“Ditching the ‘dowager’ in your title. You could—oh, blast.”
“What is it?”
“Greaves,” Dermott said. “Gathorne-Hardy’s private secretary. I’ll wager he’s looking for me. He’s walking along the footpath, bobbing his head like an inquisitive goose.”
Dermott turned his horse and headed to the edge of the bridle path. “Mister Greaves?”
“You’re wanted at the Home Office, Sir Lionel. The French rifles have turned up.”
Lionel had expected to find an exultant gathering in Gathorne-Hardy’s conference room. Instead, the faces of Commissioner Mayne and Inspector Tennant matched the home secretary’s habitual gloomy expression.
“Nine hundred French guns turned up in Waterford, Ireland, on Saturday,” Sir Richard said bitterly.
Dermott looked around the table. “But that’s good news.”
“Aside from the missing hundred rifles,” Tennant said.
“Who found them?” Lionel asked.
“The local Irish coastguard,” the home secretary said. “They caught a band of Irish Americans offloading the crates near Waterford.”
“Well, the French will be delighted to have the lion’s share of their weapons back,” Dermott said. “And so should we. The threat is reduced by ninety percent. Why the long faces?”
Sir Richard slammed his fist. “Because it’s a complete cock-up on our side.”
Tennant said, “Evidence seized tells us that the guns landed in Southampton, but slipped through the port inspection undetected. And those missing hundred rifles may have remained behind in Britain.”
On Wednesday morning, Julia returned to Marlborough House to attend the Princess of Wales. She’d finished her examinationand found Susan Styles pacing outside Alix’s sitting room door.
Julia said, “You can rest easy. The princess is calmer this morning, and she managed to sleep the last two nights.”
Susan shook her head. “It’s something else. Can you come to my sitting room? Something confounding has happened, and I was about to write a note to Inspector Tennant.”
Julia followed her into a bright, ivory-painted room with well-stocked bookcases and a writing desk. An unfolded map lay across it. They sat in the claret wing chairs by the fireplace.
“It’s about Hackett, the prince’s valet. The butler and Elsie came to see me this morning. She’s the long-serving head laundress at Marlborough House, and she strikes me as a shrewd and sensible person. What Elsie told me … well, it’s been going on for months.”
Susan explained that items in the prince’s wardrobe were disappearing. At first, Elsie attributed their absence to Bertie’s changing tastes. But the laundress checked his wardrobe and found that recently acquired items were missing, too.
“Twice since the family returned from the Isle of Wight, Elsie noticed something odd,” Susan said. “She saw Hackett leave with a bulging carpetbag on his half day off. Yesterday, it happened a third time. But Witcombe, the butler, was waiting and followed Hackett’s taxicab.”
Julia raised her eyebrows. “Playing detective, was he?”
“And enjoying himself thoroughly. He loathes Hackett.”
“Is he loathsome?”
Susan considered. “Oily.”
“Still, I’m not sure Inspector Tennant is the one to consult about household theft. Maybe the local police?”
Susan stood. “Come, look at this map.” Julia followed her to the desk. Susan drew her finger down from St. Paul’s Cathedral, pointing to a spot near the river. “There,” she said. “That’s where Hackett got out of his cab and continued on foot to a warehouse.”
Julia’s eyes widened. “Trig Wharf. But that’s—”
Susan nodded. “Just off Trig Lane, where they found Brigid Dowling’s body. They named the street in the newspapers.”
“That certainly changes things. Write your note to the inspector, and I’ll carry it to Scotland Yard on my way to the clinic.”
