by Tim Mason
“I’m afraid we are none of us safe. Bessie, run quick to the corner and fetch in the first constable you see.”
Bessie nodded eagerly.
“Tell him it’s for Inspector Field’s wife.”
“Yes, Missus!” said Bessie, rising.
“What does it mean,” said Martha, rereading the telegram, “‘use your pins’?”
“I’ll show you,” said Mrs. Andrews, suddenly appearing in the door. She took a long five-pronged hairpin from the right side of her topknot and another from the left. With a toss of her head, her long gray hair cascaded down about her shoulders.
“You lied to me about my boy!” cried Martha. She grabbed the telegram from Jane and shook it at the old woman. “You said this man of yours was a-going to set Tom up in life!”
“And so he will, lunatic, unless you don’t behave. In that case you’ll never see him again.” Jane stared, fascinated: the woman seemed to be putting on the hairpins, like a pair of gloves, one on each hand.
“You are Mrs. Andrews, then,” said Jane.
“You, Missus Field,” the old woman said, “will cut your high-and-mighty ways and leave the running of this establishment to me. Otherwise, my boy will send your husband back in bits.”
Martha shook the telegram again. “I didn’t raise my Tom to do murder!”
“My boy is making history and he’s letting your little squib play a role in it, for which you ought to be grateful!” Mrs. Andrews took a step toward the women who all shrunk from her. Jane thought she heard a pounding from above, but perhaps it was merely the blood beating in her own temples.
The old woman drew herself up. “My boy was born special. There was money to be made by it. Was I not to make money by it? I did make money by it. Fame and glory will follow, and the mighty will tremble before him. If he is difficult from time to time, what of that? He was born different that he might do great things, and history will honor him for it!”
“Me, I’m fetchin’ in a constable!” hissed Bessie, backing toward the kitchen stairs.
“Oh no you don’t, half-wit!”
Bessie turned and ran, but the old woman leapt after her and swung her about. She thrust at Bessie’s throat, but Bessie jerked her apron up to her face and the five prongs of the hairpin went up with it, piercing the apron and sinking deep into Bessie’s right cheek instead of her neck. It stuck there, the apron pinned to her cheek, five streaks of blood running down the front.
“Oi! Oi! Oi! Oi!” cried Bessie.
Jane came to life. “That’ll be quite enough of that!” she cried, grabbing the old woman by her long hair and yanking her back. Before Jane knew what was happening Martha Ginty stepped forward and drew the blade of the carving knife swiftly across the woman’s throat.
Mrs. Andrews’ eyes widened in terror. She struggled to scream, but there was only a spasmodic liquid sound as the blood fountained from her. She fell back against Jane, who just managed to catch her, half falling with her to the floor. The old woman convulsed for a long moment and then was still, her eyes open and staring.
Bessie mewled breathlessly, sinking to the floor, the pin and apron still stuck to her face. Martha knelt beside Jane, staring in confusion at the blade she held. Jane carefully took the knife from her. The three women, covered in blood, slowly became aware of a man standing in the door, Sam Llewellyn fresh off the Dover coach, staring at the carnage in horror and shock.
Within the hour and through the night, No. 2 Bow Street became the scene of intense activity. First, Sam Llewellyn returned to the street to tell the constable he had brought with him that he was free to go; the suspected woman had moved on, no one knew where to. Soon after, Jane employed her nursing skills to clean Mrs. Andrews’ body and prepare it for burial. In the dead of the night, Martha Ginty took the old woman’s few effects and sunk them in the Thames. Bessie Shoreham scrubbed clean the kitchen. Before dawn, a horse and cart were borrowed, no questions asked, from the widow next door, whose allegiance to Mr. Bucket was fervent.
The following afternoon, Llewellyn pushed through the doors of the Fortune of War, around midday, and approached the bar. Mickie Goodfellow’s face fell.
“Oh no you don’t,” he said. “No, sir. Officer Llewellyn, you are not welcome in my establishment. It took me fully forty-eight hours to be released, and even the magistrate said he didn’t know why I’d been arrested!”
