But was it really?
She tried to remember if she’d seen either man, with or without accompanying secretaries, wandering the castle’s hallways or anywhere near the nursery wing. But she couldn’t say that she had. Then again, so much had happened since then to cloud her memory of that day.
“I know that thinking about that day is unsettling to you, Mama. But here’s my question: if you were to consider someone in our midst who might turn on us from within, could you offer up any candidates?”
Her mother’s jowls trembled and tiny porcine eyes sparked with displeasure. “God help us, Louise, how can you even suggest such a thing? Of course no one in our service, or in the court, wishes us ill.”
“I would like to think so as well,” Louise said carefully. “But the fact remains, someone did smuggle those rats into the castle. And, according to Mr. Byrne, the spy, intruder, or whatever you wish to call this person, also seems to be feeding information to the Fenians about our daily routine and travel schedules, making it easier for them to plot further assaults.”
“He’s said as much to me.” Victoria pursed her lips in displeasure.
“Dear lady, if you will allow me.” Disraeli spoke to his queen but flashed a conspiratorial gaze toward Louise. “Princess Louise is right, as is your agent. Concern for your security outweighs your loyalty to those around you. No one should stand above suspicion.”
Victoria shook her head in denial but didn’t interrupt.
Disraeli continued. “I myself have many enemies.”
“I cannot believe anyone would harm you, Dizzy.”
Louise rolled her eyes. Oh, Mama.
“Of course they would, for a purpose. One must be ever vigilant.” Disraeli sighed. “Thus your report from Mr. Byrne makes perfect sense.”
“Report? What report?” Louise said.
Disraeli reached over and patted her hand. “Violence between men is nothing new, Your Royal Highness. We have merely refined our weapons over the years.” He turned back to Victoria. “I’m grateful to Mr. Byrne for his acute eye and for warning me to take precautions.” He pointed to a copy of the Times that lay on the table beneath the tea service, then slid it out from under the heavy silver tray and handed it to Louise.
The page to which it was opened showed photographs of two men. They looked as if they’d been taken for government identification. The headline read: BOTH MURDER VICTIMS MINOR SECRETARIES TO THE MINISTRY OF FINANCE.
Louise stared at the faces of the two men. Only after a moment did she look up at the former PM with understanding. “You and this one gentleman are not unlike in certain respects.”
“Yes,” Disraeli said, “that’s what Mr. Byrne has pointed out. He believes it was my life the attackers intended to take—and these poor men were innocents. He also told your mother that my death would have served the Fenians well. The man has a way with words.” He shook his head. “Ice water runs through his veins, I’m sure.”
Louise covered her mouth with one hand, hiding her smile. Not always.
“Enough of this talk of assassins.” Victoria waved a hand in dismissal. “They’re hooligans, all of them—out to cause mayhem to no purpose. Louise, you said you came to discuss our rats? I can think of no less delightful topic.”
“Yes, I did.” Louise ignored her mother’s chiding glare. This had better be worth my time, the queen’s eyes warned. “I’ve been thinking. Mr. Brown and your guardsmen assure us that no deliveries were made the morning the rats appeared. And all visitors were accounted for—those, at the time, being Mr. Disraeli, Mr. Gladstone, and their secretaries. And the rats could not have been in Bea’s room for long without being discovered.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Disraeli agreed. “Have the staff as well as gentlemen and ladies of the court been questioned?”
“They have. To no good result.” Louise paused. “I believe, therefore, that the person to blame is someone not presently among us. Some person or persons who at one time deserved our trust but now harbors a violent grudge, and has become allied with the Fenians for the purpose of revenge.”
Her mother blanched to nearly the whiteness of her lace collar but said nothing.
“You know someone who fits that description. Don’t you, Mama?”
Victoria’s eyes met hers and slowly widened. Louise watched her mother’s fear transform into revulsion. “The baron,” she whispered.
Louise shuddered at the mention of the man. There were, of course, many who owned that title, throughout England and the Continent. But she had no doubt who her mother meant.
“Baron Stockmar,” Louise said to Disraeli’s questioning look. She turned back to her mother. “He’s dead, though, isn’t he?”
The queen broke into a smile and actually cackled her pleasure. “He hates me so much, maybe he’s come back from the grave to haunt us.”
Louise chewed her bottom lip. Yes, she thought, if such a thing were possible, she had no doubt Stockmar would do it. The question remained—how?
Thirty-five
Rupert stood on the splintery dock inches above the fetid flow of slime called the Thames River. He listened to what the Lieutenant was saying, but used the time to get a better look at him. The man’s cap brim hid the upper half of his features. A thin slash of lips interrupted a beardless jaw. His chin jutted forward in a way that made him look as if he was always leaning forward, on the verge of striding out, even when he was standing still. He spoke with the slightest of accents—an Irish lilt mixed with something else. Northern European? Napoleon III had just lost the Franco-Prussian War. Maybe he was a defeated soldier like them?
It didn’t really matter. Rupert was used to taking orders as long as there was a strong man at the helm. He didn’t even blame the Lieutenant for speaking harshly to him and Will after it became clear they’d killed the wrong men in the park. Will had worried the Fenians would send him and Rupert packing without so much as a penny for a pie. Or worse, shoot them and dump their bodies in the river, no one the wiser.
But he also knew that one good black powder man was worth a battalion of foot soldiers. So he wasn’t surprised when the Lieutenant kept them on despite their mistake.
“Arrangements have been made for the two boats you requested,” the man was saying. “A skiff and a steamer.” He glanced down at Rupert’s right hand. “You say you can manage both vessels between the two of you?”
Rupert stuffed his injured hand in his pocket and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The first vessel, a sturdy, flat-bottomed rowing boat, would be loaded with powder and primer and, after he and Will worked their magic, become their bomb. The larger steam-powered ship was a retired ferry, just twenty feet long and a rusty junker, but with a solid working engine. Like the other boat, it would blend in with the commercial craft clogging the river. Neither boat would attract attention from the queen’s security detail.
“Yes, sir. Will here, he ran a steamboat afore the war, on the Missouri.”
“Excellent. Let’s be clear, gentlemen. I need that center span destroyed and the queen’s coach isolated from the forward escort, so that my men can move in and make the snatch.”
Rupert imagined the violent clash of the two forces on Vauxhall Bridge above them. The queen’s Hussars would fight to the death to protect her. “Our boys’ll have to come in from the rear and overcome the following guard,” he pointed out.
A smile creased the officer’s cheeks. “All we need is the advantage of surprise and half the queen’s men out of action. John Brown out of commission, or dead, would be the best possible outcome.”