A Virtuous Death

by Christine Trent

  The superintendent huffed once more but did as he was bid. He returned some time later, wide-eyed in shock. “He’s gone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No one has seen him since yesterday, and his chest is cleaned out. No one ever gives up their position at the palace willingly, and one certainly doesn’t leave in a way that would prevent receiving a good character. Something is wrong.”

  Something was certainly wrong. And now the queen was in grave danger. It fell to him and Inspector Pratt to make sure no harm came to her.

  Reese congratulated himself on being smart enough to lift a set of mews keys from Mr. Norton before departing. The superintendents for each palace’s mews shared keys to ease the transfer of coaches between royal residences. Mr. Norton’s sloppiness was fortunate; it meant he wouldn’t notice the set was gone until Reese was far away from Windsor.

  The queen had nearly ruined everything with her decision to have a second, private affair at Cumberland Lodge in Windsor, which had altered the schedule for her public appearance. It required some nimble rethinking, but Reese finally had decided that the private event was much easier to infiltrate and changed his own plans accordingly.

  Several coaches and their pairs were lined up in the courtyard on the day of the queen’s celebrations, waiting to be driven to the royal apartments in the upper ward. Otherwise, there was no activity. By now, the Windsor Castle mews staff would be indoors, washing up and donning new uniforms.

  He knew the routine. The coachmen would drive the carriages in a single file around to the entrance to pick up passengers. A groom would step down from the back, hand in the ladies, then jump onto the rails again to accompany the coach to its destination. Even a family event such as the queen’s private birthday celebration required pretentious ceremony.

  The queen would most likely be in the first coach. Yes, that was one of her broughams at the front of the line. He must execute his plan carefully; this was the moment when everything could go wrong. He fingered the knife handle beneath his waistband. Reese always carried one belted under his shirt these days but thus far hadn’t had to use it. Would he have to use it today?

  He peered into the queen’s brougham. A velvet-covered box had already been placed upon the floor for the queen’s feet to rest upon. A mere ten-minute ride, and the queen still needed to ensure that she didn’t have a moment’s discomfort.

  What would Mr. Marx say to that?

  Reese opened the driver’s box and threw in his supplies, glad that they fit among all of the tools and spare equipage stored in it.

  “Meredith, what are you doing here?”

  Reese whirled around. It was Dudley, one of the Buckingham Palace coachmen. He must have been commissioned for this evening’s event. Why wasn’t the fool in stable quarters, dressing in his livery?

  “I, ah, was assigned to this event at the last minute.”

  “I heard you ran away. Why did you do that?”

  “Is that what you were told? You know what a rummy old cove Mr. Norton is. I told him I needed to go back to Wales for a short time. A funeral. My uncle.”

  Dudley frowned. “Why would he lie about that?”

  Reese laughed. “You know how he’s always disliked me. He probably hoped to replace me before I returned. He’s the one who’s kicked up a shine now, isn’t he?”

  “Which carriage are you driving tonight?”

  “This one, the queen’s.”

  “You’re the liar, Meredith. Mr. Norton assigned me to Her Majesty’s coach.”

  “He must have forgotten to tell you he’d replaced you with me.”

  Dudley took a step forward. “How did you even get inside the mews? The gates were locked.”

  “It sounds like you’re accusing me of trespassing. Are you? I won’t take kindly to it.” Once again, Reese felt for his knife. Should he withdraw it? The threat of it would make Dudley back off, but he might then run straight to other palace staff and report him.

  Reese had no more time to contemplate the situation, for Dudley grabbed him by the arm. “I’m taking you to the stable manager.”

  Not likely. Instinctively Reese shrugged out of Dudley’s grasp, and instead grabbed the other man’s neck. With both thumbs on the other man’s Adam’s apple, he squeezed. Dudley’s eyes bulged. “What . . . you . . . doing . . . stop.”

  Reese felt power surging through him, as he had on so many other occasions, but somehow this was wrong. It wasn’t part of the plan. Besides, it was too easy to get caught. He released Dudley, who stepped back, panting, and pointed at him.

