“Large caliber weapon,” the police surgeon continued, “probably around a .44. No gunpowder around the wound, so the shot was fired from some distance. Have you apprehended the shooter, Constable?” Harris shook his head. “No, sir. Thing is, I couldn’t have been more than twenty feet away when Williams was shot, and I never heard a discharge. I went inside to look for anything suspicious, and while I think the occupants of the room are probably thieves, I didn’t find anything that led me to think they was involved with our assassin. They were as surprised as I was when I walked back out to find Williams dead.”
“Were there any witnesses?” James asked. “As crowded as the East End is, surely someone saw something.”
“One old woman whose eyesight ain’t the best says she saw a man lean out a door three doors down for a second, then she saw the constable fall and the man hightailed it out of there. We found traces of smeared blood on the floor of the room she says he left, but the description she gave didn’t fit the man we’re looking for—though, as I said, her eyes ain’t the best. She did insist he hadn’t a mustache.”
“He could easily shave that off. Who lives in that residence?”
“An old acquaintance of ours, Inspector. None other than Mister Keys Malone.”
“Now that’s a name I’d not expected. Keys is a businessman, first and last. There’s no profit in dead bobbies.”
“I agree, sir. And he don’t look nothing like this Ott fellow we’re searching for.”
James sighed. “He’s proving to be as dangerous as I feared. With the Fishers and the police both looking for him to avenge one of their own, he’ll flee if he has any sense.”
Constable Harris nodded agreement. “I’ll do my best to capture the man, but . . . God forgive me for saying this . . . I hope Peg Leg and his lads catch up to him first. They won’t play by Marquis of Queensbury rules.”
“I understand how you feel, Constable, but I need him alive. I need to know if he’s working alone. The safety of Her Majesty may be at stake.”
Both the surgeon’s and Harris’s eyes widened at this announcement. The bobby sighed. “Aye, sir. I’ll tell the lads. We’ll do our best. Just let us know when you’re done with him.”
“I’ll do no such thing. But please, let me know when the funeral is. Williams was, as you say, one of ours. When you take up a collection for the widow, I’ll be sure to do my part.”
Harris touched the bill of his helmet in farewell and left, his silence expressing how he felt about inspectors who sent young constables to their deaths.
41
Saturday, June 19, cont.
Herman was able to outfit himself in a fine suit of moderately worn clothes, including a matching cravat and bowler. He purchased a carpet bag that made him appear more profitable, then headed to the Underground. The car was jammed with people of all classes heading home from work. Most were looking forward to a brief stint of freedom, what with the next day being Sunday. There would be one day of work on Monday, followed by the Jubilee on Tuesday. With all of this, the car was in a festive mood.
Herman bypassed the first two hotels he saw once he left Kensington Station. He reckoned they’d already be full, due to the upcoming festivities, but when he saw the Kingsmill Hotel along North End Road, it looked just shabby enough to offer some hope of a vacancy. Herman had a good store of money in hand but felt it best to keep much of it in reserve for his flight after the deed.
There was one room left on the top floor next to the loo, assuring frequent disturbances as his neighbors used the facility, but the space would serve. When the clerk remarked on his case and asked his line of work, Herman replied, “Insurance.”
The queen’s police protective detail had walked the route that afternoon, along with police commissioner, Sir Edward Bradford, the assistant commissioner, Alexander Bruce, and the commanding officer of the Household Guards. Intervals of soldiers and policemen were double-checked. An officer on horseback could usually contain as much of a crowd as ten constables on foot, but for the ceremony the ratio was halved.
Bradford was a slight man. The left sleeve of his coat was pinned to his chest, the empty sleeve a reminder of an encounter with a tigress while in India. Despite the loss of his arm, he was able to continue his military career, even hunt boars afterward with a lance while on horseback, placing the reins in his teeth when the lance was called for.
“Why are we inspecting the route tonight, Commissioner?” the guards’ commander asked. “Wouldn’t tomorrow be more informative?”
