“The hamlet lost its church years ago,” Tennant said to O’Malley, “but the copper from Kilcullen found an old priest in the next town who remembered the family. After the husband died, his wife and children were forced off the farm. Margaret Dowling and her daughters, Elizabeth and Brigid.”
“’Tis an old story in Ireland, packing up after generations in a place but with nowhere to go. Is the priest remembering where they headed?”
“To Naas Workhouse,” Tennant said. “The local removing officer wrote up the order, so we have a date: September 1856.”
O’Malley shook his head. “Poor lasses.”
“Here’s the mystery, Paddy. Naas Workhouse has no record of them.”
“’Tis a puzzle. We have Lizzie Dowling, an ordinary Irish lass living in Kildare. She never arrives at the workhouse but starts working for Lady Middlebury.”
Tennant nodded. “The Middleburys’ estate is eight miles east of Kilcullen, not far from the Dowlings’ village. Then Lizzie crosses the sea to work for the queen and is murdered.”
“And the little sister, Brigid Dowling, travels far to the south in County Cork to work for Lady Middlebury’s sister. Then Brigid is murdered in London, and Lady Middlebury in Windsor Great Park.”
“Neither of the sisters ended up at Naas Workhouse,” Tennant said. “Nor did their mother, Margaret Dowling.”
“What happened to their mam, I’m wondering?”
“Unknown.” Tennant handed the report to O’Malley. “One last riddle. Take a look at the final paragraph. According to the old priest, someone else was looking for the Dowlings.”
The sergeant read it and looked up. “A soldier, showing up a year or two later.”
“Pity this Father Flynn’s eyesight and memory are half gone.”
O’Malley twisted around in his seat at the sound of raised voices and boots pounding down the corridor.
“Sir”—a panting constable took a deep breath—“there’s been a shooting in Green Park.”
He watched her fall. Then he dropped the rifle among the black poplars, the cover from where he aimed and fired. The bullet struck higher and farther to the right than an ideal kill shot, and he smiled.Couldn’t be better,he thought. He knew not to run and draw attention to himself. He walked twenty yards parallel to the line of trees, then calmly cut across the verge, joining the foot traffic along Constitution Hill.
Passersby along the street had heard nothing over the din of carriage traffic, their gazes turned away from Green Park, intenton Buckingham Palace, looking to see if the Royal Standard flew from the flagpole. It waved from it rarely, and the pole was empty that day. The queen was elsewhere.
He headed up the hill toward Piccadilly, one dark-haired man of average height lost in the late-morning throng.
Sir Richard stopped Tennant and O’Malley at the end of the corridor. “Three ladies were taken to Westminster Hospital.”
“Three?”
“Princess Louise is reported to be among them. The first report identified her as the victim, but a second says she wasn’t injured. I don’t trust either account, given all the confusion. You and the sergeant go to the hospital and sort it out.”
Tennant asked, “Who’s taking charge of the investigation in the park?”
“The local divisional inspector, for now. You take command when you finish at the hospital.”
“Yes, sir,” Tennant said, turning away.
A hansom waited at the back entrance to the Yard. The driver applied his whip when Tennant said, “Westminster Hospital. As quickly as you can.” As they rattled down Whitehall, passing Downing Street and the Home Office building, Tennant wondered if Sir Lionel Dermott knew about the shooting. He got his answer when the cab swung right, passing Westminster Abbey on the left, and rolled to a stop behind a hansom. Dermott looked over his shoulder as he paid off the cabbie.
“You’ve heard,” Sir Lionel said.
“Our information is that Princess Louise was among the party but is uninjured, Tennant said. “I’m here to confirm that report.”
“And Susan? Lady Styles. Was she—”
Tennant took his arm. “There’s only one way to find out.”
They climbed the steps of a castle-like building, enteringthrough the center bay of its triple-arched portico. A row of crystal chandeliers was an inadequate light source for the vast waiting room. Its luxuriousness was at odds with the ragged, coughing sick who waited on the wooden benches that lined the space.