  “You’re a devil, Meredith, and I’ll see your name blackened from Richmond to Greenwich.”

  No, not when Reese had so much to accomplish. “I’m afraid I can’t allow that.”

  Dudley turned to run, but Reese was quicker. He grabbed a fistful of the coachman’s shirt, which stopped him, then put his arm around Dudley’s neck, pulling him closer. In a moment that was full of pure rage—or was it fear?—Reese removed his arm from around Dudley’s neck and instead used his hand to slam the groom’s head against the side of the queen’s carriage.

  Dudley slumped down the side of the brougham, leaving a small trail of blood along the shiny black surface. There was something symbolic in it, but Reese wasn’t sure what it was.

  He gazed down at Dudley’s crumpled form. Things weren’t going according to plan. He knelt and examined the man. Still breathing. Reese looked up. No one rushing out of their quarters yet, so he’d not been observed. Quickly he dragged Dudley’s body outside the mews gate and left it along the stone wall that enclosed the courtyard. He’d eventually be found and would report his attacker, but by then Reese’s goals would be accomplished.

  He raced back to the queen’s brougham, opened the driver’s box, and found a rag to wipe down the side of the carriage. That done, he hopped onto the box and slid his wig as far over his forehead as he could. The sun was setting, so as long as no one was specifically looking for Dudley on this carriage Reese wouldn’t be noticed.

  Dudley, he thought, as stupid as you are, you are my own kind, and that’s why you still live.

  Now, where was the queen?

  12

  The queen and Beatrice stepped into their carriage and rumbled off as the next carriage pulled up for Violet and Sam. “Such pomp,” Sam whispered as the groom jumped off the back of their coach and helped her in. With a lurch, they, too, were on their way to Cumberland Lodge, several hundred feet behind the queen’s carriage.

  “The queen shows me high esteem by inviting me to her family celebration.”

  “I suppose you’re right. You know I’m not comfortable with all of . . . this. I’m like a fish out of water, as your Mr. Chaucer once said.”

  “It’s just for a few hours. Perhaps you’ll witness one of Mr. Brown’s tarot card readings.”

  “How entertaining. Is the queen satisfied that the spirits have completed their mission?”

  “Not quite. With Mr. Meredith having left London, she thinks they might still have something to say about his whereabouts.”

  The carriage left the inner castle walls and traveled along the Long Walk toward Cumberland Lodge. Flaming torches had been set along the darkened path to illuminate the way, yet Violet could barely make out the gas lamps on the queen’s carriage up ahead of them. Bertie, Alix, Louise, Leopold, and Mr. Brown rode in carriages behind Violet and Sam, creating an intimate cortege.

  “How far?” Sam asked.

  “Not very. The queen installed Princess Helena at Cumberland Lodge to keep her very close by. It’s the official residence of Windsor Park’s ranger, a title the queen bestowed upon Prince Christian to keep him happy with living in Great Britain.”

  “Why doesn’t he develop a hobby or work on an invention?”

  Violet smiled indulgently. “Oh, Sam, you’re such an American. He’s a prince. If he’s not assisting with the ruling of his own country, he can only undertake gentlemanly pursuits.”

&
nbsp; “Such as?”

  “Well, he can hunt, or host house parties, or go riding, collect art, that sort of thing.”

  “How boring. The man must want to fall on his own hunting knife.”

  “You haven’t met Prince Christian yet. I believe he is quite content in his circumstances. I think we will be coming up on Cumberland House in—”

  “Dudley, what are you doing there?” The carriage came to a sudden halt as their coachman shouted at the driver of the queen’s brougham, which had stopped in front of them. “Damn you, get back on your box. What are you fooling with?”

  Violet frowned and opened the door to their coach, craning her neck to see what was going on. “He can’t be . . .” She pulled her head back in and spoke, her tone even but urgent. “Sam, the queen’s driver has some sort of explosive.”

  “You mean a bomb?” Sam, too, looked out of the coach. “Oh, hellfire, he’s got sticks of gelignite. Run away from the coach as far as you can. Get everyone out of the coaches behind you. Run!” Without further explanation, Sam jumped out of the carriage, stumbled upon landing heavily on his bad leg, and righted himself before running faster than she’d ever seen him go.

