Chapter 16 #3
“Don’t want some jittery private shooting you, York,” the head groom had said, tying the knot.
He’d been assigned with four other stablemen to make the rounds of the castle’s perimeter.
McGrath felt strangely calm, but tension thrummed in shouted orders, rifles at the ready, and in the soldiers’ eyes, scanning the distance.
Six Coldstream Guardsmen stood at each gateway into the inner courtyards.
From time to time, a tall, burly Scotsman in a kilt and tweed cap appeared at a gate and stood with his arms folded over his barrel chest, watching.
Five Guards detachments patrolled Windsor Great Park and guarded Castle Hill, the road leading from the town to the castle’s gates.
At one o’clock, replacements relieved McGrath and his companions for a meal and an hour’s rest. The other stablemen wandered back to the mews while he stayed behind, talking to the sergeant in charge at the William IV Gate.
McGrath looked up at Windsor Castle’s towers. “Which one is the Queen’s Tower?”
The sergeant grinned. “All of them, I’d say.”
“I mean the one with her rooms.”
“That one,” he said, pointing. “On the corner.”
“Right. I’ll get on with my meal. Be back at two.”
On his way down Castle Hill, a woman in a carriage passed him at speed.
Thirty minutes later, the officer in charge listened to Marcus York and liked what he heard.
“You’re a crack shot, the sergeant major here tells me. One of the best he’s seen.”
“And I’m a handy fellow with this, as well,” McGrath pulled a pistol from under his jacket. “Bought it from a Liverpool gunsmith.”
“You won’t need it. No one will get close enough for you to use it.”
“Right, then. I’ll put it away.” McGrath holstered the gun in his belt.
“I’ll pair you with our best man. The two of you atop the Queen’s Tower will give us a vantage over the entire grounds. Sergeant Major?”
“Sir.”
“Find Private Sylvester. Then, locate the Scotsman, Brown. Have him show York and Sylvester the way to the Queen’s Tower roof.”
They found Brown at the twin-tower entrance with his trunk-like legs planted wide, glowering as he listened to the sergeant major explain his orders.
Brown pointed to Private Sylvester. “Yon uniform tells me who he be. But that man … I’ve never set eyes on him afore now.”
“This is …” The sergeant major turned to McGrath. “What’s your name again?”
“Marcus York, groom to Major FitzGerald, and sent from London to help protect the queen. He’s still at his wife’s bedside, poor lady.”
“Aye, I know Major FitzGerald. Follow me.” Brown turned and headed through the gate.
“Rifles on the roof … ’tis a good plan.” And the three of them, Brown, Padraig McGrath, and Private Sylvester, headed up a stone staircase.
The Scotsman led them down the ornate hallway past the private apartments in the Queen’s Tower.
At the turn, they heard laughter from behind a door.
“Eating the woman out of house and home.” Brown jerked his head to the right. “The queen’s rooms are over there. We’ll not be letting anyone close.”
McGrath patted the butt of his rifle. “You can count on this.”
Tennant left a constable guarding the Pale Assassin’s corpse and drove to the Pall Mall telegraph office with Sergeant O’Malley.
The inspector sent this message to the Windsor police: YARD ORDERED ARREST OF MAJOR PETER FITZGERALD.
SUSPECTED SNIPER WITH RIFLE AT WINDSOR. Then he directed the cabbie to Marlborough House and informed the captain in charge of the guard.
Sir Lionel drove on to the Home Office to inform the home secretary.
“We’ll brief the commissioner, Paddy. Explain the steps we’ve taken. Then I’m catching the next train to Windsor.”
But Sir Richard had other plans for Tennant. “I want you on the train for Dover. The boat to Calais doesn’t leave until six. Plenty of time to bag our bird.”
“With respect, sir—”
“Windsor Castle and its grounds are crawling with soldiers. You’re not needed there. Go to Dover and be sure the local coppers don’t cock up the arrest. I want FitzGerald in Newgate Prison tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
O’Malley was waiting outside. “What are our orders?”
“It’s Dover for us, damn it.”
“This arrived thirty minutes ago.” The sergeant handed the inspector Julia’s telegram: LEARNED MAJOR FITZGERALD IS RELATED TO LADY MIDDLEBURY.
“Well, now we know why Lady Middlebury had to die,” Tennant said.
“And a sweeper lad dropped this with the duty sergeant at one o’clock. ’Tis the note from McGrath, sending us to FitzGerald’s house.”
“All right, Paddy. Let’s bring the bastard back.”
Julia arrived outside the queen’s dining room just as John Brown rounded the bend.
“The queen was asking for ye. What were ye thinking, woman, running out on her?”
“I’ll apologize to Her Majesty, of course.”
“It’s bedlam hereabouts. Soldiers, marching, a gunman sent by Major FitzGerald stationed on the roof …”
Julia swung around. “Sent by Major FitzGerald?”
“Aye. Are ye deaf, woman?” Brown barked, just as two footmen opened the dining room’s double doors. Luncheon was over. The queen rose, and everyone at the table stood.
Julia grabbed Brown’s arm. “Major FitzGerald will be arrested today. You must get Her Majesty away. Quickly.”