“I’ll have a pint of your best, Mr. Goodfellow,” said Llewellyn with a friendly grin. “No, make it a half, if you please, I have matters to attend to.”
The landlord stared at the constable appraisingly, then took a glass from a shelf and pulled the ivory handle marked best bitter. “What’s become of Charlie Field, then? Is he dead yet?”
“Gone straight to the top, has Mr. Field, a personal confidant of Her Majesty the Queen.”
“Delighted to hear it. I hope he don’t neglect to mention me to Her Majesty?”
“Not a day goes by, sir.”
Llewellyn pushed a coin across the bar, which Goodfellow started to push back before he realized something was attached to it. He frowned and looked closer. It was a bit of string looped through a paper tag that had two words penciled on it: Will Tailor.
“I’ve nothing to do with this,” said Goodfellow, any trace of jocularity gone.
“You’ve still got all your surgeon friends from St. Bart’s coming and going, I see,” said Llewellyn with a nod to the saloon bar. “I imagine you still provide them with what they want, one way or another.”
“Get out.”
“What was the name of that magistrate? The one who didn’t know why you’d been nicked?”
Goodfellow stared at Llewellyn in silence for a moment. “What do you want?” he said finally.
“Consider it a gift, Mr. Goodfellow. Gratis, as they say.”
“What?”
“She’s waiting for you out front.” Llewellyn put down his half-pint and beckoned Goodfellow to follow. The landlord looked about nervously, then hung his apron on a hook and followed the constable out of the tavern. The cart was stopped directly in front; the horse was tethered to a post and minded by an urchin who ran off when Llewellyn gave him a sixpence. The constable looked about and then lifted one corner of the tarpaulin. Mrs. Andrews’ eyes were open, her mouth stretched wide in a parodic rictus and her throat stitched shut with heavy black thread.
“Good God,” cried Goodfellow, “cover her up!” He looked up and down the crowded road. “Are you mad?”
“You will take care of her, will you? The Metropolitan won’t trouble you or the Fortune of War again.”
“Yes, yes! Merciful Jesus, did he do this? That’s his mother, you know. No! No, I don’t want to know! Just wait here, I’ll fetch someone directly.”
Goodfellow stumbled into his pub. Llewellyn turned up the collar of his coat and rocked back and forth on his heels, in the manner of all waiting policemen the world over.
His mother! he said to himself. Now I think of it, it makes perfect sense.
39
Coburg
Charles Field was awakened at dawn in his little room at the Ehrenburg Palace by the sound of high, clear voices singing in the courtyard beneath his window. He rose quietly and looked out. A dozen choirboys, white-robed and ruffed, processed across the inner court toward the chapel, singing a hymn that was somehow familiar to him.
Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott . . .
Sheldon Olderwiser, his voice fuzzy with sleep, sang from the room’s other cot.
A mighty fortress is our God
A bulwark never failin’ . . .
Olderwiser lifted himself on one elbow. “I was a choirboy meself; sang like a bleedin’ angel. They say Mr. Martin Luther wrote that one right here, when he was hidin’ for his life in that pile o’ rocks on the hill—the Festung, they call it.”
“Is that so?” said Field, watching the double line of boys file into the chapel.
“Mr. Field, you do remember that we’re all m
ovin’ tomorrow? Up to the Prince’s old home?”
“I hadn’t forgotten. Why?”
“Well, what do you plan to wear, Mr. Field? You seem to be accident-prone and I’m fresh out of shirts and suits that might fit your frame.”
“I shall be wearing my own clothes from now on. I shall be myself instead of someone else, and if that’s not welcome here, I’ll take myself off. I’ve had my fill of this show.”
“Coo,” said the young man, stretching himself luxuriously, “somebody’s touchy.”
But Field’s everyday attire attracted no particular notice from the Queen as he dutifully followed her about her morning activities. Her Majesty had been told about her grandson’s infirmity evidently; the child was brought in at breakfast to greet his grandmama, and his deformed arm was not concealed.