  She clambered out as well, completely ignoring his direction. “Go to the coaches behind us,” she said to the driver. “Get everyone away from here, now!”

  The man jumped down from his box without questioning his passenger’s command. Violet picked up her skirts and ran after Sam. She was faster than he was and reached the door to the queen’s carriage just as he clambered onto the driver’s box and grabbed the driver. The two men tumbled off to one side, a burning object between them.

  With no time to consider Sam, Violet yanked open the door to the queen’s carriage. The queen looked horrified by Violet’s presence, and Violet was certain she looked like a Bedlamite. Without a thought to royal propriety, she said, “Your Majesty, come with me.”

  “I’m not sure I understand—”

  “I have no time to explain it to you. Now!” With a show of force she hoped wouldn’t land her in Newgate later, Violet reached in and yanked on the queen’s arm.

  “Well, I—” the queen protested, but suddenly tripped out of the carriage and, without the steps pulled out for her comfort, landed with an undignified thud onto the gravel path. Beatrice exited the brougham, hopping down easily and nodding at Violet before grabbing her mother’s other arm.

  “Come, Mother, you must run on your own.”

  Violet and Beatrice each held on to one of the queen’s hands, and the trio ran together, skirts flying, for Cumberland Lodge. Just as they reached the entry, where a bewigged and puzzled butler stood waiting, they heard a loud explosion.

  Or, rather, they felt it, as the ground rumbled violently beneath them as though it was about to split apart. In the distance, Violet heard Alix screaming. Or was it Bertie? The screaming was cut off, and Violet realized she’d been deafened by the sound of the explosion. Where was Sam?

  Victoria twisted out of Violet’s hand, and she realized that the queen was huddled over Beatrice, who had fallen to the ground. Beatrice’s lips were moving wordlessly. No, wait, Violet couldn’t hear her.

  Where was the butler? He must have run into the house to find his mistress, for soon he returned with Princess Helena and Prince Christian on his heels. All of them were shouting something, but it was impossible to know what it was.

  Where was Sam?

  Princess Helena pointed, and Violet followed the line of her arm. The carriage the queen and her daughter had occupied moments ago was obliterated, as was the one Violet and Sam had ridden in. The most complete part was a spoked wheel that lay smoking in the carnage. The rest of the family ran toward Cumberland Lodge, their faces white with shock.

  Where was Sam? Her thoughts flew back to a time when his death was falsely reported to her. Please, Lord, I cannot take this a second time.

  The queen and Beatrice tugged on her, ushering her into the house. She shrugged them off and instead walked toward the wreckage. There were no bodies anywhere.

  Had Sam been annihilated in the wreckage? No, it was too much to consider. She sank to her knees, coughing, crying, and threatening to utter curses at God if he’d abandoned her by taking Sam away.

  13

  “Sweetheart, what are you doing out here?”

  Had Violet just heard something? Was her hearing recovered? She looked up. “Sam!” She jumped up and flung herself at him, covering his face with kisses and not caring who was watching from Cumberland Lodge’s windows.

  “Whoa, I’m a bit too filthy for such attentions.”

  “I thought you were—that you had—” She pointed helplessly at the wreckage.

  “I’ve faced cannon fire and been a prisoner of war, and you thought a simpleton carrying a small bomb would stop me?”

  “But how did you escape the explosion?”

  “I wrested the bomb away from our little friend and threw it back just as he was detonating it. I only hoped you’d followed my instructions to run. I grabbed him and he put up quite a good struggle, but you can’t win against a lame, scarred old billy Yank. Come inside.”

  She followed him into Cumberland Lodge, where she found Reese Meredith bound and in the custody of Inspectors Hurst and Pratt. When had they arrived? Had they seen Violet mourning outside? The queen and her family were chattering anxiously about what had happened.

  Everyone except Princess Helena, that is. She was in a faint on a settee with Prince Christian hovering over her.

