Queen's Gambit

by Bradley Harper

  Just then there was a knock at the door, and a sergeant stuck his head in.

  “Beg pardon, Inspector. Mister Parmeggiani’s barrister is here to see him.”

  A well-dressed gentleman came through the door with a briefcase and an umbrella, ready to do battle. He flourished a card identifying himself as Richard Baxter, Esq.

  “Good day, Inspector. May I ask why my client is still in custody?” he asked in a mild voice, his public-school accent declaring his class as surely as an Oxford tie.

  “He was harboring a man suspected of attempted murder, sir. Surely that warrants further investigation.”

  “You have proof my client was aware he was a wanted criminal?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Has he answered all your questions to the best of his ability?”

  “He has answered all our questions,” James said, “though his ability is still in question.”

  The barrister showed his teeth in what may have been a smile, or a polite snarl. “Nice turn of phrase, Inspector. I’m requesting his release in court this afternoon. Unless you have something more than an anonymous letter that could have been written by a competitor of my client’s, I expect his release today. If you have any further questions for him, I must insist on being present. Do you?”

  James knew he’d get nothing more from the little Italian.

  “No, I’m done.” He turned to Luigi and handed him his card. “If you think of anything further which may help us locate the man, please look me up.”

  James walked down to the armory where Sergeant Q and James’s Webley awaited. “I’m here for my revolver,” he said. “What did you find?”

  The armorer shrugged. “Needed a bit of oil, which is your responsibility, and the spring on the extractor needed replacement. The cylinders were tight as a drum.” He handed over the cleaned and well-oiled weapon, whereupon James reloaded it and replaced it in its holster.

  It felt right there somehow. He hadn’t realized how he’d missed its reassuring weight until it was back in place.

  Rearmed and bearing his badge, Inspector Ethington set forth to save a queen.

  When James returned, Elizabeth was practicing walking like a boy in her urchin costume.

  “How did your meeting with the senior inspector go, James?” I asked, “Will your hearing occur before the Jubilee?”

  “No need,” he smiled. “They’re promoting me!”

  “What!” Elizabeth said, round-eyed, and they embraced.

  As I watched Elizabeth congratulate her father, I recalled my foolish thoughts from the day before, of asking James if he’d join me in a new life in Australia. I was glad that for once my head had won out over my heart.

  “How is that possible?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Where to begin? The embezzler had collaborators, and I was credited for their arrest. The chief of Financial Crimes wants me as soon after the Jubilee as possible, as his deputy.”

  “That’s wonderful!” said Elizabeth.

  “Oh, there’s more than that. An anonymous letter received at Special Branch yesterday led to the arrest of the man who was sheltering Ott.”

  “But not Ott himself?” I asked.

  “No, he escaped. The man we arrested readily admits to hiring our anarchist as an electrician, but we can’t find any reason to hold him. He’s probably free already. I suspect his hands aren’t totally clean, but I don’t have time to pursue that, at present.”

  “So close,” I said. “His luck can’t hold out forever. Anything else?”

  “Our informants report that several prominent anarchists are suddenly leaving London, and Murdock believes that it’s to get them safely away before the assassination. He now agrees with me that the man is a definite threat to Her Majesty, and Ott is my only responsibility until after the ceremony. After the Jubilee, assuming all goes well, I get nearly a fortnight’s paid holiday before my promotion takes effect.” He hugged Elizabeth again. “Things couldn’t be better.”

  A fortnight before my ship sailed? Time enough to consider canceling my booking, enlarging it for three, or sailing alone as planned. Apparently, my head and heart were still not in full agreement. I bit my tongue and remained silent, forcing a smile.

  Josh, Ben, and Harry—Billy Fisher’s three sons—had fanned out into the markets and pubs of Whitechapel. It wasn’t long before Josh heard that Keys Malone was paying off his debts and buying drinks. Not like him at all. Before the night was over, Keys had a shadow.

  Herman cleaned and oiled his rifle. Once it was ready, he began pressurizing his spare flask. Fifteen-hundred strokes of the small pump would take at least a couple of hours.

