MYCROFT HOLMES was jolted as if he himself had been the target of the shot. He stood very still as shrieks and exclamation erupted from the splendid gathering; the footman holding the carriage door collapsed as if he were a marionette with cut strings, and a moment later blood welled from a gaping wound in his side. I felt something on my face that was warm and wet; I reached for my handkerchief to wipe it away, not daring to look at the stain on the linen. There were shrieks and confusion that began to spread. One of the leaders of the coach’s team tried to rear up and was controlled with difficulty by the postilion mounted on the other leader. It was as if this were a signal. The Prince swung into the coach and Mycroft Holmes slammed its door shut, shouting to the coachman to make haste. A moment later the matched team of six Cleveland bays sprang away from the front of St. Paul’s, the coach careening indecorously as it swung into the street. “Get a doctor!” Mycroft Holmes cried, though he and I both knew the man was beyond all mortal help. I was about to kneel beside the footman when the crowd began to surge and my employer motioned me to stand where I was.
For a moment the world was suspended, only the clatter of hoofbeats punctuating the terrible thing that had just happened. Then a small band of uniformed policemen surged forward, attempting to surround the remaining high-ranking guests, while several mounted units of the Coldstream Guards rushed into the square and joined those in full kit who had been escorting the various members of the royal Houses. Some twenty or thirty dismounted. The greater number of them surrounded the Queen’s carriage, though she herself was still inside the Cathedral. The rest began politely, but firmly, herding the members of the royal family who had already been gathered by the police to shelter inside the Cathedral. Those Guards who remained mounted drew carbines that I hadn’t even noticed among the complicated trappings of their saddlery, changing in the blink of an eye from being part of the pageantry to seasoned soldiers. These new riders took up their traditional defensive positions at the edge of the crowd in a kind of disciplined scramble that was intended to hold the illustrious guests in and keep any further assailants out. This tactic had the added and unwanted impact of creating a clear division between those who were potential targets and those who were not.
The people who had come to stare and heckle now became fearful and unruly; toward the middle of the crush a woman screamed and then panic set in. Nothing could be done to stop the turmoil that had taken hold of everyone on the steps and below. As the wedding guests strove to get away from the dying footman, the crowd swayed, bulged, swayed again, and people tore away from it, bolting into the side streets. The press was changing into a melee.
As the chaos spread, Mister Holmes said to me, his tone sharp, “Guthrie, did you happen to notice where the shot came from?”
I shook my head, I had not noticed what the shot had done, if anything, beyond inciting panic. I folded my handkerchief and thrust it into my pocket.
“I noticed that the footman of Prince Oscar’s coach was struck; he has not risen that I can see,” said Holmes, his voice eerily calm in the increasing turmoil. “I think that it came from the south side of Saint Paul’s, probably that eyesore.” He pointed to the Georgian building that gave offices to several foreign trading companies. “That’s just the sort of place that would afford a good view of the steps and is likely to be empty for an event of this sort. It is slated to come down next year.” His expressions said that he would have preferred to have had the building demolished before now. “Try the upper windows or the roof. Anything lower would not give any angle from which to fire.”
A Guards Major was coming toward Mycroft Holmes, his manner purposeful and his demeanor disapproving. “I understand I am to put my men in your hands, sir,” he barked.
Holmes tapped my shoulder. “Go, my boy,” he told me as he turned to face the Major.
I hastened to obey, making my way across the street through the tangles of carriages, policemen, spectators, and a number of running members of the press, who were bound toward the confusion instead of away from it. I adroitly avoided the most predatory of these men, knowing my employer would not be pleased if I should be caught and dragged into a confrontation with them.
As I reached the Georgian building, I took stock of its five stories and wondered how long it would take me to reach the roof. Before I could enter, a dozen men, most speaking languages that were not English, came spilling out, as if afraid they might miss the entertainment. I stood aside and then slipped inside. I found myself in a wood-paneled rotunda with three hallways leading to various parts of the building. I took the one directly ahead of me. I supposed it would lead me to stairs, being more central to the building than the other two, for I could see this structure had to have had a lift installed. My guess was rewarded: a narrow staircase wound down to a rear hall.