  “Mrs. Harper,” Victoria said, stopping all other conversation. “We wondered where you were. As you can see, Scotland Yard has our perpetrator in hand. This is not the first time we have been attacked, but God has preserved us to reign another day.” Far from being cowed, the queen looked positively exhilarated from her experience.

  Hurst yanked Meredith forward. “Is this him? We learned from the superintendent of the mews that Meredith had fled Buckingham Palace. We figured he followed the queen to Windsor, and finding an unconscious coachman outside the mews here confirmed we were right.”

  Violet nodded. “Yes, this is Mr. Meredith.”

  “So what do you say for yourself, boy?”

  Meredith was no longer the cocky young man of the mews. Beneath his torn, disheveled clothing and bloodied nose lay a boy whose rage was palpable. “Nothing. All of you are in on destroying the working class. I should have known you were really one of them, Mrs. Harper. So many slaves in our society lap at the puddles the ruling class make, not realizing a perfect society is within their grasp if they would just throw off the shackles of the bourgeois.”

  By this point, Princess Helena was finally rousing and starting to whimper, so a call was made for tea, as well as a sedative for her.

  “Was it your aim only to kill the queen and Princess Beatrice, or were you aiming for the entire cortege?”

  “Didn’t matter to me. The more the better.”

  “How did you get the explosive material?”

  “I’m clever.”

  “Damn you, you little—” Hurst swung a brawny fist out, and Violet had no doubt that Meredith would be unconscious if it landed true.

  “No!” she said. “No violence in front of Her Majesty.”

  Hurst had the good grace to look sheepish. “We have to get his story somehow.”

  Violet shook her head. “His face needs cleaning. Here.” She removed a handkerchief from a pocket of her dress. “You cannot appear before a judge looking like this.” To the openmouthed horror of everyone in the room, including Sam, Violet dabbed the cloth against her tongue and wiped his face of the smeared blood and dirt that made Meredith’s face unrecognizable. At first Meredith resisted her, but he soon settled into her ministrations, although his scowl didn’t diminish.

  “Where is your mother?” she asked.

  “Dead.”

  “Your father?”

  “Also dead.”

  “An orphan, then; that explains much. Any oth
er relatives?”

  “I had a half sister, but thanks to the queen, she’s dead, too.”

  “What happened to her?”

  At this, the groom’s bluster finally broke. “She was murdered during the Mold riots. My defenseless little sister, Margaret, minding her own business for certain, shot and killed like a doe in the forest.”

  Something clicked in Violet’s mind. Hadn’t Sam written about a young woman dying in his arms during the riots? It must have been Meredith’s half sister. She exchanged a look with Sam. He’d realized the same thing.

  Hurst shoved Meredith in the shoulder. “And you thought that was reason enough to kill the queen? I’ll see to it that you regret it long before you’re pronounced guilty and sent to the noose at Newgate.”

  “Inspector, please,” Violet said. “Mr. Meredith, why do you blame the queen for your sister’s unfortunate demise?”

  “Because she doesn’t care about the poor or the downtrodden.”

  “Who is this—this—person, and how does he dare accuse us of no feelings for the poor?” the queen said. “We would have you know, young man, that we give alms to the poor each year, a tradition much encouraged by our beloved husband, the prince con—”

  “So it was your anger over your sister’s death that caused you to attack the queen?” Violet said.

  “Mostly. I wanted her to pay for her disregard for her subjects.”

  Tea arrived, but everyone ignored it except for Princess Helena as well as Bertie, who was exceptionally solicitous of Alix’s condition and made sure she was served a hot cup as well as a selection of pastries. The remainder of the room was riveted on Violet and Meredith.

  “You would have thrown the entire kingdom—if not the entire world—into chaos had you been successful.”

  “Yes.” A smile flitted across Meredith’s face, quickly replaced by a look of regret.

  “Mr. Meredith,” Hurst interjected, “your plot was an abysmal failure, and now you shall pay the ultimate price. You’ve thrown your life away for the gain of nothing.”

  Violet ignored Hurst and continued. “If your target was the queen, why did you find it necessary to murder the friends of Princess Louise?”