Chapter 14 #2
They climbed the steps of a castle-like building, entering through the center bay of its triple-arched portico.
A row of crystal chandeliers was an inadequate light source for the vast waiting room.
Its luxuriousness was at odds with the ragged, coughing sick who waited on the wooden benches that lined the space.
A pair of harried nurses moved from one sick patient to the next. The more senior of them snapped, “Admittance window,” in answer to Tennant’s request for information. He showed his warrant card to the porter on duty, who released an unseen catch, and the adjacent door popped open.
“This way, guv.” The porter led them down a short hallway and opened the door to a waiting room.
Susan and Princess Louise looked like they’d exited a battlefield or a butcher’s shop.
Blood stained the skirts of their gowns.
Two pairs of gory gloves sat crumpled and discarded on a table, curling and hardening in the cold room.
Someone had given them blankets. Susan stood; it slipped from her shoulders, uncovering her bloodied sleeves.
“My dear.” When Dermott took her hands, Tennant noticed rusty stains around her fingernails. Lionel seated her again, replacing the blanket around her shoulders, and bowed to the princess.
“The surgeon is with Harriet,” Princess Louise said.
“A parkkeeper and a constable carried her to a hackney,” Susan said. “The princess knew what to do, and we did our best.”
“Padding and pressure on the wound,” Louise said. “I’ve seen the doctors attend to my brother, Leopold, who bleeds easily. The parkkeeper had a knife, so we cut strips from our underskirts and took turns.”
“Mrs. FitzGerald owes her chances to your quick thinking, Princess,” Tennant said. “Now, tell me what happened at the park. First, did you see the shooter?”
“No,” Susan said. “The shot came from a distance as the four of us reached the intersecting paths at the park’s center.”
“Four of you?”
“Mrs. Locock was with us. And her baby,” Susan said. “We sent her home.”
Tennant said, “Will you describe how you arranged yourselves as you walked?”
“I’ll show you if you have a paper and pencil,” Princess Louise said.
“Sergeant?”
O’Malley handed the princess his notepad and pencil. With confident strokes, she sketched four women walking in pairs, one pushing a baby carriage. Louise had labeled the figures, but he recognized Lady Styles and the princess even in her rough drawing.
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness. Could either of you tell from what direction the shot came?”
“I’m not sure.” Susan looked at the princess, who shook her head. “Except …”
“What is it, Lady Styles?” Tennant said. “Even an impression may be helpful.”
“I’d just commented on some birds singing in a grove. They were to the left of the paths’ intersection on the Buckingham Palace side of the park. The shot sent them flying in all directions.”
“Was that your impression as well, Princess?”
“I’d just bent over the baby carriage at that instant, so I’m unsure.”
Tennant glanced at the sketch. He looked up and saw Lady Styles’s startled expression. She’s just realized Louise may have been the target, not Harriet.
“Sergeant O’Malley, give the divisional inspector my compliments and ask him to assign some constables to search that grove immediately.”
A nurse entered as O’Malley exited. “Sir Godfrey is leaving the operating theater for his office.”
“And Harriet?” Dermott asked.
“Stable. Are you the lady’s husband?”
“No,” Sir Lionel said. “He’s at Windsor. The Home Office informed him by telegram.”
“I see,” the nurse said. “If you gentlemen will follow me?”
Tennant and Dermott found the blood-spattered surgeon in his office. Sir Godfrey Fellows turned his back to the nurse, and she slid a gore-encrusted frock coat off his shoulders and hung it on a peg behind his door. Then she helped him shrug into a pristine one.
He adjusted his cuffs and said, “The bullet went through her chest well above the heart and toward the shoulder, exiting her back. It nicked no major arteries but did its damage all the same.”
“You’re saying it struck her in the front and not at the side?”
“That is correct, Inspector.”
Dermott asked the surgeon, “What are Mrs. FitzGerald’s chances for recovery?”
“I’m not going to quote odds. Surgery is not a game of chance. Her husband is the queen’s equerry, I understand.”
“That is correct,” Dermott said.
“She’s being moved into a private room instead of the general ward. My assistant in surgery, Doctor Rennie, will keep an eye on her. Infection is the danger now, but only time will tell.”
When Sir Godfrey opened the door for them, the surgeon’s filthy frock coat slipped from its hook. The inspector picked it up and rehung it.
Tennant remembered a conversation with Julia’s grandfather about an article in The Lancet.
The medical journal described patients who remained free of infection when the surgeon and his assistants washed their hands and instruments, wore clean surgical aprons, and treated wounds with a special solution.
The doctor you draw, Tennant thought. Surgery is a game of chance, after all.
