Alan found the bottles of potions carefully packed beneath the mattress. He did not find one marked “Cracked Skull,” but he did find a bottle that Mr. Sloan had labeled in his neat, precise handwriting: Concussion, brain fever. Mix with hot tea and sip slowly.
Alan repaired to the coffee shop to obtain the tea, leaving Henry to change clothes. When Alan returned with a pot of tea, he gave a start on opening the door to find a stooped-shouldered pastor benignly peering at him from behind spectacles, his squinting eyes almost hidden in the shadow cast by a broad-brimmed hat.
“Good God, Henry, don’t do that to me!” Alan exclaimed irritably. “I almost dropped the teapot.”
Henry grinned, straightened to his full height, and removed the hat.
“You must recognize Pastor Johnstone, Alan. The two of you were childhood friends.”
“We were?” Alan raised an eyebrow.
“You were. He was a curate at the time. Remember that in case you should ever run into him should he have news for you.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” said Alan, smiling. “Tell me about him.”
“Tobias Johnstone is a gentle soul,” said Henry, holding the spectacles up to the dim light to see if he needed to clean them. “He is very short-sighted and thus walks happily through this world blind to all its ugliness. For him, daily life passes in a pleasant blur.”
Alan dumped the potion into the tea. Henry laid aside the spectacles and sat down to drink it, taking care to sip slowly as Mr. Sloan had instructed.
“I hope it tastes better than it smells,” said Alan, wrinkling his nose.
“It doesn’t,” said Henry, grimacing.
Between the farm woman’s potion and Mr. Sloan’s, Henry was feeling much better. The pain was starting to subside and the dizziness and nausea had eased.
“What do you need me to do?” Alan asked.
“Hire a wagon and return to pick up our friends,” said Henry. “You will also need to purchase a wheelchair for Simon. Make it a cheap one, very ordinary. The struggling clerk, Todd Wells, cannot afford anything better on his meager salary.”
“Simon will kick up the devil of a row over having to leave his flying chair behind,” Alan predicted.
“Let us face it, my friend, Simon will be in a foul mood until Welkinstead is once more ‘drifting with panache’ above our heads. At least you won’t have to live with him,” Henry added.
“You must focus his energies on something more pleasant than losing his beloved Welkinstead. I have an idea. Encourage his latest theory about freezing pools of liquid Breath in the Aligoes,” said Alan. “Appear interested. Ask questions.”
“Such as how in God’s name could there possibly be freezing pools of liquid Breath in the Aligoes?”
“I’m sure he will have a scientific explanation,” said Alan.
“One which will last hours and require a blackboard.” Henry returned to his instructions. “Once I know about the warrants, you and Randolph repair to your rooms in the Naval Club. Talk to your fellow officers, find out what you can about Smythe. You should also make inquiries about Mr. Albright, who was apparently on his way to my house that was crawling with Smythe’s soldiers. Ask at the prisons, the hospitals and—I hate to say it—the morgue.”
“Where are we to meet you and when?”
“The Weigh Anchor. No one there knows Pastor Johnstone. He will be extremely glad to see an old childhood friend.”
“How do I send a message to you should I have anything to report?” Alan asked.
“The post office on High Street. Address the letter to ‘Franklin Sloan, to be left until called for.’ I will be checking daily, for that is where Mr. Sloan is sending reports on my family.”
Henry fell silent, his thoughts on his wife and son and baby daughter who were so very far away. He felt guilty for sending them off without him, even though Lady Ann understood that he had his duty to his country. She had her own duty, as well, for she had calmly accepted the fact that she must care for their family while he cared for their nation.
“I am certain they are safe and well, Henry,” said Alan, seeing his friend’s shadowed expression.
“Ann is the queen’s niece,” said Henry. “Smythe will do his best to eliminate all those who might oppose him.”
“Your wife and children are under the protection of Mr. Sloan and the Countess de Marjolaine,” said Alan. “They could not be in better hands.”
