“Let me guess. Bertie is having a quiet evening by the fireside with Alix?”
“Don’t be an ass, Lionel. No, the police arrested Stanley Hackett, the prince’s valet. The chap’s been pilfering Bertie’s …” Montgomery futtered his left hand at his chest. “His shirts, cravats, and whatnots.”
“I always thought Hackett was a slippery sod,” Locock said.
“Uriah Heep in a well-tailored suit.” A waiter offered Dermott a note on a silver tray. He read the home secretary’s message:Ninety French rifles found in a London warehouse. Ten still missing. Come at once. G-H.
Thirty minutes later, Lionel said to the home secretary, “No Colonel Fielding?” He swiveled his head and pretended to peer under the table. “Where is our resident Irish expert?”
Gathorne-Hardy waved impatiently. “I’ll inform the colonel tomorrow. Tell Lionel what you found, Inspector Tennant.”
“Nine crates of guns at Trig Wharf.”
“Trig Wharf?” Dermott said, startled. “Surely, that’s where—”
“Brigid Dowling was murdered. And there’s more. The crates had their original shipping labels for Southampton still attached.”
Lionel shrugged. “We knew that they came through the port.”
“We didn’t know they were sent to Her Majesty as the recipient,” Tennant said.
Lionel whistled softly. “Who takes charge of shipments to Osborne House?”
“According to the queen’s private secretary, the house steward, Michael Bolger,” Tennant said.
“Dear, dear.” Lionel tut-tutted. “We have a conspiracy on our hands after all. Of royal household rogues pilfering stolen linen and the queen’s brandy. Toss in French rifles and murdered Irish serving girls. Colonel Fielding won’t be pleased.”
On the way to the Yard, Tennant sent a cable to the Isle of Wight, asking the chief constable to arrest Michael Bolger. Two hours later, he got a response.Bolger dead in Southampton harbor. Sending police report and autopsy results by special messenger.
“Damnation,” Tennant said, handing the telegram to O’Malley.
The reports from Southampton’s chief constable arrived in the morning. Two days earlier, the harbor police had fished a body from the waters near Moonraker’s Tavern. Osborne House’shead groom identified the dead man as Michael Bolger. The mortal injury was a single penetrating stab to the base of Bolger’s throat.
“’Tis as plain as a signature,” O’Malley said.
“Still, let’s have Dr. Lewis take a look.” Tennant handed him the autopsy. “Send it with a constable. And let’s get someone onto the Trig Wharf warehouse records. What’s his name?” Tennant snapped his fingers. “The human ferret.”
“Constable Williams.”
“Have him search the City of London property records for a name. Someone owns or leases that warehouse.”
“Will you be wanting him to follow up if he finds a name?”
“Yes. Our murderer leaves no loose ends or tongues,” Tennant said. “Maybe there’s still one left that’s eager to wag.”
The two men arrested at Trig Wharf had been willing to talk but knew little. They were down-and-out Southampton dock men hired by Michael Bolger to ferry shipments to the London warehouse. They gave up the name of the boatman and the vessel that moved the goods between the coast and the capital. The Southampton police were looking for him.
That left the prince’s valet.
Tennant took a cab to Newgate Prison. A guard brought a shuffling, shackled Stanley Hackett into the prison’s exercise yard. High stone walls barely thirty paces apart and topped with iron spikes enclosed the oppressive space.It’s not going to take much, Tennant thought. Two days in a cell had rubbed the shine off the sleek valet. He wore a rough, gray shirt over loose, baggy trousers and boots that looked two sizes too large for his feet.
Tennant’s gaze wandered up the walls as if he were estimating their height. Then he looked at Hackett. “For the next ten years, you’ll enjoy this courtyard as an hour’s escape from your crowded, lice-ridden cell.”
The man shook. He wiped tears using the rough canvas of his sleeve.
“Unless …” Tennant shrugged.
“Unless what?” Hackett said, his voice ragged. “Tell me, please.”
