Chapter 13 #3
The sergeant accompanying Lady Middlebury’s body to Ireland interviewed the great-nephew, Sir Hugo Browne of Lansdowne House in County Cork.
Tennant instantly recognized the name from the first report from Ireland about Brigid Dowling.
He read on. Sir Hugo’s connection to two murders astounded him.
Brigid Dowling had been a lady’s maid and companion to his grandmother, continuing to work for the family after her death.
The elder Lady Browne and Lady Middlebury were sisters.
It all made sense. Princess Alice’s letter said that Lady Middlebury took charge of Lizzie and “a sister had been settled as well.” Lady Middlebury had turned to her sister to employ Brigid Dowling.
Tennant considered sending O’Malley to Ireland but decided he couldn’t spare him.
Instead, he drafted a cable to the divisional inspector in Dublin, asking him to dispatch an able man to Lansdowne House to interview the other servants and the family.
A local copper had been there in December, but the Dublin man would do a more thorough job of it.
Chief Constable Phillips on the Isle of Wight had sent the second report.
He’d worked with the Southampton police to compare shipping records at the port to the inventories at Osborne House.
What they uncovered was a lucrative plot to defraud the queen.
Michael Bolger had diverted scores of cases of expensive cognac and claret as well as vintage port, sherry, and Madeira.
Bolger had reshipped them to the warehouse on Trig Pier in London, telling the Southampton officials they were destined for distribution at Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle.
The London receiving agent listed in the records was the valet, Stanley Hackett, now a guest of Her Majesty’s in Newgate Prison.
Phillips concluded the report by noting that the port officials never thought to question Michael Bolger’s instructions. He’d served for a decade as the queen’s trusted house steward.
Tennant set aside the reports and considered the murderer and the message he’d left with the shoe seller.
Was he throwing down a marker for some purpose or simply hurling a silly taunt?
The man’s action was confounding, like an actor who steps out of the scene and speaks to the audience.
Boots belonging to an Irish friend—was the original owner McGrath?
Was McGrath in England at the murderer’s behest? If so, why? The tall man was a ruthless, proficient killer. Why would he need the specialized skills of a sniper?
Tennant tipped his chair and contemplated the cracks in the plaster ceiling.
He knew them well, but they were hard to follow in the evening’s flickering lamplight.
He thought about the first inspector he’d worked with at the Yard.
He would have said that a criminal sending messages to the police wanted to be caught.
Tennant wasn’t sure, but he had worked on such a case in his first collaboration with Julia.
Julia … he wished she were there to talk the day through, to pick holes in his theories, to help him weave the strands into a pattern. He closed his eyes, thinking about her. Then he roused himself and turned down the lamp’s burner, wishing he were going home to her.
In the morning, Sergeant O’Malley entered Tennant’s office, waving a paper.
“Our human ferret has come up with the goods. Constable Williams found the name and address of the Trig Wharf warehouse owners. Big fellas who own half the dockside between Blackfriars and Southwark bridges.”
“Good man. Did Williams follow up with the owners?”
“That he did,” O’Malley said, handing over the sheet. “Look at the name of the warehouse renter. The last line.”
Tennant read and looked up. “Osborne Bros. Imports.”
“The cheek of it. After lifting the goods from the queen’s own house, he’s using the name.”
“More games. It cheers me, Paddy. The man thinks he’s as slippery as a greasy pole. Overconfidence breeds mistakes.”
“We’re needing a trip-up.”
“Constable Williams’s description from the company clerk is halfway there. Tall and thin, but he’s abandoned the ginger beard. Hmm … and something else. He describes the man’s eyes as pale. An almost colorless blue.”
“I’ll be adding it to the description.” O’Malley smoothed his bushy mustache and stroked his chin.
“What is it, Paddy?” Tennant said.
“This tall, pale-eyed killer … The boot seller is saying he’s English, not Irish.”
“Gunrunning for money rather than the cause?”
“I’m thinking how many of our suspects are Irish,” O’Malley said. “There’s Michael Bolger, the house steward, although he seems to have been born in England. Even the toffs serving the crown are Anglo-Irish.”