“I know,” said Henry. He shook off his despondence. He could not worry about situations over which he had no control. He had to deal with those he could. “And now I must leave you. Pastor Tobias Johnstone has to pay a call on Sir Richard Wallace.”
“What will you say to your brother?” Alan asked, as Henry hooked the wire-rimmed spectacles over his ears.
Henry picked up one of the pocket pistols and stood regarding it thoughtfully.
“Despite Simon’s claims that my brother was duped by Smythe, I believe Richard to be complicit in the death of the queen. I know for a fact that he was responsible for exposing Mr. Sloan and nearly getting him killed. My inclination is to put a bullet in his head.”
“He is your brother, Henry,” said Alan.
Henry frowned at the weapon, then sighed and slipped the small pistol into a secret pocket sewn into the cassock.
“I won’t kill Richard, Alan,” said Henry. “He is my brother and, much as he might deserve to die, I require information that only he can provide.”
“But if you don’t trust him…”
“The fault is mine. I think back to the conversations I had with him over mutton and cabbage in his club,” said Henry. “I deliberately shared information with him, hoping he would use his influence in the House of Nobles to further my own causes. I never dreamed that Richard would be using me to further his own. I did not know my staid and boring elder brother even had a cause.”
Henry shook his head. “If I had been paying attention to him instead of thinking only of myself, I might have picked up on clues he let drop, information he inadvertently revealed. Before the queen’s death, Simon suggested that Richard might be involved with the Faithful. I laughed at the notion, as I recall. I smugly thought I knew him. I was blinded by my own cleverness, and my queen and my country have paid the price.”
Alan rested his hand on Henry’s. “You told me that Queen Mary was very ill. Her Majesty was dying of the same disease that killed her father. His death was dreadful. He was pleading with the healers to end his suffering. I know this is not much comfort, but at least Queen Mary died swiftly, Henry. She did not suffer.”
Henry adjusted the spectacles, pushed them back on his nose, and said, “Richard will not lie to me again.”
With that declaration, he put on the broad-brimmed hat, adjusted his dog collar, and picked up the cane and his Scriptures. He was now ready to greet the world as the humble preacher.
“You know how it is with older brothers, my friend,” Henry said, smiling. “You shot yours.”
“Thank God, I missed!” said Alan. “Good luck, Henry. Randolph and I will wait to hear from you. Be careful in the streets.”
“So long as nobody takes me for a Rosian, I will be fine,” said Henry.
The two shook hands, and Pastor Tobias Johnstone walked out the door, smiling and peering as he made his way out of the house and down the crowded street in search of a cab.
A driver took pity on the pastor, who appeared quite confused and upset by the tumult in the street, and gave him a ride, guiding the horse down the side streets, which were less clogged than the main thoroughfares.
Henry saw the mobs at work throughout the city. The cab passed a group of people hurling paving stones through the window of a shop owned by a Rosian as several men dragged the owner from his store and began beating him. A frantic woman pleaded with them to stop.
His brother, Richard, lived in a staid and boring house located in a well-to-do, staid and boring residential neighborhood on the north side of the city. Henry was glad to note as they drove farther away from the inner city that the mobs were concentrating their wrath there. The unrest and tumult had not yet reached his brother’s neighborhood. But fear had.
The usually quiet neighborhood was bustling with unusual activity, as those fortunate enough to own homes in the country were hurrying to flee the chaos in the city.
Richard owned his own country house, but he rarely visited it. His life was in the city, in the royal court, in the House of Nobles. His wife spent much of her time at the country house, for she disliked the city. Richard would have made certain she was there now.
As Henry’s cab approached the house, he noticed another cab parked a short distance down the block. The cab had no markings and, judging by the horse droppings, it had been there for some time. He could not see who was inside, for the windows were covered.
Yet Henry knew surveillance when he saw it. Open surveillance. Whoever was watching the target wanted his target to know he was being watched.
