Queen's Gambit

by Bradley Harper

  “Pants it is, then!” Elizabeth giggled. “I’m getting rather used to having pockets.”

  James shook his head as his daughter rushed to her room. Looking at me, he said. “I blame you, of course.”

  I laughed. “I have rather upset your world, haven’t I?”

  “Aye, and thank God for that.” While his daughter was probably flinging clothes about in her bedroom, we exchanged a look that reminded me of what could have been.

  We two gentlemen—along with the young lad who accompanied us—seemed a companionable trio walking along together beside the procession route. Banners made the path easy to follow, and starting from Buckingham Palace it took two hours to walk the three miles to St. Paul’s Cathedral, as James stopped every hundred yards to survey the rooftops.

  During one of these pauses, I noted a poster announcing a three-night engagement by Samuel Clemens, otherwise known as Mark Twain, at the Royal Victoria Hall. I recalled my interview with him during my involvement with the hunt for the Ripper, along with his sparkling performance of his works the night that adventure came to a head. Nine years ago seemed a lifetime away.

  When we finally arrived at the cathedral, we stopped to survey the buildings which lined the large plaza facing the entrance.

  “Look at the bleachers going up atop the buildings,” I said. “No place for a sniper to hide up there.”

  “Aye, but the queen will be stationary here for twenty minutes.” James pointed out. “This is the place of greatest danger. If I were a sniper, here’s where I’d have the best chance of success.”

  “Perhaps he’ll try to hide in the cathedral, Father,” Elizabeth suggested. She pointed to a large window to the right as we faced the front of the building. “He could shoot right down at her from there.”

  “Now you’re thinking like our adversary. That’s good. But the stairs that pass in front of the window will be full of people looking down at Her Majesty. The roof would be slightly better, but clergy and city officials who aren’t part of the ceremony will be granted access to that space. He couldn’t possibly go unnoticed long enough to fire, and escape afterward would be impossible.”

  James looked around the courtyard again. A moving procession with guardsmen on horseback screening the target would be a challenging shot, all the more so as the queen was not a large woman. Never over five feet, age had shrunken her height as it had expanded her waist. She was quite likely the smallest person engaged in the entire affair, other than the members of the boys’ choir who would be standing on the steps above her.

  “Do you see anything, Margaret? I feel as though there’s something right in front of me, but I’m missing it.”

  I shook my head. “Then I’m as blind as you are, James. I agree this is the perfect killing ground for our hunter. The only possibility I can consider is that he would be in one of the windows in the square, but I can’t imagine any being unoccupied. He’d have to have a delegation of conspirators filling the room to be allowed to fire. And some windows will have an impaired view due to the statue of Queen Anne in the plaza, so we can rule those windows out entirely. Plus, a man with a rifle at a window would be seen by the onlookers on the roof of the cathedral.” I sighed. “All in all, your security precautions seem airtight. I see no flaw.”

  James shook his head. “But if that were so, why would Ott still be here? Either he’s intent on killing you, or he’s seen something here that we haven’t.”

  My head hurt. I half-remembered something, something about a false claim . . . then it left. I shook my head.

  We finished the route, taking four hours to travel the remaining three miles. James stopped about twenty minutes at each of the bridges the procession would cross, seeking any place a sniper could fire while the procession’s mobility was reduced. Nothing.

  As we approached the royal residence once more, Elizabeth asked, “How do you know he hasn’t fled, Father? Perhaps he’s made the same conclusion you have. I bet he’s across the channel and in Paris. You may have defeated him already, without even knowing it.”

  “I can’t afford to think like that, dear,” he said. “‘Pride goeth before a fall,’ and that would be a disastrous fall indeed.”

  We completed our walk shortly after two o’clock and after a light lunch at a bistro, James declared a parting of the ways. “I should go into the office to see if there’re any messages for me or any new information from Germany on Ott. I doubt it, but I’ll take whatever comes our way that might help us find the man. What about you and Elizabeth?”