  The rifleman was far enough away from the route that the late-night hammering of bleachers being erected by electric light didn’t bother him. Banners were being hung from buildings, and hawkers were busy selling the few remaining seats. Nearly everyone in the city was in their own way preparing for the big day to come, now just four days away.

  34

  Friday, June 18, cont.

  Herman was pleased to see his landlord come to call that morning with a couple of hot sausages covered in mustard, a small loaf of bread, and a quarter wheel of cheese. “You are a man of your word as well, Herr Keys,” Herman said.

  “Nah. I just like getting paid. It’s easy enough to snag you something to eat. Anything else?”

  “A half-dozen candles would be nice. The rats avoid the light.”

  “Still going on about them rats? I thought you’d all be getting on well by now. Fair enough. Six candles tomorrow, with food. How’s that?”

  “Would later today be possible? The short candle you left me is used up.” Herman gritted his teeth, not wanting to beg. “I wouldn’t want to face the whole night in the dark. Please. And a box of matches.” Malone wasn’t overfond of rats himself and relented. “Right you are, then. Candles and matches. Give me an hour or two, but I’ll be back today before noon.” He cleared his throat and added, “Five more pounds.”

  “Done,” Herman said, and he paid, handing the money over without thinking about it. “Thank you,” he put in, but Keys was already gone.

  Josh Fisher, the youngest of Peg Leg’s acknowledged progeny, noted the door Malone had knocked on. The door was solid, and the window beside it was covered by a filthy muslin curtain. Did he take this to his da, or should he try to get a look at whoever was inside? He’d get the back of Billy’s hand for wasting his time if it wasn’t the man they were looking for. Best try to sneak a peek.

  Josh waited for the Irishman to leave and followed him for a halfmile, just to make sure he wasn’t coming right back, then he made his way to the corner he’d hid behind previously. No change. He summoned up his courage and knocked at the door. No answer. He knocked again, and called out, “It’s all right. Keys sent me.”

  “Open Sesame” could not have been more effective. The door opened, and a powerful arm seized his and snatched him inside. The man staring at him was different than the one in the papers. No mustache, bald . . . Then he saw the square chin and looked up into gray eyes. Josh swallowed hard. He’d planned on some made-up conversation outside, then he would go, but he had no idea what to do now that he was inside the room, alone with the man.

  “Yes? Do you have them?” Herman asked.

  “Uh, no. Not yet. What kind did you want again?”

  Herman smelled a rat, and not the ones frolicking under his bed. “What kinds are there?” he asked, noting his visitor’s eyes darting about. A liar, he thought.

  “Is white all right?” Josh said, licking his lips. The man had a broad chest and the thick arms of a laborer. Picking pockets and sliding through open windows hadn’t given the thief a comparable physique. He was overmatched and knew it.

  Both started when there was another knock at the door.

  Herman sidled past his nervous guest to stand between him and the door. “Who’s there?” he asked, his fists clenched.

  “Who would it be? Are you d
aft? Let me in,” Keys whispered.

  Josh waited until Herman turned his back to open the door, then sprang forward, an open straight razor in his right hand. Herman sensed the attack and ducked. Keys walked into the blade, and his nose spouted blood.

  “What the hell!” he screamed, as Herman, underneath his attacker’s arms, sent Josh flying with an elbow. Keys kicked the door shut and pulled out his own razor.

  The cramped room gave no space for fancy maneuvers. Josh, with the bed frame pressing against the back of his knees, was unsteady. He waved the razor in the air between them. “Back away! My da knows I’m here. We’re with Inspector Ethington. If I go missing, they’ll know who to look for. One more step, and I’ll shout out for all I’m worth, I swear I will.”

  Malone laughed. “And who’ll care? Someone screams in this courtyard at least once a week. You know no one will come. So talk. What’s this about an inspector?”

  Josh saw no way out. He pointed at Herman with his razor. “The inspector says he wants to kill the queen. If he does, the bobbies will tear Whitechapel apart. We’ll all lose business.”

