Chapter Sixty

CHAPTER SIXTY

T om and Sally stepped out of the stage door into the yard, and looked around into the shadows.

‘Mr Sharps,’ Tom said, stepping forward and peering into the darkness where the glow of the gaslights did not reach.

One shadow detached itself from the rest, and Sharps stepped into the light where they could see him, though his cap kept his face in shadow.

‘Didn’t hear no boom,’ he said. ‘I suppose you found it, then?’ Then he touched his knuckle to the brim of his hat. ‘Mrs Blow.’

‘Good evening, Mr Sharps.’

‘We found it,’ Tom said. ‘Thank you.’

Sharps smiled. ‘And I see you won, Mrs Blow, judging by them flowers.’

‘Yes,’ Sally said simply. ‘I did.’

‘Sally has agreed to be my wife,’ Tom said.

A slight stiffening in Sharps’ posture was, at first, the only sign he’d heard. ‘Treat her properly, Mr Lassiter.’

‘I will. And I’m giving you notice – you and Mr Kelly. I intend to take over from my mother, and when I do, any and all connection between Lassiter Enterprises and yourselves will cease. On the hour. Is that understood?’

Sharps came towards him in long easy strides, but Tom did not flinch. As soon as he was an inch away from Tom’s face, Sharps stopped.

‘I could kill you in a heartbeat, boy,’ he growled.

Tom met his gaze. ‘I don’t doubt it, Mr Sharps. But I don’t see what good it would do you either.’

Sharps laughed – a low rasping sound like gravel bouncing off slate.

‘True. Your mother’s been running hot, Lassiter, sending off our product to theatrical types in London. Fetching police up here. Then selling shells to foreigners, attracting more trouble. Mr Kelly is happy to disengage. Willing to draw a line under it, if you are.’

‘I am.’

‘You still be singing in the pub, Mrs Blow? Or are you too high and mighty for that now?’

‘I’ll be there tomorrow night, as usual,’ Sally said calmly. ‘Not about to let Belle and Alf down, not after all their kindness to me and Dougie.’

A flicker of a smile crossed Sharps’ thin lips. ‘I’ll be seeing you then.’

‘Mr Sharps?’ Tom said as he turned away.

‘What? I’ve got things to do, Lassiter.’

‘Who bought the shells from my mother, and hired the bomb-maker?’

Sharps scratched behind his ear. ‘He wasn’t very chatty by the time I’d finished getting the rest out of him, and he didn’t get a name. A woman. Wore red gloves.’

Dixon had not been absolutely sure Jack was his brother when he arrived in Highbridge, and had then been absolutely sure he would be asked to leave if the truth came out. But Lillian and Jack appeared to be directing all their anger at Sir Gideon.

He followed them into the main body of the shop. His father had gone, vanished like King Rat in the pantomime. He thought about Lillian dressed as Fairy Bow Bells, bopping him on the head with her wand, and glanced sideways at her. He looked round at the gold and green decorations, and a prince had become a king here. That was like a fairy tale, too.

‘How are you, Your Majesty?’ the Prince of Wales said to the new King Stefan of Marakovia. ‘We will, of course, bend every sinew to get you home as soon as possible. Anything at all you need, only ask. And of course, I offer my condolences, and on their behalf, the condolences of the King and Queen.’

Stefan still looked pale, but nodded. ‘Thank you, David. Nikolai will be coming back with me.’

Nikolai looked at his wife, his dark eyes clouded with worry. She managed to smile at him, leaning against Jack.

Someone knocked at the door connecting them to the theatre.

‘Come in,’ the prince said, and it opened.

Miss Chisholm entered. She was wearing her coat, her handbag held in front of her. ‘A telegram for Vladimir Taargin,’ she said, bobbing a quick curtsey to the prince. She crossed the shop floor till she was standing in the midst of the Marakovians, her back to the new king, opening her bag.

‘Jack!’ A voice echoed through the open door. It was Tom’s, cracking with urgency. ‘Jack! It was Miss Chisholm!’

‘You are not my king,’ she said, turning and letting the bag fall to the ground.

‘I’m not anyone’s king. . .’ the Prince of Wales began, lifting his hands. He watched as the snub-nosed pistol Miss Chisholm held swung towards Stefan. Nikolai grabbed him, pulling him aside as the gun cracked.

