QUEEN’S
GAMBIT
QUEEN’S
GAMBIT
A Mystery Featuring
MARGARET HARKNESS
BRADLEY
HARPER
Published 2019 by Seventh Street Books®
Queen’s Gambit. Copyright © 2019 by Bradley Harper. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, products, locales, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
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Cover design by Jennifer Do
Cover design © Start Science Fiction
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ISBN 978-1-64506-001-7 (paperback) | ISBN 978-1-64506-007-9 (ebook)
Printed in the United States of America
To Derek,
There would have been no book two, without book one.
There would have been no book one, without you.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
In Europe, the “first” floor is the first floor above ground level.
As the story takes place in Europe, that naming convention
will be used throughout.
PROLOGUE
St. Petersburg, Russia, Tuesday, March 1, 1881, midafternoon
Viktor shivered in the afternoon sunlight both from the cold and his mounting excitement. Although the sky was cloudless so close to the Arctic Circle the steady north wind prevented the sun’s feeble rays from having much effect. The snow was nearly a meter high along the sides of the road as he and Sofia walked up and down the sidewalk beside the Catherine Canal, stomping their feet and huddling deep within their thick woolen coats, as they waited for their chance to change the world.
The three bomb throwers were a hundred meters down the road, doing their best to look purposeful. Sofia had berated one for washing his salami and bread down with wine that morning. He’d shrugged and said if this were his final meal, she should be content he was drinking wine and not vodka.
Suddenly the royal carriage and Cossack bodyguards came rushing toward them, barely giving Sofia enough time to signal the bombers with her raised handkerchief.
The first assassin misjudged the speed of the carriage, and his nitroglycerin bomb fell among the following Cossacks, exploding with a flash which was accompanied by the screams of the wounded horses and men.
Viktor cursed and feared the tsar would escape. The Narodnaya Volya, or “People’s Will,” had tried twice before and it appeared their “propaganda by deed” would fail again.
But at a barked order from inside, the bulletproof carriage slid to a halt. Alexander stepped out wrapped in a thick fur coat. He approached the wounded men to console them while looking about for his attackers. The police chief of St. Petersburg in the following sleigh cried out, “Thank God!” when he saw his monarch emerge unharmed.
Viktor gritted his teeth as their target stood out in the open, unscathed. As he and Sofia drew nearer however, he saw a young boy writhing beside the road, blood staining the front of his clothes, and suddenly Viktor wanted to vomit.
The second assassin raised his hand from within the gathering crowd and cried out, “It is too early to thank God!” and dashed his bomb onto the ground at the tsar’s feet. The second explosion knocked Viktor down from forty feet away, and when he rose, he saw the Russian monarch lying upon the packed snow, his entrails splayed between his legs. Viktor’s nausea finally overcame him and he knelt retching into a ditch while the guards lifted the shattered man onto a sleigh and sped to the palace. In vain.
Within the hour, Alexander II was dead. Alexander III quickly set about to find his father’s killers and crush their organization forever.
In the general confusion, Sofia and Viktor slipped away to her apartment and prepared for the aftermath. “Pack your bag, Viktor, our time is short,” Sofia said. “The Okhrana will be unleashed like hunting dogs and sent everywhere to find us. Your age will be no defense, so I’m sending you where they cannot find you. We leave in five minutes.”
Five minutes was ample time. A simple cloth sack with his spare shirt, pants, a pocketknife, two flannel foot wraps, and his father’s pocket watch, and he was done. The watch had been given to his brother Andrei as the oldest son when their father died, but Andrei had given it to Viktor “for safekeeping” when they arrived in St. Petersburg. Now it was his, safe or not.
At the train station, Sofia pressed a thick wad of rubles and a false passport into his hand. Then hugging him fiercely, she gave him a note. “Memorize this name and address, then destroy it and come up with a new name for yourself. If I get captured, I don’t want to know it. I have too much to forget already. Now go!”
Sofia disappeared within the crowd, and Viktor looked down at the creased paper and passport in his hand. The passport identified him as Vanna Petkovic and the paper read:
HERR THOMAS VOGEL,471 INVALIDENSTRASSE, BERLIN. PASSWORD: PARIS
Viktor spoke no German, some English, and a little French, so the name and address were difficult to remember and impossible to pronounce. Time enough for that later, he thought.
The pale boy with the quiet gray eyes knew the shortest route to Berlin was through Poland. He also knew this would be common knowledge to the Okhrana, should Sofia break, so he bought a train ticket to nearby Helsinki. From there he could book passage on a ferry to Kiel on the north German coast, then a train south to Berlin. He was grateful for his brother’s insistence that he learn geography.
Viktor worried about his brother, Andrei, a prisoner of the Okhrana for the past week. The fact that the assassins hadn’t been arrested before today proved Andrei hadn’t broken under interrogation, but now with the tsar dead he would be shown no restraint. Viktor shivered at what this meant, but there was nothing he could do. As much as he loved his brother, he knew the only way he would ever see him again would be if he joined him, first in prison, then on the gallows.
