“Friday morning would be convenient for the princess if it suits your schedule.”
“Friday it is … at ten o’clock?” When Lady Styles nodded, Julia made a note.
Susan stood. “There’s no point in my being here unless I’m frank with you. I know what Alix fears. The princess is loyal, but she’s not a fool. She understands that the Prince of Wales …” She held Julia’s gaze. “Princess Alexandra is afraid she may have contracted an illness from her husband.”
“I see,” Julia said.
“I’m sure you do, Doctor. She hasn’t put a name to it, but I will. Princess Alexandra is afraid she may have syphilis.”
Shortly before two o’clock on Tuesday, a tall, thin man with a wiry abundance of ginger facial hair and pale blue eyes hailed a hackney cab on Ivy Lane.
“Where to, guv?” the cabbie asked.
“The Chapter House on St. Paul’s Alley. We’ll be waiting for a lady, but I’ll make it worth your while if she’s delayed.”
“Right you are.”
Promptly at two, a young woman came through the front door, stopped on the pavement, and looked around. The ginger-bearded man approached her and touched the brim of his bowler.
“Miss Dowling?”
She pulled a paper from her pocket. “You’ll be the one sending me this note?”
“That’s right. Lady Styles didn’t want you to lose your way.” He opened the carriage door. “You brought the letter with you?”
She reached into her handbag and took it out.
“Excellent, excellent. Hold on to it for now.” He handed the girl into the cabin. “Drive to Upper Thames Street, cabbie, and turn left. I’ll knock when I want you to stop.”
The driver nosed his horse through the traffic around St. Paul’s Cathedral and headed toward the river. Shortly after he turned onto Upper Thames Street, his passenger pounded on the hackney’s roof. The man leaned out the window and shouted, “Stop the coach.”
The driver slowed his horse and stopped. “Guvnor?”
“Turn right into Trig Lane. And pull up at the entrance to the wharf.”
The cabbie drove as instructed, and the hackney rattled to a stop at the end of the lane.
The passenger stepped out of the cabin. “Driver, can you assist me? The lady seems overcome.”
The cabbie climbed down and peered inside the cabin, eyeing the crumpled figure in the corner. He ducked inside and leaned over the girl. At a tap on his shoulder, he twisted around.
The driver’s brain registered a searing pain under his chin a split second before oblivion.
Lady Styles waited all Tuesday afternoon for Brigid Dowling to appear. She’d told the footmen to expect a visitor and thought to warn the kitchen staff that a girl might present herself at the servants’ entrance, asking for her.Has she changed her mind?Susan wondered.Or lost her way?
She spent part of the time reading the newspaper coverage of the prince’s visit to St. Bart’s. BothThe TimesandThe Daily Telegraphpraised the Prince of Wales for comforting the Clerkenwell victims, their criticism of the absent Victoria implied rather than stated.
The queen complains of Bertie’s idleness but gives him nothing to do,Susan thought, putting the newspapers aside.And he’s good at this sort of thing.Perhaps that was the problem. Victoria refused to take the stage but guarded it jealously, denying her heir the limelight.
On Wednesday morning, Susan sent a note to the Chapter House and asked the second footman who carried it to wait for a reply. An hour later, the servant returned.
“Brigid Dowling paid for two nights and left yesterday afternoon, my lady.”
“And she never returned?”
“The desk clerk hasn’t seen her since. Said he was holding her carpetbag and wondering what to do with it.”
On Thursday morning, Sergeant O’Malley arrived early at Scotland Yard. He found his new inspector’s office empty, hisdesk cleared out, and a message from Chief Inspector Clark. The chief wanted to see him.
