Dance with Death

by Will Thomas

  It’s strange. I had never thought of a medal before the man darkened our door and now I was bereft. No medal at all! No medal to wear on my lapel or display on a table, none to polish and admire. None to show to my friends while boorishly gushing over the events. Blast it. I sulked, which only makes the Guv pugnacious, which in turn made me sulk all the more. There he sat, scratching his neck. Who knows what he was thinking. He could be considering dinner for all I knew. Finally I could take no more and stood.

  “I think I’ll take a walk,” I said.

  He didn’t answer yea or nay. He made no comment, no comic retort, no wise aphorism. He scratched his chin while I left.

  It was hot in London that afternoon. I wandered to Trafalgar Square, waved a foot at a few pigeons, and looked for someplace cool to sit. I found a public house not far from St. Martin-in-the-Fields, went downstairs to the basement, and nursed a Pimm’s. It was dark and quiet and cool and as good a place as any to lick one’s wounds.

  I’m not the sort to be heaped with honors and praise. To be truthful, I never ask or expect it, because I find that a high in one area of my life often produces a low in another. Now, granted, lows can come by themselves and lows can even generate other lows, but so far I’d never had a high generate another high. Don’t put on airs or raise your chin, or as my grandfather used to say: don’t give the devil a shoe to kick you with.

  Poor old Waverly. He’d have to go back to the palace and tell the queen’s secretary that the grand honor bestowed had been refused. Would the queen have to know? I don’t know why it mattered if she did. She wouldn’t be disappointed to find out two fellows she had never met had refused an honor, if she’d even be told at all. But still, I could picture her shaking her head in disapproval.

  It would have been amazing, though. It could have changed everything. It would have balanced that blot on my record and I wouldn’t care a fig if Munro called me Prisoner Number 7502. I’d just rattle my medal in his ugly face.

  I would have to explain to Rebecca why I turned down an honor and she wouldn’t understand. The whole subject of Men’s Honor gets very complicated and is nearly impossible to explain. I could have said, “Yes, please,” to Waverly, but my partnership with Barker would have dissolved before I even received it. He cannot work with a man he doesn’t respect.

  The Pimm’s tasted like gall. I don’t even drink Pimm’s. I don’t know why I ordered it. I suppose it sounded cool on a warm day.

  Outside the public house, I rose an arm and summoned a cab.

  “Kensington Palace, please,” I said, climbing aboard.

  “The palace?” said the cabman. “Oh, lawks. Give Princess Mary a kiss from me.”

  He clicked his teeth and the gelding began to move. A quarter hour later, I was where it all began, squatting over a spot of grass until I found what I was looking for, a minute fragment of bone gleaming among the blades. I’d been standing right there when Joseph Bayles’s head came off. One minute I was thinking about how nicely full of Welsh rarebit I was, and the next I was wrestling with an assassin. With my finger I pushed the bit of bone deeper into the ground, giving it a burial of sorts. Then I stood and looked about.

  There were dozens of trees from which a man could shoot. However, he would have to crawl down in broad daylight where he could be easily spotted. There were rows of shops and restaurants across the street, but there was also a wrought-iron fence in the way. Even a professional assassin—if such a thing exists—would have trouble siting a moving target through a grid of iron bars. Some of the buildings across the road were taller than others, a few providing a commanding view over the fence, but it was a good distance and the trees along the avenue were in the way. That only left one possible location for the assassin: on the roof of the palace itself, which was just as Barker suspected, drat the fellow.

  “Sir?”

  A guardsman from the palace was standing a dozen feet away, holding a rifle. Not brandishing it, mind, merely holding it, but that was menacing enough.

  “Yes, sir?” I replied.

  “Sir, you are moving about in a very suspicious manner. I must ask you to leave.”

  “I was just … Wait, I know you,” I said. “The last time I saw you we were both covered in gore.”

  “You’re right,” he replied. “It is you. What are you doing out here?”

  I handed him my card. “I’m still enquiring.”

  “You and Scotland Yard and the ruddy Home Office and the Russian police.”

