Chapter 15
Susan’s efforts to cheer Princess Louise on the ninety-minute train ride from London to Windsor Station failed.
Lady Styles couldn’t blame her. Exchanging Marlborough House’s gilded halls for the queen’s gloomy court was a poor bargain.
Yet, sympathy was an effort, given Susan’s happiness.
She had been discreet with Lionel at the station, thinking, Joy can be vexing when others are miserable.
So, she listened patiently to Louise’s string of complaints, ending with two familiar ones.
“The queen’s demands will be endless. Helena is busy with her baby, so my sister is relieved of her duties as Mama’s secretary. Now, I will become the queen’s indentured servant.”
Susan murmured soothing sympathy as Louise moved to her second grievance.
“If only Mama would allow a studio at Windsor. She may sketch and paint wherever it pleases her, but one cannot sculpt in the corner of a sitting room!”
On the short ride from Windsor Station to the castle, Susan finally thought of something to distract the princess from her miseries. “Prince Leopold will be pleased you’re back.”
Louise brightened at once. “Dearest Leo. How he misses me.” Then her smile faded. “He sounds miserable in his letters. Oh, that odious brute, Archie Brown. Why Mama ever made that man Leo’s personal servant …”
They knew why. He was John Brown’s brother, and the queen would not hear a word against either of her Highland servants.
“You will cheer the prince. You always do.”
“Leopold must be my object. His terrible bleeding … I wish I understood it better. I must ask Doctor Lewis the next time I see her.”
For all of Louise’s self-absorbed misery, she threw herself into schemes of happiness for those she loved. The princess spent the rest of the ride listing them: sketching with Prince Leopold, challenging him to backgammon, riding around Windsor Great Park, and playing duets at the piano.
“Leopold always feels better when I’m near.”
Susan knew it was true. He loved her best among his siblings. Princess Louise often read aloud his letters addressed to “My dearest Loo.”
The carriage reached the top of Castle Hill, rolled through the twin-towered gateway, and stopped. They parted at the doorway, Louise to her apartment near the queen’s chambers. Susan followed a footman to her guest room in Lancaster Tower.
“The queen will receive you in Her Majesty’s private study at five, my lady,” the footman said.
“Thank you. I know the way.” Susan glanced at the mantel clock. An hour.
At ten minutes to five, Lady Styles headed down the Grand Corridor.
Two hundred feet of crimson carpet separated her chamber from the apartments in the Queen’s Tower.
The busts of kings, generals, and statesmen stared down from their plinths, looking haughty and disapproving.
Susan knew the castle well enough to have exchanged her open-knit gloves for a kidskin pair and to wear her warmest shawl. Still, she shivered.
She was curious about Victoria’s summons to her private study. Susan’s fluttery insides felt as if she’d swooped down on a high swing. She touched the nape of her neck and smiled. A few centuries ago, I’d worry about my head.
The imposing, scowling John Brown waited at the curve of the corridor. Susan nodded. “Good evening.”
“Aye, that’s as may be.” He cocked his thumb. “She’s in her study. Don’t make her wait.”
Charming as ever, Susan thought.
Brown turned on his heels, led her down a short hallway, and opened the door. “Lady Styles to see ye.”
The queen sat at her desk. She closed the notebook she’d propped against a large inkstand’s base and set aside a silver-nibbed pen.
Victoria picked up an ivory fan, twisting awkwardly to face her visitor.
Brown strode forward. He lifted the ebony-and-gilt chair by its armrests and turned it forty-five degrees.
Although the room was frigid and Brown had done all the work, the queen’s beet-colored face glistened, and she fanned herself rapidly.
“Woosh, woman, yer an armful.”
The queen laughed coquettishly, a light musical sound at odds with her solid bulk. “Thank you, my good Brown. That will be all.”
“As ye say.” Brown closed the door behind him.
“Majesty.” Susan made a deep curtsy.
The queen regarded Susan from a round, unsmiling face, her light blue eyes slightly hooded. “The queen understands that Lady Styles accompanied the Princess of Wales to the offices of a doctor not on the list of royal physicians. A female person.”
Good lord, her spies are everywhere, Susan thought. “Your Majesty is correct. Her name is—”
“The queen knows her name,” Victoria said, snapping her fan shut.
Whatever happened next, Susan thought, her days as a courtier were numbered in any case. Thanks to Lionel.
Julia climbed the stairs from her ground-floor office and reached the landing as the knocker clanged. Mrs. Ogilvie opened the front door to Inspector Tennant.
“I’m not interrupting the doctors’ dinner?”
