Queen's Gambit

by Bradley Harper

  Kropotkin increased the distance between them slightly. “I pray you never find me as useful as this pawn you’ve chosen.”

  “Never fear, mein Kamerad. He is useful. You are indispensable.” The Russian looked back at his chess set. “Killing her will be extremely difficult. If he is unable to act and escapes, you’ll have lost your chance. Have you considered that your objective may be achieved just as effectively if he is caught with proof of his intent?”

  “I see that I am in the presence of a chess master. What do you suggest?”

  “Surely you have more than one pawn in your box? The right words whispered into the ear of a known British informant should guarantee your man’s apprehension. The news could not be suppressed, and the papers would be demanding war against your country for the affront.” Grüber rubbed his chin as he considered the Russian’s words. “An excellent idea. I have just the man in mind, but please go to Geneva anyway. If the reaction is as strong as you predict, we will have much to discuss.”

  The two men stood silent as they peered into the blackness of night, each deep in their own thoughts.

  “It is easy to destroy, Herr Grüber. But once the old order is shattered, what will we build in its place?”

  Grüber rested his hand on the Russian’s shoulder. “A world where the people finally control their own destiny, my friend, though I expect that men of vision such as you and I will have a role in guiding it. Whatever form that new order takes, it can only be better.”

  Once Grüber returned to his hotel room, he considered his options. Luigi had been helpful in the past, but given his sentimentality could not be trusted to inform on Herman, and might well warn him of Grüber’s planned betrayal if he learned of it. He pulled some foolscap out of the writing desk and began his letter. He’d post it first thing in the morning, and it should arrive at its destination by the afternoon of the same day.

  To Special Branch, Scotland Yard

  From a concerned citizen ...

  30

  Special Branch headquarters, Thursday, June 17

  Senior Inspector Murdock was in rare form when James presented his surveillance report that morning. “I must compliment you, Inspector,” he said as he gazed over his spectacles. “You seem to have accomplished the miraculous.”

  “Beg pardon, Senior Inspector?”

  “I mean to say that you are apparently capable of being in two places at the same time.” Murdock produced a memo and laid it down beside James’s report. “This morning I received this memo from Senior Inspector Danforth, chief of Financial Crime, praising your good work and interdepartmental cooperation. Your suspicions of the head of Municipal Utilities were confirmed. It seems the man has been dipping into the trough for the past three years. Inspector Atkins said there are at least £5,000 unaccounted for, and the man is in custody as we speak. Well done, that. It never hurts to foster goodwill among our colleagues.”

  Then he held up the report on Kropotkin’s movements. “But here I have a report from you describing the Kropotkin subject’s activities at the same time you were either at the Utilities office or sharing your suspicions with Financial Crimes. How can this be?”

  James swallowed. “I sent an associate to surveil Kropotkin the first day so that I could follow a possible lead on Ott. They gave me their report, though I did arrive at the park where my associate was just after the departure of the Russian’s mysterious visitor.”

  “So, you cannot personally verify the appearance of the second conspirator?”

  “No, Senior Inspector, I cannot.”

  “Which begs the next question: Who can? Who is this unknown associate?”

  James felt like a condemned prisoner on the gallows. Seeing no escape, he braced for the drop. “My daughter, sir, Elizabeth.”

  Murdock’s face went from pale to purple in the space of two heartbeats. “What! You entrusted surveillance of a suspected enemy of Her Majesty’s government . . . to a child?”

  “She’s fifteen, sir.”

  “An adolescent, then. I’m not sure which is worse, that you entrusted this affair to your daughter, or that you submitted an official report fraudulently under your own name. I’m at a loss as to how to respond to this breach of faith.”

  “As you said, sir, I couldn’t be in two places at the same time. We’ve less than a week until the Diamond Jubilee. We both believe Ott is a serious threat, and I felt that directly pursuing him should have the highest priority. My daughter, Elizabeth, wants to become a detective and the first day of surveillance she was with Miss Harkness, who has aided the Metropolitan Police before.”