  The Irishman whistled low and looked to Herman. “That so? You here to kill Her Majesty?”

  Herman kept his fists up but nodded. “Ja. That’s so.”

  “Well, boyo, why didn’t you say so? After what the Brits ’ave done to my people, a little payback would be a welcome sight.” He looked at the young man waving his razor at him and pressed a rag against his bleeding nose. “Just one problem. What to do about little Josh here?” He winked at the young Fisher. “You think your da will miss having another mouth to feed, especially one as worthless as yours?”

  Keys removed the rag and scowled at the blood that soaked it, then spat at the young man’s feet. “You’d best tell us what you knows, if you wants to live. What else did the inspector say? What does he know about my new friend here?”

  Josh’s razor hand began to shake and his mouth was so dry he could barely speak. Keys was known as a man not to cross, and Josh could see in his eyes he’d killed before. Josh swallowed to get enough spit in his mouth to talk.

  “Said this man Ott was a German, an electrician, and he was here to kill the queen with some sort of strange rifle. I didn’t understand that part. Da said for us to hunt for him, to keep the peace down here. I’d heard you’d come into some money, so I followed you here to see if you was being paid to hide him.”

  Malone leered at him. “Clever of this inspector to get your da to do his dirty work. Anything else?”

  “No, I swear! Let me go and I’ll tell no one. Not even me da.” Malone shook his head. “He’d smell you were hiding something. Pity you’re not as clever as your father. If we let you go, the police’d be here in less’n an hour looking for Mister Ott here. And me.” He turned to Herman. “What do ye say? Shall we let the rabbit go, or kill it?” Seeing his moment, Josh barreled into Malone and knocked him back. He was leaping for the door when Herman’s solid right fist slammed into the boy’s face, and he collapsed.

  Keys straightened up and looked down at Josh, who lay face down on the floor. “Nicely done.” He smiled. “Well, that certainly makes things easier.” Before Herman could react, Malone slit the young man’s throat like a farmer slaughters a hog. “Might want to stand back a bit,” he advised, “to keep it off your clothes. It’ll stop directly.”

  Before Malone could say anything else, however, the sudden return of Herman’s breakfast sausage joined the spreading pool of blood on the floor.

  Keys snorted. “Some killer you are! Will I have to hold your hand when you’ve got Her Majesty in your sights? Come on, man! This’s what you came to do. If you can’t stand the smell of blood, you’d best go back home and leave me your fancy toy. I’ll find a use for it.”

  “I’ll be far enough away I won’t see the blood,” Herman managed to say between gasps, “and I’ll be running away before she even falls. You don’t know what I’m fighting for, or you wouldn’t doubt me.” He took a deep breath and looked down at the dead young man. “What do we do with him?”

  The Irishman rubbed his chin. “Can’t leave him ’ere, that’s for certain. Wait ’til night, then you won’t ’ave to carry him far. Nothing to tie him to us. Dump him a few alleys away and be done with it.”

  “Me? You killed him.”

  “Aye, and with no help from you. Well,” Keys allowed, “you did lay him out. That was handy.”

  “But why me?”

  “’Cause I ain’t sticking around. If Peg Leg Fisher’s looking for you, he’ll find you, ‘specially now his son’s missing. You could hide from the bobbies down ’ere forever, but Master Fisher has friends everywhere. I’m feeling a sudden fondness for the Old Country. Stay ’ere as long as you want. I’ll not be coming back for some time.”

  He turned to go, but before he could exit, he stopped, reached into his pocket, and handed Herman a small parcel. “Your candles and matches. Light one for little Josh ’ere . . . to keep away the rats. Good hunting, boyo. Don’t miss!” With that, he was gone.

  Herman dropped onto the one chair in the room, as far from the dead man and the pool of blood as space allowed. He considered his situation. He looked over at the mess and consoled himself with one piece of Malone’s wisdom. He’s right about one thing. It does stop, eventually.