I sprang up the stairs, wishing I had my pistol in my pocket. I reached the first landing and glanced along the doorway; nothing attracted my attention, so I continued upward. I was halfway up the next flight when a door above opened and a man in Eastern European clothes shouted to me, “Higher. It is higher.” He blanched at the sight of my face, and I did not suppose it was because one of my eyes is blue and the other green.
“I’ll do it,” I told him. “Get away from here.”
“There is another stair,” he called as I continued upward.
That stopped me a moment. “Where?” I yelled back.
“East corner. For tradesmen. The gate in the delivery yard is closed, but I don’t think it’s locked.” He ducked back into his door and I went on, listening closely to the rumble of trouble from the street. The police did not seem to be containing the reaction of the crowd. I could feel my heart beginning to pound, and not simply for the upward climb; I did not know what I would be encountering when I reached the roof or the top floor. I decided on impulse to start with the top floor, so that the culprit could not escape below me while I searched the roof. I worried briefly that the man might already be gone or in a different building altogether.
As I reached the top floor, I heard a loud noise above me; the roof door had slammed closed. This ended any hope I might have had of surprising the blaggard, although I knew the chance of doing so was slim. I also abandoned my intention to search the top floor first; haste was needed and I was determined to make the most of my opportunity before it vanished entirely. I took three long, deep breaths and kept running upward only to find the door locked. I kicked at it several times and it splintered open ferociously, banging against the wall at the back of the stairwell.
The roof was empty. The second stairwell tower was on the east corner of the building; its door was closed, but that was not necessarily indicative of flight. Perhaps I should have searched the floor below. But since I was on the roof, I decided to make a cursory search of the side overlooking the front of St. Paul’s in case the shot had come from here.
I did not actually think I would find anything; I supposed the full search would be made by the police, but I knew Mycroft Holmes would expect this of me. I could hear the sound of police whistles mixed with shouts and the general noise of a burgeoning riot. I forced myself not to look over the edge but to concentrate on the waist-high rim of the roof.
To my astonishment, I was rewarded for my inspection: a chink in the masonry, obviously newly made, showed a metallic scrape and below it a single shell casing glistened in the narrow gutter. It was as great a treasure as gold would have been, a wonderful bit of metal that might reveal more than anything else on the roof. I knew it would be unwise to move the shell until the place could be examined. I had no doubt that I had come upon the place where the assassin had waited to fire. I did not yet know what Mycroft Holmes would make of it, but I was certain he would glean much from it. I thought it was an unaccountable oversight to leave the shell casing behind, unless he intended it be found. So I made a point of finding a way to stand that would draw as little attention to the casing as possible.
Which made me wonder if it were the actual shell casing; might this not be deliberately left behind to mislead us. I knew I should raise some kind of signal and pondered what it should be. I finally looked over the roof and searched in the milling crowd for some glimpse of my employer. I was fairly certain that I would not see him.
The first I could discern anyone in the crowd, I noticed a small knot of military officers with a tall, portly man in their midst. No doubt this was Mycroft Holmes. I had no notion how to attract his attention without adding to the roiling confusion below.
Then, to my relief, Mycroft Holmes glanced toward the building, looking toward the upper floors and the roof. I knew he was looking for me. I leaned forward as far as I dared and waved my hat over my head to signal I had found something. Or so I hoped he would realize was my intent. I saw him shade his eyes the better to see me against the brilliant sky. I pointed toward the shell, nodding to indicate its importance. I was not surprised to see him give me a broad wave and point toward the building.
Half a dozen soldiers turned toward the Georgian building where I stood; I motioned them to hurry. I did not bother to shout—no one would hear me.
The door at the far side of the roof opened and then a young subaltern of the Guard burst out onto the uneven surface, a service revolver drawn and one arm windmilling to steady him. He gathered his dignity and came toward me, his face set in firm lines. “Good God, man. Are you hurt?” He clearly did not require an answer. “What have you found? Is the poltroon about?”
