O’Malley said, “I heard the fella has an eye for the ladies.” He took a sip, watching the barman over the rim.

  “News to me, and I’ve heard my share of bragging. But you know how it is, Sarge.” He held a glass under the spigot at a forty-five-degree angle, curled his fingers around the tap handle, and winked. “The bigger the talk, the smaller the tackle.”

  He pulled the handle, poured a perfect pint, and delivered it to a patron. Then he returned to O’Malley and mopped the bar top.

  “I’ll tell you one thing about Sir Lionel. He’ll stand his juniors a pint from time to time.” The barman leaned in, his elbow resting on the polished oak. “Not like some of these grand panjandrums who swan around Whitehall with poles up their arses.”

  On Friday, Julia’s clinic treated more than the average number of daily injuries. Tired workers grew inattentive as a week of exhausting manual labor wore on. By three o’clock, Julia had set two broken bones and a half-dozen gashes deep enough to require stitches. But by the middle of the afternoon, an ebb in the flow of the sick and injured gave Julia time to think.

  She glanced at the wall clock, thinking, He’s nearly at the south coast by now. Again, Julia wondered about their awkward conversation. “What’s the matter with me, anyway?” she muttered.

  Julia drained her teacup and carried it to the trolley in the hallway, stopping at the open door to the women’s ward. Kate was there, sitting with a patient. Nurse Clemmie joined Julia, looking over her shoulder. “She has a way with the patients, that girl.”

  “She does indeed.”

  “You’re giving evidence at the Leary inquest tomorrow morning. A shame on your free Saturday.”

  “It won’t take long. A jagged, fatal wound from a broken bottle won’t be hard to explain to the coroner’s jury. I haven’t heard of an arrest, so ‘by person or persons unknown’ most likely.”

  Julia returned her attention to Kate. She’d been coming in two afternoons a week, and Mrs. Donohue, the patient in bed two, had her attention. The lady had merry eyes, blue and bright. In late middle age, her complexion resembled pink-and-cream porcelain with fine lines around her eyes and mouth like the crackles in an old teacup.

  “’Tis lucky we were in Black ’forty-seven,” Mrs. Donohue said in a light Irish brogue. “Our family survived the famine. We had helpful relatives in Cork who worked the hop fields in England each September.”

  “I’m knowing many who did the same,” Kate said.

  “My cousins had saved a little money, so we took the steamer to Bristol and ended up in Kent. Lovely, golden days they were, and not so different from the fields of Kildare.”

  Kate then shared a childhood story that Julia knew well. After her parents died, she lived with a great-aunt, a retired housekeeper for a well-to-do Dublin family.

  “Auntie was a fast learner,” Kate said. “She worked her way up and taught me what she knew.”

  “Ah, I’m seeing her, now,” Mrs. Donohue said. “An téarma cuirtín lása.”

  “You’re right about that.” Kate laughed. “Lace-curtain Irish, she was, and proud of the label. She found me my first job in service, and after she passed, I left Ireland for London. An agency placed me with the doctor’s family.”

  “Our lucky day,” Julia called from the door.

  “Luck and the Fates …” Mrs. Donohue yawned, her lids drooping. “I might have ended up a wren on the Curragh like the poor Murphy girls, but for my cousins from Cork.”

  Kate adjusted the patient’s blanket and carried away her teacup.

  Julia stopped Kate in the hall. “What did Mrs. Donohue mean by a wren on the Curragh?”

  “They’re the poor creatures who live like birds in the hedges around the Curragh. The British army camp on the great plain. The ‘wrens of the Curragh,’ people are calling them.” Kate looked at the doctor. “Serving the soldiers, if you’ll be taking my meaning.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “They’re much despised, but I’ll not be throwing stones like many who’ve landed on a comfortable perch.”

  “Speaking of perches, back on the Isle of Wight, were you surprised that Lizzy Dowling found service in the queen’s house hold?”

  “Was she a kitchen skivvy?”

  “No. Lady Styles told me she was a parlor maid who sometimes assisted Princess Louise as a lady’s maid.”

  “Then I’m surprised at that. ’Tis hard enough for an Irish lass to find work in a respectable house, never mind the highest in the land.”

