by Robin Paige
“But why Lillie’s gun?” Kate persisted. “A man of Spider’s resources—surely he could have found a different weapon.”
Charles shrugged. “Perhaps he felt some sense of dramatic irony, using Lillie’s gun to kill the man who threatened to betray her.”
“Or perhaps he felt he might use it to gain some hold over her,” Kate said quietly. “Perhaps he thought to keep her from marrying Suggie de Bathe, and persuade her to marry him instead. I wonder whether, after I left this afternoon, he boasted to Lillie that he murdered Alfred Day for her sake. Do you suppose he opened the drawer to show her the gun he used?”
Anticipating her next thought, Charles said, with a wry smile: “If he did, do you suppose he guessed that Lady Sheridan is now in possession of Mrs. Langtry’s derringer?”
Kate gave a little shrug. “There’s one thing I don’t quite understand, Charles. Why was Radwick called Spider?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Charles said. “There might be some kind of private association, of course. But the word ‘spider’ is also a perjorative term for moneylenders.”
“Lurking in the corners, I suppose,” Kate said thoughtfully. “Weaving webs to ensnare their innocent prey.”
“Something like that,” Charles said. “Although in this case, I suspect that the innocent are not quite as innocent as they might like to appear. Certainly Lord Hunt knew what he was doing when he laid his family’s estate as a pledge against a gambling debt.”
Kate pursed her lips. “When Radwick is tried, this whole ugly business is going to come out in the courts, isn’t it? His motive, and so on, I mean. Lillie will be called as a material witness, won’t she?” She paused, as the import of this idea began to sink in. “And then the whole thing will come out, won’t it, Charles? The jewel theft, Edward Langtry’s death—” Her eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat as she began to imagine all of the consequences of a murder trial in open court, with the press and the public looking on. “She’ll be ruined, Charles! Utterly ruined! Everyone knows that she’s still close to the Prince—it will be a terrible scandal.”
With a sigh that was both regretful and ironic, Charles opened his fingerprint kit. “Somehow I doubt it will come to that, Kate. I doubt it very much.”
CHAPTER FORTY
At the Jockey Club
If I were to begin life again, I would go to the Turf to get friends. They seem to me to be the only people who really hold close together. I don’t know why; it may be that each knows something that might hang the other, but the effect is delightful and most peculiar.
Lady Harriet Ashburton
What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?
Macbeth
William Shakespeare
Charles spent the better part of an hour that evening writing a careful and fully detailed report to Admiral Owen North. When it was done, he sat for a long time thinking about the implications of what he had written, about what should happen next, and about what was likely to happen next. At last, with an ironic twist to his mouth, he sealed the envelope and sent it by Mrs. Hardaway’s boy to the Jockey Club, where North was staying. That done, he and Kate, with Jack Murray, adjourned to the Stag Hotel for a passable dinner and a bottle of champagne, after which he and Kate retired alone to Hardaway House for their first private evening together in several days. It was a renewing respite that both of them cherished.
The next morning, their companionable breakfast was interrupted by a knock at the door and a message from the admiral: North had summoned both Charles and Kate to a meeting at the Jockey Club at eleven o’clock. Charles was not surprised, for he had expected to be called for a discussion of his report, nor was he surprised that the invitation included Kate, as well. By obtaining the physical evidence and by contributing what she had overheard of the conversation between Henry Radwick and Lillie Langtry, she had played a material role in the solution of the crime, and she knew as much as he and Murray knew about what had happened. Yes, of course she would be summoned.
Nor was Charles surprised when he and Kate entered North’s office at the Club an hour later to find there, not just Admiral North and Jack Murray, but another man, as well, seated in the admiral’s usual chair behind the desk: a supremely stout, gray-bearded man who graciously inclined his head as Kate made a deep curtsy and Charles bowed.
“Your Royal Highness,” Charles murmured.
“Please sit down,” the Prince said, gesturing to a trio of chairs in front of the desk, where Murray was already seated. Charles and Kate took their seats, Charles feeling like a schoolboy called before the headmaster for a reprimand. He crossed his legs, leaned back, and waited.