Brown shook off her hand and headed for his queen. Julia followed him inside. She called out, “May I have your attention? For your safety, please follow Mister Brown’s instructions.”
But they weren’t looking at her. The two footmen at the door brushed by her. Julia turned. A man stood in the doorway with a pistol in his hand. He pointed the gun at Julia and jerked the barrel.
“You. To the side.”
Julia backed away. Everyone else in the room froze in position.
Brown stood by the queen, and Louise had her hand on Prince Leopold’s shoulder.
The rest of the royal family and the courtiers stared in shock.
Only the queen looked composed. She waited with her hands folded, staring at the gunman, her lips compressed and her chin up.
“You know why I’m here,” the gunman said to her. “Atonement. Centuries of British boots at the neck and the crack of the whip. Millions starved or driven from our land.”
When a young courtier shifted his position, inching closer to the door, the intruder shouted, “Move again, and you’re a dead man.”
The gunman’s gaze circled the table. Princess Helena had her arms wrapped around a shaking Beatrice, the youngest of the queen’s children. She’d buried her head in her sister’s shoulder, whimpering.
The gunman said to the queen, “You won’t be hard to miss, but like many a starving mother in Ireland, you’ll see your children die first.”
Prince Leopold lost his grip on his cane and fell back into his chair. The gunman swung the barrel away from Victoria and pointed it at the prince.
“I’ll start with this scrawny fellow.” He fired a split second after Princess Louise lunged in front of her brother. She crumpled, falling at his feet.
Brown sprang, bellowing. He jerked the gunman’s arm, and the next shot hit the chandelier, sending a cascade of shattered crystals pinging around the room.
The Scotsman and the intruder struggled for the weapon.
One of the young courtiers rushed forward, but the gunman kicked him away.
But it was just the distraction Brown needed.
He reached down and pulled his skene-dhu from the scabbard in his sock.
The gunman gasped as the Scotsman thrust once, then again, and twisted.
The intruder fell with a sliver-handled knife protruding from under his ribs.
Julia scrambled to Louise’s side. Firmly but gently, she moved the sobbing Leopold away from his sister. “Please help us, sir,” she said to the boy. “The footmen will carry the princess to her bedroom. I will follow and treat her wound.”
The young prince nodded, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. Julia instructed two footmen to lift the princess into a dining chair and carry her to her room. Then she asked Susan to fetch her medical bag from the guest room.
The queen looked from her daughter to the doctor.
Voice shaking, she said, “Save my darling Loosy.” She turned to her private secretary.
“General Grey, see that Doctor Lewis has everything she needs.” Reluctantly, the queen allowed Brown to lead her away as the footmen carried her daughter away in a chair.
General Grey asked, “What can I do, Doctor?”
“Send two more footmen and a housemaid to Prince Louise’s room.”
The shots had finally brought soldiers pounding down the Grand Corridor. “We did yer job for ye,” Brown said, jerking his head. “He’s on the floor. Look on the roof, and you’ll find one of yours. Dead, I’m guessing.”
Two additional footmen and a housemaid followed Julia into Princess Louise’s room. The doctor ordered the male servants to shift the table in the center of the room and move the single bed away from the wall to the window.
“I need as much light as possible, so push back the drapes and curtains. Shift that mirror stand to the table. Now, one of you fetch a stack of freshly laundered table napkins.”
When the bed was in place, Julia pulled off the bedcoverings, and the footmen moved the princess. A red stain had soaked through the right side of her gown.
Julia told a housemaid, “Move all those candlesticks from the mantel to the table. Set them in front of the mirror. General Grey, have you a box of matches?” When the queen’s secretary nodded, Julia said, “Light the candles, please.” She stopped a footman as he backed away from the bed.
“Move the washing stand next to the table.”
Susan arrived with Julia’s medical bag.
“I need two more washbowls. Send the housemaid to fetch them. And fresh water to fill them.” Julia opened her medical bag. “Now, the gentlemen may leave us.”
She took out a lancet and cut away Louise’s dress and petticoat.
She unhooked her corset. When Julia lifted and turned the princess by her shoulders, she saw no wound on her back.
The chemise was the final gory layer to remove.
Julia cut it away and exposed the bleeding wound, a small, dark ruby circle.
A knock brought the housemaids with napkins, a water jug, and two more washbowls. Susan moved the items to the table and asked the servants to wait in the hallway.
Julia poured carbolic solution on her hands and rubbed them. “I must remove the bullet.”
After a few minutes of careful probing, she found it. Julia cleaned the area around the wound with carbolic and bandaged it.
“The stays in her thick corset slowed and diverted the bullet,” Julia said. “Otherwise, it might have passed through and struck Prince Leopold, as well.”
“Thank God,” Susan said. “The prince bleeds easily.”
Julia wrung a wet napkin and wiped away the excess blood from the wound.
Lines appeared on Louise’s lower abdomen, jagged, pink, and white.
Significant weight loss was a possible explanation, but the princess had always been one of Victoria’s more slender daughters.
That left one cause. Julia covered the princess with a clean sheet and a warm blanket.
Then she stepped back from the bed. Lady Styles had been watching her closely.
“Aside from Sir Charles Locock and his son,” Susan said, “you are the only person outside the innermost royal circle who knows that Princess Louise bore a child.”