Henry paid the cab fare, then stood gazing at Richard’s house. The curtains were drawn, the wrought-iron gate shut. The house appeared deserted at first, but then he noted smoke rising from the chimney. Leaning on his cane, he pushed open the gate and hobbled down the path to the front door. He made use of the brass door knocker and then waited.
No one came to the door.
Henry tried the door knocker again, louder and more emphatically.
A voice came from the other side of the door. “Who is there? What do you want?”
“Pastor Tobias Johnstone,” said Henry in a quavering voice. “The new pastor of Gatestown Parish. I come with an urgent message for Sir Richard Wallace.”
The door opened a crack. Richard’s valet, secretary, butler, and servant, Henshaw, peered out.
“What business do you have with Sir Richard?”
“Most distressing business, I fear, sir,” said Henry, pushing his spectacles up on his nose. He fumbled at his cassock. “I regret I do not have a card. I am Tobias Johnstone, the new pastor of the Gatestown Parish. Sir Richard’s estate is located in my parish—”
“I am aware of that, Pastor,” said Henshaw, impatiently. “Come to the point.”
“Yes, of course,” said Henry, fumbling with his cane. “I fear it is my sad duty to inform His Lordship that his lady wife has been taken ill with a fever. The servants did not want to leave her alone in her condition and I offered to bring the message. Is Sir Richard at home?”
Henshaw listened gravely to this news, and opened the door.
“Come inside, Pastor. Sir Richard is at home, although he himself is poorly. I will let him know you are here. How is Lady Susan?”
“The physicians are with her and the servants tell me they are quite hopeful,” said Henry, blinking and bumbling his way into the house. “I keep Her Ladyship in my prayers.”
“I am glad to hear that,” said Henshaw, as he shut and locked the door. “Allow me to take your hat—”
“Thank you,” said Henry in his own voice.
Henshaw gasped and staggered backward a step, startled. He stared first at Henry and then at the pistol in his hand.
“Take me to Richard,” said Henry, aiming the pistol at Henshaw’s breast.
Henshaw swallowed, but he swiftly regained his composure. “As I said, His Lordship is poorly. He is resting and cannot be disturbed.”
Henry frowned. “Which will my brother find more disturbing, Henshaw? Speaking to me or seeing your blood spattered across the wall?”
Henshaw regarded him with loathing. “His Lordship is in his study, sir. I will take you to him.”
He led the way through the silent house with noiseless tread. Henry followed, keeping the pistol aimed at Henshaw’s back.
“A visitor, my lord,” Henshaw said, opening the door.
Richard was asleep in an overstuffed chair. He looked very gray and haggard. One arm was done up in a sling. He woke at the sound of Henshaw’s voice.
“I told you, I am not seeing anyone,” Richard said testily.
Henry shoved Henshaw aside and strode through the door, slamming it against the wall. “By God, you will see me, Richard!”
Henshaw made a swift movement, reaching for something in his pocket. Henry lashed out with his cane, striking Henshaw on the wrist.
Henshaw cried out in pain and clutched at his wounded wrist.
“Remove the pistol, Henshaw,” said Henry, keeping his eyes on his brother. “Slowly. You would not want my pistol to go off accidentally. Good. Now place your weapon on the floor and then go stand by your perfidious master, where I can keep an eye on both of you.”
“I am sorry, Sir Richard,” said Henshaw, crossing the room to stand protectively at his master’s side. “Your brother caught me unawares.”
Richard saw the pistol and heard the anger, and looked into Henry’s eyes. He faintly smiled. “As it happens, I have been expecting you, Henry. I am glad you have come. I need to speak to you—assuming you don’t kill me first.”
Henry was discomfited. Richard had always been fastidious about his appearance, as became a successful businessman and member of the House. He did not emerge from his bedchamber in the morning until he was shaved and his sparse hair neatly brushed, fully dressed in snow-white cravat and snuff-colored jacket with every button buttoned down to the last button on his vest.