“If he were, I would not be standing here by myself, exposed to his shots, would I? And I am unhurt.” My tone was not as respectful as Mycroft Holmes would like, but the man’s officiousness put me off. I would offer him an apology when and if he caught the fellow. “I have found this,” I went on, showing him the brass casing.
“I should take this,” said the officer.
I held up my hand to stop him. “I think we should wait until Mycroft Holmes comes. The Prime Minister will expect him to handle this. I’m certain you have provisions for abiding by Mister Holmes’ authority.” I could see the resistance in the man’s eyes and I did all that I could to distract him. “I think the man might have gone down the other stairs. I haven’t had a chance to look there.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” The man hurried away, signaling his soldiers to follow him.
As I watched him go, I sighed a little, knowing this was only the beginning of the fuss that would result from this attempted assassination; my employer would be held accountable for anything that transpired as a result of this distressing development. It would cause no end of difficulties for Mycroft Holmes, who preferred to work away from the glare of the political arena. I leaned over the edge of the rail, hoping I might find someone in the crowd who was clearly trying to escape. Not that I thought any accomplished marksman would do anything so reckless, but I had known others to make just such a mistake; I had the scars to prove it.
I noticed that the soldiers were debating what to do, their officer exclaiming that the assassin was no doubt well away from this place and so it was useless to send his men pelting after the criminal. A few of his men were protesting, saying they ought to give chase, to maintain public confidence if not to catch the would-be assassin, which made me want to laugh at their confusion. Then I heard my name called and saw Chief Inspector Calvin Somerford coming toward me, and I was relieved.
“Guthrie,” said the Chief Inspector, his words slurring around the stem of his pipe. He was not the stiff sort of policeman that was most often found around such grand occasions as this one. He was in a dark suit, not quite formal morning wear, but several notches above his usual garb; he stood a bit taller than I, was about forty years of age, with clever, sardonic features. This man had been assigned to the Prince when Oscar arrived in England and had been shadowing him ever since. This event in St. Paul’s was the one place he had been excluded, the presence of the Coldstream Guards being thought to be sufficient deterrent to any assassin: This was now patently inadequate. “Mister Holmes coming up, I suppose, to have a look around?” Most of his phrases ended with an upward inflection, making him sound constantly inquisitive. I thought this was indicative of the man himself.
“Yes. He will be up shortly,” I said, glad to have another man to help me maintain the scene to Mycroft Holmes’ standards. I went to shake his hand as much to show solidarity as to be cordial, for in such a setting, form came after substance.
“Well, they can’t say Mister Holmes didn’t warn them of the risks.” He nodded toward the lip of the roof. “Looks like you were standing a mite too close?” Without waiting for a reply, he looked about, his eyes narrowed critically. “I’m surprised we didn’t have anyone up here? You’d think they would see the potential, wouldn’t you?”
That had been bothering me since the shot rang out, but I had not pinpointed it until Calvin Somerford voiced it so well. “Yes,” I said, as I looked about. There most certainly should have been someone on this roof—other than the assassin—and the lack of someone was becoming more glaring in my observations.
“One man, I should say?” Chief Inspector Somerford observed, his manner seeming so laconic that one of the soldiers scoffed at this remark.
“It seems likely,” I said, unwilling to impart more while so many could overhear us. “You cannot want to speak—”
Chief Inspector Somerford coughed to show he understood. “I’ll just have a look around? And to think it’s only Wednesday. What will we have on our plates by Friday?” He nodded once to the soldiers. “Mind you let my men up when they arrive. I’ll need their help.” His diffidence was rewarded with a shrug of assent. I knew that Chief Inspector Somerford was a very canny fellow, able to do a great deal without appearing to, which Mycroft Holmes had realized was a major skill in diplomatic circles.
I went back to the place where it seemed that the assassin had waited; I wanted to bring little attention to myself. I succeeded so well that when a shot rang out, I staggered back and had to steady myself against falling.
Chief Inspector Somerford was the first to move. He ran to the rear of the roof, from the direction that the shot had come, and he pointed, “You! There!” he shouted, his quiet voice an authoritative bellow that shocked two of the soldiers into coming to attention.
