“Is he dead?” I asked.
“No, but half an inch to the right and he would have been. I’ll wager you’ve cracked his skull.”
I focused on O’Casey, who also lay flat on his back on the other side of the room. I wondered if he was alive also, but after a moment, he raised a knee and moaned.
“Get to work, lad,” Barker said. “Let us finish disarming these last few bombs.”
There was a tramping of feet in the hall, and the doorway was suddenly full, as Inspector Poole and Special Irish Branch Inspector Munro attempted to push in at once.
“Good lord!” Munro cried, when he saw us among the rows of bombs spread out along the room. “Was this it, your wonderful plan, to hand over a few dozen bombs and then fight them for it? It’s a wonder the town is still standing!”
“We’ve got Dunleavy and the faction boys under arrest, Barker,” Poole said, “along with half the Harp.”
“Are all of the faction members accounted for?” Barker asked.
“Yes. We’ve got Dunleavy and the Bannons, and here are the last two. That’s the lot.”
“What about Garrity?” Barker demanded.
“Niall Garrity?” Poole asked. “What about him? He’s in Paris.”
“He is here!” my employer bellowed. “He took two bombs. I thought you had this building surrounded.”
“We did!” Poole leaned back into the hallway and bawled out to a constable. “There’s a suspect hiding in the building, blond hair, mustache. His name is Garrity. Find him.”
“He is probably long gone,” Munro said with glee. “You’ve blown this one, Barker. You’ve provided an I.R.B. bomber with special explosives and set him free in London. I’ll bet the public would love to hear about this.”
“I suggest we stop arguing among ourselves and try to find this fellow,” my employer replied. “We’ll assign blame later.Come, Llewelyn, let’s clean you up a bit.”
I washed the blood from my face in the icy water left over from our bomb making, though my shirt was beyond redemption.
“The Queen is not in residence, correct?” my employer asked the inspector.
“She’s in Scotland at Balmoral.”
“Where is the Prince of Wales?”
Munro thought a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. “He’s in town, I believe, but he has no engagements.”
“Since they threatened to go after the Royal Family, but the Queen is in Scotland,” Barker said, “then, presumably, they might go after the Prince, since he will be king someday.”
For once, we all agreed. While Poole shouted orders down the stairs to arrest McKeller and O’Casey, we followed Munro down the stairwell and out into the street. I saw Alfred Dunleavy, looking cool and unruffled despite the darbies on his wrists, talking to a reporter, while the Bannon brothers were being loaded into a Black Maria. Colin Bannon caught sight of me and shot me a look of cold hatred that I shall never forget. His brother, Padraig, was too beaten up to care.
Munro gave a whistle, and a brougham pulled up to the curb beside us. He climbed in, but barred us with his arm.
“Official police business, gentlemen. This is where I cut you loose.”
Before we could react, his vehicle rattled off.
I stamped my feet in frustration. How were we to beat the infernal Special Irish Branch inspector and stop Garrity before he assassinated the Prince?
Just then, a man stepped out of the shadows of an alleyway behind us and cleared his throat.
27
I raised my stick, ready to strike again if necessary. I must have looked a sight. My nose was swollen, the skin under my eyes already turning a dusky purple, my hair wringing wet, and my shirt red with blood. It was appropriate, therefore, for Jacob Maccabee to step out of the alleyway, immaculate in his crisp suit and bowler, as if he’d just stepped out of a tailor’s shop.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, as if we’d just been out on a perambulation around Hyde Park instead of a month-long desperate attempt to save London from being destroyed. “Your vehicle is waiting, sir,” he said, turning to our employer, “and I’ve brought the items you requested.”
“Excellent,” Barker said, leading us through the alleyway to the back, as if it were any other day. When had he alerted Mac? I wondered. Our private hansom and our mare, Juno, were awaiting us. Mac reached into the vehicle and held something up for me to don. It was the coat my employer had made for me several months before, with lead lining in the chest and back and built-in holsters.
“You’ve got to be joking. I don’t need that,” I said. “It is nearly July.”
“Wear it,” Barker demanded, donning his own. “This business may get more deadly before it is all over.” We didn’t have time to argue but climbed aboard the conveyance. Our horse, Juno, looked back at us from her traces.
“Where shall I take you gentlemen?” Mac asked, climbing up into the back of the vehicle and opening the trapdoor over our heads.
“I need to find a telephone quickly,” Barker answered. “Have you any suggestions?”
“Yes, sir. I believe I can take you to one not three streets from here.”
It was closer to four, but I will not quibble. It was in a jeweler’s shop in Shaftesbury Avenue. I wondered if Mac knew every Hebrew in town. Though it was after hours, he knocked loudly at the door until it was answered by a small, portly man. There was a short conversation in Yiddish, which Barker, ever the linguist, joined in, and then we were led inside to a telephone.
“Mr. Anderson?” I asked.
“Exactly. It is vital we locate the Prince immediately.” He gave the operator an exchange number and waited. In a moment, he was speaking to Anderson, explaining what had just happened.
“You’re looking well, Mac,” I said.
“Thank you, sir. I only wish I could say the same of you. Allow me to get some ice for that swelling.”
“Later, perhaps.”
“Let’s be off, quickly, gentlemen. The Prince of Wales is in St. James’s Street, at White’s Club. It is but a few streets from here. We must get there immediately.”
The three of us bounded back into the cab. Mac called out his thanks in Yiddish, then cracked his whip in the air. Juno’s shoes bit into the cobblestoned roadway and we were off.
We were going as fast as the traffic would allow, but we were all on the edge of our seats going down Piccadilly. If we didn’t get there soon, the man next in line to the throne might be dead. Finally, we bowled up to the marble entrance to White’s, and alighted.
All seemed well. There were no constables in sight and no commotion. St. James’s still had the grand sedateness for which it is justly famous. Barker and I appeared to be the only thing out of place so far, a bearded bomb maker and a bloody anarchist, both glaring anxiously about.
We were moving toward the door when our quarry suddenly appeared from the far corner of the street. Like us, he’d acquired new clothes-a nondescript coat and a bowler, but I couldn’t miss those two satchels, having chosen them myself in Paris. Perhaps if I’d been more prepared, I would have shut my mouth until he came closer, but my nerves were at fever pitch. I sang out as soon as I saw him.
“There he is!” I cried.
Garrity was still a couple of hundred feet away. I saw him skid to a stop, pull his hat down, and turn around, running off in the direction of Pall Mall.
“After him, lad!” Barker cried.
We both outraged the public peace by running flat out after the rapidly departing bomber. In doing so, I narrowly avoided colliding with a group of men just coming out of the club. I turned my head in time to see one fellow in the middle-a stocky, bearded chap with hooded eyes-who was removing the cigar from his mouth and staring at us with some interest. I was a block away before I realized that it was the Prince of Wales. It was as close to any royal as I’d ever been in my life. I don’t think Barker noticed, and if he had, I doubt he’d have given two straws. His nose was to the scent, and he wasn’t going to quit until he’d brought down his quarry.