Watchers of the Dead

by Simon Beaufort

  Contents

  Cover

  Recent titles by Simon Beaufort from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Recent titles by Simon Beaufort from Severn House

  The Alec Lonsdale Series

  MIND OF A KILLER

  WATCHERS OF THE DEAD

  The Sir Geoffrey Mappestone Series

  MURDER IN THE HOLY CITY

  A HEAD FOR POISONING

  THE BISHOP’S BROOD

  THE KING’S SPIES

  THE COINERS’ QUARREL

  DEADLY INHERITANCE

  THE BLOODSTAINED THRONE

  A DEAD MAN’S SECRET

  Other Titles

  THE MURDER HOUSE

  THE KILLING SHIP

  WATCHERS OF THE DEAD

  Simon Beaufort

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  This eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  Copyright © 2019 by Simon Beaufort.

  The right of Simon Beaufort to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8891-4 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-595-4 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0214-7 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  For Dusty, Henrietta, Florrie, Sybil, Olive, and Hulda

  PROLOGUE

  Windsor, Thursday 2 March 1882

  Roderick Maclean was going to kill the Queen. He had made his decision a week or two before but had confirmed it beyond all doubt the previous night, when he had been huddled in a tiny room with no fireplace, trying to stave off the chill. He had eaten virtually nothing for two days, and had been so cold that he could barely feel his hands and feet. He could not recall ever feeling so low and miserable. And all the while, the sounds of merriment came from Windsor Castle – of laughter, and people eating and drinking in warm, companionable luxury. It was hardly an equitable state of affairs.

  Nor was his current poverty appropriate for a man who enjoyed a special relationship with God. Ever since infancy, the Almighty had read his thoughts and spoken to him personally about the mysteries of the universe. Because of this divine favour, jealous people had made his life a misery. They always wore the colour blue, which was an outrage, because God had created that particular hue for him, and no one else. They had committed him to asylums more than once, not to mention poisoning his relationship with his family – after all, there had to be some reason why his brothers declined to keep him in the lavish style he deserved, and only sent him a few measly shillings each week.

  The Queen had joined the ranks of Maclean’s enemies about five years earlier. He considered himself a poet and was sure Her Majesty would be honoured to hear from her most talented subject. He had sent her an ode about her love for Prince Albert, but she had not even deigned to read it. Instead, a Lady Biddulph had written, stating that the Queen ‘never accepted manuscript poetry’. It was no way to treat God’s chosen!

  Now Maclean would send the ungrateful Queen – the woman he referred to as ‘that old lady Mrs Vic who is an accursed robber in all senses’ – to her Maker.

  He reached inside his coat and felt the cold, hard metal of the revolver he had purchased in Portsea the week before for 5s. 9d – money raised by selling his beloved concertina and only scarf. He could have exchanged it for food or a bed for a few nights, but he had resisted the temptation. Once Mrs Vic was dead, he would not need a flea-infested cot in some shabby hostel, because he would be famous. Newspaper reporters from all over the world would want to buy his story.

  Moments before, he had been happily settled in the first-class waiting room at the Great Western Railway Station, writing a letter to explain why he had killed the Queen. But the stationmaster had taken one look at his threadbare coat and grimy bowler hat and asked him to leave. Maclean ground his teeth in impotent anger at the insult.

  He eased through the waiting crowd of people eager for a glimpse of the short, portly widow, monarch of the greatest empire that had ever existed. He stationed himself near a gateway that the royal cavalcade would have to pass through en route to the castle and looked around. Nearby were several photographers, one of whom might even catch the assassination with a camera. In his mind’s eye, Maclean saw himself posing with the Queen’s dead body, like the great hunters did in Africa when they felled a lion.

  A hiss of steam and the squeal of wheels on rails signalled the arrival of the train. There was an anticipatory murmur from the crowd, and Maclean scowled at two Eton boys who jostled him as they pushed by. They regarded him haughtily, tall hats tipped back on their heads. He could tell they considered him beneath their contempt, and decided in that instant that they would die, too. Their kind – arrogant and entitled – brought nothing good to the world, and the country would be better off without them.

  For several long minutes, nothing happened, and Maclean began to wonder if Mrs Vic had nodded off inside her carriage, and everyone would have to wait for hours until she stirred. He began to shiver – his thin coat was no protection against a bitter March evening, and he missed his scarf sorely.

  Then came a bray of important voices. Princess Beatrice, the Queen’s youngest daughter, alighted from the train and crossed the platform. Courtiers flowed at her heels, and there was a flurry of activity as the waiting carriages were readied. A door was opened and steps pulled out. Relaxed and confident, Beatrice turned to chat to the woman walking behind her – the Duchess of Roxburghe, Mistress of the Robes.

