Queen's Gambit

by Bradley Harper

  Twain’s eyebrows rose slowly as he pondered Doyle’s answer, and then they suddenly popped up. “Ah, yes! I remember now. She wore a black satin dress with a ruby pendant.” He winked at Doyle. “Strategically placed.”

  Doyle laughed with him, while Bell tried to hide his smile, James looked down at the floor with sudden intensity, and Elizabeth grinned. I don’t recall my reaction other than finding myself momentarily incapable of speech.

  Twain was enough of a performer to know when a comment went awry, so he waved his arm as though to sweep the statement away. “Please, Doctor Doyle, introduce me to your companions.”

  Doyle did the honors and smiled when he introduced me as “my dear friend, Mister Pennyworth.” Elizabeth got a half-bow and a handshake from the great author, while the rest of us got nods.

  “Well, lad,” Twain asked as he shook Elizabeth’s hand, “have you read any of my works?”

  “Yes, sir. I especially enjoyed Tom Sawyer when he tried to pass himself off as a girl.”

  Twain laughed at that. “And a poor job he did of it, too. Well gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure, but I need to retire shortly to prepare for tomorrow. I’ve two more days of readings, then Mister Randolph Hearst himself contracted for me to attend the Jubilee procession and write an article about it. No rest for the wicked, nor their close friends.”

  We were ushered out onto the street and as we headed out James whispered to me, “Apparently both Conan Doyle and Mark Twain number among your conquests.” He smiled. “Well, at least I’m in good company.”

  Doyle was enjoying our private joke as to my identity, so to whittle his ego down a bit I whispered into his ear as our cab arrived, “The young lad is actually James’s daughter. Bell and James had a small wager, I believe, as to whether she could fool you for the evening.”

  Doyle’s mouth gaped as he understood the last laugh was on him. Good sportsman that he was, he gave Elizabeth a courtly bow, which she returned. We shook hands all around, Bell settled his debt of honor with James (five pounds, I believe), and then my two old comrades went their separate ways, while I returned to Soho with my new companions. Danger was ahead, so we savored this brief respite before the coming day’s trials.

  Herman oiled the rifle and ensured the air flasks were fully charged. The toilet flushed across the hall as he lay down to sleep, making him doubt he’d get much slumber that night.

  Three days remaining.

  44

  Sunday, June 20

  Herman knew he should lie low until the day of the ceremony, but his nervous energy wouldn’t let him remain indoors for long. Inevitably, he was drawn to the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral. As it was the Sunday before the ceremony, the cathedral was packed with the devout and the curious from out of town, and Herman—in his more elegant attire—blended into the crowd quite easily. He was not devout, but on a sudden whim entered for a service. Let’s see if the damned catch fire when they walk on holy ground, he thought. He was almost disappointed when he did not burst into flame upon entering.

  After the service, he wandered back outside and surveyed the final preparations around the large plaza. A vendor was hawking tin buttons, each of which sported a red, white, and blue ribbon. In the center was a black-and-white image of Queen Victoria with the Diamond Jubilee’s date underneath: June 22, 1897.

  “Get your commemorative buttons here!” the vendor cried. “Get your souvenirs for a day you’ll never forget.”

  Herman noted several within the crowd sporting buttons, and he purchased one for himself and affixed it to his coat. It would make him look all the more like he belonged there. He was certain he’d remember the day, button or no.

  The sun was bright and when Herman noted another man selling glasses with smoked lenses, he purchased a pair. It seemed like a good investment, both to lessen the glare and to add to his disguise for later. He glanced down the side street at the choir’s boarding school.

  Sunday was usually a busy day for them, but they’d been absent from the service today. The voices of the boys, interspersed with the exhortations of the choirmaster from the second floor of the school, made it clear how they were spending their day. Herman hoped none would get in his line of fire on Tuesday, but it was too late to be squeamish. He was already damned.