Alone on the train, Viktor looked again at the scrap of paper with the address in Berlin and wondered who or what awaited him there. He watched as his motherland, the Rodina, passed by his window while the train bore on for Finland. The next day he would take a boat to Germany and an uncertain future.
Two days later, a thin, exhausted young man approached the address on Invaliden Strasse and the gun shop of Herr Thomas Vogel. When he entered, a young girl with long blonde hair, slightly older than Viktor, was oiling a fowling piece with a rich mahogany stock and Damascus steel barrels. When she asked if she could help him, he could only say her father’s name, and “bitte.” Puzzled, she motioned for him to wait. When she brought her father out from his lathe in the back room, he asked “Ja? Was darf es sein?” Viktor had no idea what he was being asked, but looked down at his feet and mumbled, “Paris.”
Herr Vogel pursed his lips for a moment. “Astrid, make him a bed in the loft over the workshop. He will be my new apprentice.”
Astrid threw back her hair and gave the young man another look. Thin, almost to the point of starvation, he had nevertheless been growing briskly the past year given the wrists and ankles protruding from his clothes. His hands were not rough. A
student. Or he had been.
She was about to turn and lead him to the loft when his eyes rose, and the cool grayness of them caused her heart to pause. She imagined the color of the winter sky just before the snow fell, yet his gaze warmed her in ways she had never felt before. His eyelashes were a thick brown, the contrast making his eyes glimmer deep underneath. Astrid led him to his new home and found it difficult to sleep that night, imagining those eyes shining by candlelight in the workshop next door.
Herr Vogel took no notice of this. He could calculate the trajectory of a bullet at two hundred meters; the arc of Cupid’s arrow was invisible to him.
That night, Viktor tried to warm himself beneath the thin quilt Frau Hilda Vogel had grudgingly given him. He thought of the goldenhaired young woman who had led him upstairs. “I must learn German quickly,” he vowed, “if I am to talk to her.”
By the time he awoke the next morning, Sofia and Andrei were reunited in prison. Viktor’s name was mentioned briefly in their rough interrogation, but in the rush to placate an impatient new tsar with their execution, it was soon forgotten. Sofia was the first woman hanged in Russia in living memory.
From that morning forward, young Viktor Zhelyabov was also no more. He’d written down the name of the captain of the ferry to Kiel and so became Herman Ott. At least he could pronounce it.
1
Buckingham Palace, London, Wednesday, March 10, 1897
The chamberlain was as starched as his collar. “I beg your pardon, madam, but I do not see your name on Her Majesty’s calendar. Perhaps you were scheduled for a different day?” His raised eyebrow implied how unlikely he thought the possibility.
I knew that getting an interview with the queen was a long shot at best, but when your funds can only half-fill one sock, it is time to embrace long odds.
“No, sir, I do not have an appointment for today, nor any other day, but was hoping you could give me a time in the near future when Her Majesty and I might speak.”
“I see.” The eyebrow descended regally to its original height while the nose elevated, a minor act of facial acrobatics I could not help but admire.
“I’m sorry, Miss Harkness, but Her Majesty has no time for an interview today, or any day in the foreseeable future. Please, be on your way.”
I gritted my teeth. I had known that being shown the door was the most likely outcome, but the man’s air of superiority left a sour taste in my mouth. “Very well, sir,” I managed to say without snarling. I presented my card in a final act of supplication. “Should Her Majesty’s schedule have an unexpected opening, please reconsider my request.”
I doubt the man would have accepted the card had he not been wearing gloves, and I feared it would soon find itself in the nearest dustbin, but life is marked by unexpected strokes of good fortune. The cost of a single card would be worth the wager he’d pass it on.
I heard a voice summoning the man from inside the queen’s parlor as I left, and I was nearly at the bottom of the stairs outside the palace when his wheezing voice called out to me.
“Miss Harkness! Please, a moment.”
If I’d told the man I saw perspiration on his brow, I believe he would have died of embarrassment. He cleared his throat as he struggled to catch his breath and fleeing dignity, then straightened to pronounce, in his most stentorian tones, “Her Majesty will see you now.”
I curtsied. I couldn’t help myself, and my smile must have made his collar feel even tighter.
“Thank you,” I managed to say without laughing. Apparently, he’d overstepped his bounds and was being taught a lesson by his mistress—to my benefit.
“This way, miss.”
I walked meekly behind, my palms suddenly clammy. Be careful what you wish for, I thought. It was well known that the queen did not suffer fools lightly, if at all. I was about to bandy words with the ruler of an empire spanning half the globe, and I remembered advice given to me as a student in a school production: “Remember your lines, and don’t bump into the furniture.” Not a deep philosophy perhaps, but it would serve for the moment.
Her Majesty was dressed all in black, the only color she’d worn since the death of her beloved Albert decades ago. I’d never been in the presence of royalty so I curtsied in front of the small woman seated before me, and hoped I’d gotten it right.
“Your Majesty. Thank you for seeing me.”
The queen inclined her head and continued to pet the Pomeranian in her lap.
