Princess Alexandra looked down at her gripped hands. In a quavering voice, she asked, “Can you tell me what is wrong, Doctor?”
“Your Royal Highness, I see no evidence of infection beyond the swelling confined to your knee. Something triggered a septic arthritis. Time and rest will heal it. You have nothing else to fear … at least right now.”
“Thank God.” The princess had been sitting as still and straight as a post. She sank back against the chair. “Oh, thank you, Doctor. For once, I shall sleep.”
Julia saw Lady Styles register the implication of the words “right now,” although she feared they were lost on the princess. “Worrying about one’s health can undermine it,” Julia said. “As can other worries. Two shocking deaths. One in the queen’s household.”
“Horrible.” Alexandra pulled her wrap tighter. “Those poor girls. I pray the police will soon have an answer.”
Julia’s glance flickered over Alexandra’s slender frame. “How is your appetite?”
The princess smiled. “Like Her Majesty, you are about to tell me I am too thin.”
“A little, perhaps.”
“I’ll see if we can coax the princess to eat a little more,” Lady Styles said. “Her Royal Highness enjoys physical activity, Doctor,” Lady Styles said. “What do you advise?”
“The princess should continue to use her stick to avoid unnecessary strain on the leg. Short walks are in order, but avoid climbing stairs when you can. And rest with the knee elevated.”
Susan sighed. “At the queen’s command, we leave today for a month’s visit to Osborne House. Her Majesty expects family and guests to … dance attendance.”
“Lady Styles, you have your work cut out for you.” Julia stood and smiled. “Thinking of ways to minimize the dancing.”
Princess Alexandra and Susan followed Julia out the side door of her ground-floor office. Their carriage waited at the end of a pathway that led to a gate at the edge of the property. A cab slowed and stopped by the main walkway. Inspector Tennant got out, glanced to his left, and then away. He paid the cabbie and headed to the front door.
The princess had been fiddling with her glove buttons and hadn’t noticed him. Lady Styles looked away, fixing her attention on the carriage as they walked. Twenty minutes later came a knock on her door. Julia had been expecting it.
“Come in, Richard,” she called.
He held up a lightly bandaged hand. “Courtesy of your grandfather. At a pinch, I can manage a pencil.” He shook his head when Julia patted a chairback in invitation. “I can’t stay.”
“Thank you for your discretion just now.”
“Of course. I assumed it wasn’t a social call.”
“I don’t believe the princess noticed you.”
“Just as well. I’m traveling with the royal party this afternoon.” Tennant explained the circumstances. “Sergeant O’Malley will make a start while I’m away.”
“I see.”
Tennant shifted his weight, sliding his hat brim through his fingers. “Well … the train leaves at one. I return on Sunday.”
Julia said, “Safe journey.”
After the door closed behind him, she winced at the formal awkwardness of their exchange.How long will it take?Julia wondered. How long before they returned to something close to normal?
At Waterloo Station, a porter with a clipboard stood by a locomotive. Iron pillars rose to a metal-and-glass honeycombed ceiling. The station was eerily deserted. The inspector’s boots echoed along an empty platform that usually bustled. In the distance, a porter stood by a locomotive with a clipboard. Tennant gave the man his name and showed his warrant card.
“The first saloon car is Her Majesty’s,” the porter said. “As the queen is not traveling, it is unused today. The Prince and Princess of Wales will occupy the second carriage. Take your seat in the third car, sir.”
Tennant walked the length of Victoria’s claret-and-gold painted saloon. He caught glimpses of the luxury inside: the richly upholstered blue-and-gold seating section, sleeping compartment, and dining car. Gold-tasseled shades obscured his view of the second car, the “Prince of Wales” saloon. A standardfirst-class compartment followed, and two additional cars completed the string.
“In here, old man.”
Sir Lionel Dermott sat on the burgundy leather seat facing the engine, legs crossed. He had the day’s newspapers on his lap and a hinged leather case at his feet. He’d tossed his formal frock coat and overcoat on the seat beside him.
Sir Lionel eyed Tennant’s bandaged right hand and reached for the inspector’s carpetbag. “Let me relieve you of that.” He lifted the case and slid it onto the metal shelf above the opposite seat. “Cheer up, old man. You’ll be back in London in two days.”