After a moment, the Prince of Wales took the cigar out of his mouth. “Well, then,” he said, in his gruff, Germanic accent, “I understand that you have been playing the detective again. And very successfully, I must say. I have read your report, Sheridan. I am quite impressed.” He looked from Charles to Kate to Jack Murray. “Quite impressed, both with your logical arguments and with the evidence you have assembled to support your accusation of Mr. Henry Radwick.” He flicked his cigar ash into North’s ashtray. “Fingerprints, ballistics, blackmail letter. Quite a barrage of evidence.” He looked at Owen North. “What do you say to that, North? Aren’t you impressed?”
“Oh, yes,” North said hastily. “Oh, yes, indeed. Lord Sheridan and Mr. Murray have given us all the information we could have wished, Your Highness.”
And somewhat more, Charles thought ironically. “Thank you,” he said.
“Well, now.” The Prince looked once again at Murray, then at Charles. “I am told that the Newmarket constabulary have not been involved in any way in this investigation. Is that correct, gentlemen?”
“Not entirely, sir,” Charles said. “I took the liberty of asking Chief Constable Watson to provide interim private lodging in the Newmarket jail for Mr. Baggs. I did not, however, inform the chief constable of the reason for my request.”
“Ah,” the Prince said gruffly. “Mr. Baggs is the unfortunate eyewitness?”
“That is correct, sir,” Charles said. “When Mr. Murray and I located him in Newnham, his valise was packed and he was preparing to leave for America. He was planning to take up a new line of work there.”
“Very good, very good,” the Prince said approvingly. He turned to North. “If Mr. Baggs has not yet purchased his boat ticket, Owen, see that he has one, will you? You might arrange to have him escorted to his departure point. And slip him a few pounds to help him begin his new career.”
“Yes, sir,” North said.
The Prince frowned. “Oh, and I should think you might want to have a word or two with him yourself, to be sure that he understands the situation.”
“Of course, sir. I shall, sir.”
Kate was leaning forward, frowning. “I’m not sure that I quite understand, Your Highness. Mr. Baggs is leaving the country? But what about his testimony at the trial? What about—”
“Yes, my dear,” the Prince replied with a smile. His tone was condescending, as if he were speaking to a child. “Mr. Baggs will find it advantageous to pursue his original plan. It might be . . . awkward if he were to stay.”
“I take it, then,” Charles said ironically, “that there’s no point in sending the chief constable round for Mr. Radwick?”
The Prince turned to North. “I believe that’s the case, is it not, Owen?”
“Right, sir,” the admiral said. “According to my information, Radwick was to have left before dawn this morning.” He looked directly at Kate. “Urgent business, your ladyship. In South America.”
The Prince regarded his cigar. “The Argentine, is it, Owen?”
“I believe so, sir. Some quite rural area, as I understand it.”
“Argentina,” the Prince said thoughtfully. “Always wanted to go there myself. Hear that they have some fine shooting in Argentina. Emu, or is it rhea? I forget.” He looked at Charles. “S
peaking of shooting, you did bring the gun with you, I trust?”
“Yes, sir,” Charles said. He took the handkerchief-wrapped gun out of his pocket and placed it on the desk. The Prince picked it up and looked at it with a distasteful frown.
“I shall return it to Mrs. Langtry myself,” he said. “For some time, I have wanted an opportunity to caution her about her tendency to become involved with persons of low repute.” He pursed his lips and exhaled a round O of blue cigar smoke. “You did telephone Suggie de Bathe in London, did you not, Owen?”
“I did, sir,” North said. “He asked me to tell you that he would be able to reach Regal Lodge by teatime.”
“Good.” The Prince frowned. “Does he understand what is wanted?”
“I believe so, sir,” North said. He coughed. “Unfortunately, he anticipates that his father will be upset by the marriage. He rather hopes that you—”
“I’ll speak to old Lord de Bathe myself,” the Prince said. “I’m sure I can bring him around. And I’ll speak to Lillie about her association with those Americans.” The frown became a scowl. “Wishard and Clark are the worst, if you ask me. The stewards ought to think about doing something, Owen. Not this year, perhaps, for we don’t want to call too much attention to the matter. But the next, or the year after that. If we don’t do something, the Americans will rob us all blind.”