  “Oh?” I asked. “Not you guardsmen yourself? This is your plot of land. I’d have thought the lot of you would be over this place inch by inch.”

  “It’s ours,” he agreed. “And we have.”

  “They looked down their noses at you soldier boys, didn’t they? No one can tell a Scotland Yarder anything, and as for the Home Office men, they’ll think nothing of you unless you read history at Cambridge.”

  “You’re right there, sir,” he answered. “Butter don’t melt in their mouths. I hope they choke on it.”

  “You lads know every inch of this park, and I’m sure you’ve talked among yourselves. By the way, I didn’t get your name.”

  “Corporal Alan Dinsdale.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Corporal. Thomas Llewelyn. Did you come to any conclusions?”

  “Only that he was a bloody ghost. Comes in, goes out, makes no noise, leaves no sign. We climbed every tree from here to Hyde Park looking for scratches. Nothing. We climbed to the roof of every building within sight of this spot. Nothing. A ghost, I tell you.”

  “What about the palace itself?” I asked. “A man could shoot from the roof.”

  Dinsdale smiled. “You don’t know what you’re saying, sir. Every door is locked and secured. We tug on them or check the lock each time we pass. I don’t think—”

  I held up a hand. “Tell me, are you free anytime tomorrow to speak to my partner, Mr. Barker? He was the big fellow with the dark spectacles, if you recall. He’s very good at asking just the right questions.”

  “Well, I’m off guard duty at six o’clock every night this week. Then it’s back to the barracks.”

  “Mr. Barker has a chef who can cook anything you might want. He also has a butler who makes the best porter in London. Could you do with a good meal at a rich man’s expense, a strapping lad like you?”

  He considered the matter.

  “Anything you want,” I continued. “Beef Wellington to bangers and mash, you name it. I can get you fancy French food. I can even get you Chinese food, if you like. Where are you from?”

  “Whitby.”

  “Seafood, then? A couple of lobsters?”

  “I am uncommonly fond of lobsters. And oysters!”

  “A wise choice,” I agreed. “My partner does like his oysters. Answer some questions for him and you’ll have a meal your comrades will think you invented.”

  “There are some things we are not allowed to talk about.”

  “Well, of course. Yours is a very important occupation, protecting the most famous family in the world.”

  “I suppose I could come, then.”

  “We’re in Newington, by the Elephant and Castle. Number three Lion Street. Every cabman knows it. We’ll see you then.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  We’d been walking toward the palace as we talked. He was on duty, after all. As we reached the portico, two men came around the corner from the east entrance. One was Jim Hercules. The other was Cyrus Barker. He nearly smiled when he saw me.

  “I assumed you were off for the day,” the Guv rumbled. “Holding packages for Mrs. Llewelyn.”

  “There is a case to solve, sir,” I said. “One can’t traipse about London with an assassin on the loose.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Hello, Mr. Hercules,” I said. “How is the tsarevich?”

  “He’s fit to be tied,” our client said with an easy grin. “The only women he’s being introduced to are more than three times his age.”
<
br />   Barker nodded. “Mr. Hercules believes that the tsarevich is chafing under his confinement. It appears the palace should remain vigilant. As should we.”

  He turned and regarded the guardsman beside me.

  “Mr. Barker, this is Corporal Alan Dinsdale. I have taken the liberty of inviting him to dinner. Corporal, this is my partner, Cyrus Barker.”

  “Have you, indeed?” the Guv asked.

  “I have. He is a Yorkshireman with a fondness for oysters.”

  “I am fond of them myself,” Barker said.

  “May I join you gentlemen?” Jim Hercules asked.

  I happened to glance up in time to see the corporal’s eyes widen. I believe he found the idea of sharing oysters with an American Negro alarming.

  “I’ll be happy to invite you to my home another time, Mr. Hercules,” the Guv said. “However, for the moment, you have an amorous royal to protect, if only from himself.”