In midafternoon, Albert, Ernest, and Fritz returned to Coburg. Victoria was in flights of bliss to see her husband, and Albert himself seemed in high spirits for a man who had just buried his stepmother.
He can’t help it, thought Field. Having escaped this latest assassin’s bullet he feels the danger is over, he feels downright immortal. Well, let’s hope he’s right, although I never met anyone yet who fit that description.
Tom awoke in the middle of the night to find Master sitting on a stool beside his pallet. The boy sat up fast, disoriented, his heart racing. Master smiled languidly and glanced at Peter Sims, asleep on his cot.
“Follow me, Tom,” he said. “I have instructions for you.”
Decimus rose and Tom followed him out into the dark cobble-stoned courtyard. Tom realized that Master was dressed like a stable hand, but it hardly mattered: there was no one awake to see them.
The next day the servants were up before dawn, packing and preparing for the move to Prince Albert’s childhood home, Rosenau, a scant few miles from Coburg. A little after noon, three landaus filled with royal family and friends started off, followed by wagons carrying servants, including the new stableboy known to Peter Sims as Thomas. Peter drove the lead coach, which held the Queen, giddy with excitement. Charles Field clung to a brass rail at the back, standing on the little ledge that normally would be used by footmen. Along the way, farmers, dairymaids, peasants, and children paused, dipping heads, curtsying, or touching forelocks before hurrying about their business. As the entourage passed the train tracks where the ambush had been thwarted two nights before and the would-be assassin killed, Albert stared pensively. The crossing keeper, a tall man in a gray uniform with red piping, ducked his head to step out of his hut. He removed his cap and bowed low to Her Majesty.
The ground rose. Eventually they entered a long avenue colonnaded by tall firs. A wooded hill rose at the end of the avenue, and at the top of the hill stood a large white house with black shutters and a steep, step-gabled roof. A single circular tower clung to the left side of the house, accompanied by a very tall pine. The lower reaches of Castle Rosenau were covered by climbing ivy.
Field realized that a conference was taking place within the coach. The landau slowed to a halt, not halfway up the hill. Field jumped from his perch in time to see Albert step down and offer his hand to assist Vicky from the carriage.
“Mr. Field, I am going to show my daughter a secret from my youth, a hidden path to the house that I enjoyed as a boy. Have the goodness to remount and accompany Her Majesty to the Schloß.”
“Begging leave, sir, to accompany you and the Princess Royal.”
“It is not my wish, sir.”
“Forgive me, might I have a word apart?”
“This is not the time, Mr. Field.”
“But, sir . . .”
“You heard me, did you not?”
“Sir, he’s here!” Field lowered his voice. “Our man. Right here, sir.”
Reluctantly, Albert approached Field.
“I have been with him, sir. I have spoken with him. It was he who cut me. He is armed and awaiting his chance. I have little doubt he is watching us at this moment.” The Prince glanced about nervously. “For your daughter’s safety, sir, if not your own, permit me to accompany you, please.”
“Very well,” said Albert finally. He looked up at his wife, waiting impatiently in the coach. “Carry on, my dear. We shall be along presently.”
Peter flicked the reins and the procession resumed its journey up the hill. Albert took his daughter’s arm and set off into the woods, trailed at a respectful distance by the inspector. The path Albert led them to was indeed hidden from the road, behind stands of trees, a rise, and a dip. Field speculated that for a boy it would have offered the appeal of secretive adventure and, for the boy’s royal elders, might have provided a path for diplomatists or paramours to come and go unseen.
The day was perfect: the weather mild, the sky cloudless, and the air sweet. Albert appeared apprehensive at first but eventually seemed to lose himself in the joys of the moment. He and his daughter walked arm in arm in the dappled light. He was alone with his favorite child on the patch of earth more dear to him than any other. The two of them talked quietly together. Occasionally they laughed.
They had been walking for some time when they became aware of another scent in the air, a sweet, sickly heaviness. Albert and Vicky fell silent. Even the birdsong was suddenly stilled. The sweet odor turned sour. It was a deer, dead on the path before them. Its hide still retained a lustrous tawny glow against the green. The Prince and his daughter gave the carcass a wide berth, leaving the path to circle round it. Field kept an eye on them, even as he approached the fallen animal.
