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And there was no way I could get to it. No one was going to listen to me. I cried out, my head darting every which way in the hope that I would suddenly spot the answer, that I would find exactly what I was looking for, that a miracle would reveal itself before those cheers become screams …

And there it was. Tucked in the shadows of a side road was a horse and cart, pulling out of a stable.

A milk-cart, to be precise.

You never notice a milk-cart, do you? You never even question them being there. They’re just another part of the city, one of the ten million things you block out to stop going mad. You probably wouldn’t even recognize one if you saw it twice.

But I recognized this one. It was the exact same milk-cart that had been on the Gore two mornings ago, driving past the murder site. Returning to the scene of the crime. I raced towards it, more and more certain with every yard I covered that it was the same one. The faded paintwork on the sides, the forelocks on the horse.

The driver, leading it by the reins.

It was the man I’d seen driving the cart that same morning – the one with the black eye and the moustache. I’d recognized him then, too – I thought it was because he’d been at that football game. But now I could see there was another reason, a much more important one, and it was only at the final crucial moment of reckoning that I understood exactly what it was.

The driver climbed on to the front of the milk-cart and I leapt up, snatching the reins out of his hands. He hadn’t seen me coming: his eyes were fixed on the celebrations. He whipped around to face me, and he turned pale as he realized that he recognized me, too.

‘Going somewhere?’ I asked the missing beggar.

It was him, all right. He might have shaved off his beard and changed his clothes, but there was no doubting that it was the same man. He snarled with anger and made to grab the reins back, but I’d been expecting that. I shoved him away and clambered up beside him.

‘I’m making an arrest in my capacity as a private person,’ I explained. ‘If you’d kindly accompany me to the nearest police –’

My words trailed to nothing because I’d just seen what was in the back of the milk-cart.

The tin pails were arranged in a ring around a stack of dynamite, piled up like kindling. Half the pails, I could see, were filled with paper flyers. DEATH TO THE MANHOOD OF EMPIRE, they said, in big purple and green letters. The rest of them were filled with hatpins.

‘Biscuits,’ I said.

The beggar punched me in the face. I’d been punched so many times now that I was used to it, but the blow was still hard enough to make me lose my balance, and for him to whip back the reins and shove me off, so I fell back and hit the road, hard. I jumped to my feet and reached blindly for the cart as it sped off, grabbing one of the wooden fittings as the horse galloped away. I was dragged off my feet, shoes battering the cobbles.

‘Get back!’ I screamed at the crowds.

The onlookers shrieked and scattered as the cart flew across the road, climbed the pavement and crashed straight into the park, heading for the Mall. The cart was never going to make it through a police blockade and past the army … but that wasn’t the point. It didn’t need to get anywhere near the procession to do the necessary damage. It was all up to me now. I found my feet and swung them up in a great leap, clambering on to the front of the cart and making a wild grab for the reins.

‘It’s – not – worth it!’ I shouted. ‘I know who you really are, and –’

The man wasn’t holding the reins any more. He was holding a long, hissing fuse and a box of matches. He dropped both to the floor and pulled a tablet from his pocket. I leapt forwards and sank my teeth into his hand before he could cram it into his mouth. The man bellowed and the tablet fell from his hand and bounced off the cart. He roared and threw himself at me, trying to gouge out my eyes with his thumbs.

‘Just – die!’ he roared through gritted teeth. ‘You – low-life – worm!’

The horse was panicking now, bolting off the pathway and smashing through the flowerbeds, the wagon bouncing and crashing so hard that I was almost flung clean over the side. I could still hear the fuse hissing away somewhere beside me, tracing towards the pile of dynamite, but I couldn’t see it because the man’s thumbs were knuckle-deep in my eyes. The wagon crashed hard over a low metal railing, knocking him off balance. I took my chance, rolling him over and pinning him down with one hand, aiming my fist for a decent blow.

He spat a mouthful of blood in my face.

‘You fucking simpleton,’ he snarled. ‘Don’t you understand? Those bitches cost me everything. Everything!’

‘That,’ I said, ‘is neither a proper nor decent way to refer to a lady.’ And I knocked him out with one punch.

I’d never done that before and felt quite pleased with myself, even though I’d broken one of my knuckles and was still on a runaway wagon filled with explosives and hatpins. We were careering through the park now, skidding around the edge of a huge lake, while police and cavalry raced towards me at speed. I couldn’t even see the fuse any more – just hear it, hissing closer and closer to the dynamite in the back of the cart.

It was now or never. I grabbed the reins and wrenched to the left, steering the wagon into the lake. The horse hit the water like a cannon and the cart toppled over, sending everything flying overboard. The water was only a few feet deep, and filthy, but it did the trick. I stumbled to my feet, spluttering, and freed the horse as fast as I could, my hands fumbling at the catches until it cantered away in panic. The edge of the lake was quickly surrounded by police officers and soldiers, bellowing orders and aiming their rifles at me. I grabbed the unconscious man under his arms and heaved him out of the lake, feet trailing, counting down every second until …

‘You!’

I looked up. Chief Constable Cartwright was standing on the bank and staring at me like he genuinely couldn’t tell if he was having a nightmare or not.

‘What the hell are you –’

The cart exploded. The worst of the impact was deadened by the water, but the sound certainly wasn’t. The police officers and soldiers hit the ground as the blast sent up a plume of water like a fountain behind me, before a torrent of pond sludge and waterweed descended in every direction. In the distance, I could make out a faint ripple of applause as the assembled crowd of foreign dignitaries assumed it was part of the coronation celebration.