  Hercules nodded, but he looked hurt, as if doubting he would ever be invited to our home. Barker put out an arm, directing Dinsdale forward. Just then, my employer turned his head and looked down at the tree-lined path leading to the palace’s Orangery. Halfway down the row there was a woman sitting on a bench. He watched her for a second, no more, but I noticed it. Barker doesn’t make casual gestures. I would have looked closer but Barker hurried me along.

  That evening, the Guv and I went to our bar-jutsu class. The night was fine. There was a cool breeze and night descended with a steady calm and air of peace. It seemed to not understand what was going on under its very nose. No one shot at me that night, either coming to Glasshouse Street or leaving, but a thought occurred to me. The assassin had to have known my destination in order to shoot at me. He’d fired at me in Craig’s Court because he was already there. It would take more than a minute or two to set up the air rifle and aim. That was good to know, because as Barker would say, forewarned is forearmed.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The next morning after services, we went to Kensington Palace for my shooting lesson with Nicholas. Barker accompanied me knowing that he would be excluded. I was sure he would find Hercules or wander the halls looking for information.

  When we arrived, we met a servant in the hall. I believe servants should display an insignia of some sort on their uniforms, so one can know a first footman from a second. This fellow could have been anyone from head butler to silver polisher.

  “Sir,” Barker called to him.

  “Just Bingham will do,” the fellow replied. “How may I help you gentlemen?”

  “My name is Cyrus Barker. This is Mr. Thomas Llewelyn. He is here for a shooting lesson with the tsarevich of Russia.”

  “I am aware, sir. It is on the schedule.”

  Bingham was approaching fifty. He was clean-shaven and going gray at the temples in a manner most men would hope for.

  “Is Grand Duke Sergei Mikhailovich here today?” the Guv asked. “I’d like to speak to him at his leisure.”

  Bingham’s brow rose. He was very good at the cold disdain business.

  “All the royals and dignitaries are in the ballroom for a rehearsal.”

  “Of the wedding?” I asked.

  “Of the parade, Mr. Llewelyn. It is where each dignitary learns where his or her carriage will be. In what order, I mean. Some will be disappointed, I fear.”

  “I hope we will not be among the disappointed,” Barker answered. “Mr. Llewelyn and I shall wait in the Orangery until the tsarevich requests us.”

  “Very good, Mr. Barker.”

  He left us and I watched him go. For the first time it occurred to me that Nicholas was only one of the palace’s problems.

  “I notice he stopped calling you sir,” I remarked. “Servants make the worst snobs.”

  “Aye,” the Guv said. “But I don’t care how I am treated as long as I can speak to the grand duke.”

  “I wonder how long we will have to wait.”

  “I assume that will be determined by whether he is satisfied with his position in the procession.”

  It proved to be a brief wait by royal standards. We were there no more than thirty minutes before we heard boots echoing in the chamber nearby. They almost seemed to be running. A moment later, the door burst open and two men entered, chuckling to each other. One was the grand duke, but I did not recognize the other.

  “Oh, my soul,” the young man said. “Thank you, gentlemen. You have saved us. We were in there over two hours. It’s straight from the Bible, you know. The least will be first, but the first want to be last. The further behind, the more important you are, until there’s Aunt Victoria all by herself.”

  “Sir, we are Cyrus Barker and Thomas Llewelyn,” my partner said. “Mr. Llewelyn is here for Nicholas’s shooting lesson.”

  “Forgive our manners,” Sergei said. “This is Prince George of Greece and Denmark. We are cousins of Nikolai Alexandrovich.”

  Prince George bowed.

  The duke sat, or rather fell, into a chair, and ran a hand over his bald pate. He looked at me and I saw a bit of confusion on his face and then he recognized me.

  “You’re that cockalorum who was conspiring with Mathilde the other day.”

  “Yes, sir, I was.”

  “And you’re here now to teach Nicholas how to shoot? You seem to be everywhere.”

  “There is an enquiry going on,” I pointed out. “A man was killed.”

  “I thought a tramp was killed,” the duke insisted. “A madman.”

  “It was in fact an attempt upon the tsarevich,” I replied. “The shooter confused his identity with Prince George of England.”

