Dance with Death

by Will Thomas

  “And William Morris?”

  “He is a tired old man. His heyday was twenty years hence. He is a national treasure, I suppose, but he is out of fashion, or so I should imagine. A man with gout is not capable of climbing rooftops to assassinate anyone.”

  “I didn’t claim he assassinated Mr. Bayles himself, only that he paid someone else to do it.”

  Barker pursed his lips. “I could imagine him doing such a thing as proof Socialism is still viable to the modern revolutionary. But it is too late. This is not 1860. The twentieth century is almost on the horizon. Now Miss Marx, there was a candidate. What did you say about her? She’s too…?”

  “She’s too perfect,” I supplied. “It’s intimidating.”

  “She is very capable,” Barker agreed. “And she is driven. I imagine she is the first at a meeting and the last to leave. Lazy members lay their burdens on her shoulders. And she makes little money at it, and so must translate books to provide for herself and perform onstage in the evenings, which in itself must be exhausting. Yet she endures.”

  “Yes, but there are many Marxists in Russia and England, and she is the daughter of its founder,” I reminded my partner. “If she had hired the assassin, it would strike a large blow and start the revolution.”

  “As I said, she would have made a good candidate,” the Guv replied. “She is dynamic, articulate, and can even shoot a pistol. She has her father’s mind and were she a man she would be an MP by now. Yet she is a single woman and therefore a slave to all.”

  “And what of Mathilde Kschessinska?” I asked. We stopped by the river on the Embankment under the globe lights and watched the water. “Perhaps Sergei will take the blame for her actions. That is something he would do.”

  “It is,” Barker agreed. “However, she did not kill Nicholas when she had the chance. She postured and threatened, but that is all. She’ll be dealt with at the appropriate time.”

  We watched a fish jump above the surface, snap up a mayfly, and slip back into the river.

  “Did you consider anyone else?” I asked.

  Barker mulled the question. “I considered Prince George of Greece, but could find no reason to suspect him. He’s the most upstanding royal we’ve met during this case. He isn’t tied to the Russian royal family and he is intelligent enough to give someone like Mathilde Kschessinska a wide berth.”

  I turned and looked away from the river, then froze. We were out in the open. I was a perfect target for Sofia Ilyanova’s air rifle. Barker stared at the buildings across the river.

  “She’s asleep, Thomas. A sharpshooter requires rest. We should be asleep as well. Tomorrow will mean everything.”

  We found a late cab and went home. Mac met us at the door in full dress at nearly three in the morning. He held a finger to his lips. My wife was sound asleep on the sofa in the front room. All this danger and excitement and I assumed she had gone back to bed like any other night. I was neither the best nor the brightest of husbands. In fact, I feared I was among the worst and dimmest.

  Barker gave her the briefest of tender looks for her steadfastness and left the room. I woke her gently and we went upstairs together.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  And so the fateful day dawned. Birds twittered in the trees of Newington. The entire city was preparing for a royal wedding. It had been declared a holiday and people were released to enjoy the pomp, the pageantry, and the spectacle. It was a truly wonderful day, one to tell grandchildren about in years to come.

  After some deliberation, Barker and I agreed that Rebecca could be freed from her imprisonment in order to see the parade. She would have two bodyguards with her in case of danger: Mac, and Sarah Fletcher. We were paying for Miss Fletcher’s services, but we knew it was an outing, an outing Jacob Maccabee was very much looking forward to. I was still mystified. What he could find to admire in Miss Fletcher eluded me, but then I compared every woman in London to my wife, and found them wanting.

  Rebecca came out from behind her screen in a powder blue dress that made my heart beat faster. I knew what it was like to look at a truly beautiful woman and realize that she was my wife. Oh, luckiest of men. This was what Sergei had tried to kill for.

  “I wish you were coming with us,” she said, adjusting her hair in the mirror.

  “No more than I,” I replied.

