“With Sir Avery and his men.” Mr. Conner’s expression was grim. “I’ll find him.”
By the time they learned that Redstone was there and what I was now certain of, it might be too late. And Soropkin? Was he somewhere inside Parliament even now?
“We have to stop him,” I replied, and turned toward that massive hall that sat at the bank of the Thames.
“Foolish woman! Ye’ll not go alone,” Mr. Conner shouted after me, then, “go with her, lad! And don’t let her out of yer sight, or we’ll both answer to Mr. Brodie for it.”
I didn’t wait for Alex as I pushed my way through the crowd and followed the direction Redstone had gone.
He caught up with me at the main entrance to Westminster Hall as the returning members— hundreds of them, along with staff and guests, were forced to queue into a single crowded line at the clerk’s desk at the entrance.
Alex looked about and then at me with new urgency.
“However will we ever find him?”
I had the same thought with the line before us. If Redstone had managed to gain entrance, we might not find him until it was too late.
The whole of Parliament was massive and filled the embankment at the river, a maze of what had once been a royal residence along with apartments for visiting dignitaries andmembers, and offices, committee rooms connected by lobbies and passages on multiple floors.
It all converged at the Central Hall that eventually connected to the House of Commons and House of Lords with private offices for members of Parliament that numbered in the hundreds.
To find anyone it was required to set an appointment, and then still be forced to wait for hours or return another time if Parliament was in an extended session as today with the dedication at the park.
Not finding Redstone was not an option.
There were the usual conversations among those who waited to sign back in, complaints about the delay and the late hour members would all be there, along with a conversation between two members.
“It will be even later into the evening,” one of them commented, “with the P.M. to address the Commons.”
Alex and I exchanged a glance. The Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury, was to speak at the House of Commons. We both knew the meaning of that, a perfect opportunity for anyone with a plan to attack Parliament and Lord Salisbury.
Alex nodded. “We have no time for this delay.”
He reached inside his coat and I glimpsed the note he reached for, along with something most unusual. He was carrying a revolver!
He pulled out the note, then cut his way through the line ahead, with complaints and grumblings from those around him. I took advantage of his cut through the queue and followed him.
He ignored the complaints as he reached the clerk’s desk.
“Where would Lord Salisbury be at this time?” he demanded.
Startled, the clerk was taken aback.
“I beg your pardon, sir. You must wait your turn.”
“There is no time.” Alex thrust the note at him. “We are here on behalf of Sir Avery Stanton and the office of Special Services.”
In spite of the urgency, Alex kept his voice low.
“There has been a threat, and I suggest you make every accommodation.” He again demanded, “Where is Lord Salisbury at this time? Unless of course, you wish to be arrested.”
I would not have guessed that Alex Sinclair, with his codes and machines and that unruly mop of hair he was forever pushing back from his glasses could be so assertive.
And as for that note he had shown the clerk, I had caught a brief glimpse of an emblem at the top of the note, along with Sir Avery’s signature at the bottom. It was a royal warrant.
“Not at all, sir,” the clerk hastily replied and handed the note back to Alex. “That is, yes, of course. The Prime Minister would most usually be in a private office next to the members retiring room, preparing for his address before the members.”
“I need to speak with the Home Secretary immediately,” Alex insisted. “And we will need someone to take us to that office.”
