The impact of two men hitting the floor of the platform had startled the people pressed down below, and several of them shouted comments: ‘What’s goin’ on up there?’—‘Has there been an accident?’—‘Need any help?’
‘Police!’ Blackstone bawled back. ‘I need the police.’
But even as he spoke, he knew there would not be enough time for anyone on the ground to come to his rescue. He was on his own.
He glanced down at the man he had landed on. He was twisted at an unnatural angle and lying perfectly still.
Dead! Blackstone thought. Or at the very least unconscious and with his spine broken. So that was one bastard he didn’t have to worry about.
The second Russian—his arms widespread, with the razor in the right one—was making his way across the platform. Most men would have rushed at him, Blackstone thought, but this one was a professional. His approach was cautious—and when he struck it would be to maximum effect.
‘Why kill me when you’ve no chance of getting away?’ Blackstone said. ‘Do you want to hang?’
The man with the razor laughed loudly, revealing his huge, irregular teeth. He hadn’t understood a word, Blackstone thought. Or if he had, he didn’t care. He was a creature of instinct—and his only concern at that moment was to eliminate his immediate enemy.
Blackstone forced himself into a standing position, and wondered how long his knees would hold out. The Russian was in striking distance now, but instead of attacking himself, he was waiting for his opponent to make a wrong move.
Blackstone feinted with his left arm, then twisted and swung with his right, but the Russian had anticipated just such a move, and the razor was already slashing down at his throat.
Blackstone blocked the attack just in time. The razor missed its target, and he felt a searing pain as it cut a deep gash in his right arm.
A one-armed man who was rapidly losing blood did not have long to land a decisive blow, he told himself through the pain—and as the Russian pulled back the razor to strike again, he lashed out with the edge of his left hand.
More by luck than judgement, he struck the other man’s Adam’s apple. The Russian gurgled and froze. Blackstone kicked him just below the kneecap, and the assassin went down. But only for a second! Despite the blow to his shin—despite the fact he was still fighting for air—he was already rising to his feet when Blackstone slammed his boot into his face.
The Russian’s face was covered with blood. He had dropped his razor, but he was still far from beaten, and Blackstone did not know how much longer he himself could remain conscious. They had taught him in the police to use his judgement to decide the minimum force necessary to restrain a suspect—and he used the judgement now, as he picked up the razor and drew it roughly across the Russian’s throat.
The Queen’s mounted escort was only yards away, and behind it stretched a caravan of carriages led by Victoria’s landau. Blackstone took one look at it, and then passed out.
*
The Queen was overcome by the reception she was receiving from some of her humblest subjects. How they loved her! How deep their feelings were! And to think, there had been a time when she had actually been booed in public!
Her landau had almost drawn level with an unusual wooden platform that had been erected in front of one of the terraced houses. The Queen looked up. Lying at the edge of the platform was a man. His arm was hanging over the side, and he did not seem to be moving.
Dead drunk! the Queen thought in disgust. And no doubt when he woke up he would tell himself that he had got into that disgraceful state to celebrate her jubilee. Well, she did not wish it to be celebrated in that way. She much preferred the cheers of her loyaler, soberer subjects.
If she had been a little closer, she might possibly have noticed that the man’s arm was bleeding, and that drops of blood were falling, like the first signs of rain, on the ecstatic crowd below him.
Thirty-Six
It was eleven o’clock on the evening following the Queen’s triumphant jubilee parade. Blackstone and Patterson were sitting opposite each other in the Rifleman’s Arms, a pub conveniently close to New Scotland Yard. It was a place they’d often gone to when they’d solved a case, but that night there were none of the good spirits that usually accompanied a successful result.
‘Cheer up, sir,’ Patterson said, after they’d been sitting in silence for several minutes. ‘It’s not really a bad day’s work to have saved the Empire.’
‘I’m not sure it was that worth saving,’ Blackstone said gloomily.
‘What?!’ Patterson asked.
‘There are those who say we’ve brought civilization to the world,’ Blackstone told him. ‘But I’m not that convinced. How can we export civilization when half the people in Britain haven’t even got it.’
‘Not got it? There’s nobody as civilized as we are.’
‘Then why do people within a short walk of here wake up in the morning not knowing whether they’re going to have enough to eat that day?’ Blackstone asked. ‘Why can a costermonger in Lambeth expect to die by the time he’s thirty-one, whereas a clerk from Peckham might live well into his sixties? You can’t talk about civilization when—for so many people—life’s no more than a struggle to get by.’
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Patterson said, though his patriotism would not allow him to sound completely convinced.
‘Besides, are we really doing all those people who live in the Empire any good?’ Blackstone continued. ‘We’ve taught them to depend on us. However, will they manage to stand on their own feet when we pull out?’
‘When we pull out!’ Patterson repeated incredulously. ‘We’re never going to pull out.’
Blackstone shook his head. ‘You’ve not been there like I have. If we hold on to the Empire for even another fifty or sixty years, it’ll be a miracle.’