“The doctors are having drinks in the library.” Julia waved a copy of The Lancet medical journal. “If you stay to dinner, we’ll happily postpone our discussion of head wounds.” She felt a pinch of disappointment when he said he had a cab waiting.
“Sir Richard expects me. I have two questions, and he’ll press me for the answers.”
“Of course,” Julia opened the library door, and Dr. Lewis twisted around in his armchair. “Richard’s come for a consultation, Grandfather.” Julia perched on the armrest. “Fire away.”
“Will Mrs. FitzGerald recover? I asked the surgeon, not expecting an ironclad guarantee,” Tennant said. “But Sir Godfrey Fellows refused to hazard any sort of answer.”
As Julia considered, her grandfather said, “We’re a cautious lot. Doctors with knighthoods are the worst.”
“One can’t be certain, of course,” Julia said, “but I’m optimistic.”
“May I give Sir Richard a reason?”
“Infection is the greatest danger, and the doctor and nurse charged with her care took every precaution. When I arrived, I found Doctor Rennie spraying down the room with carbolic solution.”
“Thank you for a straightforward answer.”
“What’s your second question?”
“Can you confirm the location of Mrs. FitzGerald’s wound?”
“Yes, I watched the nurse dress it. The bullet struck the upper front of her left shoulder.”
“That’s what Sir Godfrey said, but I must be certain. It’s surprising, given the position of the shooter.”
“Do you know where the gunman stood?”
Tennant nodded and handed her Louise’s sketch. “He fired from a point forward of the walkers and to the right.”
Julia studied the drawing. “The shot looks impossible. Princess Louise is blocking it.”
“The princess bent over the baby carriage just as the sniper fired.”
“Then Mrs. FitzGerald may not have been the shooter’s target. I’d wondered.”
Dr. Lewis asked, “Have you any news about the gunman?”
“We believe his name is Patrick McGrath.”
“An Irishman,” Doctor Lewis said.
“And a Fenian.”
Julia sighed. “More flames to fan.”
“Something else will be in all the morning newspapers to add to the fire,” Tennant said. “Earlier in the week, a gunman in Australia shot Prince Alfred.”
“Good God,” Dr. Lewis said.
“Not fatally, but the shooter is an Irish nationalist.” Tennant pulled out his watch. “Now, I’ll let you get back to head wounds and The Lancet.”
Julia followed him to the front door. “I spoke to Susan Styles at the hospital. Thank goodness she and Princess Louise took quick action.”
“They kept cool heads in the crisis.”
“I’m not surprised. On Sunday, I had lunch with Susan at her new flat. I had hoped to return the invitation and ask her to Grandfather’s Wednesday dinner party. But she’s been called to Windsor Castle.” Julia shrugged. “Just as well, perhaps.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I had thought of asking Sir Lionel, as well. But the man is so charming that it’s easy to forget he’s a suspect. Mixing friendship with murder is probably a mistake.”
Tennant said with a trace of bitterness, “An error I made.”
“Richard, that was thoughtless of me. I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t. Still, it’s true.”
“No one could have imagined … in the end, you saw it all.”
“In the end.”
Julia touched his sleeve. “I had a similar experience, just out of medical school. Someone I liked and trusted.” She searched his face. “But we shouldn’t live with hardened hearts, closed off and suspicious.”
He looked away. “A hazard of my profession, I fear.”
Julia heard the sadness and saw the twist in his half smile.
He was a step away, so close that she could count his dark lashes and see the fine lines etched around his eyes.
A lock of dark hair had fallen across his forehead.
One sweep of her hand, one step forward, and she could close the gap between them.
Julia started at the sound of two loud knocks. She opened the front door, and a boy from the telegraph office handed her a message. She opened it and read the heading: HANDED IN AT WINDSOR.
Julia looked up. “It’s from Susan Styles.”
Patrick McGrath, posing as Marcus York, arrived at Windsor Castle a few hours after Princess Louise and Lady Styles.
He’d driven the carriage into the castle grounds about an hour before dusk.
Before he left London, he’d sent a telegraph to Windsor’s head groom, so he was expected.
He’d also mailed a letter to his London “host” that would arrive in the morning post. Last, he’d paid a sweeper lad a half crown to deliver a message to Scotland Yard.
“Tomorrow,” McGrath had said to the boy. “One o’clock sharp. Listen for the bells. And mind you, not a minute sooner or later.” He ruffled the sweeper’s unruly hair. “Deliver the message on time, and a steady stream of half crowns will come your way. I’ll know if you don’t.”