“Thank Christ,” Dermott said. “If I must tell the queen that someone murdered her old friend, I’ll need more than spots on her eyes.”
“Princess Louise believes the queen remembers nothing about Lizzie Dowling’s employment. She may be wrong.”
Dermott sighed. “You want me to question Her Majesty?”
“Would you like me to do it? I could delay my return to London.”
“No. I’ll do it and take a Saturday morning train.”
The door opened, and a wiry, beak-nosed doctor with flaming hair and a thick Scottish burr waved them into the examining room. Two attendants lifted a tiny, shrouded corpse and returned it to its oak coffin. Julia dried her hands at the sink.
“Aye, it’s murder. There’s no doubt,” Dr. McAllister said. “I’ll testify to that at the inquest. Wee hemorrhages in the eyes tell the tale, and Doctor Lewis found bits of the murder weapon.”
McAllister squeezed the sides of an envelope, opening a gap, and extracted a feather with a pair of tweezers.
“From her windpipe,” Julia said, carrying a cushion over to Tennant. “You can see the rip in the center. The goose feathers inside are a match.”
“May I?” Tennant borrowed the tweezers and pulled one out, comparing it to the one in the envelope.
“The killer smothered Lady Middlebury with her pillow,” Julia said.
At breakfast on Saturday morning, Dr. Andrew Lewis said, “So, Tardieu’s spots after all?”
“Yes,” Julia said, cracking her eggshell. “The poor woman was murdered with her seat cushion. In the shadow of Windsor Castle.”
“The coldness of it. And the brazenness. Julie, my dear …”
The quaver in his voice stopped her. Julia set aside her half-peeled egg and laid her hand on his. “You needn’t worry, Grandfather. This killer isn’t concerned with me.”
“Pray God it stays that way.”
She patted his hand and returned her attention to her egg. “You said you had something to discuss?”
“Yes,” he said. “A collaboration. You’ve given me an idea for next month’s presentation to the young doctors at the London Hospital. I’ll open with a lecture on Tardieu’s spots. You conclude with a case study. Lady Middlebury’s autopsy.”
“Will Uncle Max play along?”
“Why not? He gets two Doctors Lewis for the price of one.”
“The price being …” Julia drew three circles in the air with her index finger.
“Ah, but the experience of the lecture hall. Priceless.”
“And irresistible … so long as you keep my participation a surprise.” Julia grinned. “I’ll enjoy the looks on those young men’s faces when I walk from the wings to the podium.”
Mrs. Ogilvie entered with a note for Julia. “The coachman from Kensington Palace is waiting.”
Tennant spent the first hour of his Saturday morning in the commissioner’s office with Sir Richard and the Irish department chief. The death of Lady Middlebury, with her roots in Ireland, triggered Colonel Fielding’s inclusion in the meeting. The murder hardly dented the colonel’s stubborn doubts about the relevance of Lizzie’s murder to the Irish threat.
On his way to his office, the inspector passed a smoldering Chief Inspector Clark. The commissioner had insulated Tennant from his chief’s oversight, and Clark resented the second-hand reports that kept him minimally informed. The commissioner’s only explanation had been “Too many damned cooks in this Irish stew.”
Clark called after him, “Running in place, are we?”
Tennant stopped. “Incremental progress, sir.”
Clark hadn’t the wit to conceal his resentment. He radiated fury and contempt. “That’s what we’re calling it these days? I suppose crawling is better than nothing.”
“That’s right, sir. Small steps leading the way.” Tennant turned into his office and nearly ran into O’Malley lurking inside the doorway.