  She turned to look at me. “You will be careful.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  We descended the stair. Mac was in the hall with Sarah Fletcher. I don’t know which surprised me more. Miss Fletcher wore a dress in bright yellow, accented in white. Her straw hat had a matching band and she had white gloves and a parasol. There was an attempt at artifice on her hair, which I suspected was my wife’s doing.

  As for Mac, well, I gawked. He wore an ivory-colored suit with a tan waistcoat and a salmon-colored tie. His pocket handkerchief was folded to points and his boater hat was tilted at what for him must have been a rakish angle. He wore tan spats over white shoes. Both he and Miss Fletcher looked simultaneously nervous and happy. Rebecca took Sarah’s other arm and waved to me as they left. The door closed behind them with a finality. It was suddenly deathly quiet. Harm waddled up in front of me and regarded me with his head cocked to the side. He seemed to be asking what I was still doing there. I reached to pet him, but he backed out of range, then wandered slowly down the hall and scratched at the back door. I let him do as he wished. Etienne had fed him and he had plenty of shade and water outside.

  Barker came down then, with a creak of wooden stairs. He was dressed, as always, in a black cutaway and waistcoat with striped trousers. His tie was a deep red over a wing-tipped collar and he wore a pin in the tie. Only the pin changed daily. He had a wardrobe of near-identical clothing. Mine matched his, for the most part. I had ties in various colors, but nothing he would object to.

  “Where do we begin?” I asked.

  “Pall Mall to start, then we’ll make our way to the Mall.”

  As it turned out, we had to be let down from our cab a few streets away. London was teeming with people. The wedding morn was fine, warm but not hot. People had come from as far as Inverness and Dublin in Britain and there were royals and diplomats from every nation on earth. It was a show of strength on Her Majesty’s part. All nations bowed to her empire.

  “How do you think Clubland feels about that?” I asked, pointing to a row of carts. I smelled them before I saw them. Sausages sizzling in onions. Fresh toffee. Meat pies and pasties. Potatoes roasted in bacon fat. Fish-and-chips.

  Everything was at its best. There were swags of buntings between the buildings; banners and flags everywhere twitching in the light breeze. I imagined the gentlemen’s clubs were full of elderly men trying their best to get away from the crowds of commoners.

  “Do you see anything?” I asked as we craned our necks.

  “No, but I’ll wager she isn’t far from here. The crowds provide anonymity.”

  “I’d shoot from the top of the building there,” I said, pointing at the Queen’s Chapel.

  “Would you, Mr. Llewelyn?” the Guv asked. “That’s good to know.”

  We pushed our way through crowds the length of Pall Mall until we reached the corner of St. James’s Street and Pall Mall. We looked one way. Behind a gate was St. James’s Palace, with the chapel across from it. The other way was a row of open shops and a large theater.

  “Thomas, work your way around to the Mall and send as many urchins as possible this way.”

  “Right.”

  I did not run, but I hurried. I had to go back to where we left the cab, then cross to the Mall. The closer I came, the more amazed I was by the size of the crowds and the shouting. The anarchist protesters were there, but were kept under the watchful eye of Scotland Yard. Every item they carried was examined for a possible weapon. I was looking for a professional assassin with a revolutionary air rifle, while they were taking away a workingman’s penknife. But then, either one could kill a monarch, I suppose.
/>
  “You there,” I said when I passed one of the urchins. “Got your whistle?”

  “Got it, sir,” he replied.

  “Mr. Barker thinks the assassin will be over in Pall Mall, by the palace.”

  “On the level?” he asked.

  “On the level,” I answered. “Pass the word. Here’s sixpence for you. Have an ice cream.”

  “Fanks, mister!” he shouted as he ran off.

  I sauntered along with my hands in my pockets, the only one aware that I had a pistol in the waistband of my trousers. The sun was bright and I was glad to have a hat. It would be over an hour before the parade was to begin up the Mall from Buckingham Palace, to the lesser St. James’s Palace.

