Dr. Lewis read the caption, “‘The Irish Guy Fawkes.’” He shook his head. “Guy Fawkes. We remember the Catholic who tried to blow up the king in Parliament two centuries ago, forgetting the thousands of Irish Catholics who fought beside Wellington at Waterloo.”
“Put it away, Grandfather. Somewhere Kate won’t find it.”
Dr. Lewis tore out the page, crumpled it, and dropped it in the fire. Then he fished his penknife from his pocket, opened it, and passed it to Julia. “Royal correspondence from Osborne House must be read at once.”
Julia sliced and extracted the letter. “I wrote to Lady Styles about a line of inquiry …” She scanned the note and said, “The lady agrees with me. Lizzie, a country girl from Kildare, was an oddity among the queen’s servants.”
“Does she explain the circumstances of the girl’s employment?”
“No, but she promises to make some inquiries.”
“Did Richard ask you to look into this?”
“No … not yet. But I’m sure he will.” She smiled and passed the letter to her grandfather. “Once it occurs to him.”
Early on Friday morning of the new year, a man slowed and stopped his milk wagon at the top of the road. He’d spotted a policeman passing the mason’s yard halfway down Duke Street, a stone’s throw from Buckingham Palace. The driver waited. A feral cat screeched from behind a collection of bins, upsetting a lid that clanged on the cobbles. A triangle of light from a bull’s-eye lantern caught and froze the creature before it darted into the darkness. Then the beam swung around, and the constable and his light moved on.
The driver grinned, picturing the man who waited in the 4:00 a.m. cold, cowering amid the mason’s broken stones.And crapping himself over that copper.He flicked the reins and then slowed the horse to a stop at the stonemason’s gate. A gas lamp illuminated his cart’s painted sign:DOWNEY AND SON. MILK AND CREAM.
“Hisst … Danny,” he called in a hoarse whisper. “You there?”
Someone moved out of the yard’s shadows. “Thought you’d changed your bleedin’ mind,” the man said. “Been freezing my arse off.”
“Patience, Danny boy. Patience is the key.” The driver in a dairyman cap patted the bench. “Climb aboard.”
Danny hauled himself up. He twisted and looked back at the cart. “What’s this milk lark about?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
The driver had pulled the peaked cap low over his pale blue eyes. A gray muffler circled his neck, covering his chin. Theonly thing that showed in the space between his hat and scarf was the luxuriant thatch sprouting under his nose.
“When did you have time to grow that bush on your face?”
“You don’t like it?” The driver unhooked one side of the walrus mustache and grinned.
Danny jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Odd way to travel to a meeting.”
“Change of plan, old son. I’ll explain on the way.” He reached under the bench and pulled out a second smock. “Meanwhile, put this on.”
“Thing’s as stiff as a board,” Danny said, shrugging into the rough cotton jacket.
“It soaked up some of the wares.” The driver chuckled. “But there’s no use crying over spilled milk, right?” Then he snapped the reins, and the horse clopped off, heading south toward Marlborough Road.
“So, what’s this meeting about?”
“No meeting, Danny. We’ve a job to do.”
“News to me.”
“The chief kept it quiet.” He tapped the side of his nose and winked. “Just his trusted lieutenants on this one. You and me.”
“You and me what?”
“We’re giving the heir to the throne a warm welcome home from the Isle of Wight.”
“Meaning?”
“Instead of leaving Downey and Son’s milk at the side door, we’re spilling five-gallon cans of paraffin and setting it alight.”
