51

Tuesday, June 22, cont.

Herman’s finger barely made contact with the trigger as he sought to find a clear line between the two ladies-in-waiting sitting across from the old queen; they partially obscured his view. He considered shooting the one to his left. I’d have time for a second clear shot before anyone could react, he thought. Then he shook his head. How much sin can one soul bear?

The view of Victoria’s seat was unobstructed on her right side—his left—as was a portion of her right shoulder. Perhaps a shot into the seat beside her would be enough to distract the queen and cause her to lean into view, much as one might fire into the air to flush out a pheasant. He sighted carefully and—as he let his breath ease out—the rifle coughed.

Her Majesty was deeply moved by the cheers of the crowd, and although the day was warm and moist, she savored sitting beneath her parasol as she took in the harmonious blending of the boys’ singing above her.

She was lost in remembering other times when suddenly she felt the back of her seat shudder violently. She looked down and saw a trace of the cushion stuffing peeking out of a fresh hole. She looked up and saw a flash of light from the boys’ boarding school. Her two household guards sitting above and behind her seemed oblivious in their boredom.

Her jaw set. “Ladies,” she said in a calm voice, “please shift to your right. We wish to admire the colonel’s fine horse.” They did so and Her Majesty, empress of the British Empire, all four feet and ten inches of her, stared into the darkness of the window, and lifted her chin.

Herman lay poised, waiting for a panicked royal carriage to give him a second shot. He saw the small figure in black look down, then to his amazement the ladies-in-waiting shifted to their right and the queen stared straight at him. She neither moved nor looked away, as though daring him to fire.

Nothing could save her now. Herman’s finger caressed the trigger, then it settled into place. She was still staring at him. She knew what was coming and wasn’t afraid. She put others out of harm’s way.

Herman knew no kaiser, no tsar, would ever do this, and he finally understood why she was loved while the other two were merely feared. She could be killed. She could not be cowed.

A pity, he thought, as the crosshairs were sliding down to align with her face. Then the door crashed open and on instinct he half-rolled to his left as he jerked the rifle to the right and fired.

“No!” James moaned and his jaw clenched. “We’re too late!” His right hand fell to his side. “I’ve failed her.” His hand came back up as he cocked the large bore pistol. “I’ll make the bastard pay!”

He flew to the door and kicked it in as I followed right behind.

I saw the man with a rifle lying atop a bunk bed. I gasped. The Russian. What a fool I was!

The rifle spun toward us and coughed. The cheering of the crowd reached our ears as I looked down in horror and saw the bloodstain spreading across James’s chest. The assassin stared at me as he reloaded his rifle. I was mesmerized as I heard the rattle of the lead balls in the magazine as he tilted the barrel and slid a bullet into the breech.

“Her name was Astrid,” he said, as the barrel swung toward me.

The moment seemed frozen in time and I had an eternity to act. James’s knees began to fold as he jerked his hand up and his Webley spat flame just as I fired my derringer.

The assassin released his rifle and sighed once, then lay still, a strange smile on his face.

Herman was back in Berlin, the warm spring sun shining between the branches of the trees. His head was on Astrid’s stomach, and her voice was singing once more of the time of cherries.

“Je ne vivrai pas, sans souffrir un jour, J’aimerai toujours le temps des cerises, et le souvenir, que je garde au coeur.”

“I do not live one day without grief, I’ll always remember the time of cherries, and the memory I keep in my heart.”

He closed his eyes, and the sound of the river flowing past grew louder. He let it carry him to a distant shore, where all were equal, and where Astrid awaited.

I stood beside James and as he wavered, helped him slide softly to the floor and onto his back. He labored to breathe, his face now a waxy white that told me he had but moments left. “The Queen?” he whispered.

The crowd had fallen silent, and I feared the worst when suddenly a strong voice called out, “Three cheers for the Queen!” and was awarded jubilantly by nearly half of London.

“Hear the crowd, James,” I whispered. “She’s fine. Our sniper missed. We saved her.”

He managed a weak smile. “My final case solved. I ended better than average, after all.”

I touched his face. “You were never average, James. Know that you are deeply loved and respected by Elizabeth . . . and me.”

He coughed. “I’m sorry we end here. Margaret . . . take care of Elizabeth?”

“Like she was my own, James.”

He started to say something more, then his chest slowly shrank in on itself and I breathed in the aroma of sandalwood and boot polish one last time. I put his hands in mine. Warm hands, and I held them, trying to preserve their warmth as long as I could.

They were just starting to go cold when the two angry constables returned with reinforcements and found me still holding those hands and cradling James’s head in my lap, weeping for what might have been, regretting the second time in my life I’d been afraid to leap.

After the choir sang the final hymn, the Queen’s carriage was supposed to move forward, but it didn’t. There was a long pause of total silence from all, no one knowing what to do next. Then the Archbishop of Canterbury, in complete disregard for protocol, cried out, “Three cheers for the Queen!”

The Bishop of London recalled it thus: “Never were cheers given with such startling unanimity and precision. All the horses threw up their heads at the same moment and gave a little quiver of surprise. When the cheers were over, the band and chorus, by an incredible impulse, broke into ‘God Save the Queen’”.