  “I thought the same thing.”

  “I don’t know Lizzie’s history, but a girl who grows up in a country cottage? She doesn’t know the dainty ways of the English.”

  Kate wheeled the tea trolley back to the kitchen, and Julia returned to her office, thinking. What was Lizzie’s journey? There must be a story there.

  She also wondered if Tennant realized how unusual the girl’s employment had been. Lizzie Dowling had traveled a great distance, measured not merely in miles. How had a young Irish girl ended up in the queen’s household and serving a princess? It was something of a mystery.

  Might the tragedy’s roots be in Ireland?

  CHAPTER 7

  At ten minutes to seven, Tennant and Dermott arrived at the entry hall of Osborne House. Sir Lionel waved away a footman’s offer to take their overcoats.

  “Hold on to it,” Dermott said. “The queen likes to keep the temperature a degree or two colder than Siberia.”

  When the footman was out of earshot, Tennant said, “That servant had a black armband on his sleeve. Has there been a death in the royal family?”

  “My dear inspector, what a question! The armband is for Prince Albert, of course. It’s a mere six years since the queen’s widowhood commenced.”

  “Formal mourning after all this time? Extraordinary.”

  “The rituals are followed meticulously, especially here. Albert designed Osborne, a German prince’s notion of an Italian villa.”

  They turned right into a long hallway and left into an audience room. They’d barely arrived when a booming voice echoed from the corridor. Tennant looked at Dermott.

  “Prepare yourself for two extraordinary sights,” Sir Lionel murmured. “Your Sovereign and the ‘Queen’s Highland Servant.’ That’s John Brown’s official title. Princess Louise calls him ‘that absurd man in a kilt.’”

  A towering, broad-chested man of about forty entered with the queen. In her fifth decade, Her Majesty was nearly as wide as she was tall, but Brown dwarfed the diminutive Victoria. His calf muscles bulged beneath his tartan kilt, and a skene-dhu, the silver-handled knife he’d tucked in a scabbard, glinted in the cuff of his right knee sock. Brown’s gray tweed jacket and waistcoat strained across his barrel chest. Ginger strands threaded his grizzled gray hair, the red more prominent in the beard that fringed his chin from ear to ear.

  The queen wore widow’s black from chin to toe, and when she sat and spread her skirts, she resembled a short, squat mound of coal. Only a touch of creamy lace at her wrists and neckline and a white widow’s cap relieved the depressing effect of yards of black taffeta. While Tennant rejoiced that he’d kept his coat, the room wasn’t cool enough for the queen. She fanned her pink face furiously, and a faint shine on her forehead and cheeks glowed in the lamplight.

  A second gentleman, gray and stooping, with receding grizzled hair and a drooping walrus mustache, followed the pair into the room. Brown seated the queen, and the second man approached to shake hands with Sir Lionel.

  “General, this is Detective Inspector Richard Tennant,” Dermott said. “General Charles Grey, the queen’s private secretary.”

  The general shook the inspector’s hand. He returned to the queen and bent, murmuring in her ear.

  Victoria inclined her head. “Pray, let Inspector Tennant approach and present his report to the queen.” Her voice was a surprise: high, light, and pleasantly musical, making her sound younger than a woman in her middle years. German had been the language of her mother and governess, and traces lingered in the queen’s speech.

  Tennant summarized the facts as he knew them. He explained that the sisters’ deaths suggested—but did not clarify—a link between the killings. “If Your Majesty has any questions, I will endeavor to answer them.”

  At that point, Tennant thought she’d press him about his suppositions. Instead, she said, “The queen assures you of the household’s fullest cooperation. General Grey will assist you in every way possible.”

  Tennant thought, I came all this way for that? He said, “For his part, Sir Richard Mayne assures me I will have all the Yard’s resources I need, Your Majesty.”

  “The queen is satisfied.” Victoria looked from Tennant to Dermott. “As to this deployment of soldiers. Sir Lionel, you may tell Mister Gathorne-Hardy that we have gone down this road. At Balmoral, it came to nothing.”