  The two were joined by the Queen’s Equerry, Colonel Sir John McNeill, and his friend, Colonel Sir Algernon Fleetwood-Pelham, one of Her Majesty’s Grooms-in-Waiting, known for being something of a gossip. Maclean gripped the pistol harder. All four were intimates of Mrs Vic and might even have encouraged her to reject his beautiful poem. After the Queen and the Eton boys, they would pay the price. He had bu
llets enough for all of them.

  Even as he imagined the shock on their haughty faces when he opened fire, the Queen waddled out. She was smiling, something she rarely did in public. Maclean knew she was taunting him, gloating because she was wearing a blue sash, the colour God had reserved for him. Rage surged inside him. She was handed into the carriage, and the cavalcade began to move, grey ponies straining at their traces. Maclean hauled out his gun and took aim.

  The shot rang out and people screamed. Maclean prepared to fire again. But one of the photographers – a slight, sandy-haired fellow named James Burnside – acted without thought for his own safety. He seized Maclean’s wrist and twisted the revolver from his hand.

  Maclean tried to squirm free, but Burnside was too strong. Then a policeman – Superintendent Hayes of the Windsor Police – surged forward and grabbed Maclean’s other arm. Moments later, the two Eton boys joined the melee, striking Maclean with their umbrellas. He cried out in pain and tried to explain about God, the colour blue, and his lovely poem, but no one would listen.

  Except one man, who watched thoughtfully as Maclean was dragged away by the police, sure such lunacy could come in useful one day.

  Reading, Wednesday 19 April 1882

  The trial was a sensation. Everyone agreed that Roderick Maclean had indeed intended to shoot the Queen, and might have succeeded if Burnside and Superintendent Hayes had not intervened. They and the Eton boys were hailed as heroes, while the miserable Maclean was denounced as the devil incarnate. The trial lasted less than a day, and the jury took only five minutes to deliver the verdict: not guilty, but insane. It meant Maclean would spend the rest of his life in Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum.

  Maclean did not really understand the implications of the sentence and was just glad he was not to be hanged. He had no idea why anyone should think him mad, but if it meant escaping the noose, then so be it. He settled his bowler hat on his head, squared his shoulders, and allowed himself to be marched away.

  Because of their youth and prominent families, the Eton boys were singled out for special praise, and they revelled in it. Unfortunately, it was at the expense of Burnside, who was livid. After all, it had been he who had prevented Maclean from firing again, whereas the boys had only weighed in once Maclean had been subdued. He began to write increasingly angry letters to the Palace, demanding recognition for his services. His photographic business was struggling, and if he could snag just one royal commission, all his troubles would be over. But the Palace declined to assist him, turning him increasingly bitter. Indeed, there were occasions when he wished he had never stayed the assassin’s hand.

  London, Monday 4 December 1882

  ‘This reminds me of the last time I stood in the cold, waiting for the Queen to appear,’ muttered Burnside, shivering inside his fashionable but thin coat. ‘I hope she won’t need saving a second time, because my hands are blocks of ice.’

  He was speaking to Alexander Lonsdale, a reporter for The Pall Mall Gazette. They were in the crowd that had gathered outside the new Royal Courts of Justice on the Strand, a glorious edifice, almost cathedral-like in its grandeur, which had taken some eight years to complete. Her Majesty was due to open it that day, and the two men were there to record the event – Lonsdale with words, Burnside with his camera.

  It was a bitter afternoon, and a wicked wind scythed down from the north. The Queen was late, and they were chilled to the bone. Both seriously considered giving up and going home.

  To take his mind off his discomfort, Burnside told Lonsdale how he had saved the Queen’s life. Lonsdale had heard the tale several times already, but listened politely as it was trotted out again. Wryly, he noted that the roles Superintendent Hayes and the Eton boys had played grew less significant with every telling.

  ‘Poor Maclean,’ he said when the photographer had finished. ‘Hunger and privation must’ve driven him to lose his wits.’

  Burnside spat his disdain. ‘He’s a violent killer, and I risked death to disarm him. Of course, I got barely a nod of thanks for my pains. I should’ve been appointed Royal Photographer. Indeed, I wrote to the Palace suggesting it, but they haven’t bothered to answer my last three letters. Maybe Maclean was right to take a shot at the old harridan.’

  Lonsdale regarded him askance. ‘The last three? How many have you sent?’

  Burnside shrugged sheepishly. ‘A fair number. But this is important, Lonsdale! Credit should go where it’s deserved, not to a police officer who was just doing his job, and two boys who happen to come from wealthy families. Without me, the Queen would be dead.’

  ‘Here she is at last,’ said Lonsdale in relief – it meant the end of Burnside’s tirade.