‘Do you want to talk about the case, sir?’ asked Patterson, who had decided it might he wiser—both for himself and his boss—to change the subject.
‘Why not,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘I can understand how Lord Dalton became involved, if what you say about his businesses going bust was true,’ Patterson said. ‘Count Turgenev was probably offering him a lot of money—’
‘A hundred thousand pounds at least, I’d guess. Maybe even more.’
‘—but what I don’t see is why the Count was prepared to hand over that kind of money?’
‘That’s easy,’ Blackstone told him. ‘He needed someone—someone English—to do the groundwork for him.’
‘But even so, he could surely have got the help he needed for much less than a hundred thousand pounds.’
‘Dalton had one major advantage over anyone else. It was an advantage that was well worth paying a fortune for.’
‘And what was that?’
‘He was connected to the Montcliffes, of course.’
‘So what?’
‘So Earl Montcliffe was heavily involved in planning the Jubilee celebrations. Through Dalton, Turgenev learned well in advance what the route would he. That information was invaluable. And if there’d been any last-minute changes, he’d have found out all about that, too. Later on, of course, though they hadn’t planned it that way, Dalton was useful again—keeping Turgenev informed of how my murder investigation was going. That’s why the Count decided to have me killed—because Dalton told him I was getting a little too close for comfort.’
‘What about Charles Montcliffe?’ Patterson asked.
‘What about him?’
‘Was he killed because he found out about the plot?’
Blackstone sighed. ‘Yes. And he probably told his valet about it—which is why Thomas went into hiding and was eventually murdered. But I don’t think Charles Montcliffe started out investigating Count Turgenev.’
‘So who did he start out investigating?’
‘Lord Dalton. Charles Montcliffe was very close to his sister. And very protective! He wan
ted to find out what kind of man Lady Emily was marrying. So he started looking into Dalton’s background—and that’s what led him to Turgenev and the plot to kill the Queen.’
‘How long do you think it’ll take them to catch Dalton?’ Patterson asked.
‘They’ll never catch him.’
‘What? You’re not seriously saying that the finest police force in the world can’t—’
Blackstone held up his uninjured arm to silence his assistant. ‘Dalton is probably already out of the country. And even if he isn’t, that’s the way he’ll be heading. He has no choice.’
‘But if the police are watching all the docks—’
Blackstone sighed again, even more heavily this time. ‘You still don’t understand, do you?’ he asked. ‘They don’t want to find him.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir!’
‘There’s enough evidence available that if they do find him, they’ll have to put him on trial. Think about it, Patterson—a member of the aristocracy in a plot to kill the monarch! That hasn’t happened for over three hundred years. It’d be an embarrassment to everyone. But there is an alternative.’
‘And what’s that, sir?’
‘Dalton is allowed to escape abroad. The story goes around that he’s fled because of his debts. It’s a scandal, but it’s nowhere as big as the other scandal would have been. After a while, whatever evidence I’ve collected conveniently disappears—and as far as anyone’s concerned, the assassination attempt never happened.’
‘But people saw—’
‘People saw three men fighting on a platform. At the time, they might have believed it was an assassination attempt, but they were in a very excitable mood, and they could have got it wrong. And later, when no one in authority says anything about it, they’ll easily accept that they were mistaken—that it was nothing more than a drunken brawl between two rival sets of living picture cameramen.’
‘So no medal for you, then, sir?’
‘I’ll be given my job back, but for me to get a medal on top of that, the Queen would have to know what went on,’ Blackstone said. ‘And as far as the people around her are probably concerned, she should never know.’ He laughed. ‘And possibly they’re right. What would be the point in spoiling the old lady’s big day?’ He stood up. ‘Time you were getting off home to your family, Sergeant.’
‘And what about you, sir?’
‘Me?’ Blackstone said. ‘I think I’ll take a little stroll.’
Blackstone walked slowly along the Embankment, his knees spasmodically sending out warnings that he was taking more exercise than was advisable, his arm maintaining a dull throb that suggested that he would be better off in bed. He didn’t care. He was alone now—but not as alone as he would be back in his empty room.
Thoughts of Hannah came—uninvited and unwanted—to his mind. He had loved her for such a very short time, yet he was certain that the ache that her death had left him with would never go away.
Look on the bright side, Sam, he ordered himself. You’ve saved some lives today.
And not just the lives of the people on the streets of Southwark. Or the lives of Britons in India and the lives of Russian and English soldiers. He had saved Lady Emily Montcliffe from a life that would have been a fate worse than death—a life married to a man who, beneath the veneer of civilization, was little more than a monster.
He stopped walking, and looked down at the river. He could hear the gentle swish of its tidal waters. He could see the lights of ships anchored midway between the two shores. And he was tempted to walk down the nearest set of steps, and keep on walking. Until he was drowned. Until he had made himself at one with the heart of the city he loved.
