“He didn’t stab the girl on the Isle of Wight,” the home secretary said.
“I think our killer wanted to mask that first murder, sir. Make the authorities believe the suicide or accident theories.”
Fielding flicked his hand as if brushing away an annoying gnat. “I say it’s thin. Irish rebels, arson, and murdered servant girls? A link is farfetched. A fiction.”
O’Malley cleared his throat. “With respect, Colonel, are you forgetting the theatrical disguises? The taxi passenger with the ginger beard and the mustachioed man driving the milk wagon.”
“The wire frames are similar,” Tennant said. “I’d say coincidence as an explanation isfarfetched.”
The colonel glared at the repetition of his word. “Damn it, Tennant, you’re saying the queen’s servant girl was—”
“Linked, somehow, to an Irish Republican Brotherhood conspiracy.” Dermott smiled. “Dashed inconvenient.”
“No, by God,” Fielding shouted. “It’s damned preposterous!”
After the meeting broke up, Dermott invited Tennant and the sergeant to his office. Sir Lionel pointed them to a pair of comfortable leather club chairs, lined three glasses on his desk, and produced two bottles from his bottom drawer.
“Scotch whisky or Irish, gentlemen? I’m making a life study of my preference. Sergeant, I’m guessing you vote for the nectar of your native heath.”
“That would be grand.”
Sir Lionel poured three tots of Bushmills and raised his glass. “To your very good health, and apologies about that Scotland Yard crack.”
O’Malley said, “Sláinte,” followed by Tennant’s “Cheers.”
Dermott sipped and settled back in his chair. “A pity Her Majesty’s government didn’t send Colonel Fielding to Egypt or the Sudan. So much lovely sand for head sticking.”
“The colonel seems unpersuadable,” Tennant said. “Not a constructive outlook for a man leading an investigation.”
“May I inquire about your next steps?” Dermott waggled his eyebrows. “Or would you infer nefarious motives behind my innocent question? Chief among your suspects, as I am.”
“We’ve had officers canvass the theatrical suppliers for the buyer of a ginger beard,” Tennant said. “We’ll send them back, asking about the mustache.”
O’Malley said, “The dairyman drove south from Camden Town, a three-mile trip to the center of London. Coppers on the graveyard shifts along the way are questioning the early risers.”
“And, like you,” Tennant said, “I want to know more about this informant, Daniel Boyle.” The inspector shrugged. “All this is standard police procedure. No state secrets, so no harm done … whatever your motives, Sir Lionel.”
Dermott sighed. “If only I could convince you of my innocence. Still, I see it’s hopeless, barring …”
“Barring what, Sir Lionel?”
“Why, the swift arrest of Peter FitzGerald, of course.”
On Sunday, a tall, thin man in a bowler hat took the train from London to Windsor and arrived shortly after one o’clock. He exited the station and blinked, his pale blue eyes sensitive to the bright sunlight.
A short walk down the High Street brought him to the churchyard. Morning services had concluded, and he noticed no one about. He pretended to look at the gravestones, his head down, his pale eyes shifting left and right, confirming that no one observed him. Then he crossed St. Alban’s Street, entered the woods, and settled among a grove of yews. From there, he had a clear view of a lone cottage at the edge of Windsor Great Park.
He struck a match, applied it to the bowl of his pipe, and flicked it away, waiting for the lady to take her afternoon walk. She never missed a day when the weather was favorable. And that afternoon was crisp and clear, a glorious January day for an English winter.
A few minutes after the tower bells rang twice, an elderly lady rounded the path and made her way to a bench within a quiet grove. Nothing moved: not a sigh of wind, nor a dartingsquirrel, nor a flutter of wings amid the branches. He knocked the remains from his pipe, circled the grove, and came upon her as if he were out for an afternoon stroll.
The man lifted his hat. “I wonder if you remember me, my lady?”
She didn’t. Not at first. No surprise, as he’d heard that her memory was fading. He’d been counting on it.
“May I?” he asked, gesturing to the space beside her on the bench.
They spoke about the weather. Then he asked if she remembered the royal visit to Ireland. She had. He brought the conversation around to a young servant girl the lady had befriended.