Today, he was unshaven. His graying hair straggled about his face. He was still in his nightclothes and dressing gown, his bare feet thrust into slippers. His eyes were red and rheumy. He was only in his fifties, but he seemed suddenly ancient. Yet he regarded Henry quite calmly, facing death with the Wallace family courage.
“God knows I should kill you,” said Henry gruffly. He lowered his pistol and reached down to pick up the pistol Henshaw had relinquished. “God knows you deserve killing. I was the one who found Her Majesty’s body. She lay in a pool of her own blood. Would you like me to further elaborate? Describe the gruesome scene?”
Richard raised his hand to his face as though to deflect the terrible words.
“Stop tormenting him, my lord!” Henshaw said, his face flushed in anger. “Your brother is not well.”
“He is no brother of mine,” said Henry. He paused, then asked, “What is wrong with him?”
Henshaw cast a questioning glance at Richard, who nodded and waved his hand in acquiescence.
Henshaw faced Henry. “His Lordship is suffering from a bullet wound in his shoulder.”
Henry was astonished. “Who the devil shot him?”
“Jonathan Smythe, my lord,” Henshaw replied.
“Ah, the old adage. Thieves fall out. Smythe is not his true name, by the way,” Henry added. “His real name is Crawford. Isaiah Crawford.”
Richard looked at him in bewilderment. Henry, watching closely, realized his surprise was not feigned.
“But why would Colonel Smythe lie about his name?” Richard asked. “I don’t understand.”
Henry drew a chair near to that of his brother’s.
“I will brew some tea,” said Henshaw, starting to sidle out of the room.
“Stay where I can see you, Henshaw,” Henry ordered. “I don’t want you rushing out to summon a constable. Your master needs something stronger than tea. Make yourself useful and pour him a brandy. He is going to need it.”
Henshaw walked noiselessly across the room to the sidebar. He poured the brandy and carried a snifter to his master. Richard drank a little and some color returned to his haggard face. Henshaw took his place behind his chair.
“Colonel Jonathan Smythe is in reality a retired marine named Isaiah Crawford,” said Henry. “He is responsible for the murders of at least four people, including the queen, the noble dragon Lady Odila, and another dragon named Coreg, a criminal mastermind who was in league with Smythe. He attempted to murder Mr. Sloan; after you recognized him and informed on him, the colonel shot him.”
“Oh, God! No!” Richard sank back with a groan. “I am sorry, Henry. When I recognized Mr. Sloan, I thought you were plotting to harm Prince Thomas and I warned Smythe. I had no idea he would try to kill him. Is he all right?”
“Mr. Sloan is recovering or I would have shot you. But never mind about that now. What did you know about the assassination of the queen?” Henry demanded. “Were you and Thomas Stanford aware of the plot? Answer truthfully, Richard, for I will know if you are lying.”
“I did not know, Henry, and neither did Prince Thomas,” Richard said earnestly. “I swear to you on the lives of my wife and children. Smythe assured me that Her Majesty would be confined to a cell in Offdom Tower on the palace grounds until I and other members of the Faithful could speak to her, convince her that it would be in her best interest to renounce the throne in favor of Thomas.”
Richard sighed. “As it happened, our plot was unnecessary. Queen Mary came to meet the prince in the Rose Room the night of her death. She gave His Highness the ring of King James and named him her heir. I was present. I was a witness. I was pleased, though confused. I did not know why she chose to name her heir at that particular time.…”
Henry regarded his brother grimly. “The queen was dying. She had months, perhaps only weeks to live. She did not know how much time she had left. If you only would have waited, there was no need to kill her.”
Richard flinched and sloshed brandy onto his dressing gown. Henshaw gently removed the snifter. Richard did not even seem to notice it was gone.
“I was going to inform the Faithful and that would have put an end to the plot. Again I swear to you, Henry, by all I hold dear, we had no knowledge Smythe intended to assassinate her. We would have been content to know that Her Majesty had named an heir. I need you to believe me. If not, you may as well kill me here and now.”