  The royal carriage clattered to a standstill and important men hurried towards it. Once she had alighted, the Queen did not linger in the icy wind – she aimed for the massive porch at an impressive clip, glancing up as she passed through it in acknowledgement of its grandeur. Once inside, she made a short speech and unveiled a plaque, then indicated with a regal nod that she was ready for the guided tour she had been promised. Most reporters left at that point – the building was now officially open, so what more needed to be said? And it was far too cold to stand around outside.

  Lonsdale longed to go too, but his sense of duty kept him rooted to the spot – he had been charged to report the event, and leaving while it was still going on was hardly professional. Burnside stayed too – he was so down on his luck that he had no choice but to follow every event to its bitter end in the hope of getting the picture that everyone else had missed. Their breath plumed in front of them as the temperature dropped even further.

  ‘There’s Alexander Haldane,’ said Burnside, nodding to an elderly gentleman who was almost running in his haste to escape the wind. ‘The famous barrister.’

  ‘He owns The Record, too,’ said Lonsdale, watching the man in question disappear through the Royal Courts of Justice’s massive front door. ‘The newspaper for Evangelical Christians. The assistant editor at The PMG reads it. It’s quite influential in certain circles.’

  But Burnside did not seem very interested in newspaper politics, so Lonsdale let the subject drop. They stood together in silence, watching the busy hubbub of the traffic clattering along the Strand.

  It grew ever colder as the short winter day faded into dusk. Smoke from tens of thousands of chimneys belched into the air, rendering it thick and choking, especially when a mist swirled up from the river. The evening was dull and gloomy, and the elegant spires and pinnacles of the Royal Courts of Justice were soon lost to sight. Burnside mumbled something about thawing his camera lenses, and loped away, unsteady on feet that were numb with the cold. Lonsdale considered following him, but professional pride kept him in his spot. That and his old-fashioned but warm woollen greatcoat.

  After an hour, Burnside returned, his face pink and glowing. Lonsdale assumed he had been in a tavern, but there was no scent of alcohol on his breath. Then it occurred to him that the photographer might be so hard up that he had no money for drink, so had settled for a brisk walk to drive out the chill instead. He was about to suggest tea in the cafe opposite – his treat – when several solicitors emerged from the courts, talking in hushed, horrified whispers. Burnside stopped one and asked what had happened.

  ‘Roderick Maclean,’ replied the lawyer, and he shook his head worriedly, although his eyes were alight with excitement. ‘The police have just released the news that he escaped from Broadmoor sometime this past month. Let’s hope they catch him soon, as no one’s safe with him on the loose.’

  ‘Especially me,’ said Burnside importantly. ‘I’m the one who stopped him from committing regicide. He may well want an accounting with me. I’ll be ready, though.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Or perhaps I should beg sanctuary in Buckingham Palace …’

  At that moment, there was a ragged cheer from the hardy few who had waited for the Queen. She hurried down the steps and was inside her carriage long before Burnside could
ready his camera. He swore softly to himself; he might as well have gone home.

  ‘Someone must’ve told her about Maclean,’ said the solicitor, watching the royal coach clatter away. ‘And she decided she’d rather be safe at home until he’s back under lock and key.’

  As Lonsdale and Burnside turned to leave, there was a commotion inside the courts. As the Queen had gone, the building was open to the public, so they went in to see what was happening.

  ‘They’ve just found Mr Haldane in the basement,’ explained a clerk, who was sitting on a bench in the lobby, his face pale and his body shivering with shock. ‘He’s been murdered.’

  ‘Haldane?’ breathed Burnside, shocked. ‘But we saw him a couple of hours ago.’

  ‘How do you know he was murdered?’ asked Lonsdale.

  ‘Because I saw the body,’ whispered the clerk, shaking his head in stunned disbelief. He looked up at them slowly. ‘He’d been chopped to pieces.’

  ONE

  London, Friday 15 December 1882

  Alexander Lonsdale should have been happy. He had recently been appointed full-time reporter at The Pall Mall Gazette, winning the honour against some serious competitors, meaning he was financially secure. He was also engaged to an accomplished young woman who loved him. Yet he could not escape the sense that life was carrying him along at a rate of knots to a place where he did not want to be.

  He was not sure why he should be discontented – most anyone else would have been delighted to be in his place. He also knew he was being ungrateful, especially as there had been times that year when he was not sure he would escape alive, let alone be in a position where everything was going so well. But he could not escape the nagging sense that all was not right.

  He had confided his concerns to his brother the previous night, but should have known better than to expect understanding from Jack, a barrister who dealt in facts, not feelings. Jack had dismissed his worries, claiming all would be well once the lunatic Maclean was behind bars once more. He had refused to listen to Lonsdale’s startled assurances that he was not in the slightest bit concerned about Maclean.