Chapter 17
Tennant and O’Malley arrived at Dover’s train station with over an hour to spare. From there, it was a short walk to the ferry pier. They approached cautiously, Tennant scanning the streets ahead.
“No sign of him,” the inspector said.
“He has time. He’ll not be hanging about and making himself conspicuous.”
“Let’s hope so, Paddy.”
“Too many coppers at the pier, I’m thinking,” the sergeant grumbled.
“I’ll have a word.”
They located the officer in charge and persuaded him to withdraw most of his force. The ticket takers had been alerted, and the inspector reminded them of the telltale scar on the man’s cheek. Then Tennant, O’Malley, and two Dover constables withdrew to the harbormaster’s shed and waited.
Thirty minutes passed, and Tennant pulled out his watch. “If FitzGerald doesn’t turn up soon, we’ve wasted our time.” He seethed with frustration, knowing it would be hours before he heard news from Windsor.
Fifteen minutes later, Tennant spotted FitzGerald.
He joined the ticket line, looking over his shoulder, his gaze shifting left to right.
The major’s eyes focused on the lone constable at the ferry dock.
Tennant had ordered the officer to ignore the queue.
The constable yawned, ambled to the railing, and stared out to the sea, doing a first-rate imitation of a man bored by a routine job.
FitzGerald stepped forward and offered his ticket, his moment of maximum tension, Tennant guessed.
The taker looked at it, said something to FitzGerald, and the major laughed.
“Good man,” the inspector murmured.
FitzGerald walked on, his step looking a little lighter. “He thinks he’s home free.” Tennant clapped O’Malley’s shoulder. “Let’s move.”
FitzGerald stopped at the bottom of the gangway and set his carpetbag at his feet, waiting for the passengers to move forward. Tennant and O’Malley came up behind him.
“Major FitzGerald?”
He turned reflexively. O’Malley seized him by his right arm and shoulder, and a constable grabbed him on the left.
“Taking a little trip, are we?” Tennant asked, picking up his carpetbag and bouncing its weight. He opened it and rummaged under a shirt. “Well, well.” The inspector pulled out a wad of banknotes.
“Blood money,” O’Malley said.
“Major Peter FitzGerald, I arrest you in the queen’s name,” Tennant said, “The charges are conspiracy, treason, murder, and attempted murder for hire.” Passengers on the line gasped.
A Dover constable produced a pair of handcuffs and passed them to O’Malley.
“Clap on the Darbies, Sergeant,” Tennant said. “Then lead the way.”
Two constables followed O’Malley, who dragged the manacled Major FitzGerald through a gaping crowd.
The queen spent twenty minutes at her sleeping daughter’s bedside. Victoria stood and looked at Julia. “I trust that Princess Louise may consult you as her physician from time to time.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Julia said. “It is an honor.” The seal of doctor-patient confidentiality was thus assured, and the queen allowed Susan to walk her back to her apartments.
Their departure gave Julia a few moments to look around the room.
Pictures crowded the walls, including watercolors by the queen, Prince Albert, and Princess Louise.
Her collection included oil paintings by Landseer, Grant, and other celebrated artists of the day.
But most revealing was the worktable in a window bay.
Sketches of a baby boy littered the tabletop.
And a clay model of a seated, curly-haired child, his arm extended for something just behind his reach, waited for the sculptor’s final touches.
Julia turned at the sound of the door closing.
“The queen agreed,” Susan said. “You alone shall look after the princess until she is out of danger. I told her about Harriet’s Scottish doctor. The one who washes his hands and changes his coat. I explained that you follow his practices.”
“It’s a relief not to worry about butting heads.” Julia smiled wryly. “A female physician half the age of doctors knighted by the queen? It’s an uneven playing field.”
Susan walked to the bed and smoothed a strand of Louise’s fair hair.
“I’m optimistic,” Julia said. “Cautiously, of course, like all doctors.”
“She would throw herself in front of Prince Leopold. Louise can be impossibly selfish. Impossible, in general. But she’s impulsively generous and warm-hearted.”
“I’ve felt that, even in our short acquaintance.”
Susan said, “Shall we sit?”
They took seats by the fire. After a pause, Julia said, “No explanations are necessary.”
“I know that, but …” Susan sighed. “A sympathetic lady-in-waiting once told me that Louise fell through the cracks. She was the fourth daughter and as eager as a puppy in the company of anyone who paid her a little attention. And she doted on Prince Leopold’s handsome tutor.”
