“Yes, as it happens. Spot of yacht racing over the summer and hauling her out in the autumn.”
“Were you sailing the day of the murder?”
“My last run of the season. Had the old girl taken out of the water the next day.”
“The marina owners in Cowes will confirm that?”
“I belong to the Royal Victoria on Wooten Creek, worse luck.”
“Why unlucky?”
“Quarr Abbey is an easy walk from the marina. So is the Fishbourne, the ‘ye olde’ Tudor inn where I lodged that night.” Dermott smiled his slow, lazy grin. “Most unfortunate for me.”
A sudden flurry announced the royal party’s late arrival. Porters wheeled cases to the storage car, and household servants passed their window looking for seats in the rear carriages. Sir Lionel dangled his arm out the window, banged the tobacco from the bowl, and closed the glass panel.
“Those five men at the ball may have told others,” Tennantsaid. “If so, the list expands. And you’ve left someone off. A sixth person and a married man.”
Dermott raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”
“The Prince of Wales.”
A tap on the window interrupted them. A sandy-haired man with a neat mustache gestured to Sir Lionel. “Excuse me,” Dermott said, opening the door and stepping down.
They spoke with their backs to the window. Sir Lionel mostly listened as his companion raked fingers through his hair and pointed to the royal car. At the sound of a whistle, the man looked over his shoulder and strode away.
Sir Lionel resumed his seat. “One of your suspects, as it happens. Oliver Montgomery.”
“Equerry to the Prince of Wales.”
Sir Lionel nodded. “And you’ll meet another when we arrive at Osborne House. Peter FitzGerald, the queen’s equerry.”
“Captain Montgomery seemed agitated.”
“He related the latest intelligence from the Home Office. Plans were in flux when I left Whitehall. Inspector, we aren’t alone on our way to Osborne House. Some one hundred and fifty Scots Fusiliers will join us. The soldiers will bolster the usual police presence on the ground.”
“What has happened?”
“The Home Office received word that an attempt will be made at Osborne on Her Majesty’s life.”
Three hours later, Tennant and Sir Lionel waited on the quay for the royal party to board the HMSBlack Eagle, the royal steam yacht that would take them across the strait to Cowes.
“Three masts for canvas and a steam-driven paddlewheel,” Sir Lionel said. “I like a ship that hedges its bets.”
Tennant pointed out to sea. “It looks like the Royal Navy istaking no chances, either. They’ve dispatched half the fleet to patrol the stretch between Portsmouth and Osborne House.”
“The Irish are madder than I thought,” Dermott said. “Two boatloads of rabid nationalists sailing from New York plan to invade through this naval thicket? Suicidal.”
“Is the queen alarmed?”
“Annoyed, I understand,” Sir Lionel said.
“When is our audience with Her Majesty?”
“This evening at seven.” Lionel grinned. “I thought, no mucking about. Get the tooth out right away.”
Tennant and Dermott hung back, waiting for the royal party to finish boarding. Captain Montgomery trailed behind. Tennant asked, “Who are the three married gentlemen you think are on my list?”
Dermott ticked them off. “George Trevor, Freddie Locock, and Peter FitzGerald. Trev is out of the race, I think. He only returned from India in September.”
