45

Sunday, June 20, cont.

Commissioner Bradford sat astride his horse outside Buckingham Palace at the end of his six-mile ride. Though satisfied with the preparations for crowd control, he would never be satisfied as to Her Majesty’s safety.

The household guards officer asked, “Shall we do the same tomorrow, Commissioner?” It was obvious which answer the man preferred as he cleared his throat.

He’s naught to complain of, the old warrior thought. He should try leading a hunt for thuggees. Bradford’s experience had taught him that the gaudier the uniform, the less capable the soldier. Shining buttons soon took priority over tactical proficiency.

“Yes for me, no for you,” he said, irritated by the man’s ill-disguised relief. “I’ve memorized the route and everything along it. If our assassin plants any bombs along the way, I should notice the change. You are dismissed.” Go get your plumes fluffed, or whatever it is you do with them.

Herman returned to the hotel and paused when he saw a police constable talking with the clerk, Herman’s mustachioed likeness in the bobby’s hand. Herman sat down on a threadbare chair in the lobby, his Times in front of his face as he listened in.

“You seen a man what looks like this?” asked the constable.

There was a long pause. Herman, blinded by the paper, couldn’t tell if the man was shrugging his shoulders or pointing at him. He tensed to run when the clerk answered, “Nay, Constable. No handlebar mustaches as fine as that. What’s he done?”

“Killed one of ours, is what. Shot in the head. If I’m the one who nabs him, he’ll have more than a few knots on his noggin before I give him up. Now, look again. Harder. Maybe he’s shaved that lip brush off. I would, if every constable in London were after me. Think hard.”

Herman had no weapon, and even if he did, the fight would only draw more people into the fray. He didn’t dare lower the paper while he was facing the clerk. His life now depended on one man’s poor memory and lack of imagination.

“Well . . . there is one man, now that I think on it. Foreign gentleman. I could take you to his room, see if he’s in.”

Herman heard a soft smack and imagined the bobby hitting the palm of his free hand with his club. His eyes stared at the paper inches from his face, an advertisement for women’s support garments filling his field of view. He noticed his hands were still, and a sense of peace came over him. So, this is how it ends, he thought. He’d hang, no doubt as to that. He hoped Herr Grüber never told Immanuel of his father’s end.

The sound of boots clambering up the stairs was soon replaced by the knocking on a door. Herman considered running, but without his rifle, he hadn’t a chance of fulfilling his mission. Perhaps the constable would leave for reinforcements, and he could retrieve it before their return.

The knock was answered by a voice within. The door opened and was quickly followed by the sound of a scuffle as the bobby called out, “Police! You’re coming with me!”

Curiosity overcame caution and when Herman lowered his paper, he saw a red-faced man tumble down the stairs, the constable rushing after him. The fall seemed to knock the wind out of him, and after the bobby snapped a set of manacles on him, he was jerked to his feet and the stunned man was quick-marched out the door.

The clerk returned to his station and seeing Herman’s wide eyes, apologized: “Sorry, sir. Nothing to concern yourself with, I’m sure. Please, enjoy the rest of your Sunday afternoon.”

Herman felt a wave of gratitude wash over him. He wanted to give a prayer of thanksgiving, then considered what deity would accept the prayer of an assassin. Do the damned ever know peace again?

James returned to Scotland Yard to learn if Ott had been apprehended. Police Commissioner Bradford had linked all the stations together by telegraph, so the inspector was spared the task of going to each one. Three suspects were in custody, and it took James until ten at night to establish none of them was his German assassin. He trudged home in the dark, knowing he was no closer to his quarry than when the day’d begun.

The custodian at the boarding school turned out the lights, though he knew the lads would be awake for some hours yet. They had rehearsed long that day and by rights should be exhausted, but at their age the excitement of the approaching ceremony was more potent than fatigue. They would have dark circles under their eyes tomorrow, but the buzzing of their whispers would fill the darkness until just before sunrise.

Ten-year-old Freddy Cummings’s throat was sore and he felt warm, warmer than a summer night could explain, but he’d said nothing to the choirmaster. He wanted to see the queen.

In the basement, the short circuit Herman had fashioned was undiscovered, waiting in the darkness to be tripped.

Two days day until the Jubilee.