“There’s Major FitzGerald, most obviously,” Tennant said.
“And Sir Lionel Dermott. Not to mention Captain Oliver Montgomery. Montgomery’s an Ulster name that you’ll find all over County Down.”
“It leaves Captain Frederick Locock as the odd Englishman out.”
“They all took the queen’s shilling,” O’Malley said, “but I’d not be giving tuppence for any of them, save Sir Lionel. He’s value for the money.”
Tennant held up Constable Williams’s report. “Our ferret has given us a company name and a description of the agent. It’s time to find out where all that Osborne alcohol wound up.”
Tennant spent the rest of the day making the rounds of London’s exclusive hotels and Pall Mall’s gentlemen’s clubs.
The hotel managers and the club secretaries gave strikingly similar descriptions of the agent representing Osborne Brothers.
The man gave his name as “Albert Schmidt.” Another joke?
Tennant thought. A German last name and the first name of the queen’s German-born husband?
The witnesses described him as a well-dressed Englishman, tall and thin, with pale blue eyes and fair hair, wearing a dark tweed coat and bowler hat.
As Tennant walked west along Pall Mall and the gaslights winked on in the late afternoon, he found himself eyeing every tall man he passed on the street.
If the inspector had lingered in the area another twelve hours, stayed until just before daybreak, and walked the short distance to the road between Buckingham Palace’s gardens and Green Park, he might have spotted the man he sought.
The driver glanced down at his fidgety passenger and said, “I told you, mate. London never sleeps—even long after midnight. Not tucked up in bed like most of County Kildare. We’ve plenty of company.”
McGrath had told the driver he was mad to venture out at that hour, conspicuous, driving the streets before dawn.
But the man with the reins knew they would be invisible.
Piccadilly teemed at night, lit by lamplight and alive with traffic moving by wheel and on foot, even at five in the morning.
He steered the wagon between the street sellers rumbling their barrows at the curbside and carters clopping down the road.
Women staggered at crossings, setting down baskets of oranges, stopping at the coffee stalls on the corners, drawn by glowing braziers and the scent of the brew.
“Mother of God,” McGrath muttered. “You’d be thinking it was the middle of the day.”
The driver turned off Piccadilly just before they reached Hyde Park Corner. The coal wagon they’d “borrowed” rattled onto Constitution Hill, the road between Green Park and Buckingham Palace’s grounds. The night was moonless. Dark, leafless trees rose in silhouette on either side.
“Jesus,” McGrath muttered after they rolled under a gaslight, passing a bobbie on his beat. He twisted around, checking that the long, narrow object wrapped in oilcloth was still hidden under its thin black layer. “What if he stopped us?”
The driver laughed. “Never. London runs on coal, so we’re a familiar sight. No worries, mate.” He’d given the copper a two-fingered salute as they passed him.
McGrath cocked his thumb at Buckingham Palace. “Thought I’d be seeing more soldiers.”
“Nah,” the driver said. “The palace walls are high, and the queen’s soldiers stick to the gates. When the guard changes, they march around in their silly fur hats. Stop fretting, boy-o.”
They passed under another gaslight, nearing the halfway point down the hill.
“We’re sure she’ll be here tomorrow?”
“Oh yes. Information received from high places.”
“I’ll be needing a clear day at that distance.”
“Barometer’s rising. Now, forget tomorrow and get yourself ready.”
McGrath reached around, pulled a sooty bundle from the back of the cart, and waited for the slowing wagon to stop.
The Irishman jumped and ran toward the tree line.
Then the driver gave his horse a touch of the whip and rumbled on.
Five minutes later, McGrath caught up with him at the bottom of the hill.
“Find a good spot?” he asked when a sweating McGrath hauled himself into the cart. “You’ll be able to find it easy tomorrow?”
“Now who’s fretting, boy-o?” the Irishman said.
The driver snapped the reins, and the horse clopped on. They skirted the palace forecourt, avoiding the gates and the soldiers of the Queen’s Guards. As they drove through a pool of lamplight, the driver fixed his pale blue eyes on McGrath and winked. “Piece of cake, mate.”
They disappeared into the darkness.