“I need two more washbowls. Send the housemaid to fetch them. And fresh water to fill them.” Julia opened her medical bag. “Now, the gentlemen may leave us.”
She took out a lancet and cut away Louise’s dress and petticoat. She unhooked her corset. When Julia lifted and turned the princess by her shoulders, she saw no wound on her back. The chemise was the final gory layer to remove. Julia cut it away and exposed the bleeding wound, a small, dark ruby circle.
A knock brought the housemaids with napkins, a water jug, and two more washbowls. Susan moved the items to the table and asked the servants to wait in the hallway.
Julia poured carbolic solution on her hands and rubbed them. “I must remove the bullet.”
After a few minutes of careful probing, she found it. Juliacleaned the area around the wound with carbolic and bandaged it.
“The stays in her thick corset slowed and diverted the bullet,” Julia said. “Otherwise, it might have passed through and struck Prince Leopold, as well.”
“Thank God,” Susan said. “The prince bleeds easily.”
Julia wrung a wet napkin and wiped away the excess blood from the wound. Lines appeared on Louise’s lower abdomen, jagged, pink, and white. Significant weight loss was a possible explanation, but the princess had always been one of Victoria’s more slender daughters. That left one cause. Julia covered the princess with a clean sheet and a warm blanket. Then she stepped back from the bed. Lady Styles had been watching her closely.
“Aside from Sir Charles Locock and his son,” Susan said, “you are the only person outside the innermost royal circle who knows that Princess Louise bore a child.”
CHAPTER 17
Tennant and O’Malley arrived at Dover’s train station with over an hour to spare. From there, it was a short walk to the ferry pier. They approached cautiously, Tennant scanning the streets ahead.
“No sign of him,” the inspector said.
“He has time. He’ll not be hanging about and making himself conspicuous.”
“Let’s hope so, Paddy.”
“Too many coppers at the pier, I’m thinking,” the sergeant grumbled.
“I’ll have a word.”
They located the officer in charge and persuaded him to withdraw most of his force. The ticket takers had been alerted, and the inspector reminded them of the telltale scar on the man’s cheek. Then Tennant, O’Malley, and two Dover constables withdrew to the harbormaster’s shed and waited.
Thirty minutes passed, and Tennant pulled out his watch. “If FitzGerald doesn’t turn up soon, we’ve wasted our time.” He seethed with frustration, knowing it would be hours before he heard news from Windsor.
Fifteen minutes later, Tennant spotted FitzGerald. He joined the ticket line, looking over his shoulder, his gaze shifting left to right. The major’s eyes focused on the lone constable at the ferry dock. Tennant had ordered the officer to ignore the queue. The constable yawned, ambled to the railing, and stared out to the sea, doing a first-rate imitation of a man bored by a routine job. FitzGerald stepped forward and offered his ticket, his moment of maximum tension, Tennant guessed. The taker looked at it, said something to FitzGerald, and the major laughed.
“Good man,” the inspector murmured.
FitzGerald walked on, his step looking a little lighter. “He thinks he’s home free.” Tennant clapped O’Malley’s shoulder. “Let’s move.”
FitzGerald stopped at the bottom of the gangway and set his carpetbag at his feet, waiting for the passengers to move forward. Tennant and O’Malley came up behind him.
“Major FitzGerald?”
He turned reflexively. O’Malley seized him by his right arm and shoulder, and a constable grabbed him on the left.
“Taking a little trip, are we?” Tennant asked, picking up his carpetbag and bouncing its weight. He opened it and rummaged under a shirt. “Well, well.” The inspector pulled out a wad of banknotes.
“Blood money,” O’Malley said.
“Major Peter FitzGerald, I arrest you in the queen’s name,” Tennant said, “The charges are conspiracy, treason, murder, and attempted murder for hire.” Passengers on the line gasped.
A Dover constable produced a pair of handcuffs and passed them to O’Malley.
“Clap on the Darbies, Sergeant,” Tennant said. “Then lead the way.”
Two constables followed O’Malley, who dragged the manacled Major FitzGerald through a gaping crowd.
