“I suppose you’d like me to see that as suspicious,” Tennant said.
“Not really, but I couldn’t resist. Even I can’t propose a Fenian FitzGerald with a straight face. As McGrath is a Kildare man, the major’s regiment was a logical choice.”
“Happy to hear you’re keeping an open mind.”
“More to the point, McGrath emigrated to America and fought in the Civil War. He joined the Fenian brotherhood in 1866, and he’s a crack shot, renowned for his prowess as a sniper.”
“Mother of God,” O’Malley muttered. “We recovered ninety of the last hundred guns. That leaves ten French rifles and a sniper in the wind.”
Tennant said, “Chabert, the French colonel, thought McGrath might be the ‘man in square-toed boots’ who bought the guns from Romilly.”
Sir Lionel tapped the report in Tennant’s hand. “McGrath’s description is at the bottom of the first page.”
The inspector read, “‘Average height, solidly built. In his early forties. Dark, curly hair and gray eyes.’ We’ll get this into circulation.”
O’Malley said, “Those stab wounds to the neck are making me think of bayonet jabs. McGrath’s soldier, but not tall enough to be our killer.”
“A soldier …” Tennant said. “It’s a thought, Paddy.”
Dermott said, “In addition to being too short, our report places him in France when the Dowling sisters were killed.”
“Patrick McGrath … a man on a mission?” Tennant said.
Dermott shrugged. “You don’t need an arsenal for localized bloodshed. A few guns will do the job. Well, I’ll let you gentlemen get on with it.”
Dermott stopped at the door and spun on his heels. “I’ve just remembered. Peter FitzGerald’s ancestor, LordEdwardFitzGerald, was in the thick of the Irish uprising of ’98.”
Tennant said, “We’ll bear it in mind.”
“Treason could be in the blood.” Dermott winked, gave a two-fingered salute, and strode out the door.
“Fancies himself a comedian, Sir Lionel,” O’Malley said.
“What’s not amusing is McGrath. We may have a sniper on the loose in London.”
CHAPTER 13
On Sunday afternoon, Julia’s coachman nosed the horses toward Hyde Park Corner through light traffic. Two inches of snow had fallen overnight, although wheels and hooves had churned and stamped most of it into slushy puddles. But it was cold enough for the flakes to linger on the park’s trees, frosting the branches like tea cakes.
Lady Styles had written in her luncheon invitation, “You’ll be my first guest. I’ve only had two cookery lessons, so don’t expect too much.” Julia smiled, remembering Mrs. Ogilvie’s efforts before she left for medical school. “You’ll not leave for Philadelphia without knowing how to boil an egg,” her housekeeper had said.
The coachman turned left from Knightsbridge Road, stopping the carriage at a row of three-story houses. Glossy black doors and shutters shone against the white Portland stone, and Julia saw the curtains twitch in the window of number 6 Trevor Place. Lady Styles opened the front door before Julia’s knock.
“You found me,” she said.
“Easily, Lady Styles.”
“High time you called me Susan, Julia.”
“High time, Susan.” Julia smiled, stepping over the threshold. “What a marvelous location. A five-minute walk to the park.”
“It’s my second favorite thing about the flat.”
“What do you like best?”
“That it’s all mine.” Susan sighed happily. “Well, at least the ground floor belongs to me.”
She gestured toward the inner door, and Julia walked into a bright, high-ceilinged room, a combination sitting-and-dining space, fully furnished, the table already set for luncheon.