Unsure if I should leave my position, I faltered, just long enough to see Mycroft Holmes step out onto the roof, showing no signs of effort from the long, quick climb up the stairs in spite of his portly build. I had often been aware of the man’s remarkable strength and endurance, and that made me respect him increasingly, for great as his intellect was, it was not his only attribute worthy of high regard: his appearance of indolence was nothing more than a ruse, and one I had come to know as a deliberate ploy used to encourage his enemies to underestimate him, much as his carefully maintained impression of a sedentary life made possible by his redoubtable double, Edmund Sutton. He strolled up to me. “Found anything, dear boy?”
“Nothing much,” I said. “But I think we should—”
“—discuss it later. Yes. Of course.” He looked to the opposite side of the roof. “What is Somerford carrying on about? I don’t suppose they have caught anyone but a cutpurse or a mudlark.” He sighed. “The Prince is safe and we will join him when our work here is finished. We will need to tend to matters here, and then I will be able to review what you have found.” He leaned down to look at the marks I had discovered. “Heavy weapon, by the looks of it. Very good rifle, probably with a big-game telescope attached to give him a more accurate shot. From the sound of the weapon, it was of a heavy caliber. My first thought was one of those American Sharps rifles that they use to so unsportingly kill their buffalo. But from the high crack that followed it may well have been one of the German weapons created for hunting big game in Africa. With their long, 30-caliber bullet and faster rate of firing, they are increasingly popular among those who trade in assassination. Such a weapon would be ideal for our criminal; he had to kill with one round.”
I shuddered as I again glanced over the wall at where the footman still lay. Staring at the corpse and pool of blood that was barely visible five stories up, I was reminded of the Brotherhood. “So it did—but not the intended target,” I said.
Mycroft Holmes nodded. “Also the new Weiss scopes are very powerful, but present only a narrow field of vision. That might explain how a professional could have missed his kill. And this was most certainly an attempt to kill the Prince. He was close enough to have been intending the worst; in such a crowd, if his purpose was only to frighten, he would have sprayed the coaches or something of the sort. In fact,” he went on thoughtfully as he picked up the shell casing and turned it over, end on end, in his long fingers, smiling grimly as he saw his suspicions about the caliber were correct, “it is a bit perplexing that nothing more was done. He was after Prince Oscar, and failing to accomplish his mission, he fled, since he knew he would not have a second chance here today.” He began to twiddle with his watch-fob, a sure sign of his growing apprehension. “This fellow hasn’t finished with the Prince, you may be sure of that.”
Inspector Somerford approached slowly shaking his head. “There you are, Mister Holmes. A most perplexing business?”
“Perplexing is the least of it, Inspector. I am not at all perplexed. We can have no doubt as to the culprit’s intentions,” Mycroft Holmes declared. “He was going to kill Prince Oscar; and we must assume that since he failed to do so, he will try again.”
“What, Mister Holmes? No one would be so foolish,” exclaimed Inspector Somerford. “He was foiled, and he put us on the alert. If the intention is to cause embarrassment to the government, this has been done. If it is a domestic matter, then why come to England to kill the Prince? Much better to make a point about your own country in it, if you follow me. That is why I am taking this as a sign that England’s foes are at work.”
“You may pursue your theories, Chief Inspector; Guthrie and I will pursue mine.” Mycroft Holmes made a gesture indicating he meant no criticism of the Chief Inspector’s goals. “Together we will be able to uncover the reason behind this lamentable event. Will you arrange for me to have access to this roof tomorrow? I may want to see how he hoped to accomplish his ends, and with all that confusion below, it would be useless now. Our combined efforts must lead us to the truth.”
“Of course,” said Somerford, making a kind of salute with his palm down, as the Americans do.
“Those years in Canada were ...” Mycroft Holmes said, his thoughts fraying as he put his concentration on the roof once more.
But I was not satisfied. “Years in Canada?”
“Um?” My employer turned a deceptively mild gaze upon me. “Oh, yes. Somerford was in Canada as a young man; he came back to England when he was twenty-three. It explains his accent, and his manner of saluting.” He then clearly put the whole of the matter out of his mind as he crouched down to study the groove that had supported the rifle barrel. “Most interesting,” he murmured, as he studied the angle of the thing.
