“You’re saying it struck her in the front and not at the side?”
“That is correct, Inspector.”
Dermott asked the surgeon, “What are Mrs. FitzGerald’s chances for recovery?”
“I’m not going to quote odds. Surgery is not a game of chance. Her husband is the queen’s equerry, I understand.”
“That is correct,” Dermott said.
“She’s being moved into a private room instead of the general ward. My assistant in surgery, Doctor Rennie, will keep an eye on her. Infection is the danger now, but only time will tell.”
When Sir Godfrey opened the door for them, the surgeon’s filthy frock coat slipped from its hook. The inspector picked it up and rehung it.
Tennant remembered a conversation with Julia’s grandfather about an article inThe Lancet.The medical journal described patients who remained free of infection when the surgeon and his assistants washed their hands and instruments, wore clean surgical aprons, and treated wounds with a special solution.The doctor you draw,Tennant thought.Surgery is a game of chance, after all.
Dermott stopped Tennant outside the office. “You think Princess Louise was the gunman’s target, don’t you?”
“It’s probable. And I believe Lady Styles thinks so, too.”
Lionel said, “I’ll speak to the home secretary. All the royal residences in London must have their guards increased.”
“Will you escort the ladies to Marlborough House?” Tennant asked. “And explain the danger to the princess? We need to ascertain the whereabouts of the Prince of Wales.”
“I’ll see to it.”
“One more thing. Can you get a written order from the home secretary to admit Doctor Julia Lewis to Mrs. Fitz-Gerald’s recovery room?”
“I’m not sure Gathorne-Hardy will think it’s …”
“Press him. Mrs. FitzGerald is the wife of the queen’s equerry.”
“Very well. If you think it’s necessary.”
“I do. I’ll send Doctor Lewis a note explaining my reasons.”
At Green Park, O’Malley handed Tennant a rifle. Stamped into the side of the gun’s metal receiver were the markingsC1867 andSAINT-ÉTIENNE.
“One of our missing French weapons,” Tennant said.
“Coppers found it among the trees.” The sergeant pointed to a stand of black poplars. “Lady Styles was right about the direction of the shot.”
“Did they find anything else?”
“Some scuff marks. And this.” O’Malley signaled to a constable, who handed him an oilcloth bag covered in coal dust. He measured it to the rifle. “’Tis a perfect fit.”
“Show me where you found them.”
They walked through the trees. “Here,” O’Malley said.
“He had a clear view of the convergence of the paths.” A short walk brought them through the trees and within yards of the foot and carriage traffic on Constitution Hill.
“I’d be guessing he took off up the hill,” O’Malley said. “Then he’s got a choice. Right along Piccadilly or left on Knights-bridge to melt into the crowds.”
“We’ll ask the divisional inspector to—” Tennant looked around. “Where is he?”
“He’s thinking along the same lines, taking some coppers up the hill, looking for witnesses. And there’s a cabstand there, as well.”
“I’ll ask him to keep his officers on the streets until evening. People are creatures of habit. We might get lucky when they return home by the same route.”
