49

Tuesday, June 22, cont.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” Nurse Foster asked. “This child is seriously ill and needs his rest. If you don’t leave this instant, I’ll summon the constables downstairs to throw you out. I don’t care what arrangement you’ve made with Mr. Connery.”

Herman jumped back, nearly dropping his case. In his confusion, he reached into his vest pocket and felt something. A card.

Assuming a professional air, he handed it to the woman with a flourish. “My name is Boris Rodshenko, Madam. I work for this gentleman, Mister James McIntyre, as part of a team of moving picture photographers. We have been commissioned by the Home Office to record this moment for posterity. My colleagues are stationed along the route, and I am here to photograph the ceremony itself.” He hefted the rifle’s case. “Here is my camera. It is silent, so it shouldn’t disturb the lad in the slightest. I trust we can watch the ceremony together without further animosity.” He bowed. “Is that acceptable to you?”

“Then why wasn’t I told?” she sniffed. “I’ll have a word or two about this to the custodian.” She glared for a moment more, and Herman slipped his hand into his right pants pocket, considering his other option.

“Oh, very well. Freddy’s sleeping like the dead. Help me move his bed back a bit, and you should have enough space to set up.”

Herman’s hand slid out of his pocket and he tipped his hat.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Madam. I’ll be sure to mention it to my superiors when I turn in the film.”

The house guards would be the final contingent before the royal carriage, so they formed up outside the gates of Buckingham Palace. The representatives from various parts of the empire gathered in the square, and more than one sergeant expressed thanks no Indian elephants were included. Alone at the head of the gathering formation, in his shiny breastplate and plumed helmet, Captain Ames sat astride a magnificent black mare. At six feet eight inches, he was the tallest man in the British Army, and it was his honor to lead the procession, his sword drawn and held in the salute position the entire six miles. His opinion on this honor was his own secret to keep.

Several of the horses jerked their heads at the tight rein their riders kept them on. They had been trained not to react to gunfire, but the size and noise of the crowd made many of them skittish, and it took all of their riders’ considerable skill to keep them in line.

Finally, all elements were ready save one. The royal carriage pulled up before the palace entrance, and several riders craned their heads to watch a small figure dressed in black creep down the stairs, leaning on her cane, while a lady-in-waiting held a parasol above her. The diminutive woman who ruled an empire was assisted by two liveried members of the royal household who tenderly half-lifted Her Majesty into place. Two burly soldiers from the guards sat behind her in elevated seats, two more ladies-in-waiting sat across from her, and then they waited.

The crowd had been noisy before, but at the appearance of Queen Victoria, loud cries of “God save the Queen!” rang out among cheers that resembled a waterfall’s roar, as powerful and unceasing. The cannon fired on time, and as Captain Ames nudged his horse forward, the dark clouds parted. The sun never set on the British Empire, and on this auspicious occasion, it glowed.

The sound of the cannon was heard throughout the route and the crowd cheered along it, then paused, awaiting further spectacle. Even the old cynic Mark Twain was awed by the tall, proud figure of Captain Ames advancing toward him, his arrival prompting renewed fervor among the multitude.

The vast number of troops was such that the entire procession was never visible all at once. Soldiers in blue were followed by others in red, then buff, then yellow, then back to buff. Twain sighed and closed his notebook. It was too much, even for his seasoned eye. “This is a task for the Kodak, not the pen,” he muttered to himself. “I know when I’m overmatched.”

Herman heard the cannon. He had thirty minutes to prepare, then twenty minutes to take his shot. It was time for the next step.

“Don’t you want to assemble your camera, Mr. Rodshenko?” Nurse Foster asked. “I imagine such devices are rather delicate and require frequent adjustment.”

“You’re right, madam. I also have the film inside the case, however, so I wanted to minimize the risk of its exposure. But it is time.” He reached into his pocket. “Could you see if your patient is all right? I’d hate to prevent him from seeing the ceremony if he’s awake. We could share the view, as it were.”

