Willie Hood pulled his arm out of the constable’s grip and cocked his thumb. “A stall on Rosemary Lane. An old woman sold them to me at the rag fair.”
Tennant tossed the boots at his feet. “Put them on and take us to her.”
It was getting late, but traders in secondhand goods, mostly women, still lined one side of Rosemary Lane, hawking patched shirts, threadbare coats, and battered bowlers. They found theold boot seller packing her boxes for the night, a wizened woman in a tattered gray shawl with a face as creased as a walnut shell. When she confirmed Willie Hood’s story, the inspector let him go. Then he asked her about the boots.
“Bloke gave ’em to me last week—a long drink of water, he was.”
“English or Irish?” Tennant asked.
“English, but not an East Ender. He gave them boots to me, not asking a penny.”
“Did he say why?”
She shrugged. “Said his Irish friend didn’t need them, and if anyone came calling …” She screwed up her face. “He said to tell them it’ll be harder to find him than tracking a pair of old boots. Pitched me a shilling to repeat it back. Then he pulled his ginger beard. Phony, but you’d never guess. Snapped it, like, and winked.”
“Mother of God,” O’Malley muttered. “He’s playing games with us now.”
Tennant sent O’Malley home and took a cab from Rosemary Lane, returning to the Yard under a snow-gray sky. When he arrived, the first fat flakes had changed to rain. He passed through the deserted lobby, the duty sergeant alerting him to a pair of reports left on his desk. The inspector took the stairs as fast as his leg allowed. It had been a long day, and his thigh ached. He slung his overcoat and hat on the rack, added some coals to the grate, and lit the oil lamp on his desk. Then he snatched up the report from Superintendent Eager of Windsor Borough Police. Tennant eased into his chair and read it.
The sergeant accompanying Lady Middlebury’s body to Ireland interviewed the great-nephew, Sir Hugo Browne of Lansdowne House in County Cork.Tennant instantly recognized the name from the first report from Ireland about Brigid Dowling. He read on.Sir Hugo’s connection to two murders astoundedhim. Brigid Dowling had been a lady’s maid and companion to his grandmother, continuing to work for the family after her death. The elder Lady Browne and Lady Middlebury were sisters.
It all made sense. Princess Alice’s letter said that Lady Middlebury took charge of Lizzie and “a sister had been settled as well.” Lady Middlebury had turned tohersister to employ Brigid Dowling.
Tennant considered sending O’Malley to Ireland but decided he couldn’t spare him. Instead, he drafted a cable to the divisional inspector in Dublin, asking him to dispatch an able man to Lansdowne House to interview the other servants and the family. A local copper had been there in December, but the Dublin man would do a more thorough job of it.
Chief Constable Phillips on the Isle of Wight had sent the second report. He’d worked with the Southampton police to compare shipping records at the port to the inventories at Osborne House. What they uncovered was a lucrative plot to defraud the queen. Michael Bolger had diverted scores of cases of expensive cognac and claret as well as vintage port, sherry, and Madeira. Bolger had reshipped them to the warehouse on Trig Pier in London, telling the Southampton officials they were destined for distribution at Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle. The London receiving agent listed in the records was the valet, Stanley Hackett, now a guest of Her Majesty’s in Newgate Prison.
Phillips concluded the report by noting that the port officials never thought to question Michael Bolger’s instructions. He’d served for a decade as the queen’s trusted house steward.
Tennant set aside the reports and considered the murderer and the message he’d left with the shoe seller. Was he throwing down a marker for some purpose or simply hurling a silly taunt? The man’s action was confounding, like an actor who steps out of the scene and speaks to the audience.Boots belonging to an Irish friend—was the original owner McGrath?
Was McGrath in England at the murderer’s behest? If so, why? The tall man was a ruthless, proficient killer. Why would he need the specialized skills of a sniper?
Tennant tipped his chair and contemplated the cracks in the plaster ceiling. He knew them well, but they were hard to follow in the evening’s flickering lamplight. He thought about the first inspector he’d worked with at the Yard. He would have said that a criminal sending messages to the police wanted to be caught. Tennant wasn’t sure, but he had worked on such a case in his first collaboration with Julia.
Julia… he wished she were there to talk the day through, to pick holes in his theories, to help him weave the strands into a pattern. He closed his eyes, thinking about her. Then he roused himself and turned down the lamp’s burner, wishing he were going home to her.
In the morning, Sergeant O’Malley entered Tennant’s office, waving a paper.
“Our human ferret has come up with the goods. Constable Williams found the name and address of the Trig Wharf warehouse owners. Big fellas who own half the dockside between Blackfriars and Southwark bridges.”
“Good man. Did Williams follow up with the owners?”
“That he did,” O’Malley said, handing over the sheet. “Look at the name of the warehouse renter. The last line.”
Tennant read and looked up. “Osborne Bros. Imports.”
“The cheek of it. After lifting the goods from the queen’s own house, he’s using the name.”
“More games. It cheers me, Paddy. The man thinks he’s as slippery as a greasy pole. Overconfidence breeds mistakes.”
“We’re needing a trip-up.”
“Constable Williams’s description from the company clerk is halfway there. Tall and thin, but he’s abandoned the ginger beard. Hmm … and something else. He describes the man’s eyes as pale. An almost colorless blue.”
“I’ll be adding it to the description.” O’Malley smoothed his bushy mustache and stroked his chin.
“What is it, Paddy?” Tennant said.