Sir Edward had served in the cavalry, and he was favorably disposed toward those who served astride a horse, yet he frowned at the man’s question. “By detecting a flaw now,” he said, with some forbearance, “we give our subordinates sufficient time to address any problem, and for us to reassess the situation tomorrow.”
“You mean to say . . .”
“Yes, Colonel. Even if we find no flaws, I shall repeat my assessment tomorrow, this time by horse to give us a different perspective. I want to see the route through Her Majesty’s eyes.” Seeing the man’s disappointment, he said, “You may send your executive officer tomorrow if you wish, Colonel. I’m sure you have a lot to inspect within your own ranks.”
The guards’ commander nodded, unaware of the rebuke inherent in the commissioner’s remarks. “Thank you, sir. He will be at your disposal.”
Bradford personally approved the measures in place. Special Branch had shared their concern about a possible assassin, and his experience as the chief of the Viceroy’s secret police in India taught him to respect the danger one motivated man represented. He saw in their precautions no flaw a would-be assassin might exploit, but he would return tomorrow, nonetheless. Queen Victoria was his sovereign, and his four years as her aide-de-camp had only strengthened his devotion to her. He would rather lose his other arm than fail her.
42
Saturday, June 19, cont.
A courier from the Marlboro Club arrived shortly before two o’clock with a brief message from Bell:
Dear Miss Harkness,
I vow not to frighten the gentleman with lurid tales of your derring-do, though I can make no such assurances regarding Doyle, who has confirmed his attendance. He is a storyteller, after all.
I look forward to seeing if the young lady can pass muster for the evening as a young lad. If so, the torch will be well and truly passed to the next generation of audacious females.
It will be pleasant to enjoy Twain’s performance tonight and not have the shadow of the Ripper hanging over us as it was before. You deserve a fond, carefree farewell from the male Musketeers. Though we have parted ways, knowing you were never far away was comforting. I’ll miss having you in the same hemisphere.
As for the tickets, consider them my farewell gift.
Until this evening.
Affectionately,
JB
“Bell said yes!” I exclaimed to Elizabeth. “I must teach you how to tie a proper four in hand cravat.”
Elizabeth and I exchanged glances when James stumbled through the door around four, our excitement for the coming evening withered as we noted his slumped shoulders. “What is it, James? You look like Death himself.”
He collapsed into his favorite chair. “With good reason. A constable was shot and killed today, while following my orders. No one heard the discharge, so it must have been Ott. I was right about where to look for him, but that gives me no comfort.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, “The man’s wife is due to deliver their first child any day now, and I sent him to his death.”
I put my hand to his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, James. Our enemy is clever and cruel, but you couldn’t have known this would happen. It’s to your credit you care for this man as you do. How can we make his killer pay?”
Elizabeth came up beside me. “By stopping him and catching him, of course!”
“Bell sent me a message agreeing to dinner tonight and the Twain reading after,” I said, “but I would
understand if you’d rather I canceled.”
James shook himself out of his stupor. “I’d forgotten. I’m not in a jolly mood, but I know how important it is to you to see your friends one last time. Perhaps I could corner the professor long enough to ask his advice on our search. Give me a few moments to rest, and I’ll wash up and change.”
Elizabeth squirmed in her seat as we rode in a Clarence cab to the Marlboro. “What have you talked me into?” she groaned. “I’ll be humiliated if someone finds me out!”
I squeezed her arm. “Don’t worry, dear. Inspector Ethington and Mister Pennyworth are here to help. And as for your nervousness, Doctor Doyle is well accustomed to having that effect on his public. It will only add to your authenticity.”
Elizabeth and I wore short wigs beneath our flat caps. We were modestly dressed in tweeds for the theater, but, as Twain’s readings were considered somewhere beneath opera but above a Christmas pantomime, it was enough. James surprised me by wearing a proper smoking jacket and a top hat, and I had to remind myself I was temporarily male, so as not to admire him too openly. He certainly didn’t look “average” this evening, and even Elizabeth seemed impressed.