  He stiffened suddenly when he recognized a woman standing at the bottom of the cathedral steps with a young girl and a man. They were all looking about curiously, and he felt a chill down his back when he recognized the woman: Margaret Harkness.

  His hands clenched at the sight of her as he imagined them around her pale neck. Remember Immanuel. Getting him back is more important than revenge. He noticed she was looking down the side street toward the school. He cast about and saw a vendor selling lemonade from a pushcart beside them.

  Herman strolled to the lemonade vendor and after purchasing a paper cup, turned and bumped into Miss Harkness, spilling the drink down her front.

  “Dreadfully sorry!” he exclaimed. “How clumsy of me, madam.” He pulled out a handkerchief and offered it to her. “Please, take it. I insist.”

  The moist, thin fabric of the summer frock now outlined her bosom to an immodest degree. She snatched the handkerchief, and after dabbing at the spill as best she could, returned it to the clumsy stranger and tied a scarf around her neck loosely enough to drape over the critical areas.

  “A small matter, sir,” she huffed. “I’ve suffered worse. I regret the loss of your lemonade.”

  He bowed. “Trifling in the extreme,” he replied, in a strong Russian accent. They’d be looking for a mustachioed German, not a clean-shaven Russian. The addition of the glasses with the smoked lenses only augmented his disguise.

  “May I buy the three of you a lemonade, as a way to express my apology?”

  “I’d like one, please.” The young girl said. “It’s getting rather warm.”

  Margaret and her companion exchanged glances, then Margaret nodded. “Very well then,” the man answered. “We accept, Mister . . .”

  “Rodshenko, Boris Rodshenko. I hail from Minsk.” Herman knew a fellow Russian would never believe his accent belonged to a native of Belarus, but it was the first city that came to mind. At least it was close enough to St. Petersburg; he could answer simple questions about it.

  After introductions were given all around Margaret said. “You’re a long way from home, Mister Rodshenko. By your button, I assume you’re in town for the celebration?”

  Herman bowed again. “Indeed, madam. I see now why Sherlock Holmes is an Englishman. Everyone wants to be a detective.”

  It’s difficult to say who laughed the hardest at this remark, but James laughed the longest. Finally, after he caught his breath, he managed to mutter, “Quite so.”

  Herman swept his arm before them. “So, this is where the great ceremony will happen? With such an impressive cathedral, why is Her Majesty content to sit in her carriage beneath the sun?”

  “The papers say it is to symbolize how the sun never sets upon the British Empire,” James replied. “The truth is, Her Majesty, at seventyeight, suffers from rheumatism and does not want to hobble from her coach before the multitude. I have also heard she will not be wearing her crown nor bearing her scepter, probably due to their weight. Whatever she wears, I’m sure it will become the latest fashion within the week.”

  Herman tipped his hat, his shaved scalp glistening in the sunlight. “I would never venture an opinion on women’s fashion, but I thank you for your forgiveness and your courtesy to a stranger. I wish you a pleasant Sunday, and no more unexpected downpours.”

  Herman turned and walked to the north, directly away from the boarding school, in hopes of drawing their eyes in his direction. There was a small café in the courtyard about a hundred yards away.

  He would be able to take a coffee and observe the trio. Having come into contact with them, he would have to proceed even more carefully. It was too late to make new plans, however. It was the boarding school or nothin
g.

  “What a pleasant fellow,” James said. He turned to me, “Except for the spill, of course.”

  I laughed. “I’ll need a bath when we return to the flat, but no permanent harm done.” I removed my scarf, as the fabric had dried enough that it was no longer needed to preserve my modesty. I replaced it in my bag and resumed my survey of the plaza. I wished I could recall the electricians’ guild comment about a fraudulent bill, but it still eluded me. Something about the cathedral.

  “We need to return and speak with the dean tomorrow,” I told James. “I recall, as I was leaving the guild hall, there was some comment about some electrical work done there.”

