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!”

“Pants it is, then!” Elizabeth giggled. “I’m getting rather used to having pockets.”

James shook his head as his daughter rushed to her room. Looking at me, he said. “I blame you, of course.”

I laughed. “I have rather upset your world, haven’t I?”

“Aye, and thank God for that.” While his daughter was probably flinging clothes about in her bedroom, we exchanged a look that reminded me of what could have been.

We two gentlemen—along with the young lad who accompanied us—seemed a companionable trio walking along together beside the procession route. Banners made the path easy to follow, and starting from Buckingham Palace it took two hours to walk the three miles to St. Paul’s Cathedral, as James stopped every hundred yards to survey the rooftops.

During one of these pauses, I noted a poster announcing a three-night engagement by Samuel Clemens, otherwise known as Mark Twain, at the Royal Victoria Hall. I recalled my interview with him during my involvement with the hunt for the Ripper, along with his sparkling performance of his works the night that adventure came to a head. Nine years ago seemed a lifetime away.

When we finally arrived at the cathedral, we stopped to survey the buildings which lined the large plaza facing the entrance.

“Look at the bleachers going up atop the buildings,” I said. “No place for a sniper to hide up there.”

“Aye, but the queen will be stationary here for twenty minutes.” James pointed out. “This is the place of greatest danger. If I were a sniper, here’s where I’d have the best chance of success.”

“Perhaps he’ll try to hide in the cathedral, Father,” Elizabeth suggested. She pointed to a large window to the right as we faced the front of the building. “He could shoot right down at her from there.”

“Now you’re thinking like our adversary. That’s good. But the stairs that pass in front of the window will be full of people looking down at Her Majesty. The roof would be slightly better, but clergy and city officials who aren’t part of the ceremony will be granted access to that space. He couldn’t possibly go unnoticed long enough to fire, and escape afterward would be impossible.”

James looked around the courtyard again. A moving procession with guardsmen on horseback screening the target would be a challenging shot, all the more so as the queen was not a large woman. Never over five feet, age had shrunken her height as it had expanded her waist. She was quite likely the smallest person engaged in the entire affair, other than the members of the boys’ choir who would be standing on the steps above her.

“Do you see anything, Margaret? I feel as though there’s something right in front of me, but I’m missing it.”

I shook my head. “Then I’m as blind as you are, James. I agree this is the perfect killing ground for our hunter. The only possibility I can consider is that he would be in one of the windows in the square, but I can’t imagine any being unoccupied. He’d have to have a delegation of conspirators filling the room to be allowed to fire. And some windows will have an impaired view due to the statue of Queen Anne in the plaza, so we can rule those windows out entirely. Plus, a man with a rifle at a window would be seen by the onlookers on the roof of the cathedral.” I sighed. “All in all, your security precautions seem airtight. I see no flaw.”

James shook his head. “But if that were so, why would Ott still be here? Either he’s intent on killing you, or he’s seen something here that we haven’t.”

My head hurt. I half-remembered something, something about a false claim . . . then it left. I shook my head.

We finished the route, taking four hours to travel the remaining three miles. James stopped about twenty minutes at each of the bridges the procession would cross, seeking any place a sniper could fire while the procession’s mobility was reduced. Nothing.

As we approached the royal residence once more, Elizabeth asked, “How do you know he hasn’t fled, Father? Perhaps he’s made the same conclusion you have. I bet he’s across the channel and in Paris. You may have defeated him already, without even knowing it.”

“I can’t afford to think like that, dear,” he said. “‘Pride goeth before a fall,’ and that would be a disastrous fall indeed.”

We completed our walk shortly after two o’clock and after a light lunch at a bistro, James declared a parting of the ways. “I should go into the office to see if there’re any messages for me or any new information from Germany on Ott. I doubt it, but I’ll take whatever comes our way that might help us find the man. What about you and Elizabeth?”

“As for myself, I have a couple of letters I want to send to Australia. I made contacts among the journalist community while I was there in ‘91 and I should let them know I’ll be returning soon and needing employment. As for Elizabeth,” I winked, “I think she needs to practice her spitting.”

Elizabeth and I laughed, bowed to James, and left a perplexed Inspector Ethington in our wake.