James managed a small smile as he sat across from the two of us ladies “undressed” for the theater. “I think I needed this diversion,” he said. “Perhaps when I have the professor to myself, he and I can make a small wager. I’ll offer him two-to-one odds Lizzie can fool the creator of Sherlock Holmes for the evening.”
I knew how hard it had been for him to submerge his grief, and he was putting on a brave front. Courage takes many forms.
We arrived at the Marlboro promptly at six, and when I informed the receptionist that “Mister Pennyworth and friends” were expected as dinner guests of Professor Bell, he gave Elizabeth a close look. I was proud of how she stared back at him with wide, innocent eyes. She did not flinch.
“How old is he?” the receptionist asked, squinting.
“Sixteen,” I answered. “Doctor Doyle is joining us, and I promised my nephew he could dine with us to meet him. This young lad,” I said, patting “his” shoulder, “wants to be a detective like Sherlock Holmes, and I couldn’t refuse him the honor.”
The receptionist eked out a weak grimace. “I can well understand that. I miss his stories in The Strand. We normally don’t admit patrons under the age of majority, but if the lad limits himself to the dining room and the loo, I’m willing to bend the rules.” The man winked at Elizabeth. “Tell Doctor Doyle we need Holmes back, will you, lad?”
“Aye, sir!” Elizabeth managed to say, though I thought I saw her flinch when the loo was mentioned. A detail I’d failed to consider. Elizabeth and I would have to sip our drinks modestly.
Bell was already inside when we entered. “Ah, Mister Pennyworth . . . and friends.” He extended his hand first to James, then to Elizabeth. “A pleasure to see you again, Inspector.”
Bell next turned to Elizabeth. “And how shall I call you tonight, young sir? What nom de guerre are you using?”
She looked to me to translate. “Alias,” I explained. “What name do you use in disguise?”
“Oh.” She caught herself just as she started to curtsey and bowed instead. “James, like my father.”
Bell nodded. “James the younger it is!”
Just then, Doctor Arthur Conan Doyle made his grand entrance. He was a bit thicker in the waist but still had an energetic step. I had seen an occasional notice in the papers of his sporting activity, and his personality was as large as his physical presence, filling the small room the moment he entered. I remembered a foggy night years ago when Doyle’s quick wit engaged the Ripper while I prepared for my final act of defiance. And then there was the brief embrace we shared after. I shook my head. We—and time—had moved on.
I extended my hand, “Porthos, so good to see you again! Did you bring the cricket bat you owe me?”
“Porthos?” James the elder asked, looking to Doyle for signs of offense.
Doyle laughed deep within his large chest. “Mister Pennyworth! Splendid to see you again, my dear friend,” he said, winking. “I’m afraid the matter of the cricket bat escaped my mind, and you may take me literally when I say that I shall always be in your debt.”
His embrace this evening was chaste. Yes, time had moved on. He extended his hand to James: “And your name, sir?”
“James Ethington of Scotland Yard, Doctor.” James followed up his own introduction by nodding toward his sometimes-son. “And this is my boy, also named James. He is a loyal fan of yours, Doctor, and wants to become a detective like Sherlock Holmes.”
Doyle didn’t offer his hand to Elizabeth but nodded amiably enough. “A loyal reader is always welcome, though I hope you’ve read other of my works as well.”
“Yes, sir,” our lad said in an acceptable tenor. “I quite enjoy your Brigadier Gerard tales.”
“Excellent! My vain little French Brigadier provides the reader with a pleasant diversion while also instructing them in the important history of the Napoleonic era. I’m quite finished with Mister Holmes. It was either him or me there toward the end, and I’m well rid of him. But which of my stories is your favorite?”
“‘A Scandal in Bohemia,’ sir.”
