Victoria smiled. “My loyal Brown is always solicitous of his queen’s safety.”
“Aye, so take heed. Now come, woman, or ye’ll be late dressing for dinner.”
The Scotsman offered the queen his arm. Sir Lionel and the inspector bowed to Victoria as she exited.
On his way out, General Grey fished in his pocket and handed Dermott a key. “To Osborne Cottage. Make yourselves at home.” He followed the queen and her Highland Servant out the door.
Tennant said, “The general looks worn down by his duties.”
“He’s aged since Prince Albert’s death,” Dermott said. “And dealing with the impossible Brown is exhausting.”
“Does the fellow always speak to Her Majesty like that?”
“Yes.” Dermott flipped the key and pocketed it in his waistcoat. “Makes one wonder what other liberties are permitted. The ‘Queen’s Stallion’ is the nickname whispered among the servants.”
“Surely not.”
“I agree. But the court has grown terribly dull since Albert’s death. Long faces and everyone draped in black. On and on for years and years. People needsomethingto amuse them.”
Dermott behaved as if the world were an elaborate joke organized for his enjoyment. But the man was so droll that the inspector couldn’t help liking him. He would guard against it. Married or not, some men saw servants as easy prey, and Sir Lionel was on the Isle of Wight during the months in question.
Their last stop was the stables, temporary quarters for the Scots Fusiliers sent to guard the queen. The major in command was out on an inspection, but a young lieutenant explained the deployment of forces.
The officer had just begun his recital when a soldier interrupted, saluting smartly. “Telegram for Inspector Tennant, sir.” He handed over the message.
“Thank you, Private.” Tennant opened it.
“Developments?” Dermott said.
“From my sergeant, Patrick O’Malley.”
“An able chap to leave in charge?”
“He’s a first-rate copper.” Tennant folded the message and pocketed it. “O’Malley adds a name to our list of suspects.”
“Ah … the plot thickens,” Dermott said. “All right, Lieutenant, carry on with your report.”
“We’re operating on eight-hour shifts,” the officer said. He cocked his thumb at the ceiling. “A third of the company is asleep in the hayloft. Another patrols the grounds around the house and the gates, and the rest guard the pier and roads leading to Osborne. They’re stopping carts and carriages traveling from East Cowes and Whippingham.”
“I’d send soldiers into the towns, as well,” Dermott said. “Tell them to keep a sharp eye out for men wearing square-toed boots. If they answer in an Irish or American accent, bring them in for questioning.”
It was a short hike from the stables to Osborne Cottage, General Grey’s grace-and-favor house on the edge of the estate. On the way, they passed the Scots Fusiliers guarding the main gate with torches blazing.
Dermott said, “Lit up like a Christmas tree.”
“The lengthy perimeter of Osborne Park is mostly in darkness.”
Dermott walked on. “That’s the cottage ahead of us. Now, about those square-toed boots they spotted on the chap in Lyon …”
“You read Colonel Chabert’s report.”
Dermott said, “Such boots were standard issue in the American Civil War, and they’ve turned up on a surprising number of Irish American ‘patriots’ arrested by the police in Ireland.”
“They should share that intelligence with the Yard.”
“Oh, they have, old man, they have. But as one Irish copper told me, ‘a Dublin policeman is only a policeman from Dublin.’ Typical English contempt for the Irish.”
“Idiotic, given their success against the brotherhood,” Tennant said. “The failure of the spring rising in Kerry and Dublin was thanks to Irish police intelligence. I understand they infiltrated IRB ranks at the highest levels.”
