“Very good, sir,” the one nearest to him said. “We’ll take you in.”
Bainbridge fell into step with the soldiers as they marched across the palace forecourt. Whatever had gone on here, the Queen was evidently taking it very seriously indeed. This was no small matter of a thief trying his luck. Bainbridge could tell he was going to be here for a while.
Around them even more of the red-coated guardsmen-an army of them-were milling about, taking up position around the perimeter of the building. It was clear the Queen had already taken measures to increase security on the grounds. Bainbridge wouldn’t have been surprised if there were more on the way. An attempt on her life, the fact that someone had managed to get so close to her: Bainbridge knew that heads were going to roll. Whoever had been responsible for the security detail that morning was going to find himself on the sharp end of the Queen’s wrath.
Bainbridge looked up at the mighty edifice of the palace as they passed beneath the pillared portico. The curtains were all drawn as usual, blotting out the sunlight and keeping prying eyes at bay. He realised with a smile that this was probably the first time he had entered the building through the main entrance, rather than the more discreet doorway around the back that was the mainstay of all Her Majesty’s agents.
He kept his eyes peeled, looking for any clues as to what might have occurred there that morning. He had interrogated Brown on the journey over but the boy had known nothing of any consequence. It had soon become clear that any briefing was going to be delivered by Her Majesty herself. Nevertheless, Bainbridge liked to be prepared, and it wouldn’t do to go before the monarch without at least a few observations and questions at the ready.
The six guardsmen came to a halt in a line before the doorway, stock-still, their rifles tucked beneath their arms. They turned towards him as he passed them one by one, heading towards the gaping mouth of the palace and the uncertainty that lay within. He hesitated on the threshold. “My thanks,” he said to the uniformed men before ducking quickly inside.
The grand hallway on the other side of the door was cavernous and austere, like something lifted out of another era and dropped into place, right there in 1902. Bainbridge had no idea where to go. His only experience of the palace was in the secret tunnels and passageways that led him directly from the agent’s entrance all the way through to the audience chamber.
He glanced around and was thankful to see Sandford, the agent’s butler, waiting for him in the shadows of the immense staircase. “Sandford! Thank goodness. Can you tell me what the devil is going on?”
Sandford came forward to meet him. “Morning, Sir Charles. I imagine I know only as much as you. Somehow, someone got into the palace and made an attempt on Her Majesty’s life. I understand she is quite well and that the palace has been fully secured.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “-but I believe she is determined to root out the incompetent responsible for the breach in security and have his head from his shoulders.”
Bainbridge grinned. “I find myself unsurprised by your words, Sandford. Any more?”
“No, sir,” the aged butler replied. “I’m afraid that’s as much as I know.”
“Very well.” Bainbridge removed his overcoat and handed it to the other man. “Can you take me to her?”
Sandford smiled. “Yes. She’s waiting.”
Bainbridge sighed, but kept his thoughts to himself. She was always waiting, he reflected, like the spider at the centre of a vast and intricate web.
He followed Sandford around behind the staircase, past rows of looming portraits and biblical scenes that adorned the walls. There, in a hidden recess, Sandford opened a door and ushered Bainbridge down a labyrinthine passageway in which seemingly innumerable doors led off into unseen and mysterious rooms elsewhere in the palace. They wound their way deeper into the bowels of the great house until, after a minute or so, Sandford stopped outside another unremarkable door and rapped loudly on the wooden panel.
There was no response. Sandford waited a moment longer and then pushed the door open, holding it for Bainbridge and gesturing for him to enter.
Bainbridge stepped into the audience chamber beyond, unable to contain his feelings of apprehension.
“You took your time, Sir Charles.” The Queen’s shrill, disembodied voice echoed around the murky darkness of the room. How did she do that? How could she see him in this perpetual half light she lived in? He didn’t know whether the lack of lighting was a result of her medical situation, or had more to do with the maintenance of her mystique: the enduring myth of the Queen, the enigmatic Empress. She had fostered that persona since the day that Dr. Fabian had installed her in the life-giving chair-unable, she said, to be seen or even portrayed in public in such a frail condition. Instead, she presented herself as the unknowable monarch, the omnipotent ruler at the heart of the British Empire, the all-powerful Queen.
Bainbridge had to hand it to her: she believed it, too. He wondered if she ever had the lights on when she wasn’t receiving visitors. He supposed he’d never know. He addressed the gloom, not knowing in which direction to face. “My apologies, Your Majesty. I was attending to a matter at the morgue, with Newbury.”
He heard her give a wet, rasping chuckle. “Ah, Newbury. So you managed to drag his carcass out of the opium dens.”
Bainbridge swallowed. So she knew. He thought he’d managed to keep that from her. “Yes… well… I needed his assistance with a particularly baffling case.”
Victoria laughed again. “Yes, we know all about your case, Sir Charles. The two identical bodies, the dead man committing crimes. No wonder you need Newbury’s assistance.”
Bainbridge moved towards the sound of her voice, trying to identify her location in the shadows. Victoria, wise to his movements, fell suddenly silent. Then, a second or two later, a light blinked on like a brilliant beacon in the darkness: the shutters of a paraffin lantern being opened.
Victoria was there, encapsulated in the warm globe of light cast out by the lantern. To Bainbridge, it looked as if she were somehow contained within a bubble, floating in an unfathomable ocean of black. And there was something else, too: another person, sitting in a wooden chair opposite her. He hesitated.
“Come forward, Sir Charles.”
He did as he was commanded. As he drew closer, the situation became suddenly clear. The man in the chair opposite the Queen was slumped in a death pose, the shaft of a steel bolt protruding rudely from his chest. His head was hanging loosely to one side, slack-jawed. He had been about thirty years of age, dark haired, smartly dressed in a navy blue suit. His flesh looked tanned and healthy in the orange glow of the lantern.
She looked up at Bainbridge, a wicked grin on her face. He could hear the preservative machines labouring as they fought to keep her alive.
“What happened, Your Majesty?” he said, leaning heavily on his cane.
“This man, this boy, found his way into our audience chamber uninvited. An attempt was made on our life. He tried to tamper with Dr. Fabian’s machines, to disconnect the hose that feeds our body its breath.” Victoria emitted a racking cough, and she spasmed momentarily before returning to normal. All the while, the machine continued to hiss and groan, her chest rising and falling in time with the bellows that operated her breathing.
“My god…,” said Bainbridge.
Victoria laughed. “Your concern does you credit, Sir Charles. But do not think for a moment that our confinement in this contraption is an indication of our weakness. We are quite capable of protecting ourself.”