Doyle laughed, then nodded in my direction. “I think I know why. It might surprise you to learn that Mister Pennyworth was my inspiration for the character of Irene Adler, the only woman to ever get the better of Mister Holmes.”
Her face lit up, and if she hadn’t been restrained by her attire, I think she would have embraced me on the spot.
Bell’s smile seemed innocent enough, though I detected a slight gleam in his eye as our comrade seemed taken in by Elizabeth’s ruse.
Soon the professor and James were discussing the hunt for our assassin, with Doyle listening in. Doyle had little to add, but I could see in his eyes he was assessing our recent adventures as possible fodder for a story.
“From what you tell me of Peg Leg and his progeny,” Bell said, “I doubt your assassin is still anywhere within the East End, and if he had a benefactor, he would have gone there first.”
“So, what do you think his next move will be?” James asked.
“I suspect he’ll find a mid-grade hotel on the outskirts of town in which to bide his time until the day of the ceremony. Anything of better quality or proximity to the center of London will already be full.”
“Thank you, Professor. I believe you’re correct. This close to the twenty-second, his options are limited. He might even be in a community within easy train travel of London.”
“Oh, I doubt that, Inspector. On the day of the ceremony, the trains will be so crowded he would be in danger of arriving too late. I’d keep your hunt close.”
I was happy to see James so engaged with Bell. The collegial exchange seemed to brighten his mood, and I was able to relax and start enjoying the evening.
Our meal did not disappoint, though it is an uncomfortable truth that the harder one tries not to think of something, the more prominent it becomes, and mid-meal I detected Elizabeth rearranging herself in her seat often enough to tell me the toilet was much on her mind.
I stood. “Excuse me, Professor, but could you direct me to the loo?”
Bell inclined his head, revealing nothing. “Just before you come to reception, on your right.”
Elizabeth dabbed her lips and stood. “May I join you?”
“Of course, lad. Follow me.”
Once outside the room, I whispered, “There will be individual stalls. If anyone is occupied at the urinal, pay them no heed. Men do not stare at other men’s endowments. It’s considered a serious breach of protocol.”
“What’s a ‘urinal’?”
“Imagine a floor-level trough, similar to what horses drink from, but built for the opposite purpose.”
She had no response to this bit of intelligence. I could tell I was expanding her world that night, and dessert hadn’t even been served yet.
Thankfully, we had the place to ourselves. No need to broaden her horizons too rapidly, I thought.
We returned to the table in time to finish the main course before pastry was offered, though only Doyle partook. It was close onto seven-fifteen and it would take thirty minutes to travel to the theater, so the five of us crammed into another Clarence. After the evening’s entertainment, we would go our own ways directly from the theater. But there was still one bit of business to tend to prior to moving on to the next phase of the evening.
I stood, glass in hand. “Gentlemen!” I said. “Charge your glasses!” My two old comrades knew what was coming next, while I motioned to James and Elizabeth to remain seated for what was to follow. “To the Three Musketeers!”
Doyle and Bell stood, glasses raised. Then I motioned to my new friends to rise and join us. “Now Five!” I exclaimed.
Then my comrades and I, both old and new, intoned—for what I was sure would be our final time together—“All for one, and one for all!”
43
Saturday, June 19, cont.
I was surprised when at the end of Mr. Twain’s performance, the stage manager came up to our box and invited us backstage to the dressing room. The man said that he’d pointed Doctor Doyle out to the American just before the show began, and Twain had asked that Doyle and his companions be granted an audience.
Twain was as impressive as ever, with his silver hair, enormous eyebrows and trademark white linen suit. I regretted I could not reveal my true identity to him. I was soon to regret it even more.
“Doctor Doyle,” he said, “you look familiar. Have we met before? In New York, perhaps?”
“We have met once before, Mister Clemens, and I’m flattered you remember, as I was still quite green as an author then. It was nine years ago, to be exact. I was with Professor Bell and our mutual friend, Miss Margaret Harkness. It was at the time of the Ripper murders, and you gave her an interview.”
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