“As it happens, I do believe you,” said Henry. “Or rather, I believe Simon. Tell me what is going on in the palace. I can only assume Smythe has seized power.”
Richard shook his head; his lips tightened. “The man is the Evil One incarnate! He has made Thomas a prisoner in his own palace. Smythe intends to be the true ruler of Freya. He must be stopped, Henry!”
“Is this Stanford so weak that he allows Smythe to pull his puppet strings?” Henry asked, his lip curling. “Why didn’t he refuse him? Renounce the throne?”
“You do not know Thomas Stanford or you would not accuse him of being weak!” Richard stated, his cheeks flushed. “Smythe is forcing Thomas to do his will. He has imprisoned his dearest friend, Phillip Masterson, in Offdom Tower and threatens his torture and death. He has taken Thomas’s parents hostage and threatens them, also.
“Even then, I think Thomas would have defied him for the sake of the country,” Richard added proudly. “I advised him to appear to go along with Smythe. Or rather, you advised him.”
“I did?” Henry demanded, taken aback.
Richard faintly smiled. “When His Majesty and I had a moment alone together, I told him I would give him the advice you would give him. ‘My brother would tell you to dance at the end of the puppet master’s strings until the day comes when you wrap those strings around his neck and strangle him.’”
Henry regarded his brother a moment in silence. “And here I always thought you never knew me, Richard. What will young Stanford do?”
“I believe he will take my advice,” said Richard. “Rather, your advice. You must save Thomas and our country, Henry. I told His Highness you were the one person who could help him.”
“Smythe sent his soldiers to my house. My wife and children were forced to flee in the night and his troops are searching for me as we speak,” said Henry bitterly. “I will be lucky to save myself, Richard, much less an embattled king. How do you propose I rescue a man who is imprisoned in his own palace?”
“You will find a way. You loved our queen, Henry,” Richard said. “She met with Thomas. As I said, I was present for the interview. The two became immediate friends. She gave him the ring of King James and told him she believed in him. Help Thomas for Her Majesty’s sake.”
Henry thought back to his last conversation with Her Majesty, the final words Queen Mary had ever spoken to him.
You have served us well and faithfully for many years, dear friend. We could not have asked for a more loyal and devoted servant. I ask you as a friend … Be the same devoted servant to your new monarch.
“Why did Smythe shoot you?” Henry asked abruptly.
“I spoke out against him. I tried to stop him.” Richard spoke with quiet dignity. “I may have been a great fool, Henry, but I am not a coward.”
Richard’s eyes now glinted with the fierce Wallace spirit. He sat up straighter and impatiently threw off the blanket.
He risked everything to place Thomas on the throne, Henry reflected. Wealth, title, his very life.
Henry relented. “I will do what I can, but I will need your help, Richard. What is more important, Thomas Stanford needs your help. He needs someone he can trust by his side, not languishing about in a rocking chair. When you are well, you should return to the palace—”
“You cannot be serious, my lord!” Henshaw protested. “Sir Richard dare not go back! That man, Smythe, tried to kill him! He missed the first time, but he will not miss again.”
“On the contrary, Smythe is a crack shot. If he had wanted to kill Richard, he would already be dead,” said Henry coolly. “The bullet was a warning, intimidation. Richard is a leading force in Parliament and Smythe needs the backing of the members. He will be conciliatory toward you. You counseled His Highness to act a part. You must do the same. Fool Smythe, as you fooled me.”
“I am sorry,” said Richard. “I had no choice—”
Henry waved off the apology. “You must be obsequious, fawn and cringe in Smythe’s presence. Do nothing overtly to cross him. Promise to accomplish whatever he asks of the House, but make certain his measures get bogged down in committee,” said Henry dryly.
“I was already planning to do so, Henry,” Richard said. “I suppose one could say that devious minds think alike.”