  “As for myself, I have a couple of letters I want to send to Australia. I made contacts among the journalist community while I was there in ‘91 and I should let them know I’ll be returning soon and needing employment. As for Elizabeth,” I winked, “I think she needs to practice her spitting.”

  Elizabeth and I laughed, bowed to James, and left a perplexed Inspector Ethington in our wake.

  36

  Friday, June 18, cont.

  Back at home, we found a letter from Germany forwarded to me from my prior address. I recognized the Professor’s precise handwriting and noting the letter was sent a week prior, I tore it open on the spot.

  Heidelberg, June 11, 1897

  Dear Miss Harkness,

  I’ve had a stimulating week as a visiting professor at this historic university. A Professor Holman was assigned to me as translator and guide. Or, using his proper German title, “Herr Professor Doktor Holman.” More than one of the students was confused by our British tradition of referring to surgeons as “Mister,” a relic of the days of Barber Surgeons. One student, doing his best to address me properly in English, referred to me as “Mister Professor”Bell, and the title stuck. I’ve been called worse, and I accepted my new title with a smile.

  As I shall have to travel through London on my way back to Edinburgh, I thought you, Doyle, and I could dine together and stage a brief reunion of the Three Musketeers. Doyle, as you may know, now resides in South Norwood, a short distance from London, so he could easily join us.

  I joined the Marlboro Club during our prior adventure, so I plan on staying the night there on Saturday, the nineteenth. Fortunately, I made the reservation prior to our departure for Germany, for it was the last room they had available until after the Diamond Jubilee, and I can only stay the one night.

  I shall be traveling at leisure for the next week, so please leave a message for me at the club’s reception. I estimate my arrival around noon.

  If you are unable to meet with me, I understand, but request that you RSVP so that I may plan accordingly when I arrive.

  Respectfully Yours,

  JB

  I read the letter over twice, the first time quickly, savoring the memory of his voice as I imagined him reading it to me. The second time I read it over more slowly, in order to fully grasp the content. Bell was arriving tomorrow! It would be good to sit around the table with my comrades once more. Then I frowned. James and Elizabeth should not be excluded.

  Elizabeth could tell by my smile the letter was significant. “What is it, Margaret? Who do you know in Germany?”

  “A dear friend,” I said. “Though he resides in Edinburgh. He was with me in Germany recently, and stayed behind a few days once our business there was settled. He’ll be in London tomorrow and wants to dine with me and our mutual friend, Conan Doyle, tomorrow night.” Elizabeth’s eyes bulged when I mentioned my other old comrade. “Oh, Margaret, you must go! Could I go? Could I meet him? Could Father come too?”

  I laughed at her enthusiasm. Elizabeth did nothing by halves. “In order of your statement and questions, I agree I should go, and yes, yes, and yes! The diversion would do us all good.”

  Elizabeth danced up the steps to the building entrance while I mentally composed my response. I would have much to relate to my two old friends on how I had spent the last fortnight. I’d have to move quickly to get a message to the club and be back in time for dinner. I stopped Elizabeth as she started to chang
e back into a dress. “If you want to accompany me,” I advised, “don’t change. I’m leaving as soon as I dash off a note.”

  I wanted to re-create the episode of the Three Musketeers as closely as possible, and as I was soon leaving for a new life in Australia, I felt a little indulgence was called for. With that in mind, I sat down and composed the following note:

  Dear Mister Professor Bell,

  I am delighted to have the chance to break bread with you and Doyle one last time before my emigration to Australia on July seventh. As it’s possible this will be our final farewell, I will take the liberty of requesting that you task your doorman to purchase five tickets for the eight o’clock performance of our mutual acquaintance, Mark Twain. I shall reimburse you for all when we arrive.