  The senior inspector rose from his seat like a whale breaching the surface. “Miss Harkness, too? Why not the custodian of your building? Your daughter’s math tutor? Is there anyone else you invited to do your job while you disobeyed my orders?”

  “No, sir. No one.”

  Murdock stuck his finger inches from James’s nose. “You are suspended pending a hearing of this matter.” He turned his palm up. “Give me your badge. Now. Then go to the armory and turn in your Webley. Report back to my office tomorrow at nine and you will be given the date and time of your hearing. I would not be optimistic, if I were you.”

  Dazed, James stood and placed his badge into the man’s waiting hand.

  “May I ask one favor before I go, sir?”

  “You dare, after all this? It must be deucedly important. Very well. Ask.”

  “May I have a copy of the sketch? I could look around for Ott on my own, while I await my hearing.”

  Murdock let out a soft snort. “You’re tenacious, I’ll give you that.” He reached into his inbox, plucked out a manila envelope and extracted from it a copy of a sketch. “Here. One more set of eyes can’t do any harm—besides, the likeness has already been shared with the press, asking for information on the man suspected of attacking you. Just be certain you don’t introduce yourself as ‘Inspector’ Ethington until we get this sorted out. Understand?”

  “Perfectly, Senior Inspector. Thank you.”

  Murdock sat down, his chair groaning at the sudden burden. “I take no pleasure in this, Ethington. Your recent work has been exemplary, and God knows we need every man we can muster as the Jubilee approaches. We’ll talk more tomorrow, after I’ve calmed down. Now go.”

  James trudged out, head down, the sketch clutched in his hand.

  He told Sergeant Q the cylinders of his Webley were loose, and it needed to be looked at. The armorer shook his head. The Webley was well known for its reliability. He’d recited more than once the old saying, “A poor workman blames his tools,” but he accepted the revolver and promised to inspect it. “I can have it ready tomorrow morning, Inspector. Will that be soon enough?”

  “I hope so,” he said, and left.

  Once outside the armory, James sat and inspected the sketch. Other than a prominent handlebar mustache and a square, solid chin any boxer would envy, Herr Ott was rather unremarkable. Five-foot-eight, about one hundred eighty pounds. Muscular. His hair was parted in the middle, ears small, nose unbroken, eyes . . . silver-gray. Hair could be cut, dyed, or shaved, but eye color was fixed. People would notice, as the elderly publisher had. Finally, he thought.

  Margaret and Elizabeth were waiting for him across the street in a pub, both “undressed.” He’d resisted Elizabeth’s joining them until she made it clear she would just follow. It suddenly occurred to him that Margaret now had the only firearm.

  He pondered his next move. Time is short. Best to accept reinforcements.

  The pub had only two other customers at the far corner of the bar and a bartender reading The Illustrated Police News. The customers had a racing form spread out on the bar and were deep in discussing their investment portfolio for the afternoon. Neither one raised his head when James walked in to join Elizabeth and me at a table.

  “Did you get the sketch?” I asked. “Your troops are ready to sally forth, General. Just say where!” My smile faded however when I note
d his long face. “What happened?”

  James seemed to have shrunken into himself, and the transformation unnerved me. He collapsed into a chair before speaking. “I’m suspended. I had to surrender my badge and revolver. I’m to return tomorrow to learn when my hearing will be, to see if I lose my post permanently.”

  He held up his hand to hold off our outcry. “My suspicions about the head of the Utilities Department proved true. Apparently, he had been dipping into the till for some time. The chief of Financial Crimes was so grateful he sent an internal memorandum praising me for my assistance.”

  I felt a chill. “And the time of the report on Kropotkin coincided with the time you were speaking with your colleagues at the Yard. How did you explain the discrepancy?”