He started to rise from the chair, but fell back with a gasp of pain, clasping his shoulder.
“I said ‘when you are well,’” said Henry, smiling.
“You should leave now, my lord,” Henshaw stated coldly.
Henry ignored him. He had more questions to ask, information he would need if he and Richard were going to try to help his new young monarch. Then he remembered that Smythe had planted spies outside the house and they would start to grow suspicious if Pastor Johnstone overstayed his welcome.
Henry rose to his feet. Walking over to his brother, he placed his hand on his shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Richard. I will provide Henshaw with information on where you can reach me.”
“Be careful, Henry,” said Richard. “God save our king.”
“God save us all,” said Henry.
As Henshaw escorted him to the door, he asked, “What do the physicians say?”
“His Lordship refused to allow me to call a physician or a healer,” said Henshaw. “He fears they will talk.”
“He is probably right,” said Henry. “I will send a man I trust to treat him. His name is Wilkins. He has removed a bullet or two from me in my time. He knows how to keep his mouth shut.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said Henshaw.
He was still cold, still obviously disapproving. He fetched Henry’s hat and cloak and cane. Henry paused in the entry hall to loop the wire-rimmed spectacles over his ears.
“I did not tell my brother, Henshaw, but you should know that the house is under surveillance. Smythe is having Richard watched.”
Henshaw was shocked. “Sir Richard is a member of the House of Nobles! Smythe would not dare—”
“Smythe dared murder a queen,” said Henry grimly. “Do you trust the household staff?”
“We keep only a cook and a housemaid at present, my lord. I can vouch for their loyalty. The remainder of the staff are with Lady Wallace in the country.”
“Do not admit any stranger into the house. If anyone asks, tell them that Sir Richard is suffering from a heart condition. He is confined to the house, and may not receive visitors.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Henshaw. He handed Henry his broad-brimmed hat.
“Take care of my brother,” said Henry.
“I will do so, my lord,” Henshaw replied.
He opened the door and stood waiting impatiently for Henry to leave.
Henry picked up a card, scribbled down a name and address, and handed it to Henshaw. “If you need to reach me, you can find me at the Weigh Anchor.” He put on his hat and departed.
Pastor Johnstone went tottering down the street, clutching his Scriptures and smiling beneficently on all he met.
Henshaw stood in the doorway, holding the card in his hand. After a moment’s silent deliberation, he tucked the card in his pocket, shut the door, and returned to his master.
He found Richard sitting up in his chair. “I believe I will get dressed, Henshaw. Lay out my clothes.”
“My lord, it is much too soon for you to be up and about!” Henshaw said worriedly. “I will fetch some warm milk.”
“You will do no such thing!” said Richard. “I am not a child in need of a nursemaid. Bring me another brandy.”
Henshaw poured the brandy and placed it at Richard’s hand. “I was about to tell you, my lord, before the arrival of your brother, that we are running low on the ’87 tawny port. I was planning to step around to the wine merchant’s.”
“We can’t have that,” said Richard, smiling. “Yes, go along, Henshaw. When you are back, you can help me dress. Hand me the book I was reading and place the brandy bottle near me.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Henshaw.
He put the brandy bottle within reach and gave Richard the book. He started to withdraw, then paused and turned to address his employer.
“My lord…”
“Yes, what is it, Henshaw?”
“I hope you know, my lord, that your welfare is my paramount concern.” Henshaw spoke with some emotion.
“You have been with me a great many years, Henshaw. You and I have been through a lot together and you have always been most loyal,” said Richard. “I rely on you implicitly. What is this about? Are you angling for a raise in your salary?”
“No, my lord,” said Henshaw, dutifully smiling at the jest. “I should not be away long.”
Richard gave an absent nod and returned to his book and his brandy.
Henshaw put on his hat and coat and departed. Mindful of those watching the house, he left by the servants’ entrance.
His path took him nowhere near the wine merchant’s.