“Of course, sir,” North said reassuringly. “We’re working on it, sir.”
“And I’ll have a word with Squire Mannington about his objection. I’m sure he can be persuaded to see reason.” The Prince put the derringer down on the desk and looked at Charles and Kate. “One might think,” he said in a conversational tone, “that I have used my influence to enable a guilty man to escape the consequences of his actions. However, I assure you that Mr. Radwick’s lifetime exile from England is a punishment far greater than any that might have been meted out by our courts. Especially when you consider that he has been forced to leave his fortune behind.”
“As you say, sir,” Charles said dryly. Beside him, Kate was angrily straining to hold her tongue. At the other end of the row, Murray was muttering something he could not quite catch.
The Prince stood and looked sternly down his nose. “I trust that I have your word that you will not speak with anyone else about what has transpired in the past few days.” He turned his gaze directly upon Kate. “I am very much afraid that I shall require Beryl Bardwell’s word on that as well, Lady Charles. I should not like to pick up Blackwell’s magazine and read a story entitled ‘Death at Newmarket.’ ” He smiled gravely. “I know the importance you Americans place on the freedom of your speech. However, now that you have married into one of the most aristocratic of our British families, I’m sure you have noticed that an obligation to Her Majesty places limits on her subjects’ abilities to speak and act as they might like.”
“Indeed I have noticed it, Your Highness,” Kate said. Charles winced at her defiantly sardonic tone, but the Prince did not seem to hear it.
“Very good, then,” he said. He picked up the gun and dropped it into his pocket, glancing at the clock. “Now, if you will excuse me, I am off to Regal Lodge for luncheon with Mrs. Langtry. Good day, gentlemen. Good day, Lady Charles.”
“Good day, sir,” they echoed dutifully.
When the Prince had left, there was a long silence. Finally, Kate said something, half to herself. Charles looked questioningly at her. Owen North said, “I’m sorry, Lady Charles. I didn’t quite catch that. What did you say?”
Kate lifted her chin. “I said,” she replied distinctly, ‘What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?’ ”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
September 15, 1899
Bishop’s Keep
Certain of our esteemed contemporaries have applied their lack of wits arduously to the problem whether Mrs. Langtry acts better or worse than she used to. Such a discussion is both tedious and unnecessary. Mrs. Langtry never did act and she does not act now.
Review of The Degenerates
Kate put down the newspaper and turned her face up to the late morning sun, feeling a twinge of sympathy for Lillie. Her most recent play, The Degenerates, which had opened at the beginning of the month, had not been received kindly by the drama critics, who thought it was ugly, immoral, and, yes, degenerate. But judging from the news that had traveled from London, Kate reflected that Lillie—now the wife of Hugo de Bathe—probably did not care about the critics. Her new husband had left for the Continent immediately after the wedding and had been seen there in the affectionate company of a young blond French actress. But the play had been sold out every night and was showing a weekly profit of something like twelve hundred pounds.
“Hello, my love,” Charles said, coming onto the terrace to join her. “Anything of interest in the Times?”
“Only more criticism of the second Dreyfus court-martial,” Kate replied, knowing that Charles would not be very curious about Lillie’s reviews. “The French seem to be taking it coolly enough, but there is world-wide unhappiness with the second guilty verdict. It is said that President Loubet will likely pardon him next week and set him free.”
Charles sat down, his face grave. After a long moment, he spoke. “The pardon doesn’t erase the unjust conviction. Captain Dreyfus should never have been tried, let alone convicted—and convicted twice! The French Army was only trying to cover up its own misdeeds.”
“Of course,” Kate said with asperity, “the British never do anything like that. They just let the guilty leave the country and start a new life somewhere else.”
Charles regarded her with a thoughtful look. “I received a post from Owen North a few minutes ago,” he said. “He has heard from sources in Argentina that Henry Radwick is dead.”
Kate stared at him, dumbfounded. “Dead! How? How did he die?”