  I passed our little party. Rebecca has an amazing ability to strike up conversations with perfect strangers that often turn into friendships. At the moment, she’d found a woman providing equal parts history and gossip. I’m sure the woman had repeated the news verbatim four or five times that day so far, but it was new to Rebecca, Mac, and Miss Fletcher. I joined them for a moment or two but everyone understood that I was working. I found two more boys with whistles and sent them west to Pall Mall.

  The Mall itself was a terrible place for an assassin to work. It was an open drive with trees spaced along it. Buildings were distant in every direction and I could not imagine La Sylphide being able to hit a target, which is to say, the head and shoulders of a future tsar, all that would be visible to anyone on the Mall. However, when the procession turned into the drive, he would become a better target from any of the upper windows in the clubs on the north side of the gate. This was where Nicholas was in danger of being assassinated. Sofia Ilyanova was somewhere nearby, I knew it.

  I reached the drive near the palace and turned back. There was activity, men in top hats directing members of the royal family into open carriages. I hurried back, circling around the outer ends of the crowds. The thought occurred to me that I might lose Barker entirely in the thousands of people packed into a few streets. Afterward, I returned to Pall Mall. When I turned toward the gate, Hesketh Pierce was right beside me.

  “Morning, Llewelyn,” he said. “Does Mr. Barker believe the shooting will come from here?”

  “I believe so, yes,” I answered. “It is the most logical place.”

  “We’ve gained access to the top floor of almost every building in this street. There were only a few venerable clubs who refused. They remember William the Fourth as a young upstart.”

  “If La Sylphide uses one of those clubs for her attempt on Nicholas, there will be hell to pay,” I stated.

  “Does Mr. Barker really believe the killer is a woman?”

  “She has murdered at least one acquaintance of mine.”

  “That was before my time,” Pierce said. “Mr. Barker!”

  Pierce skipped forward and we found the Guv still standing on the corner as fixed and solid as the red postal box at his side.

  “Is there anything you can tell me, sir?” Barker asked.

  “Nicholas is in the first group of carriages, consisting of foreign royals and ambassadors of many countries. The first group contains the largest number of carriages, after which will be the bride and her attendants, followed by Prince George and the Prince of Wales, and lastly, of course, the queen herself. The Home Office is here, as well as Scotland Yard and the Queen’s Guard. Really, gentlemen. This is well organized. You may go home if you wish. You caught the scamp last night. His ship left this morning and he will never darken our shores again. You must be tired.”

  I was, in fact, but I needn’t have asked if we would see it through. Of course we would. There was no question of us not doing all we could to help Nicholas survive long enough to marry and become tsar.

  “Scotland Yard has their hands full with this crowd,” Pierce commented, looking at the vendors doing a brisk trade.

  “I’m sure Munro would like to send all the East Enders back to Poplar, but the poor can’t afford any other entertainment than a free peek at Her Majesty. Such a sight they’d travel miles for.”

  “And have,” my partner added.

  “Why, Pierce,” I said. “You’re a secret Socialist.”

  He laughed at the thought and turned to speak to a group of constables standing nearby. Barker and I explored St. James’s Street, which was laid out in a straight line to the gate.

  There was a public house, unimaginatively named the St. James, a sweet shop doing brisk trade, a theater in the middle of a small performance, a tattered bookshop I felt the urge to visit, and shops to let. On the other side were mostly businesses. An assayer, a dentist, an estate agent, a solicitor, and another To-Let building at the very front.

  “I’d investigate the first building there,” I said. “It looks promising for an assassin.”

  “No, lad. It’s too far west and there’s a brick post holding up the gate. She’d have to lean out into the street to find a proper shot.”

  “Look there,” I said, pointing across the street.

  He turned. There was a small figure standing on one of the roofs. Very small indeed.

  “It’s the lone girl we saw during your speech. She appears to be sucking on a lolly.”

  “I reckon she must have climbed the drainpipe, the wee monkey,” the Guv replied.

  “I see one, two, no, three other children on the roofs. But men—I assume Home Office men—are shooing them down.”

