Tennant resumed his seat. “Six men were on the Isle of Wight during the months in question. This morning, I took statements from four of them.”
“Who are they?”
“Major FitzGerald, Captain Montgomery, the valet of the Prince of Wales, Stanley Hackett, and the queen’s house steward, Michael Bolger.”
The chief constable blew out his cheeks. “Two royal equerries and a pair of royal servants? By God, Tennant, you don’t do things by half measures.”
“Can you point me to a stable where I can hire a horse? I want to cover the ground to Quarr Abbey and see the murder site for myself.”
“I’ll do better. I’ll lend you a horse and accompany you.”
“Thank you,” Tennant said. “Three men on my list were out riding on the afternoon of Lizzie’s murder. Major FitzGerald, Captain Montgomery, and the Prince of Wales.”
Phillips stared. “Is that a ruddy joke?”
“The head groom said he’d ridden to Newport and back. We cannot overlook His Royal Highness.”
At eleven the following morning, the crunch of carriage wheels on a pebbled roadway announced an arrival at Osborne Cottage. Tennant parted the curtains, expecting to see the pony cart that would carry Dermott and him to the Southampton steamer dock. Instead, a carriage with a VR cipher stopped at the door.
Sir Lionel emerged from his room, combing his hair. “Is that our transport? It’s early.”
“No. Royal visitors.” Lady Styles and two women Tennantrecognized as Princess Alexandra and Princess Louise walked up the path.
Sir Lionel pocketed his comb, opened the door, and bowed them into the hallway. “Your Royal Highnesses are out and about early. And Lady Styles. To what do I owe the honor and pleasure?”
“No church today,” Princess Louise announced gaily. “Too many soldiers and roadblocks between Osborne House and Whippingham.”
“Tut, tut, Princess,” Dermott said. “Should you sound so pleased to be missing Sunday services?”
“It’s all such nonsense,” Louise said. “I don’t mean church. I mean this invasion of soldiers in kilts. The queen is furious. Not even the absurd Brown can persuade Mama to take it seriously.”
“Princesses, may I present Detective Inspector Tennant of Scotland Yard, the officer in charge of the Dowling case. You find the inspector and me nearly on the fly. We are taking the twelve-thirty steamer from Cowes.”
“Oh,” Alexandra said. “Then perhaps …”
“We’re packed and prepared, Your Royal Highness, and have a quarter hour until the pony trap arrives.”
Lionel led the princesses to seats in the sitting room. They presented a striking contrast. The Princess of Wales—thin and delicate, with dark curls pinned under a flat, angled hat—had the kind of pale skin that seemed nearly transparent. She’d dressed elegantly but conventionally in a fitted blue jacket and skirt. Princess Louise—robustly figured with fair hair cascading down her back—dropped her hat and cape in a pile on the sofa and then sat. She wore a flowing, high-waisted claret gown in a relaxed, modern style and had a touch of the bohemian about her.
Tennant stood until Princess Alexandra said, “Please sit, Inspector.” Those were the last words she spoke until her farewellat the interview’s end. She looked at her sister-in-law and nodded.
Princess Louise peppered Tennant with questions about the discovery of Brigid Dowling’s body and the progress of the investigation, pressing him to speculate about a link between the sisters’ deaths. The inspector found a convenient refuge, claiming it was too early to draw conclusions.
Louise sighed in frustration. “I suppose we shall have to be satisfied with that.”
“I share your impatience, Your Royal Highness, but it is often thus at the start of an investigation.”
With the aid of her cane, the Princess of Wales stood. “Thank you, Inspector.” She offered her hand to Tennant, who bowed over it.
Louise tied her bonnet’s ribbons with careless impatience, allowing her hat to hang down her back. She thrust her hands into her muff. Then the princess looked up, the top of her head barely reaching his chin. She held his gaze.
“Lizzie was a lovely person, Inspector. She was the only one I could stand to …” She turned away abruptly, but not before Tennant saw her tears.
An hour later, Sir Lionel and Tennant passed a noticeable police presence patrolling the Cowes harborside.
“I pity the poor chief constable,” Sir Lionel said, signaling a porter. “So much on his plate. Irish invaders and the death of a queen’s servant. A case that’s wide open again. I assume you and the chief confirmed my unfortunate presence near the scene of the crime?”
“The Royal Victoria marina master and the clerk at the Fishbourne Inn were most obliging.”