‘Do not turn around, Inspector Blackstone,’ said a voice from not far behind him.
‘Vladimir?’ Blackstone asked. ‘Is that you? Have you recovered from falling off the roof?’
‘The common people below cushioned my fall,’ the Russian said. ‘That is, after all, what the common people are for—to cushion the fall of those who matter. But why do you call me Vladimir? Do you mean Vladimir Bubnov? How could I possibly be him, since he does not exist?’
‘But you still don’t want me to look at you?’ Blackstone said.
‘I have already exposed myself to you far too much for my liking,’ the Russian told him.
‘So now you’re going to kill me,’ Blackstone said, not entirely certain whether he cared one way or the other.
‘No, I am not here to kill you.’
‘But you’ve got your pistol pointing at me right now, haven’t you?’
The Russian did not deny it. Instead, he said, ‘My Tsar and my country owe you a debt. I am here both to give you information and to offer you a reward.’
‘Before we go any further, let’s make sure that things are perfectly clear between us,’ Blackstone said. ‘You do know that I’ll never forgive you for killing Hannah, don’t you?’
‘But she would have killed you if l hadn’t,’ Vladimir pointed out.
‘That’s true, but it doesn’t alter anything, does it?’ Blackstone said.
And though he couldn’t see the other man, he was sure that the Russian was nodding in agreement.
‘I understand your feelings,’ Vladimir said, ‘but there is business to transact. I must first tell you that Lord Dalton landed in northern France just over an hour ago.’
‘Should that be of any particular interest to me?’
‘Yes, I think so. Because just as you cannot forgive me for killing the anarchist woman, I hardly think it likely that Lord Dalton will forgive you for destroying his life.’
‘You’re saying he’ll try to get revenge?’
‘As soon as he possibly can.’
It’s not the first time somebody’s wanted me dead,’ Blackstone said indifferently. ‘What about Count Turgenev? Was he with the noble lord when Dalton landed in France?’
‘No,’ the Russian replied. ‘A short while ago some of your fellow police officers found his body in a house opposite the camera platform. He had been stabbed at least fifty times.’
A frenzied attack, Blackstone thought—like the one that Charles Montcliffe had been subjected to after his throat had been cut.
‘Was it your handiwork?’ he asked the Russian.
‘No,’ Vladimir told him. ‘We would certainly have killed the Count, but someone got there before us.’
‘Dalton,’ Blackstone said, with conviction.
‘He is the most likely suspect,’ Vladimir agreed. ‘But now let us get on to more important matters. Since you have undoubtedly saved my country from a ruinous war, I have been authorized to offer you a reward of five thousand pounds, provided, of course, that you agree to sign an undertaking to never again mention the name of Count Turgenev.’
‘He offered me ten thousand pounds to let him go ahead with his plan,’ Blackstone countered.
‘Perhaps we could match that,’ Vladimir said.
‘And if I asked for fifteen?’
‘That might he considered a little greedy,’ the Russian said.
Blackstone laughed. ‘You’re already sighting your pistol at me, aren’t you? There’s no need for it. I promise not to tell anyone about Turgenev—but I don’t want your money.’
‘I did not take you for a fool.’
‘I’ve been a fool all my life,’ Blackstone said. ‘But even a fool can learn his lesson, given time. I’m sick of the games you people play. Sick of being a pawn in them—and of the people around me being pawns. I’m tired of the whole pack of you.’
‘Isn’t there a saying in English that you must either run with the fox or the hounds?’ Vladimir asked.
‘Yes, there is.’
‘The wise man will always choose the hounds.’
‘The truly wise man will stay at home and tend his vegetables.’
‘I am not sure my superiors will accept that,’ Vladimir said. ‘They would be much happier if they knew you were on our side. And the b
est way to prove that you are is to take the money.’
‘I’m going to walk away,’ Blackstone told him. ‘There’s no one around, so if you’re going to kill me, now’s the time to do it.’
He walked slowly along the Embankment towards Waterloo Bridge. It was a clear night and, looking up, he could see the stars—the same stars he had watched all those years ago in Afghanistan. He no longer felt like taking his own life. Instead, he had again become the young man he’d been on the long march to Kandahar—a young man who would resist death, but not at any cost.
He had put at least two dozen yards between himself and Vladimir by now. And still he heard no loud explosion. Still felt no searing pain and realized that he had been fatally wounded.
He turned around. There was no sign of the Russian. Vladimir had vanished into the night as if he had been no more than a dream.
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Why not read Book Two in The Blackstone Detective series next?
Blackstone and the Great Game
Also in The Blackstone Detective series:
Blackstone and the Rendezvous with Death
Blackstone and the Great Game
Blackstone and the House of Secrets
Blackstone and the Burning Secret
Blackstone and the Stage of Death
Blackstone and the Heart of Darkness
Also by Sally Spencer:
Pilgrimage of Death
The Madeiran Double Cross
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