  James shook his head. “The day before the Jubilee? Why would he agree to see me on the second-busiest day of his life?”

  “Because,” Elizabeth said, “you’re the best detective at Scotland Yard, and you’re protecting the queen.”

  I grinned. “I agree with Elizabeth. He needs to speak with you. You just need to explain why.”

  Some men on horseback were slowly riding across the plaza, led by an older, one-armed gentleman. They were followed by two police constables, another well-dressed man in civilian attire, and a uniformed military officer.

  “Father, who are those gentlemen?” Elizabeth asked, pointing out the group.

  “The man in front, my dear, is the finest leader I’ve ever known. Police Commissioner Sir Edward Bradford. That’s his assistant behind him, and an officer of the household guards. They’re probably reviewing the security preparations.”

  I grabbed his arm. “Speak with him, James! A note from him would be sure to get you an audience with the dean.”

  “Now? Here?”

  “Yes, Father!” Elizabeth said. “If he’s the leader you say he is, he’ll understand why you need to see the dean. He’s sure to help!”

  “You’re right,” James said. “A note from him would not be ignored. Very well, but wait here, please. I don’t want this to look like a family outing.”

  “That’s only because he doesn’t know your family,” I said. “Go on!” James approached the head of the police agency responsible for the safety of over six million people and one sovereign. The man, despite the loss of his arm, rode his horse comfortably, using his knees more than his reins to direct his mount, the mark of an accomplished rider. When James stood before his horse and doffed his hat, Bradford halted.

  “Yes?” Sir Edward asked, his calm brown eyes studying the man before him. “What is it?”

  James produced his badge. “James Ethington, sir. Special Branch.”

  “Ah yes, Inspector. I’ve heard your name mentioned regarding our anarchist visitor, and also that sordid little affair in the Municipal Utilities Department. You’ve been a very busy man these past few days. Any progress to report on our assassin?”

  “I thought I had him cornered in the East End, sir. He killed one of our police constables before he escaped. I blame myself.”

  Bradford nodded. “I’ve ordered men to their death, Inspector. The man died in performance of his duty. His name was Williams, I believe?”

  James was impressed that, despite commanding a force of over fourteen thousand men, Bradford was aware of the death of one of them so soon.

  “Aye, sir. That’s correct.”

  The commissioner sighed. “I know you will never forget the loss, but I need you to focus on the task at hand. Any other news?”

  “Perhaps, Commissioner. I met with Professor Bell last night, and he recommended we look at moderately priced hotels within the city for our assassin, so I have shared this advisory with the force. Constables are making the rounds with his likeness.”

  “Excellent suggestion! Professor Bell comes highly recommended. How can I be of assistance?”

  “I need a brief audience with the dean of the cathedral tomorrow. If you could give me a note, it might enable me to see him in time.”

  “Very well, Inspector,” Bradford answered. He nodded to his assistant, and a note was quickly scribbled out and handed to him. Placing the reins into his teeth, the commissioner carefully signed the note on his left thigh and then handed it down. Taking the reins back, he said, “Please let me know what you find out, Inspector. You have my full support.”

  James saluted. It felt awkward yet appropriate at the same time. Bradford gave just a hint of a smile, to let James know his attempt at military protocol was somewhat lacking, but appreciated all the same.

  “Now then, Inspector, if there’s nothing else we have a queen to safeguard.”

  “God save the Queen!” James answered.

  “God helps those who help themselves, Inspector.” Without looking back, Bradford resumed his advance knowing the others would follow, with the confidence of one long accustomed to command.

  Herman observed this exchange, unsure what to make of it. He didn’t know who the one-armed man astride the black horse was, but he recognized a man in authority when he saw one. The conference was probably a report on the hunt for him. He sipped his coffee and picked up a Times left on the table by its last occupant. There was much about the ceremony and it wasn’t until he got to page eight that he found a small notice about the bobby he’d killed the day before.

