The Wild Princess

Forty-four



If William Gladstone’s butler had willingly allowed Byrne through the front door at 10 Downing Street, he wouldn’t have had to force his way inside and interrupt the PM’s meeting.

“Sir!” a red-faced Gladstone bellowed. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?”

The butler made a token snatch for Byrne’s arm while the other half dozen men in the room wrenched about in their seats to stare at them. A warning glare from Byrne’s black-as-sin eyes froze the PM’s man where he stood.

“I need to speak with you immediately, Prime Minister,” Byrne said. “It is a matter of your nation’s security.”

Gladstone returned his attention to the sheaf of papers before him on the table. “Winters, summon the police.” The servant evaporated through the doorway.

Byrne swore, not quite under his breath. “I am the bloody police, sir.” Not technically true, but that caught the prime minister’s attention. Byrne extracted a card from his pocket and held it out. “Her majesty’s Secret Service.”

Gladstone allowed him a stiff nod. “I remember you now. The American.” He said it as if he were naming a lower species.

“I need fifteen minutes of your time, in private please.” When he got no reaction he added, “The queen’s life is at stake.”

A disturbed murmur rose around the table.

Gladstone scowled at Byrne but spoke to his ministers. “Gentlemen, allow me to humor the man. If you will adjourn to the parlor. Winters, please see to refreshments . . . where did the man go?”

“To summon the police,” Byrne said helpfully.

“Right.” Gladstone cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, thank you for your cooperation.”

The ministers filed out of the room, casting Byrne annoyed and doubtful looks. When the door closed behind them, Byrne turned back to face the prime minister and noticed a pistol had appeared on the desktop. It rested inches from Gladstone’s right hand.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said, meeting the PM’s steely gaze.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Byrne motioned to the chair nearest the prime minister. “May I?”

Gladstone nodded. “Be quick. I have business to attend to. The queen’s life is, of course, important but I’m not yet convinced that what you have to say has anything to do with me.”

To Byrne’s mind there were two equally critical issues at hand. He began with the one he knew the least about. “Your secretary, I see, isn’t attending this meeting. I assume he normally would be here to take notes?”

“That’s right. And I can tell you I’m most disappointed with Mr. Rhodes at the moment.”

“Then his absence isn’t excused?”

“It is not.” Gladstone turned his famous glower on Byrne. “Have you come to inform me of the man’s death?”

“Why would you think he’s dead?”

“You’ve identified yourself as law enforcement. Has there been foul play? An accident? Another bombing?”

“So far as I know, Mr. Rhodes is not a victim of any crime. Quite the opposite.”

Gladstone’s frown deepened. “Out with it, man.”

“It appears that your secretary may have delivered a threatening note and three rats into the palace on a day when he accompanied you there in March.” Seconds before Byrne had stepped from his carriage, one of his sweepers delivered a message from Louise, telling him of the secretary’s sneaking into the family quarters.

“I won’t be insulted.” Gladstone shoved himself to his feet. The halo of white hair that circled his head stood out as if electrically charged. “This is an outrageous accusation. To say I had anything to do with—”

“You couldn’t have known, sir. The rats were probably doped to keep them quiet. Rhodes would have carried them in his valise. Can you recall if he gave an excuse to leave the queen’s office for any reason?”

“I do recall.” Gladstone sat down again. “He needed to return to the carriage for papers he’d left there.”

“One of the queen’s guards found him wandering the hall outside the private suites, claiming he’d become confused and lost.”

“Might that not be possible?”

“Yes, if it were not for other factors.” Byrne paused just long enough to make sure he had the man’s attention. “Are you aware of Mr. Rhodes’s heritage?”

“No particulars. Just that he was raised by his mother as his father died when he was very young. An uncle, I believe he told me, saw to his education.”

Lies blended with snippets of truth. “Rhodes is the bastard son of the late Baron Stockmar.”

Gladstone stared at him, his eyes narrowing to slits. “You are certain of this?”

“Yes. He was born in Ireland, came to England to be educated at the expense of his father, at Oxford. Lost his accent, made valuable connections within this country. We believe his sympathies for his country of birth led him to become involved with the Fenians. It’s possible also that his loyalty to you encouraged him to plot against Mr. Disraeli, who was the intended target of the recent opera murders.”

Gladstone stared at him. “You accuse me of—”

“—of conspiring to murder your political adversary? No, sir. I have every faith you would have turned your secretary over to Scotland Yard had you any idea what he was up to.”

Gladstone huffed out a breath. He returned his pistol to the top drawer of his desk. “It’s difficult for me to imagine such a quiet and obedient man could be involved in plots against the government. Are you quite sure?”

“As sure as I can be without actually catching him in the act.”

“Dear Lord, this is most distressing. To think I’ve harbored such a devil in my own home and delivered to him information—” He broke off and stared at Byrne. “But you said the queen was in danger.”

“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.