I had already checked to make certain the revolver in my bag was loaded, then called for Mrs. Ryan as I went to the stairs to dress.
“Yes, miss?” she said, quite formal as she arrived from the kitchen where I had heard her earlier slamming a pot, then a dish, in somewhat of a pique it seemed.
“I will need a driver.”
“Yes, miss…?” she said hesitant.
“Is that some of your wonderful coffee, I smell?”
“Most certainly, miss,” she replied, the hesitance in her voice gone.
I dressed and had finished my second cup of coffee along with some of Mrs. Ryan’s spectacular sponge cake— Rupert would have been jealous— by the time the driver arrived.
It had been a somewhat longer wait than usual, he apologized, as there were delays due to detours and road closures in preparation for the Queen’s appearance for the dedication.
The park where the ceremony was to take place was not far from Buckingham Palace with Parliament a few blocks beyond— near the river.
The traffic on the street was abominable the nearer the driver approached the park. He was forced to take the long way around, then approached from Whitehall Road which was hardly better.
There were other coaches and carriages, along with those who chose to walk to the park that included properly dressed ladies and gentlemen, as well children and more than one pram, along with dozens of officers of the MET both afoot and astride.
From what Brodie had shared with me the day before, there were undoubtedly Sir Avery’s people scattered among the crowd as well as the Royal Guard.
And somewhere among them were Brodie, Mr. Conner, and undoubtedly Munro. It did seem that every possible precaution had been taken.
The coach rolled to a stop once more and the driver called down.
“Sorry, miss. The way through is blocked.”
I departed the coach then continued afoot toward the park, along with what seemed the entire population of London.
I eventually made it to the edge of the green, more or less pushed along by the crowd that always gathered when the Queen or any member of the royal family was out and about.
I managed to extricate myself from the crowd as they surged forward and found a place at the curb along the thoroughfare just across the way from the memorial.
As the crowd gathered, joined by more people, I eventually heard the expectant buzz of conversation from the crowd around me as the Queen’s coach came into view down the thoroughfare.
Rather than the gold coach used for her coronation and other state events, she had chosen the simple black coach she seemed to prefer since the death of Prince Albert years before. The Royal Guard led the way with more mounted guards that followed.
As her coach drew closer, I searched the crowd nearby for any indication of an attack— any sudden movement, someone abruptly pushed out of the way as someone else attempted to get closer, or the sudden sound of alarm from the crowd. However, everything seemed quite calm.
There was nothing out of the ordinary as the Queen’s coach rolled past then stopped in front of the memorial. Nor when she stepped down and was then escorted toward the memorial to make the dedication.
The ceremony was quite somber and brief, and soon ended as the Dean of Westminster Abbey provided the blessing.
The Queen remained for a time, exchanging conversation with him, then she was escorted back to her coach, a solitary figure in perpetual black mourning, the Royal Guard at attention with stoic expressions.
I scanned the crowd again, but there was nothing that indicated an attack or disturbance, no sudden sharp noises or someone running forward as the royal coach slowly circled back around the way it had come then departed for the return to Buckingham Palace.
Was it possible those involved had learned that Sir Avery’s people were aware of their plans? Or was that information false?
Brodie had described Soropkin as methodical, perhaps even a genius, and completely dedicated to his cause. He was undoubtedly quite mad and extremely dangerous.
It obviously didn’t matter that his plans to strike against all authority already had resulted in hundreds of senseless deaths and would inevitably result in millions more should all of Europe be thrown into chaos and eventually… all out war.
History would once again repeat itself and innocent men, women, and children would pay the ultimate price for that madness.
No, I thought. From what I had heard about Soropkin, he wouldn’t merely set aside his plans if it was revealed that the authorities had discovered them. There had to be more, something we were missing.