In spite of my intention to ask him nothing until he volunteered, I could not help but say, “Why interesting?” just as he wanted me to do.
“Well, my boy, this groove was cut in place with a chisel, one that made a single impression, which suggests that the shooter brought it along for such a purpose, which in turn implies that he has done this kind of thing before and knew to come prepared.” He did not quite smile, but he did rock back onto his heels and nod to show his satisfaction. “If the man knew to do this, he is no amateur; and there will be a record of him somewhere.” He put his large, well-shaped hands together as if in prayer, which I now knew meant he was searching his astonishing memory for any similarity to other cases of which he had knowledge; his deepening frown indicated he was not identifying anyone to his satisfaction. “Well, I shall devote some time to it later.” He rose, dusting his fingers off against one another. “If the man is experienced—as we must suppose he is—he will have melted into the crowd, milled with them, and made his escape without attracting any attention; so whomever the soldiers have caught, we will discover that the poor creature is not our assassin.” He pointed to Chief Inspector Somerford. “I want you to call around at my flat this evening, Chief Inspector. Your men will have completed their first search of the area around Saint Paul’s. You and I will have much to discuss.”
Calvin Somerford made another of his American salutes. “Eight o’clock, then?”
“I’ll tell Tyers to have a supper laid for nine, if that will suit,” said my employer, ignoring the incredulous stares of the soldiers who watched their discussion. “Guthrie will be with us, of course, and you may bring your assistant, if you like.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Chief Inspector Somerford. He raised his head and peered up at the sky. “No rain for a while. That’s something in our favor?”
“Tomorrow. The weather will change by evening,” I said; the small fragment of a bullet that was lodged in my hip had provided me accurate weather predictions since I acquired it in the streets of Constantinople, almost four years since. “You’ll want a tarpaulin after that.”
“He’s very reliable,” said Mycroft Holmes, motioning to me to follow him. “I think we can leave the police to their work,” he said as he pocketed the shell casing. “Until this evening, Chief Inspector. And do try to keep the soldiers from falling over each other; it is bad for morale.” His single crack of laughter brought indignant stares from the soldiers and sly smiles from the two policemen accompanying Chief Inspector Somerford.
“I would like to think,” I said as we stepped through the door onto the top of the stairs, “that there will be a straightforward solution to all this.”
“My dear Guthrie, no more do I, no more do I,” said Mycroft Holmes wearily as he began his descent.
FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS
MH returned shortly before G from the aftermath of the wedding in separate conveyances, G having returned to his rooms in Curzon Street to change his clothes before reporting for his assignments from MH. It is apparent that there is a deal of confusion surrounding the events at StP this morning, and the confusion is mounting. By morning, it will be bruited about that mounted Cossacks charged the Scandinavian delegation singing “God Protect the Tsar,” and there will be many who will swear to have seen it, or something as preposterous. I share MH’s apprehension that by nightfall tomorrow there will be so many rumors about that we will be unable to discover a means to sift the wheat from the chaff, as the saying has it. By Friday, no fact will be untainted. To forestall the worst of this, MH is preparing a number of memoranda and other dispatches that I must presently deliver, most with the hope of discovering the truth of today’s events before they are forgot or distorted. The list is a long one and I will not complete my rounds in less than ninety minutes. I have agreed to carry my pistol, little though it pleases me to do so.
Word has just come from Sutton that he will arrive soon after midnight, when his performance concludes, which will relieve MH greatly. He has offered to purchase papers so that MH can read about the events as they are being reported to the British people, which MH believes may point to issues we have not yet considered.
A police constable has been provided to MH to carry messages between him and Chief Inspector Somerford, so that confidentiality can be preserved and so that there need be no delay when messages must be carried. MH is not as pleased with this arrangement as he might be. He does not like exposing Sutton, his double, to anyone who has no need to know of his arrangement with MH, but I suspect that his reasons are more complex than that.
The Prince is safe, and no one is aware of his hiding place, which is just as well.