Dermott stopped Tennant outside the office. “You think Princess Louise was the gunman’s target, don’t you?”
“It’s probable. And I believe Lady Styles thinks so, too.”
Lionel said, “I’ll speak to the home secretary. All the royal residences in London must have their guards increased.”
“Will you escort the ladies to Marlborough House?” Tennant asked. “And explain the danger to the princess? We need to ascertain the whereabouts of the Prince of Wales.”
“I’ll see to it.”
“One more thing. Can you get a written order from the home secretary to admit Doctor Julia Lewis to Mrs. Fitz-Gerald’s recovery room?”
“I’m not sure Gathorne-Hardy will think it’s …”
“Press him. Mrs. FitzGerald is the wife of the queen’s equerry.”
“Very well. If you think it’s necessary.”
“I do. I’ll send Doctor Lewis a note explaining my reasons.”
At Green Park, O’Malley handed Tennant a rifle. Stamped into the side of the gun’s metal receiver were the markings C 1867 and SAINT-éTIENNE.
“One of our missing French weapons,” Tennant said.
“Coppers found it among the trees.” The sergeant pointed to a stand of black poplars. “Lady Styles was right about the direction of the shot.”
“Did they find anything else?”
“Some scuff marks. And this.” O’Malley signaled to a constable, who handed him an oilcloth bag covered in coal dust. He measured it to the rifle. “’Tis a perfect fit.”
“Show me where you found them.”
They walked through the trees. “Here,” O’Malley said.
“He had a clear view of the convergence of the paths.” A short walk brought them through the trees and within yards of the foot and carriage traffic on Constitution Hill.
“I’d be guessing he took off up the hill,” O’Malley said. “Then he’s got a choice. Right along Piccadilly or left on Knights-bridge to melt into the crowds.”
“We’ll ask the divisional inspector to—” Tennant looked around. “Where is he?”
“He’s thinking along the same lines, taking some coppers up the hill, looking for witnesses. And there’s a cabstand there, as well.”
“I’ll ask him to keep his officers on the streets until evening. People are creatures of habit. We might get lucky when they return home by the same route.”
They didn’t get lucky. No one saw a man with a long, dusty bag walking in the park or along Constitution Hill.
When Julia got Tennant’s note, she packed gauze and gloves into her medical bag and waited for Nurse Clemmie to return. Her head nurse entered the office with two bottles of carbolic solution and added them to the bag.
“I’ve sent a message to Doctor Franklin at the London Hospital,” Julia said. “If something too complicated to treat arises, send the patient there.”
“A rifle wound to the chest. That sounds grim.” Clemmie shook her head.
Julia’s nurse was right, and she hoped to find the patient alive when her carriage reached Westminster Hospital. The porter ushered her into Mrs. FitzGerald’s room and then vanished. A young doctor with flaming, wiry hair looked up briefly from what he was doing.
“Who the blazes let ye in?” he said in a thick Scots accent. “We’re having no visitors. Nurse Howland, show her the door.” He continued to spray a mist from a metal contraption the size of a teakettle. A bottle of carbolic solution stood on the table by the bed.
“I’m Doctor Julia Lewis.” She walked forward, waving the home secretary’s note. “And I’ve brought replenishments.” She opened the bag containing carbolic solution for him to see.
“Woman, yer a godsend. Nurse Howland, bundle the carbolic away from prying eyes.” He put the sprayer aside. “I’m Doctor Rennie. Why is the Home Office sending a lady doctor to us, bearing gifts?”
After Julia explained the circumstances, Rennie said, “A copper who reads The Lancet?”
Julia smiled. “Not exactly. Inspector Tennant heard about Doctor Lister’s experiments from my grandfather, Doctor Andrew Lewis.”
“That’s more than I can say for the likes of Sir Godfrey Fellows. And I left all six of Lister’s articles on the man’s desk.”
Julia moved to the bed. “How is Mrs. FitzGerald?”
“Early days. Early hours, but I’m hopeful. We’re doing our best, Nurse Howland and I.” Rennie gave the girl a friendly wink. “We’re fellow conspirators, soaking the instruments in the surgical theater before the great man arrives and spraying the place down.”
“We’ve changed the bandages once,” the nurse said.
“And we’re following Lister’s wound treatment methods to the letter.” Dr. Rennie felt Harriet’s forehead and nodded. “If the lass lives, she can thank Nurse Howland’s care and her friends’ quick thinking for saving her life. They ripped their petticoats and held them fast to the wound.”
“One of them was Princess Louise,” Nurse Howland said.
“Now that’s strange,” Rennie said, cupping his palms as the nurse poured carbolic solution onto his hands.
“What is?” Julia asked.