  “The similarity in appearance between the two men is remarkable,” said Barker.

  “It is,” the prince answered, smiling. “Even we get confused at times.”

  Barker cleared his throat. “The assassin was in Mr. Llewelyn’s grip when he was killed.”

  The prince shook his head. “Wait. The assassin was assassinated?”

  “That is correct. Your Highness, did you come to England as a representative of Greece and Denmark for the wedding or as support for the tsarevich?”

  “Both, actually, Mr. Barker. There was no need for either country to send an ambassador if I could go in their stead.”

  “Very wise, I’m sure,” Barker replied. He turned to Sergei. “And you, sir?”

  “Nikolai is my cousin,” the grand duke said. “This is his first visit outside of Russia since that unfortunate incident last year in Japan. He wanted his friends with him for support. I was in Paris at loose ends so I agreed to join him and here I am.”

  “It is helpful to have cousins upon whom you can rely,” my partner replied. “And how are you acquainted with Miss Kschessinska?”

  The grand duke looked uncomfortable. He ran a hand over his head as if to cover it from Barker’s harsh gaze.

  “I escort her, provide for her, ferry her through governmental and legal regulations, and see that she trains vigorously, for she is the greatest dancer in the world.”

  “She is also the mistress of your cousin,” Barker said.

  Sergei shrugged. “We are not puritanical Englishmen, sir. Rulers keep mistresses and always have. Marriages are arranged between grand families for the sake of bloodlines and treaties and they rarely result in a love match. I wish they did, and I especially hope it will work out for my cousin.”

  “With a mistress?”

  “Mr. Barker, this is a complicated situation. He loves them both, you see. He fell in love with Alix when he was fourteen, but she has refused to marry him because he is Orthodox and she is Lutheran. It hurt him greatly. Wishing to divert him, the tsar took him to the ballet and to a party afterward where he introduced Nikolai to Mathilde. She was meant to be a diversion.”

  “Quite,” Barker answered, looking uncomfortable. “I assume the arrangement continues while the queen sorts matters with Princess Alexandra. What happens if the princess finally agrees to become his wife and tsarina of Russia
?”

  “Then the die is cast and he will marry her,” Sergei replied.

  “And what of the little Sugar Plum Fairy?” I asked.

  “I will continue to meet her financial needs and offer support until my cousin decides whether he can remain faithful to Alix.”

  “And then?” Barker pressed.

  “Then I will arrange a pension for her, which I hope will be provided by the government. Nikolai has no money and sweet Mathilde is bleeding me dry. We shall put pressure upon the Imperial Mariinsky Theatre to make her their prima ballerina and the toast of Saint Petersburg. I hope it will be enough for her. What are you laughing at, Georgie?”

  Prince George had lit a cigarette and the remark had set him coughing.

  “I’m trying to imagine Mathilde satisfied with anything,” he said. “For a poor girl from Poland she certainly has a taste for finer things. How large was that ring you bought her last Christmas?”

  “Three carats,” Sergei admitted.

  “I’ll bet a thousand kroners it’s still sitting in the box.”

  “I get the impression Miss Kschessinska would very much like to be the tsarina of Russia,” I said.

  “You noticed that, did you?” George drawled, taking another puff of his cigarette. “She’s an ambitious little minx. Do you know what she just did? She wrote to Alix and told her to go away, that Nicky was hers.”

  Barker made a grunt that might have been a chuckle. One couldn’t know for sure.

  “A spirited girl,” he said. “And what was the response?”

  “Alix laughed,” Sergei said, looking down at his boots. “There was no written reply, but word got back from her ladies-in-waiting. Mathilde was beside herself with rage. She smashed the contents of her hotel room to bits. More of my money to replace everything. Some nights she comforts herself by drinking absinthe and imagining her life as tsarina.”

  “Would the Church be so barmy as to accept a ballerina as the wife of the tsar?” George asked. “I hardly think so.”

  “She does have sway over Nicholas, you must admit,” Sergei replied.

  “My money is on Alix,” George replied. “And the sooner he packs off his little dancer, the better.”