“Yes, her entire family in fact.”
“What may I do to help? Is there another plot brewing?” He sighed. “I expect you wouldn’t be here if the rat prank were the only threat.”
“True. I believe it’s possible that Rhodes is a Fenian officer who has been orchestrating recent bombings and may have plans to kidnap one of the royal family, as a means for pressing Ireland’s case for separation from England.”
“I see.”
“I need Mr. Rhodes’s home address. It’s urgent that we find him. If we can capture and question him, we may be able to avoid a terrible tragedy. At the very least, if I’m right about his involvement, we will have removed one of the most active Fenian officers from the conflict and get the names of others from him.”
Gladstone was on his feet and rushing to an outer office where a small secretary’s desk, bare except for blotter and inkwell, stood beside the door. Byrne followed and watched as he drew out a notebook—addresses—and flipped through it.
“No, not here.” Gladstone gave him a frustrated look.
“He wouldn’t need to keep track of his own address.”
“Yes, of course.” The PM raced back to his own office and unlocked another file drawer, from which he pulled a thin folder. “Interviews for the position of my secretary. Here it is.” He copied the address quickly on a clean sheet of paper. “I needed an address to get back to the man if I decided to hire him. Would that I had chosen more wisely. It’s more than a year old, but maybe it will help, even if it’s not current.”
“Thank you, sir.” Byrne took it from him.
“Please know, and reassure the queen and Mr. Disraeli, that I had nothing to do with this man’s schemes.”
“I will tell her.” Byrne turned to leave.
“Sir,” Gladstone called out, “do you know his next move?”
“No, sadly.”
Gladstone thought for a moment. “The queen’s Accession Day parade and ceremony, June twentieth. If the Fenians wish to make a grand statement against the monarchy—that will be the time.”
Byrne mentally whacked himself upside the head. Had he been more familiar with the country and its customs, it would have occurred to him immediately. Here they were, just days away from the ceremony. “The usual precautions are being taken for security along the parade route and at the church,” he said.
“I’m sure they are. But are they enough?”
“If we have the men, I’d like to see the church thoroughly searched, top to bottom, the day before the ceremony then kept clear. All those attending can be screened as they enter.”
“I’ll see that you have as many men as you need,” Gladstone said. “We’ll bring in constables from the countryside if necessary. Meanwhile, I hope you’ll find Rhodes at that address.”
Byrne nodded. He held out little hope. If Philip Rhodes was the mind behind recent deadly attacks, he would have gone underground by now. But what Byrne did hope for was evidence and, if he was very lucky, a clue to where and how the next attack would be staged.
Forty-five
John Brown took the note from the runner. Having made his delivery, the crossing sweeper, who couldn’t have been more than eight years old, held out his grimy little hand in a bold manner. Brown grunted his irritation and pressed a shilling into the lad’s palm.
“Off with you now,” he grumbled, stepping back inside the palace gate where he’d been summoned by the sentry.
There was no envelope, just a torn quarter sheet dirty as barnyard muck from the boy’s grip, but he recognized Byrne’s spiky hand. He stopped walking as soon as the meaning of the two brief but chilling sentences grasped him:
Accession Day plot by Fenians. Tell Her she must postpone ceremony.
Her. Victoria, of course.
Brown thrust a hand through the wiry tufts of hair at his crown and curled his lip. He had vowed to protect Victoria Regina with his life, and by God he’d do it. But Byrne must think him a miracle worker if he believed him capable of convincing the woman to not venture out on the anniversary of her taking up the crown. He went off anyway, to try.
John Brown found the queen not in her office but with Beatrice, Louise, and Arthur in the palace’s Blue Salon. “I would speak with you in private, woman,” he said.
Arthur slanted him his usual disapproving look. Beatrice pretended she was too engrossed in sorting her playing cards to notice him at all. Louise looked up at him mildly and smiled.
Victoria raised her brows and tilted her head toward him in question. He knew he sounded like a man giving his wife an order, a tone the queen tolerated from no one but him. Sometimes she even seemed to enjoy when he spoke so intimately to her. In front of others, though, he usually took care to address her with formal deference.
“She is not a woman,” Arthur said. “She is Your Royal Majesty to you, sir.”
Victoria waved her youngest son to silence. “Can’t you see we are engaged in a game of whist? Let it wait awhile, John.”
He looked down at the note, considering just handing it to her. Lately she seemed to place more trust in Byrne’s advice than in his, at least when it came to matters of security. At first, he’d resented the Yank’s influence over her, as he would any man’s. But if Byrne’s efforts made her safer, he was for it.
He held the scrap out to her.
“And what’s this?” Without laying down her cards to take the note from him she let her eyes drift over the smudged words. “What sort of nonsense is this? A plot? On my anniversary?”
“They wouldn’t dare,” Arthur scoffed.
“I expect they would,” Louise said, and Brown thanked God there was one level head in the family.
Victoria started to set down her cards then seemed to change her mind. She played one card, watched as Arthur, Beatrice, then Louise played in turn. She took the trick with a satisfied smile.
He tried again. “Mr. Byrne and I strongly advise canceling, or at least postponing the ceremony.”
The queen huffed at her remaining cards. “I can’t do that. There have been so many complaints about my seclusion since dear Albert’s death. Bertie says I really must appear in my coronation coach in our parade to the church. I have been too long a recluse. The nation must see their queen.”
“Mama,” Louise said, “please listen to Mr. Brown. If Mr. Byrne has uncovered another plot, remaining here in Buckingham or removing to Osborne House might be far wiser.”
“And do you believe we are secure here?” Victoria snapped, glaring at her daughter. “Have you so soon forgot the rats? For weeks you’ve all tried to convince me that we have enemies within. I tell you, I feel safer among the street people these days.”
“Please be reasonable, ma’am,” Brown pleaded.
“Am I to be a prisoner in my own home?” Victoria shouted. She slapped her cards down on the table. “No. I cannot disappoint my subjects any longer. They complain bitterly of my absence, so I shall show myself. A monarch must set an example, so says Mr. Gladstone. She must be strong. Accession Day will come as planned.”
Louise shook her head and gave Brown a sympathetic look. He noticed the princess didn’t look half as cheerful as last time he’d seen her. All the light seemed to have drained from her bonnie eyes. Another spat with her mother? Or was something else behind her melancholy?
“Mama,” Louise said, “at least eliminate the parade. Let your guardsmen convey you to the church in a less visible way.”
“She’s right. It’s the ceremony that counts,” Bea added, barely above a meek whisper.
Victoria laughed. “Have you not heard what I’ve just said, all of you? My subjects wish to see their queen. They have a right.” Her eyes shrank to dangerous pinpoints as she glared up at Brown, and then he knew the cause was lost. “As we haven’t room for all of London in the damn church, John, I must show myself along the way there and back.”