“Is he still—”
“No. The queen dismissed Walter after he complained about Archie Brown’s rough treatment of Leopold. Knowledge of the pregnancy came later. The tutor has no idea.”
“And the baby … you mentioned the Lococks. Frederick Locock adopted the child?”
“Yes. But even Mary Locock doesn’t know the mother’s identity.
Sir Charles Locock delivered Louise’s baby.
The palace released the story that the princess was traveling on the continent, visiting her sisters.
But for three months in the spring, she and Lizzie Dowling lived in a cottage near Osborne House. ”
“That explains Princess Louise’s attachment to the girl.”
Susan nodded. “Frederick Locock has an alibi for the day Lizzie died. Louise and I were with him at the cottage for a last goodbye. Sir Charles had arranged for a wet nurse who cared for the baby until his son took the baby away.”
“But he couldn’t explain.”
“There was a need for absolute secrecy. None of Louise’s sisters know, only the Prince and Princess of Wales. I extended my waiting into the fall and winter to assist.”
“It’s a small circle, then.”
“And the queen decreed nothing would be written down. No birth or baptismal record or written agreement of adoption.” After a pause, Susan said, “I know that Louise has questions about the marks on her body. After she marries, her husband …”
“I wouldn’t worry. The lines are comparatively faint, and men tend to be in the dark about such things.”
Lionel was still in the dark about events inside the castle.
He’d taken the first train from Waterloo Station and arrived at the William IV gate in time to watch a pair of privates carry out a body on a stretcher.
When they tilted it down a short flight of steps, a soldier’s scarlet arm slipped from underneath the blanket.
Lionel took the tower steps two at a time in search of Susan.
A footman told him of the shooting and that Lady Styles was assisting Dr. Lewis in Princess Louise’s bedroom.
He asked for General Grey, but the queen’s private secretary was busy with Her Majesty.
Lionel paced the hallway with seething impatience.
At one point, Lionel stopped at the dining room doorway.
He stared at the shattered chandelier and the remains of a luncheon party.
He thought, Susan sat at that table. Princess Louise’s shooting, terrible enough, might have been so much worse.
Then Susan closed a door in the hallway of royal apartments and looked up, smiling as Lionel strode toward her. He didn’t care if the queen and the entire household were there to witness. He took her in his arms and kissed her.
Then he held her away and looked at her. “You are uninjured? Nothing—”
“Nothing is wrong with me.” She looked to the left and right, kissed him again, and took his hand. “Come. I’ll tell you what happened.” She led him into the dining room and closed the door.
Lionel pulled two chairs forward and listened to the story. At the end, Susan said, “Julia tried to give us a few minutes’ warning.”
“Doctor Lewis?”
“Something Lady Sarah Winthrop and Henry Ponsonby said before luncheon. Julia realized it was Peter. She dashed out of the dining room before the queen arrived and telegraphed Inspector Tennant.”
Lionel chuckled. “Did she, now?” His smile faded. “And the princess? How is she?”
“Julia says she’s ‘cautiously optimistic.’ I think it means Louise will recover. She’s young and strong.”
Lionel nodded. “All that vigorous walking and riding.”
“I’ll never again complain about her ‘forced marches’ through the park.”
“You realize she saved Prince Leopold,” Lionel said. “He would never have survived a gunshot wound.” He looked at her. “You know it’s not simply a matter of a little bleeding. His condition is far graver than that.”
“Yes,” Susan said. “The royals know, too. Louise included. But they don’t like to name it.”
“This may be treason, but Louise would make a better heir to the throne than her feckless brother.”
“She has twice Bertie’s spirit and three times his heart.”
Lionel grasped her hands, and they stood. He took her in his arms, and Susan felt his laughing breath tickle her ear. “It just occurred to me.”
She pulled away and looked at him curiously. “What?”
“John Brown, Louise’s ‘absurd man in a kilt,’ is the hero of the hour.” Lionel smiled his slow grin. “He’ll be utterly insufferable now.”
At ten at night at Charing Cross Station, a phalanx of constables transferred the shackled Peter FitzGerald from a railway car to a waiting police wagon for the short journey across central London. Tennant and O’Malley followed in a cab.
Despite the late hour, Newgate Prison’s front yard blazed. Workmen toiled by torchlight to finish the construction of a wooden platform. It lifted a scaffold high above the street to give the expected crowd a proper view of the public hanging scheduled two days hence.