive me, old friend, but you don’t look well. Still, if you’d rather not talk about it, there’s always boxing or the weather.”
Locock ran his hand through his hair. “It’s this investigation. Father tells me that constables on the Isle of Wight are asking questions. And Tennant came to see me the other day, demanding an account of my movements.”
“Did your answers satisfy him?”
“I lied and said I was out walking.”
“Thin. May one ask why you didn’t tell Tennant the truth?”
“I can’t … honor forbids me to speak.”
So soon? Dermott thought. Locock had only been married six months. “As a gentleman, you can’t supply a name. I understand that. But Tennant strikes me as a man of the world. You could be, ah, explicit about your activities without mentioning the lady’s name.”
Locock shook his head. “That’s just what I cannot do.”
Dermott sat back, eyeing Locock under half-closed lids. “I shouldn’t worry too much. You’re one name on a long list that includes mine. And I’m somewhere nearer the top, I fancy.”
Locock picked up his glass. “I want to be crossed off it, Lionel.”
“Drink up, and I’ll get the next round.” Dermott signaled the waiter.
Oliver Montgomery strolled in, intercepting one of two glasses of port on their way to Dermott.
“I just left Marlborough House,” Montgomery said, “and you won’t believe it.”
“Let me guess. Bertie is having a quiet evening by the fireside with Alix?”
“Don’t be an ass, Lionel. No, the police arrested Stanley Hackett, the prince’s valet. The chap’s been pilfering Bertie’s …” Montgomery futtered his left hand at his chest. “His shirts, cravats, and whatnots.”
“I always thought Hackett was a slippery sod,” Locock said.
“Uriah Heep in a well-tailored suit.” A waiter offered Dermott a note on a silver tray. He read the home secretary’s message: Ninety French rifles found in a London warehouse. Ten still missing. Come at once. G-H.
Thirty minutes later, Lionel said to the home secretary, “No Colonel Fielding?” He swiveled his head and pretended to peer under the table. “Where is our resident Irish expert?”
Gathorne-Hardy waved impatiently. “I’ll inform the colonel tomorrow. Tell Lionel what you found, Inspector Tennant.”
“Nine crates of guns at Trig Wharf.”
“Trig Wharf?” Dermott said, startled. “Surely, that’s where—”
“Brigid Dowling was murdered. And there’s more. The crates had their original shipping labels for Southampton still attached.”
Lionel shrugged. “We knew that they came through the port.”
“We didn’t know they were sent to Her Majesty as the recipient,” Tennant said.
Lionel whistled softly. “Who takes charge of shipments to Osborne House?”
“According to the queen’s private secretary, the house steward, Michael Bolger,” Tennant said.
“Dear, dear.” Lionel tut-tutted. “We have a conspiracy on our hands after all. Of royal household rogues pilfering stolen linen and the queen’s brandy. Toss in French rifles and murdered Irish serving girls. Colonel Fielding won’t be pleased.”
On the way to the Yard, Tennant sent a cable to the Isle of Wight, asking the chief constable to arrest Michael Bolger. Two hours later, he got a response. Bolger dead in Southampton harbor. Sending police report and autopsy results by special messenger.
“Damnation,” Tennant said, handing the telegram to O’Malley.
The reports from Southampton’s chief constable arrived in the morning.
Two days earlier, the harbor police had fished a body from the waters near Moonraker’s Tavern.
Osborne House’s head groom identified the dead man as Michael Bolger.
The mortal injury was a single penetrating stab to the base of Bolger’s throat.
“’Tis as plain as a signature,” O’Malley said.
“Still, let’s have Dr. Lewis take a look.” Tennant handed him the autopsy. “Send it with a constable. And let’s get someone onto the Trig Wharf warehouse records. What’s his name?” Tennant snapped his fingers. “The human ferret.”
“Constable Williams.”
“Have him search the City of London property records for a name. Someone owns or leases that warehouse.”
“Will you be wanting him to follow up if he finds a name?”
“Yes. Our murderer leaves no loose ends or tongues,” Tennant said. “Maybe there’s still one left that’s eager to wag.”
The two men arrested at Trig Wharf had been willing to talk but knew little.
They were down-and-out Southampton dock men hired by Michael Bolger to ferry shipments to the London warehouse.
They gave up the name of the boatman and the vessel that moved the goods between the coast and the capital.
The Southampton police were looking for him.
That left the prince’s valet.
Tennant took a cab to Newgate Prison. A guard brought a shuffling, shackled Stanley Hackett into the prison’s exercise yard.
High stone walls barely thirty paces apart and topped with iron spikes enclosed the oppressive space.
It’s not going to take much, Tennant thought.
Two days in a cell had rubbed the shine off the sleek valet.
He wore a rough, gray shirt over loose, baggy trousers and boots that looked two sizes too large for his feet.
Tennant’s gaze wandered up the walls as if he were estimating their height. Then he looked at Hackett. “For the next ten years, you’ll enjoy this courtyard as an hour’s escape from your crowded, lice-ridden cell.”
The man shook. He wiped tears using the rough canvas of his sleeve.
“Unless …” Tennant shrugged.
“Unless what?” Hackett said, his voice ragged. “Tell me, please.”
“Cooperation can shave a few years and win you better living arrangements.”
“Anything,” the valet said, gulping convulsively. “Anything you want to know.”
Tennant called over to the guard. “Bring out a chair for Mister Hackett.” The inspector pulled some coins from his pocket and handed the guard five shillings. “That will buy you clean bedding and keep you out of Newgate’s moldy basement cells for the present.”
Tennant calculated. Would telling Hackett that Bolger was dead loosen his tongue or lubricate the lying? He decided to say nothing.
“Tell me about Michael Bolger. What were you and the house steward discussing when I saw you at Osborne House in December?”
“Bolger sought me out. He wanted to know what you asked me about the girl, Lizzie Dowling.”
“What was his interest in her?”
“I’ve no idea. Still don’t. It was the first time her name came up.”
“And the stealing?” Tennant said. “How was that arranged?”
Hackett said the scheme was Michael Bolger’s brainchild. He’d recruited the valet for a plan of profitable pilfering.
“We started small, just Bolger and me. A few shirts here, a case of brandy there. I’d double-order the prince’s linen. We’ve been doing it for years. Then some army chap from Bolger’s Crimea days showed up and persuaded him that if you can steal small, you can loot big. If you’re smart about it.”
“What was his name?
“I don’t know. Bolger said I didn’t want to know.”
“Why?”
“Said the fellow was a nasty piece of work. But I saw him once, waiting on the docks in Southampton. That’s where the wine shipments came in.”
“Describe him.”
“Tall and thin. Well-dressed in a topcoat and bowler. I didn’t see him close-up.”
“You’d better not be lying to me,” Tennant said. “Where did the stolen wine end up?”
“Gentlemen’s clubs on Pall Mall and a few hotel restaurants in London,” Bolger said.
“Which ones?”
“Honest, I don’t know. If it would get me out of here one day quicker, I’d name them all.”
“And what about the rifles?”
Hackett’s eyes widened. “Rifles?” Despite the cold, sweat beaded on his brow. “What are you talking about?”
“We found nearly a hundred stolen rifles in the back of the warehouse.”
“I swear to you, I had nothing to do with any guns.”
Either Hackett was a consummate actor, or the man knew nothing about the weapons. The inspector told the guard to take the man away.