  Herman wanted to go past the piece without reading it, but his eyes seemed to act of their own volition. Williams. Somehow giving the dead man a name made his crime more painful. Now he knew what name would be on the headstone, and he reflected that in a way he had engraved it with the squeeze of a trigger.

  Further down the page, there was a mention of how the man’s wife was due to have his first—and now only—child within the next few days. Herman put the paper down and looked across the plaza. He watched families strolling together. That’s all he wanted. His experience in Russia proved one crowned head was easily replaced by another. It seemed there was never a shortage of those wanting to adorn themselves with symbols of power.

  But families were real. Immanuel was real. In his effort to retrieve his son, he’d killed a father. He looked at the coffee grounds at the bottom of his cup. He’d heard the Turks could tell your fortune from them. He snorted. I can tell my own fortune. My only hope of salvation now is to raise my son to be a good man. Better than his father.

  He watched a military contingent ride by, rehearsing for the procession, and wondered why it seemed to take so much time and effort to teach men to ride in a straight line. Then two men carrying some strange-looking equipment, one a tripod, the other shiny tin canisters and a box with a handle on top. They sat down beside him. The man with the box and canisters seemed overburdened. He wiped his forehead before ordering coffee from the waiter.

  “Beg pardon,” Herman asked, “but what sort of apparatus are you carrying?”

  The tripod man appeared to be the leader, and it was he who answered.

  “Moving pictures, sir.” With his head, he indicated a small elevated platform at the north edge of the plaza. “We’re here to photograph the royal procession. It will be quite popular, I’m sure. Just imagine,” the man said, warming to his topic, “people throughout the empire will be able to see the queen’s carriage pass by, just as though they were here themselves. The thought of young Australian lads seeing their sovereign move as though she were right in front of them . . . Well, it makes me proud to be a part of it all. We live in exciting times!”

  Herman nodded without much enthusiasm, then an idea came to him. “Might I have your card, sir? Perhaps I could assist you in future. Your work sounds fascinating.”

  The man produced his card with a flourish.

  “James McIntyre, sir. At your service. And your name?”

  “Rodshenko, Boris Rodshenko. I am originally from Russia, obviously, but England is my home now. I wish you well on Tuesday. Perhaps we shall meet again.” Herman bowed and departed after placing the card into his vest pocket. People’s fascination with moving pictures might prove useful.

  45

  Sunday, June 20, cont.

&n
bsp; Commissioner Bradford sat astride his horse outside Buckingham Palace at the end of his six-mile ride. Though satisfied with the preparations for crowd control, he would never be satisfied as to Her Majesty’s safety.

  The household guards officer asked, “Shall we do the same tomorrow, Commissioner?” It was obvious which answer the man preferred as he cleared his throat.

  He’s naught to complain of, the old warrior thought. He should try leading a hunt for thuggees. Bradford’s experience had taught him that the gaudier the uniform, the less capable the soldier. Shining buttons soon took priority over tactical proficiency.

  “Yes for me, no for you,” he said, irritated by the man’s ill-disguised relief. “I’ve memorized the route and everything along it. If our assassin plants any bombs along the way, I should notice the change. You are dismissed.” Go get your plumes fluffed, or whatever it is you do with them.

  Herman returned to the hotel and paused when he saw a police constable talking with the clerk, Herman’s mustachioed likeness in the bobby’s hand. Herman sat down on a threadbare chair in the lobby, his Times in front of his face as he listened in.

  “You seen a man what looks like this?” asked the constable.

  There was a long pause. Herman, blinded by the paper, couldn’t tell if the man was shrugging his shoulders or pointing at him. He tensed to run when the clerk answered, “Nay, Constable. No handlebar mustaches as fine as that. What’s he done?”

  “Killed one of ours, is what. Shot in the head. If I’m the one who nabs him, he’ll have more than a few knots on his noggin before I give him up. Now, look again. Harder. Maybe he’s shaved that lip brush off. I would, if every constable in London were after me. Think hard.”