“He was shot in some sort of tavern brawl,” Charles replied evenly, “in the village where he had gone to live. The report North received apparently wasn’t very specific as to details. It seems that the men who shot him—there were two or three of them—got away.” There was a thin smile on his lips. “It’s not clear whether there actually was a brawl or whether the whole thing was staged. However it happened, there seems to have been some sort of justice at work, carving out a punishment that could not be imposed within the system of our law. I thought you ought to know about it.”
Kate sat back, pondering what Charles had told her. “Did you know?” she asked at last. “Did you know Radwick would be . . . executed?”
“I thought he might be,” Charles replied. “The evidence we gathered—the ballistics, the fingerprints, the eyewitness testimony—was strong enough for any jury of reasonable men to have convicted him.” He touched her arm. “Even the Prince, who certainly wished to sweep the whole matter under the rug, had to acknowledge the validity of the accusation and the strength of the evidence. I felt it likely that H.R.H. would arrange for the cause of justice to be served, somehow or another. And if there had been enough evidence against Lillie Langtry—evidence of her complicity in her husband’s death, for instance—I believe he would have imposed some sort of sentence upon her, as well.”
“Perhaps he has,” Kate said quietly. “He has given her a husband, to replace Mr. Langtry. He has made her . . . respectable.”
“Respectable,” Charles repeated wryly. A smile lit his eyes. “Yes, indeed. Well, I rather think that she and Hugo deserve one another.” He stretched out his legs. “Speaking of the newly married, did I understand correctly that Bradford and Edith are coming for dinner tonight?”
Kate nodded. “I’m looking forward to seeing both of them. Edith will no doubt have word from Mr. Rhodes, and his version of the latest news from the Transvaal.” She frowned, thinking of the report from South Africa that filled the front page of the Times. “Do you think it will come to war?”
“I think certain British interests believe that war would serve their purposes,” Ch
arles said dryly. “But they may well underestimate their enemy. The Boers are well-trained. If there’s war, they’ll be well-armed by their supporters in Germany. And they are fighting on their own territory, for their homes and for their way of life. Defeating them won’t be as easy as Whitehall thinks.” He looked grave. “I hope the conflict is resolved before Patrick is of an age to serve.”
“Oh, but surely it could never drag on that long,” Kate exclaimed. “I don’t want to think about his going to war.”
At that moment, Patrick, on Gladiator, trotted past the terrace. His red hair glinted in the sunlight and Kate saw that he was wearing his new silks—white with red and blue stripes. He threw them a happy wave. “I have to rub him down before I come to lunch,” he called. “Don’t wait for me.”
“Of course we’ll wait,” Kate called back. “Take as long as you like.” To Charles, she said, with an almost inexpressible feeling of quiet joy, “I’m so glad you bought the horse for him, Charles. And I’m so very happy that he’s here.”
“After he dared to disappoint Pinkie and Lord Hunt by riding Gladiator to win that ten-furlong handicap at Newmarket, it was clear that the boy had no future at the Grange House Stables,” Charles said. “But George Lambton is delighted to take him on as an apprentice next year, and to have Gladiator in training as well.”
“I do wish we could come to some conclusion about school though,” Kate replied. “Patrick needs an education if he is to be happy in the world.”
“Well, no decision need be made just yet. In another week or two, I’ll suggest that Paddy start doing maths and science with me and reading and writing with you, and we shall see how he gets along.”
With a sigh of pleasure, Kate reached for Charles’s hand. “I’m in no hurry to send him off anywhere. I’m content just to have him here with us, for now.” She looked off into the distance, thinking how much her life had changed in the last few years. She was married to the man she loved, they had a child to love and care for together, and she had good work to do, work she loved as much as she loved Charles and Patrick. For a moment, she thought of Lillie Langtry, whose daughter had rejected her and who had married a man for his title. But it was not a thought on which she wanted to linger. Nor did she have to, since she had promised the Prince that Beryl would not write a story called “Death at Newmarket” and had informed the editor of The Strand that she would not, after all, be submitting an article about Mrs. Langtry. She would need to think of a new writing project. But that would not be at all difficult—and in the meantime, Mrs. Grieve would be there that afternoon to meet the students and begin the course on herbs.