“What time is it?” Julia said, propping herself on her elbow. She covered her eyes against the streaming light.
“It’s just gone six. Sergeant O’Malley is waiting downstairs. There’s been trouble at Marlborough House.”
An hour later, Julia and Tennant stood over the charred remains of a corpse. A line of six constables crossed the nearby grounds, searching for evidence.
“We found the Downey and Son wagon where you see it,” the inspector said. “The milkman’s body is inside. A young man in his twenties, at a guess. The arsonist tied a cloth around the horse’s eyes to keep it from bolting.”
“Downey and Son. Singular,” Julia said. “The poor father, if the dead man is his son.”
“The guardsman at the gate identified him. Sergeant O’Malley is breaking the news to Mr. Downey now. The victim has a single puncture in his throat, just under the chin. It looks like the wound we found on Brigid Dowling’s cabbie.”
“I’ll need to see Doctor MacKay’s autopsy report to compare them.”
“You’ll have it,” Tennant said. “The arsonist carried two milk cans filled with paraffin and dumped them at the side door.”
A second pair of overturned cans lay nearby on the pathway. Twenty feet away, servants removed the last traces of paraffin from the steps.
“Somehow, he accidentally set fire to himself while delivering the second set of cans.” Tennant shook his head. “It seems staggeringly inept. He ended up here, twenty paces into the grass.”
“The impulse to run is strong. He should have fallen and rolled in the gravel, but …” Julia looked around. “I see nothing to run to … there’s no fountain at this end of the garden.”
“One of the guardsmen on sentry duty tried to fetch water from the house,” Tennant said. “He slid on a paraffin-coated step and broke his leg, poor fellow. They took him to Westminster Hospital.”
Julia looked up at the house. “Was the royal family …”
Tennant nodded. “In residence.” He pointed to a pair of corner windows two floors above the side door. “The nursery, a footman told me.”
“Good God,” Julia said. She turned away, shaken.
A tall, slim gentleman dressed in gray striped trousers, a charcoal overcoat, a bowler, and a starched, stand-up collar rounded the front of the house. He hailed the inspector.
“One of our suspects,” Tennant murmured to Julia as the man approached. “Doctor Julia Lewis, this is Sir Lionel Dermott, representing the Home Office.”
Dermott touched the brim of his hat and offered his hand. “Doctor Lewis. Under other circumstances, I’d be charmed. But this ghastly sight …”
Tennant said, “It seems our channels of intelligence weren’t—”
“We’re a pack of fools played by knaves.”
“Why ‘played,’ Sir Lionel?”
“We had one hundred and fifty Scots Fusiliers at Osborne House, guarding the queen against an impossible assault, while here …” He turned up his palms and looked around. “Who protected the heir to the throne in the heart of the capital? Pairs of guardsmen on sentry duty at the front and side gates and two sleepy bobbies patrolling the perimeter.”
Tennant said, “Sir Lionel, those sentries—”
“I meant no criticism of them,” Dermott said, flicking his hand. “The fault lies with their senior officers and Her Majesty’s government.”
“The young guardsmen at the side gate admitted a man in a dairyman’s coat driving the expected milk wagon. He’d bundled up heavily about the neck and chin and below his prominent mustache. They exchanged only a few words as the man had a hacking cough.”
“A mustache and a cough. Damnably clever.” Sir Lionel touched his brim. “I’ll let you and Doctor Lewis get on with your investigation.”
Dermott walked away, kicking a stone. He headed toward the house and then changed direction, pulling a pipe from his pocket. Julia watched him drop onto a bench and light it. Lady Styles crossed the lawn and sat next to him.
“The mask has slipped,” Tennant said. “You’ll know what I mean when you see more of Sir Lionel Dermott.”
“Where will the examinations take place? Horseferry Road?”
“Yes. As soon as that infernal police wagon arrives to transport the corpse. It’s late.”
