“Was Frederick Locock on the island last July?”
Dermott hesitated. “Yes, as it happens. He crewed for the Prince of Wales. And before you ask, Freddie was there with the rest of us in October. Just back from his wedding trip.”
“You’ve named the suspects. Now, handicap the horses for me. Who’s your favorite?”
“Oh, Peter FitzGerald. Absolutely.”
“Why?”
“Can’t stand the fellow,” Lionel said cheerfully. “So, I’d like it to be him.”
“I suggested a fourth married man …”
“Bertie? I thought you were joking.”
“Not the prince himself,” Tennant said, “but some obliging member of the Marlborough House set … someone who might remove an embarrassment for him?”
Dermott threw back his head and laughed. “Have you followedthe prince’s dalliances in the illustrated press? London would be littered with female corpses.”
The great engine began to churn, and theBlack Eagleslipped its mooring. Sir Lionel grabbed his hat brim and removed it as the wind picked up. He leaned against the rail, looking at the horizon. Amusement had vanished from his face.
Considering the possibility?Tennant wondered.The Prince of Wales stays on my list.
Around the time Inspector Tennant’s train left for the south coast, his surrogate, Sergeant O’Malley, sat on the bench of a long trestle table in the Marlborough House kitchen, drinking a cup of tea.
“Just poking my big nose around for the Yard to see that all is well, Mrs. MacIntosh,” he’d told the cook. With all that’s happening, we can’t be too careful.”
A century’s worth of scrubbing and polishing had burnished the table’s oak planks until it resembled a golden mirror. Across the room, two cast-iron ranges had replaced the open fireplaces, and glowing coals heated the oven chambers and the room. A slatted wooden box the size of a bed hung by chains from the ceiling, suspending green sage, rosemary, and baskets of foodstuffs, keeping them high and dry and away from the mice.
“Mrs. MacIntosh, ’tis a lovely warm room and a fine place to spend a winter afternoon.” O’Malley breathed in. “Sure, that aroma is the bread you’re baking, and no mistake.”
Mrs. MacIntosh had grown gray in royal service. As with many cooks, she was a red-cheeked, stout woman, the result of a lifetime’s leaning over a fire, surrounded by food—tasting, seasoning, and tasting it again. She’d pushed her sleeves back from thick wrists and square hands that had beaten more batter and shaped more dough than there were days in most people’s lives.
“You’re after being the queen of your kingdom, Mrs. MacIntosh.”
“Most days, Sergeant. But when the royals do fancy entertaining, they bring in a Frenchman who turns my kitchen upside down. I’m happy to see the back of him.”
“’Tis hard work you’re doing, and that’s no lie,” O’Malley said.
Mrs. MacIntosh preened. “Let me add a wee dram to your cup.” She carried a bottle of whisky to the table and tipped an ounce into his tea. “A little fortification is welcome on a December afternoon.”
“I’m thanking you kindly, missus.” O’Malley took a sip. “Now, if I was to go into service, I’m thinking the master’s manservant would be just the thing for me.”
The cook sniffed. “Brushing the prince’s coats and hats is about all the work he’ll do. Mister Hackett farms out the boot-blacking to the second footman. And he’s always after the princess’s seamstress to stitch up the prince’s shirts.”
“Sounds like the fella has landed in a tub of butter. What sort of time off does a valet like himself have?”
“Twohalf days a week to my one. On Tuesdays and Sundays, you’ll see no sign of that one.”
“Is Mister Hackett a pleasant fella to be around?”
Mrs. MacIntosh looked over her shoulder to see if the scullery maid was out of earshot. “The laddie fancies himself. That’s clear as daylight. Travels with as much luggage as a lord, and he’s always buying new hats and aping the prince.”
“Seems a harmless way to waste his wages.”
She lowered her voice. “Fancies other things as well. I see him looking, and I keep a close eye on the lasses.”
O’Malley scratched at his side whiskers sagely. “Something of a Casanova, the creature.”