  “Your Majesty, rest assured that the Home Office is—”

  She raised her hand. “We have little confidence that this so-called threat is—”

  A rumbling Scots bass filled the room. “Woman, will ye not listen to the man?”

  Dermott and General Grey didn’t blink; only Tennant was startled by Brown’s interruption.

  “Yer daft to ignore the danger to yerself.”

  Victoria smiled. “My loyal Brown is always solicitous of his queen’s safety.”

  “Aye, so take heed. Now come, woman, or ye’ll be late dressing for dinner.”

  The Scotsman offered the queen his arm. Sir Lionel and the inspector bowed to Victoria as she exited.

  On his way out, General Grey fished in his pocket and handed Dermott a key. “To Osborne Cottage. Make yourselves at home.” He followed the queen and her Highland Servant out the door.

  Tennant said, “The general looks worn down by his duties.”

  “He’s aged since Prince Albert’s death,” Dermott said. “And dealing with the impossible Brown is exhausting.”

  “Does the fellow always speak to Her Majesty like that?”

  “Yes.” Dermott flipped the key and pocketed it in his waistcoat. “Makes one wonder what other liberties are permitted. The ‘Queen’s Stallion’ is the nickname whispered among the servants.”

  “Surely not.”

  “I agree. But the court has grown terribly dull since Albert’s death. Long faces and everyone draped in black. On and on for years and years. People need something to amuse them.”

  Dermott behaved as if the world were an elaborate joke organized for his enjoyment. But the man was so droll that the inspector couldn’t help liking him. He would guard against it. Married or not, some men saw servants as easy prey, and Sir Lionel was on the Isle of Wight during the months in question.

  Their last stop was the stables, temporary quarters for the Scots Fusiliers sent to guard the queen. The major in command was out on an inspection, but a young lieutenant explained the deployment of forces.

  The officer had just begun his recital when a soldier interrupted, saluting smartly. “Telegram for Inspector Tennant, sir.” He handed over the message.

  “Thank you, Private.” Tennant opened it.

  “Developments?” Dermott said.

  “From my sergeant, Patrick O’Malley.”

  “An able chap to leave in charge?”

  “He’s a first-rate copper.” Tennant folded the message and pocketed it. “O’Malley adds a name to our list of suspects.”

  “Ah … the plot thickens,” Dermott said. “All right, Lieutenant, carry on with your report.”

  “We’re operating on eight-hour shifts,” the officer said. He cocked his thumb at the ceiling. “A third of the company is asleep in the hayloft. Another patrols the grounds around the house and the gates, and the rest guard the pier and roads leading to Osborne. They’re stopping carts and carriages traveling from East Cowes and Whippingham.”

  “I’d send soldiers into the towns, as well,” Dermott said. “Tell them to keep a sharp eye out for men wearing square-toed boots. If they answer in an Irish or American accent, bring them in for questioning.”

  It was a short hike from the stables to Osborne Cottage, General Grey’s grace-and-favor house on the edge of the estate. On the way, they passed the Scots Fusiliers guarding the main gate with torches blazing.

  Dermott said, “Lit up like a Christmas tree.”

  “The lengthy perimeter of Osborne Park is mostly in darkness.”

  Dermott walked on. “That’s the cottage ahead of us. Now, about those square-toed boots they spotted on the chap in Lyon …”

  “You read Colonel Chabert’s report.”

  Dermott said, “Such boots were standard issue in the American Civil War, and they’ve turned up on a surprising number of Irish American ‘patriots’ arrested by the police in Ireland.”

  “They should share that intelligence with the Yard.”

  “Oh, they have, old man, they have. But as one Irish copper told me, ‘a Dublin policeman is only a policeman from Dublin.’ Typical English contempt for the Irish.”

  “Idiotic, given their success against the brotherhood,” Tennant said. “The failure of the spring rising in Kerry and Dublin was thanks to Irish police intelligence. I understand they infiltrated IRB ranks at the highest levels.”

  “Contempt is a contagion on this side of the Irish Sea.” Dermott looked up at the sky. “Moon’s waxing. Lovely evening for an invasion.”

  “I thought you were skeptical about the threat, like the queen.”