  “As you told me, fifty pounds is a lot of money.”

  “I say twenty would have done.”

  “We promised fifty, and fifty it shall be. I gave them my word.”

  I waited for a cab to pass, then stepped into the street. I stood for a moment and then returned to the curb. “Someone could shoot from a hansom cab, sir. A straight shot if they aim high, which Sofia Ilyanova would do.”

  “Good thinking, Thomas,” Barker said.

  Off in the distance we heard a muffled cheer. The procession had begun.

  “We’re in for it now,” I murmured, my stomach beginning to tighten.

  “Remember, Thomas, we are not solely responsible for keeping the tsarevich safe.”

  “That’s true, sir, and you made a promise to Jim Hercules that we would save Nicholas.”

  “It was a business arrangement, Thomas. Let us not forget that Mr. Hercules is merely a client. Do not allow yourself to be personally invested in the case.”

  “But Jim is a nice chap and for all his faults I rather liked the tsarevich. He is rambunctious.”

  “More foolhardy,” my partner grumbled.

  We heard a second cheer, closer this time. I found myself holding my breath and I exhaled. Barker was right. We would do what we could but we were not responsible for Nicky’s complete defense

  I looked about. Everyone had stopped moving. They all held their breath, as I did. People craned their necks for a good view. Children sat on their fathers’ shoulders. Some were frustrated by their neighbors’ hats. The food trade had suddenly fallen off. Even Barker was up on his toes, awaiting the first carriage.

  A final cheer sounded, closer than before. I could barely see the Mall, where the first carriages would turn on to Marlborough Road and into St. James’s Street.

  Minutes passed and then the first carriage rolled into view, a resplendent white landau. I could not recognize the occupants inside, but I’d bet Sofia knew which one it was. She was not the sort of person to make a mistake. Or miss.

  A second carriage arrived, a third. I realized it would not work to shoot from a hansom cab. The aim was too low. The back vehicles were obscured by the white geldings in front.

  “I can’t see the tsarevich,” I said. “There are too many blasted carriages in the way.”

  I tried to step up on a pole, but a constable immediately shooed me down. Then I heard it. The entire crowd did. Heads turned, wondering what made the sound. One plaintive note. I looked up. It was the little girl and she was pointing away from the gate. She was blowing that blasted whistle so
loudly, I feared for her lungs.

  Then two whistles, then five, then ten. Sofia Ilyanova was poised and she was about to shoot.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I saw the girl point, but the exact location was vague. Most likely, I concluded, it was at the theater, which looked like a cross between the Lyceum and the Tower of London. There were turrets and sunroofs and chimney stacks thrust chockablock upon each other. It was the perfect place from which to assassinate a royal.

  We were hemmed in by a thousand people cheering for the royal couple. Slipping through them proved to be difficult. Men gave way for the Guv, if they knew what’s good for them, but they didn’t feel the need to show me any respect. There were also women about with children, which made pushing impolite. So I struggled along in Barker’s wake, which had pretty well been my life for the last nine years.

  Then, a hundred yards ahead, I caught a glimpse of her, the merest glimpse. Her appearance at the entrance of the theater was met by a dozen whistles or more from boys hoping to find and even capture her. She stood at bay for a moment and when one youth tried to seize her, she put a boot in his chest and kicked him into the street. Then she turned and fled into the depths of the theater.

  We reached the entrance less than a minute later and opened the door in time to see her vault onto the stage itself, in the middle of a performance, no less. Appropriately enough, they were doing She Stoops to Conquer. The audience was shocked. The actors onstage were aghast. Sofia Ilyanova, however, continued her trajectory without a care in the world.

  I knew what would happen next. It wasn’t my first case. We ran down the aisle, then jumped onstage. Barker barreled through the actors as if they were skittles, and the only thing I could think of to do was to call “Sorry” over my shoulder. I’m certain that didn’t do much in the way of making amends for interrupting their performance, but one had to admit our little melodrama was far more entertaining than theirs.