  “I’m not a clever man, Margaret. I confessed that you and Elizabeth performed the surveillance and composed the report. Senior Inspector Murdock’s reaction was so extreme I may have shortened his life. My revolver rests in the armory ‘undergoing maintenance’ until tomorrow. Murdock allowed me a copy of Ott’s description and sketch, but I had to surrender my badge, and cannot use the title of ‘Inspector’ until further notice. For the moment I am a civilian, with no more authority than you.” He spread his hands. “I may have lost everything by catching a thief.”

  Elizabeth sat silent, one tear sliding down her cheek.

  I was stunned by the news, made all the worse by my sense of guilt. James was a good man, trying with all his might to do the right thing, and in my desire to play detective and enjoy some time with Elizabeth, I’d cost him his reputation with his superior and quite possibly his livelihood. He deserved better.

  Then I had a revelation that froze my heart and tongue. Since his career with Scotland Yard was probably finished, he would soon be free in a way he might never be again. I thought of my old acquaintance, the empty space across the table, and how much I’d enjoyed filling that space with my almost-family.

  I was attracted to the man, and knew he was to me. I imagined what it might be like, to marry at my age when many women were already widows. I shook my head. It was too late for me. Given my condition I did not wish to become a burden on another, and it would be selfish to ask him to accompany me to Australia. We might have been very happy together, had we met in another time or circumstance, but we had not.

  Still, if the hearing went badly for him . . .

  “So, what shall we do in the meantime, James?” I asked. “Are we still on the hunt for Ott, or have you given up?”

  James straightened. “I may not have a badge, but I’m still a policeman, through and through. I’m on the case, at least until I’m thrown off the force for good. Let’s wait and see how long it is before my hearing. Given how close it is to the Jubilee, I might get a stay until afterward. If we catch Ott in the meantime, it could well save my position.”

  He sipped his ginger beer for a moment before continuing. “I’ve some contacts in Whitechapel who might prove useful. They won’t know of my suspension, and I may be able to get them to sniff around there for our quarry. At this point, I’ve nothing to lose.”

  Meanwhile, the two gamblers at the end of the bar completed their strategy session, paid their tab, and walked out of the bar, while the bartender returned to his paper. It seemed odd how we three could be plotting to save a monarch, while the rest of the world took no notice. We paid our tab and James headed off for Whitechapel while Elizabeth and I headed home. I recalled Old Mary and her tarot cards, and how I was once again waiting to see what hand fate would deal me.

  31

  Thursday, June 17, cont.

  When James stepped outside into the warm spring sunshine after leaving the bar, he had a clear mission. Stop the assassin, with or without a badge. He thought back to his days as an inspector under Abberline in Division H in the East End. He’d learned the truth of the old saying, “It takes a thief to catch a thief.” Ott wasn’t a thief, but perhaps he was hiding with one.

  I wonder if he’s still alive? James thought. Last he’d seen Billy “Peg Leg” Fisher, his liver was giving him fits, and he’d had to cut back on the gin. That’d been, what, three years ago? Well, nothing ventured . . .

  Peg Leg had once been a sailor, but a leg crushed by a falling mainsail years ago before steam engines took over had left him with a wooden leg and a powerful thirst, though perhaps the thirst had always been there. Now Billy was a fence, and a good one, for three young burglars who were loyal to him due to their blood relation. They were his sons.

  Little happened in the East End that Peg Leg wasn’t aware of, or had a hand in. Though he would steal the crown jewels given the chance, he was careful to never spill blood, and he and James had an armistice of sorts. There were criminals far worse than he and his progeny, so in return for the odd bit of gossip, he’d been left alone. Time to renew old acquaintances.

  When James had first been assigned to the East End, he’d been surprised how much business took place inside pubs. On reflection, however, it made sense. Rooms were usually crowded, and two men surrounded by loud, drunk customers could carry on a conversation in greater privacy than was possible back at their digs. Besides, it allowed both sides to keep their residence concealed from the other party.

