“This tall, pale-eyed killer … The boot seller is saying he’s English, not Irish.”
“Gunrunning for money rather than the cause?”
“I’m thinking how many of our suspects are Irish,” O’Malley said. “There’s Michael Bolger, the house steward, although he seems to have been born in England. Even the toffs serving the crown are Anglo-Irish.”
“There’s Major FitzGerald, most obviously,” Tennant said.
“And Sir LionelDermott.Not to mention Captain Oliver Montgomery. Montgomery’s an Ulster name that you’ll find all over County Down.”
“It leaves Captain Frederick Locock as the odd Englishman out.”
“They all took the queen’s shilling,” O’Malley said, “but I’d not be giving tuppence for any of them, save Sir Lionel. He’s value for the money.”
Tennant held up Constable Williams’s report. “Our ferret has given us a company name and a description of the agent. It’s time to find out where all that Osborne alcohol wound up.”
Tennant spent the rest of the day making the rounds of London’s exclusive hotels and Pall Mall’s gentlemen’s clubs. The hotel managers and the club secretaries gave strikingly similar descriptions of the agent representing Osborne Brothers. The man gave his name as “Albert Schmidt.”Another joke?Tennant thought.A German last name and the first name of the queen’s German-born husband?The witnesses described him as a well-dressed Englishman, tall and thin, with pale blue eyes and fair hair, wearing a dark tweed coat and bowler hat. As Tennant walked west along Pall Mall and the gaslights winkedon in the late afternoon, he found himself eyeing every tall man he passed on the street.
If the inspector had lingered in the area another twelve hours, stayed until just before daybreak, and walked the short distance to the road between Buckingham Palace’s gardens and Green Park, he might have spotted the man he sought.
The driver glanced down at his fidgety passenger and said, “I told you, mate. London never sleeps—even long after midnight. Not tucked up in bed like most of County Kildare. We’ve plenty of company.”
McGrath had told the driver he was mad to venture out at that hour, conspicuous, driving the streets before dawn. But the man with the reins knew they would be invisible. Piccadilly teemed at night, lit by lamplight and alive with traffic moving by wheel and on foot, even at five in the morning. He steered the wagon between the street sellers rumbling their barrows at the curbside and carters clopping down the road. Women staggered at crossings, setting down baskets of oranges, stopping at the coffee stalls on the corners, drawn by glowing braziers and the scent of the brew.
“Mother of God,” McGrath muttered. “You’d be thinking it was the middle of the day.”
The driver turned off Piccadilly just before they reached Hyde Park Corner. The coal wagon they’d “borrowed” rattled onto Constitution Hill, the road between Green Park and Buckingham Palace’s grounds. The night was moonless. Dark, leafless trees rose in silhouette on either side.
“Jesus,” McGrath muttered after they rolled under a gaslight, passing a bobbie on his beat. He twisted around, checking that the long, narrow object wrapped in oilcloth was still hidden under its thin black layer. “What if he stopped us?”
The driver laughed. “Never. London runs on coal, so we’re afamiliar sight. No worries, mate.” He’d given the copper a two-fingered salute as they passed him.
McGrath cocked his thumb at Buckingham Palace. “Thought I’d be seeing more soldiers.”
“Nah,” the driver said. “The palace walls are high, and the queen’s soldiers stick to the gates. When the guard changes, they march around in their silly fur hats. Stop fretting, boy-o.”
They passed under another gaslight, nearing the halfway point down the hill.
“We’re sure she’ll be here tomorrow?”
“Oh yes. Information received from high places.”
“I’ll be needing a clear day at that distance.”
“Barometer’s rising. Now, forget tomorrow and get yourself ready.”
McGrath reached around, pulled a sooty bundle from the back of the cart, and waited for the slowing wagon to stop. The Irishman jumped and ran toward the tree line. Then the driver gave his horse a touch of the whip and rumbled on. Five minutes later, McGrath caught up with him at the bottom of the hill.
“Find a good spot?” he asked when a sweating McGrath hauled himself into the cart. “You’ll be able to find it easy tomorrow?”
“Now who’s fretting, boy-o?” the Irishman said.
The driver snapped the reins, and the horse clopped on. They skirted the palace forecourt, avoiding the gates and the soldiers of the Queen’s Guards. As they drove through a pool of lamplight, the driver fixed his pale blue eyes on McGrath and winked. “Piece of cake, mate.”
They disappeared into the darkness.
CHAPTER 14
Susan Styles stopped on the landing between the first and ground floors and peered at the face of a brass-and-oak barometer. She tapped the glass and smiled. The black hand pointed reassuringly to a spot betweenFAIRandVERY DRY. The servants had drawn back the burgundy drapes, and sunlight streamed through the southeast windows, slanting bright rectangles across the floor’s Persian carpets.