  I can see your abundant eyebrows ascend after reading the number of tickets I require. While you have been teaching in Heidelberg I have been rather busier, to wit—I have survived an assassination attempt by an anarchist and acquired a dear friend in Inspector Ethington, who has a remarkable fifteen-year-old daughter. I trust you have no objection to them joining us for the evening. I recall our conversation regarding the inspector after our initial meeting with him, and once again your perception, and generosity of spirit exceeded mine.

  His daughter, Elizabeth, desires to become a detective like her father. As such, she is already adept at passing herself off as a young man, and I would ask you make a reservation at the club for the five of us, to allow me to coach her on how to behave as a male in more formal situations. I would be grateful if you didn’t share Elizabeth’s gender with Doyle, to see if she can fool him for the evening.

  As you can tell, I aspire to be as entertaining as always.

  My current address in Soho is attached. Please send one of the club’s couriers with your response to inform me if my plan meets with your approval and, if so, what time we should arrive.

  Affectionately Yours,

  Margaret

  I folded my note and placed it into an envelope, wrote the flat’s address on the outside with my name, and looked up to see Elizabeth ready to go. “Come, Elizabeth. We need to buy you some theater attire while we’re out.”

  Elizabeth hesitated at the entrance to the Marlboro Club, holding back and asking me, “Are you sure?”

  “Don’t be afraid, Elizabeth,” I soothed. “The residents scarcely look at one another. A young man your age will be completely beneath their notice. Besides, I want you to get a good look at where we’re having dinner tomorrow night.”

  “What!” Elizabeth’s pale face turned paler. “Impossible! I wouldn’t be able to swallow.”

  “How else are you to meet Doctor Doyle?” I teased.

  She sighed and followed me into reception where I exchanged pleasantries with the clerk, then explained I had a note for a guest arriving tomorrow. We left, Elizabeth mute the entire time.

  “Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “No, but I didn’t have to say anything. Are Professor Bell and Doctor Doyle agreeable to two females joining them for dinner in a men’s club?”

  I patted her shoulder. “As for me, I’ve dined there with them before in male clothing. Knowing Professor Bell as I do, I think he’ll find it excellent sport.”

  “And Doctor Doyle?”

  “Oh, he won’t know. I want to see if you can fool him the entire evening.”

  Elizabeth gave me a look somewhere between amazement and terror as she froze on the sidewalk in midstride. “Margaret! How could you? What if he finds out!”

  I pulled gently on her arm to restart her motion before we were overrun by other pedestrians. “I sincerely doubt that will happen. First, Doctor Doyle has a robust appetite and will be much occupied with the meal. Second, he will be more interested in the recent adventures of Bell and myself in Germany than mine here in London. He’s apt to give you a friendly nod, then focus on other matters. As long as you don’t scream, you should be fine.”

  “But my hair! I can’t wear a cap to dinner.”

  “Quite right. I have a wig I can lend you. Now, let’s go, we have much to do!”

  I swore Elizabeth to secrecy regarding the next evening’s plans until after dinner. When James arrived home I asked, in my most innocent voice. “So, any news to report?”

  “No news from Peg Leg or his brood, nor anything new from Germany. I spent more time studying the route of the procession, and I am convinced more than ever that if Ott strikes, it will be during the ceremony. Besides, that would make the greatest impression. Unless he’s a distraction for some bomb-throwers along the route?”

  “We can’t afford to discount the threat,” I said. “Anything else?”

  “Various administrative tasks that I fear shall only multiply once I am promoted. Heavy rests the head that wears the crown, I suppose.” He shrugged.

  “So,” he asked, “how was the rest of your day?”

  37

  Friday, June 18, cont.

  Elizabeth was all aquiver, and I feared if I didn’t tell James about our invitation for tomorrow night right away, she would burst. “I received a letter from Germany today,” I began, wanting to draw the moment out.

  “From the Secret Police?” James asked. “Another bonus, perhaps?”

  “Nothing so mercenary. The letter was from my dear friend, Professor Bell.”

  “Oh, is he still in Germany? What on earth for?”