  James was relieved to see the old salt in his favorite corner of the Ten Bells, his wooden leg propped up on a chair while he smoked his pipe and chatted with his three sons, who were between seventeen and twenty-one. The difference in their hair color told James no two had shared the same mother.

  Billy looked up sharply as James approached. The inspector wasn’t surprised by the fatherly advice the fence was giving his boys. “Aye, lads, while the bands a’playing and the crowds ’re cheering, ’twill be a fine time to . . .”

  “Hello, Billy. Glad to see you’re such a patriot.”

  “Inspector! Good to see you!” he said, raising his pipe in mock salute. “I’d heard you’d moved on to higher things than us poor lot ’ere in Whitechapel. You here to sweep the streets before Her Majesty rides around the town? If so, you’re off your map, shipmate. Her course is charted far from ’ere.”

  The three sons smirked but remained silent. They knew of the truce their father had with the inspector and, having no stolen property on them, they sipped their ales and listened.

  “Do you see a broom in my hand, Billy? No, I haven’t been transferred to the sanitation department, but this visit does concern the queen. Did you see the paper today?”

  Billy nodded, stroking the stubble on his chin. He could smell a deal a mile away, and knew one was coming. “I might ’ave at that. And?”

  “Did you see the sketch of a man?” He pulled out the police drawing of Ott. “This man?”

  “Aye, I did. Took a shot at one of yours, I believe.” He winked. “Missed.”

  “Not by much. I was the target.”

  Billy clucked his tongue. “Ah, as popular as ever, Inspector. Well, you can’t expect a man to change his ways just ’cause he got a bigger badge. But you still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

  “I think he’s hereabouts, and I want you to help me find him.” Billy spread his hands out in front of him. “And why should I help you? What’s in it for me?”

  “Because I believe he’s here to kill the queen. If he does that, and if he were hiding here . . .”

  Billy sighed. “Every constable in London will sweep in here and tear the East End apart. Aye.” He rubbed his forehead. “I still recall how I had to scramble when you lot were looking for the Ripper. Bad for business, that. Not to say it was good for the ladies either, mind you.” He gazed fondly at the three wooden figures sitting around him. “But I had hungry mouths to feed, so had little time to mourn their troubles, you understand.”

  “Then, if you don’t want bad times again, you’d be wise to look about, Billy. We don’t have much time, the ceremony’s next Tuesday.”

  “You’re no more fun than before, Master Ethington. All right. I’ll sic my boys on his trail. Wha
t can you tell me to help us find this poor marksman? I’m sure you know more than’s in the paper.”

  “He’s German. He’s an electrician, and he uses an air rifle that makes very little noise. He’s dangerous, Billy. If your boys find him, leave him to me.”

  “My boys can take care of themselves, sir. But thank you for the concern. Where should I send word if I learn something?”

  “Here.” James wrote down his address, hoping he wasn’t extending an invitation to be burgled at a later time. “Any time at night. During the day, send word to the station at Spitalfields and they’ll telegraph my office.”

  Billy extended his hand. “I’ll see what I can find out, Inspector. Oh, and the conversation me and my boys were ‘aving when you came in . . .”

  “I didn’t hear a thing, Billy, as long as no one’s harmed.”

  “A pleasure as always, Inspector, and proud to do me civic duty. Good day.”

  James appreciated the relatively cleaner air of the London streets after the close confines of the pub. He reflected that he now had the best sleuths in London on his side. Billy had a nose for profit and whom to profit from. If someone in the East End was being paid off to shelter the killer, Billy and his lads would hear it on the wind. If Herr Ott’s benefactor was a believer in his cause and not sheltering the German for pay, then it was hopeless, and James would just have to do his best on the day of the ceremony.

  Let’s hope greed wins out over politics.

  32

  Thursday, June 17, cont.

  Herman was awakened by a knock at the door. The sun was barely up, so it couldn’t be past six.