  “Oh, I am, I am.” Sir Lionel opened the gate and bowed Tennant through. “But did you know that over a hundred thousand Irishmen fought in the American Civil War?”

  “That’s a lot of battle-hardened men in square-toed boots,” the inspector said, heading up the path.

  “Nail on the head, old bean.” Dermott clapped Tennant’s shoulder. “And most of those boot-wearing Irishmen hate our guts.”

  In London the following morning, Julia threaded through a muttering crowd, most with grievances etched into their Celtic faces. Hopeful men and women, once, Julia thought, who’d fixed their gaze on England as they crossed the Irish Sea. Their anger hummed like a hornet’s nest.

  When a constable opened the door of the King’s Arms public house, a wave of stale ale and tobacco stung her eyes. The local coroner had rented the pub’s back room for the inquest, a common practice in London’s East End, where nearly every corner had a public house. Publicans earned a few extra pounds on mornings when drinkers were few. Julia was there to give medical evidence in the death of the Irish warehouseman, Kevin Leary.

  She looked around and spotted a seat in the second row. A man with a reporter’s pad stood and shifted to make space for her on the aisle. The room was nearly full when six men from the hostile crowd entered and took the last seats in the back.

  The coroner called Constable Tilden to the stand. He testified that he found Leary alone and face down on the pavement outside the Prince of Hesse public house. The assailants had fled, leaving a barkeep and one customer to carry him away for medical aid. Neither man had witnessed the fight that led to Leary’s death.

  The coroner asked, “Are the men giving evidence this morning?”

  “No, sir, as they had nothing to add.”

  Then Inspector Slack from Scotland Yard took the stand. He testified that, despite a diligent canvass of the neighborhood, no witnesses came forward.

  Julia was the last to give evidence. When the coroner’s assistant called her name and she stood, the dozy reporter at her side sat up and blinked. Whispers and a short bark of laughter followed her across the room. She spotted Chief Inspector Clark, Tennant’s superior in the detective department, standing in the rear with Inspector Slack.

  Leary’s death was straightforward, Julia testified. Massive blood loss resulted from a broken whisky bottle thrust into his abdomen. She’d extracted pieces from the wound.

  The coroner asked if she had anything else to add.

  “Yes. In my hearing, the two men who carried Mr. Leary into my clinic spoke of threats they overheard uttered by men in the pub. Threats directed at the deceased.”

  The six Irishmen at the back leaped from their seats and pushed out the door. The reporter scribbled furiously. With the proceedings over, a scowling Chief Inspector Clark turned on his heels and exited, followed by Slack. Julia stood at the door, waiting for the coroner to finish his business with the publican. Shouts and catcalls greeted Clark and Slack as they made their way through an angry gauntlet.

  The coroner, a balding, precise little man with steel-rimmed spectacles and a thin mustache, counted out the medical examiner’s standard fee: two pounds, two shillings. He handed her the coins, saying, “Well, Doctor Lewis, you certainly put the cat among the pigeons.”

  “That hearing was a travesty,” Julia said.

  “Slack should be sacked. Still, he has his uses.”

  “Meaning?”

  The coroner pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “He’s probably the Yard’s least energetic officer. Call him in if you don’t want answers.”

  “Slack is aptly named.”

  “The East End has little sympathy for an Irish victim. Slack will box up the evidence and stick it on a shelf.”

  “Then they’ll have an Irish tinderbox on their hands,” Julia said, pocketing her fee.

  The same morning on the Isle of Wight, Inspector Tennant sought answers at Osborne House, holding interviews in the office of the queen’s private secretary. O’Malley’s telegram added Stanley Hackett to the inspector’s list of promising suspects, and the prince’s valet was the morning’s first interview.

  Hackett arrived promptly, wearing a charcoal cut-away coat that showed off a royal blue, diamond-patterned waistcoat. Tennant judged him to be in his middle thirties and more expensively suited than the typical manservant. Full muttonchop side whiskers and a fringe beard didn’t altogether hide a receding chin. The valet’s restless fingers fiddled with the knot in his tie. The bump in Hackett’s throat jumped like a jack-in-the-box when Tennant asked him about his movements on the day Lizzie Dowling was murdered.