Oh, bloody hell.
The creature lay on its right side. Its left ear was off, not torn by a scavenger but sliced cleanly with the precision of a surgeon with a razor. Field put his hand on the pistol, which was now safely in his breast pocket, and looked about furiously. There was no one there that he could see; there was nothing amiss. He glanced ahead at Albert and Vicky, enjoying a rare moment in which neither of them was anyone but a father and a daughter, sharing the beauties of an autumn day. The inspector scanned the woods again. A light breeze moved in to cleanse the air. It was a sun-dappled paradise again, and the birds again sang its praises. Field took his hand off his gun and hurried on.
40
Coburg
1 October 1860
In the latter reaches of the night a light rain began to fall and continued as the occupants of Rosenau awoke and dressed. By the end of breakfast, though, sun was breaking through the scudding clouds, and the surrounding lawns and woods were glistening. At the insistence of her husband, the Queen endured a morning indoors during which she caught up with her official business. Inspector Field tried to make himself inconspicuous in a library. Vicky and Alexandrine were driven out to shoot and driven back again, smelling of black powder. That was when Sir Horace Dugdale announced he had been obliged to change the afternoon’s schedule from the planned tea in Coburg to a royal visit to nearby Castle Kallenberg, the home that Ernest’s father had given him and Alexandrine as a present for their ill-begotten marriage.
It was unexpected, but Ernest was happy to lead the tour of Kallenberg. It delighted the Queen. After the hastily prepared lunch, while the men had drinks and smoked cigars in a room apart, the women walked out, circling the castle to find a location from which to do their watercolors, with Inspector Field following. Her Majesty and her train descended a flight of ornate stone steps to the terrace below, where their attendants finally placed their easels. The men joined the ladies not too long after. Sir James Clark planted himself at the edge of the terrace, his hands clasped behind his back, his chin high and brow furrowed, as though he would be the judge of whether this were indeed a view suitable for the monarch. He smelled of tobacco and brandy; Victoria and Vicky were downwind of him and exchanged amused glances.
“Ou est Monsieur Kanné?” said the Queen, dipping her brush into a paint pot, perhaps reminded of the Frenchman by the aroma of strong drink and tobacco. “Nous ne l’avons pas vu depuis des jours.” No one else re
membered seeing Kanné either, not for days. “One hopes he is not ill,” continued Victoria, frowning in concentration and sighting the landscape over the tip of her brush.
Prince Albert and his brother, Ernest, walked up and down the terrace, talking softly; Field watching them closely. A young servant woman descended the steps, approached the Prince, and gave him a note.
“Say that I will come directly,” he said, scanning the message, “and let them know in the stables I shall need a carriage.” The young woman curtsied and hurried up the staircase. Turning to his wife and daughter, Albert said, “My dears, I must leave you to your work. There are people in Coburg whom I need to see.”
The Queen, always serious about her art, nodded and murmured without looking up from her watercolor, but Vicky put down her brush and extended her arms. The Prince took his daughter’s hands, kissed each, and then her brow.
“Sir?” said Field, moving to his side.
Suddenly Albert was shouting. “I am with my family in private conversation, have the goodness to step back!”
It was as though Field had been slapped.
“Yes, sir,” said the inspector, retreating and bowing. “I beg your pardon, sir.” He bowed to the Queen, his face aflame. “Ma’am.”
Neither the Queen nor the Princess Royal acknowledged his salute; both had experienced Albert’s rare but explosive bursts of anger. For the moment neither was royal: they were mere women, keeping their heads down while the man of the house was in a temper. Field turned and climbed the stone staircase. At the top of the steps he crossed the Kallenberg grounds, head down. His intent was to walk back to Rosenau where his trunk was and from there to make his way to the train station in Coburg.
Herr Marx was right, I am the dog beneath the table. Well, no more.
The young servant woman crossed ahead, walking from the stables to the castle. Field hesitated; he could not help himself. “Miss, if you please, do you speak English?”