  “He was awarded a week as a visiting professor in Heidelberg. Now he’s on a brief holiday. He’ll be back in London tomorrow, and has invited us to dinner.”

  “Us? Why would he invite us?”

  “Well, he’s invited me, but I wouldn’t go without you and Elizabeth.”

  “And you accepted without consulting me?”

  His reply brought me short. “James, there wasn’t time. I got the letter late, due to transferring my mail here. I needed to get the letter to the club where he’ll be staying before his arrival . . .” I glanced at Elizabeth. “And I needed to make certain preparations.”

  “Tell him the rest,” Elizabeth said, her eyes trained on me, offering encouragement.

  “Doctor Doyle will also likely be there, in remembrance of times past, when the three of us worked together.”

  James’s smile was replaced by a clenched jaw and crossed arms.

  “The Doyle who makes Scotland Yard look like a haven for the feebleminded? That Doyle?”

  “Yes, James,” I said in a mild voice. “My dear friend and comrade, Conan Doyle. I’m sorry I didn’t consult you. I thought you’d be excited. I was planning on the five of us going on to a reading by Mark Twain afterward. My two companions and I have a bit of a history with him also.”

  “Margaret, I’m in the middle of a manhunt. A man who, by the way, tried to kill us in the street. I’m unavailable tomorrow night. I hope you and Elizabeth have a wonderful time.”

  “Elizabeth is very keen to meet Dr. Doyle, and I think you should come, if only for her sake.”

  “Yes, please Father. Tell him the rest, Margaret!”

  “Is there something else I should know?”

  I cleared my throat. “Elizabeth and I are going in male attire, as we’ll be having dinner at a men’s club.”

  Silence. James sat frozen in his chair for at least three ticks of the clock, then a low rumble from deep within his chest exploded like a volcanic eruption as he laughed long and deeply. Tears ran down his cheeks as he hugged himself in the release of pure joy. He clung to the moment as long as he could, and I sensed that he was letting go of far more than the troubles of the day. After he had finally regained his composure and his breath he asked quietly, “Is that all? Very well, then. I look forward to it!”

  Elizabeth told me later it was then that she knew he was truly her father once more.

  Peter Kropotkin and his daughter caught the evening train to Southampton. They would catch the morning ferry to Calais, and then travel on to Geneva to join fellow anarchists from throughout Europe. A
lthough the various leaders moved with discretion, their journeys, and gathering, were noted.

  The bleachers around the steps to St. Paul’s were nearly complete; the odor of freshly sawn pine made the square smell like an Alpine forest.

  The choirmaster had the boys of the choir march to their places for the ceremony several times. No singing on the steps . . . yet. It was vexing enough just getting the little hellions to walk in a line without tugging on each other’s robes or causing mischief. They would be in place before the queen arrived, but thousands would already be there, and the choirmaster didn’t want the papers to remark upon their deportment.

  Herr Grüber was disappointed to learn that Parmeggiani had cast Herman aside when the man’s likeness appeared in the paper, allowing him to avoid arrest. As Grüber expected, the fence’s familiarity with skirting the law had allowed him to emerge a free man after a brief incarceration. His message of condolence to Luigi went unanswered, which Grüber put down to the Italian’s caution after his recent brush with the authorities. Grüber would alert his contacts in Southampton to keep an eye out for Herman, though he had faith the man’s love for his son would keep him on task. His pawn was in play, and it was a move he could no longer recall.

  Troop ships were arriving and tying up along the Thames. Soldiers from the far reaches of the British Commonwealth would ride along the route before the queen to demonstrate the extent of her empire to a watching world.

  That night, soldiers from around the globe met in London’s pubs, ready to defend the honor of their various regiments against one another, sometimes with fists when words proved insufficient. Still, at the end of the evening, before staggering back to their respective ships, they linked arms and sang:

  God save our gracious Queen!

  Long live our noble Queen!

  God save the Queen!

  Send her victorious,