The nurse nodded, and as she turned to check on her silent charge, Herman removed the leather bag from his pocket. It was about the size of the pouch boys kept for marbles, but this one was filled with lead shot. Herman swung it hard, hitting the woman just behind her right ear as described in the story he’d once read about a cat burglar.

The nurse staggered, then spun around and kicked him hard in the shins. “You bastard!”

Herman was stunned, both physically and emotionally. This had worked perfectly in the story, and he had never considered it wouldn’t in real life. As he stood there hopping on one foot and rubbing his shin, his adversary followed up with a roundhouse to his nose, causing his eyes to water as blood spurted out. He staggered back, and Nurse Foster dashed for the door while Freddy sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Is the Queen here yet?” he asked, yawning.

James heard the cannon and turned to wave down to his two ladies in blue. They waved back. It would take half an hour for the procession to arrive, and he took several slow, deep breaths to steady his nerves before raising his glasses to resume scanning the crowd. He checked on his two bobbies in front of the school. They were in place, and they looked bored, which was excellent news on both counts. He moved his glass over to the rooftop, and he reckoned the custodian would have a very profitable reward for his illicit enterprise. He noticed five faces crowded together in the first-floor window, but there were none in the second. The nurse must be waiting until the royal carriage arrived before bringing her patient closer to the opening.

Herman made a blind grab at the nurse that spun her around. She stomped hard on his right foot with one stiff, leather-soled shoe. The edge of her heel smashed his toes like a dropped anvil. He was losing this fight, and he needed to put her down quickly.

He swung blind, but was rewarded with the woman falling to her knees. Down, but not out. He swung the leather bag at the back of her head, and this time she reacted as the story said she should and slumped unconscious to the floor.

Little Freddy sat wide-eyed in the bed, unable to make a sound. Herman turned to him as he pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the blood running out of his nose. Herman imagined how he must appear to the frightened child and wondered what Immanuel would look like at the boy’s age. “Don’t worry, my friend,” he said as though to a skittish colt. “I’m not here to hurt you.” He looked at his soiled handkerchief. “Sorry about the blood.”

Between his fear and weakness from his illness, Freddy offered no resistance, and soon both he and the nurse were bound with strips of bed covers Herman had cut with his knife. Herman checked the nurse’s pulse and was relieved to find it strong. Now I understand why Dante had several levels in hell, Herman thought, for there are degrees of damnation. Every time I think I have reached the bottom of the pit, another abyss awaits.

He opened the case and began assembling the rifle. One final act and my small piece of Paradise awaits.

Herman placed Freddy onto another bunk. “I’m sorry you won’t get to see Her Majesty today, but you’ll still have quite a story to tell when this is over.” He tousled the bound boy’s hair. A useless gesture. He sees a monster. Perhaps he’s right.

He slid the bed to the window then placed three pillows on the end closest to it, climbed up, and assumed a prone position, resting the barrel on the small pile of pillows. The clotted blood in his nose forced him to breathe through his mouth, and his eyes were still teary from the pain. His throbbing right foot could not bear the weight of the leg, so he was forced to cross it over his left, splaying his right knee further out to compensate. He lay still and counted to four as he inhaled, six as he exhaled, and after several cycles his hands relaxed and the rifle felt comfortable in his grasp.

He looked out the window as a single tall man in a shiny breastplate rode by. It had begun. The parts were snug, the sights aligned. He looked through the scope and his view of the entrance to the cathedral was unobstructed. The choir and various dignitaries crowded the steps, but the place of honor at the foot was clear. Now all he had to do was wait.

James turned to wave to the ladies to indicate the procession was arriving when he saw a flash from the second-floor window. He looked through his field glasses and saw the bed was now pulled up to it. Perhaps the nurse wanted the child to get a better view? But where was he? The room was in shadow and James saw a dim figure lying on the bed. His breath caught when he saw something else. A black line extended from the figure toward the open window. A rifle barrel.