“Tea,” she said, not glancing at the chamberlain.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said. Now back on terra cognita, the chamberlain’s face was the mask of a loyal servant, yet I had no doubt he’d have poisoned my drink if possible.
Her Majesty indicated a small side table nearby with a chair for me to occupy, and the chamberlain served us each a cup of steaming tea. Once the formalities of tea had been addressed, she sent the man away with instructions: “We should like a short repose before the afternoon’s appointments, but see to it we are not disturbed until half-past the hour.”
The man bowed, glanced sidelong at me, then turned on his heel and left, softly closing the door.
The corners of Her Majesty’s mouth briefly hinted a smile before she turned to me again. “Normally we are not disposed to meet with journalists, even less so with women who enter the male workplace, but we felt the young man required a reminder as to whom he served, and his role in our household.” The corners twitched again. “You have twenty minutes.”
I started our brief interview with what I thought was a benign topic. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I understand you were a devoted reader of the Sherlock Holmes stories in The Strand.”
Her regal nose sniffed as she raised her teacup to her lips. “We were quite fond of the stories. Mister Holmes is the exemplar of British chivalry, and we were most displeased at Doctor Doyle’s wanton murder of him at the Reichenbach Falls. You may quote me directly and, should you chance upon the man, please implore him to resurrect dear Mister Holmes for his sovereign. As the years pass, much we once had is taken from us. The tales of Holmes’s escapades were one of our few remaining pleasures. Now he has cruelly deprived us and his legions of readers of this literary treasure.”
She held her cup as though to warm her hands. “As you are a writer yourself, is it possible you know the man?”
I hesitated. I recalled a warm embrace in the fog, nine years before. The memory passed as quickly as it came. “Yes, Your Majesty, though I’ve not seen him in some time. We do not frequent the same social circles.”
She fixed me with her dark, expressive eyes. “Then tell him—tell the world, if you like—that he has greatly disappointed his monarch.” Her teacup rattled slightly as she replaced it into the saucer and sighed. “It would please us greatly if this interview could affect the resurrection of the noble Sherlock Holmes, but we tire. We wish you a good afternoon.”
The aged queen rang a bell and the chamberlain, who must have been listening outside, entered with a lap blanket for Her Majesty. He gently lifted the Pomeranian, who scarcely stirred, and after arranging both the blanket and the dog as she wished, he led me out as she prepared to nap.
“Good day, Miss Harkness,” he said with great precision once the door was closed and we were out of earshot of his mistress. “Don’t come back.”
I smiled. I could ill-afford making an enemy of the man, but I replied before thinking, “That’s not for you to decide, though I’m happy to profit any time you forget yourself.”
I curtsied in farewell, he sniffed, and we parted ways.
I was so pleased with how the interview had gone that I indulged in a meal in a café. “Table for one,” I told the waiter. He nodded and took me to a small table in the corner by the kitchen. They always try to put me out of sight. I sighed. I suppose so as not to scare away the other customers.
I gritted my teeth at the clatter of crockery and tableware being removed from the opposite side. The glare of the freshly bared tablecloth hurt
my eyes. Might as well post a sign, I thought. Single woman. Beware!
The empty space across the table was, if not an old friend, at least an acquaintance of long standing.
My name is Margaret Harkness, and like most people worth knowing, I am a person of many parts. First of all, I am a woman in a man’s world. Everything I have gained or have accomplished in my life has, with rare exception, been without male assistance, and often despite their resistance. I am also a suffragette. Women will only be taken as equals by the men in power when we can vote them out of office or, to their ultimate horror, replace them.
I am a writer, but a writer without a story is as useless as a singer without a song.
I am also a Christian Socialist. I see it as my calling, my song if you will, to rip away the veil of ignorance the well-to-do maintain regarding the poorest of society. My political views have estranged me from my family, and my need to pursue my own career once cost me an engagement. My books and other works must be my legacy, my “children,” as romance and marriage are now dreams long buried.
My books have a limited following however, and I supplement my income with freelance journalism. The male editors of the major papers are reluctant to publish works from a woman writer, so I have often found it necessary to swallow my pride and adopt the nom de plume of John Law.
As I approached this my fortieth year, I noticed my strength failing. After visiting various consultants, I have been diagnosed with something resembling lupus. The exact diagnosis was a matter of academic conjecture, but as there is no effective treatment for any form of the malady, it really doesn’t matter what it’s called. Lupus will serve. My joints stiffen, I tire more easily, and I find it necessary to stretch every morning to remain mobile.
None of the pipe-smoking doctors I visited would promise a cure, but one suggested moving to a warmer climate might slow the progression of my condition. Therefore, I was now doing all I could to acquire funds for emigration to Australia. I’d done a brief stint there in 1891 as a foreign correspondent for the Pall Mall Gazette, and I knew from my contacts that newspapers were having a difficult time retaining journalists. It seemed that as soon as a reporter arrived in the goldfields, he forsook the typewriter for a pick and shovel in hopes of making his fortune.
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