  Herman grabbed the moth-eaten blanket and mopped up the blood as best he could, then he wrapped the dead boy in it. He sighed and lit two candles, placing one on each side of the corpse. He cursed Grüber and the day he’d met him. He thought of little Immanuel. Would he still be fit to hold him when all this was done? He looked out the window, but the shadows had barely moved. He dared not leave the room in daylight.

  He took out the pieces of the rifle, carefully cleaning and oiling every part that moved and tightening every part that shouldn’t. Not that the weapon needed maintenance, but it was something to do. Giving his hands a purpose calmed him and took him back to the mechanical world, where everything made sense. He hated this device, this Liberator. He snorted. Until now, it had only enslaved him to the will and purpose of others.

  Sometime later, Herman looked out and saw it was finally getting darker. The two candles had concealed the approach of night. He counted the toll of a nearby church bell. Eight. Still too early. To his surprise, his belly grumbled. Maybe I needed this, he thought. Maybe Malone was right about that, too. I need to get comfortable with death if I am to bring it to another.

  He ripped off a stretch of blanket and tied it like a scarf around the dead boy’s neck to hide the wound. Soon it was nine and fully dark. Herman raised the corpse to its feet and was grateful the boy was so slender. He draped the right arm over his neck, opened the door, and together they staggered down the street like two friendly drunks.

  Herman was surprised how easy it was to walk with a dead man beside him without attracting attention. Drunks were commonplace in Whitechapel, and most people didn’t give them a glance. After fifteen minutes of shambling away from the room, he found a narrow passageway and collapsed against a wall with his pale, silent companion. He propped the dead boy up, patted his cheek, and mumbled—loud enough to be overheard, “I’ll go get us another drink, my friend. You wait here.” Herman had to remember to stagger now that he’d been relieved of the corpse, while the body faithfully did as it was told, and waited right there.

  35

  Friday, June 18, cont.

  I did my stretching slowly as the sun came up, reaching for my toes. Good thing I’m not taller, or I’d never get there.

  After I convinced my body to move, I went upstairs to the Ethington residence to prepare breakfast, as had become my habit since moving in below them. I looked in on Elizabeth, who was yet to stir. I gazed down at her tousled hair. It was a light brown that shone when brushed, but the wild tangling of it just now was endearing all the same, like the mane of some wild horse.

  I tweaked her nose before heading for the kitchen. “Latecomers to breakfast get cold
eggs.”

  “Does that apply to the Lord of the Manor as well?”

  “For Lords, I might make an exception.” The simple rituals of the day, I pondered as I cracked eggs. I never knew they could be so fulfilling.

  James came trudging down the hall. Apparently, the Ethington tribe was not at its best at sunrise, but both could be moved to action by the smell of eggs and bacon.

  As I dished out portions for each, they gathered at their places, but each waited until I sat down. “What are your plans for today, James?” He paused, fork hovering over his plate. “Today I want to walk the route of the procession and look for possible sites for a sniper to hide.”

  “That’s six miles, Father,” Elizabeth said. “It’ll take half the day to do it right, with the traffic and all. May I go with you?”

  “Yes, James,” I said. “Let’s make it an outing.”

  James did his best to look severe. “What kind of family considers looking for a sniper a normal pastime?”

  “You might as well give up, Father,” Elizabeth teased. “We’ve got you outnumbered.”

  “And surrounded,” I said, as I took his empty plate. “The exercise would do us good.”

  “Well, broad daylight this close before the event should be safe enough, I suppose,” he said, admitting defeat as graciously as possible. “But bring your derringer along, just in case.”

  “My dear sir, you know what a careful person I am. I always take precautions.” Then I turned to a grinning Elizabeth. “So, Elizabeth, what’s it to be today? Dressed, or undressed?”

  When the girl’s mouth gaped open, I laughed. “Meaning do we wear male attire of course, hence no dresses, or ‘undressed.’ What else could I mean?”

  James rubbed his forehead. “You’re quite right, Margaret. I am outnumbered and surrounded. But please, ladies do wear something!”