‘For Andrei!’ she said, and pulled back the trigger again. Taargin, standing inches from her, did nothing.

For Dixon, the world seemed to break into a number of small and distinct pieces: Tom’s shout; the first earsplitting crack of the gun; Lillian starting forward; Jack holding her back; the click as Miss Chisholm drew back the trigger once more; the sensation of movement as Dixon found himself leaping forward, stepping up onto one of the chairs, then throwing himself down, catching Miss Chisholm’s arm, knocking the muzzle up towards the roof as the gun exploded again.

There was a moment of silence. Dixon’s ears were ringing. Then Tom helped him up. Miss Chisholm was now speaking in Marakovian with a blistering rage, hissing into his ear in that half-remembered language about weakness and destiny. The men accompanying Stefan were shouting, too. Time was elastic – the infinite moment it took the gun to fall to the floor; the millisecond as Tom kicked it away – and suddenly Osman had hold of Bridget. She fought them, kicking out, growling like an animal, then, seeing it was useless, slumped.

‘Who the hell is she ?’ the prince said, then turned to the more chinless of his equerries. ‘Actually, I don’t care. Get her locked up somewhere, or stand guard over her or whatever, then do call the police. I want her in a cell. And I think we may require a doctor for Colonel Osman.’

‘It’s just a scratch, sir.’

‘Why does everyone always say that? Nevertheless . . . Stefan, are you whole?’

‘I am,’ Stefan said. ‘His Excellency, Grand Duke Nikolai Goranovich Kuznetsov, saved my life.’

Taargin began to protest in his own language. Stefan held up his hand.

‘In English, please, as a courtesy to our hosts.’

Taargin cleared his throat. ‘Nikolai Kuznetsov was stripped of all his titles!’

Stefan stared at him. ‘I think in the moment, my friend, you might have forgotten whom you are addressing.’

Taargin flushed bright red.

‘I . . . Yes, sir.’

Dixon watched as Bridget was led away. The fight seemed to have gone out of her entirely. Nikolai was sitting, a little in the shadows. Being shot at seemed to have made Stefan more, rather than less, sure of himself. He nodded, and Dixon sat down rather sharply on one of the chairs, and Jack and Lillian came and sat next to him.

Stefan nodded, then cleared his throat.

‘We will, with your agreement, David, spend the night at the home of Mr Allerdyce, as arranged. I will return home in the morning, before the death of my father is announced to the press.’ He paused, looking at his highly polished shoes. ‘David, Mrs Kuznetsov, Mr Treadwell, we are profoundly in your debt. May I ask, if it is at all possible, that the events of this evening, as they pertain to me, are kept confidential? We shall discuss what to do with that woman, and . . .’ his eyes travelled significantly over Taargin, ‘whoever we discover her to have been in league with.’ He pulled out a chair and sat down.

The Prince of Wales nodded to his remaining uninjured equerry, who scuttled off to find the transport.

‘Tom,’ Jack said wearily, ‘pass the word, will you? Anyone who knows anything about bombs or guns is to stay quiet. And please, I’d be grateful for any word of Grace.’

The Prince of Wales, watching Stefan, leant up against the table next to where Dixon and Jack were slumped in hard-backed chairs.

‘There, I think Stefan’s getting the hang of it. You know, strictly speaking, you shouldn’t sit down in the presence of a member of the Royal Family who is standing.’ Dixon began to struggle up, but the prince laughed softly, and pushed him back down. ‘I think in the circumstances, Mr Wells, I’ll allow it.’

As Tom left, Milly came in and looked round. ‘Mr Treadwell? Is Mr Treadwell here?’ Her voice sounded high and urgent in the gloom of the shop.

‘I’m here, Milly.’

‘Oh, thank goodness. Please, Mr Treadwell. Grace needs you right this minute.’

Jack didn’t ask permission, or bow to his shop full of royalty. He left, his sharp stride breaking into a run as he reached the door which led back to the theatre.

‘Poor devil,’ the prince said. ‘Well, I wish them both the best of luck.’

Dixon looked round, surprised at the lack of reaction from Nikolai to the last few minutes. He was still in a chair in the shadows, his chin on his chest, unmoving. Lillian must have thought the same thing; she took a step forward, her hand outstretched.

‘Nikolai?’ she said.

Dixon had never heard a name spoken in that way – so full of love, and so full of dread.

Stefan put his hand on Nikolai’s shoulder, then pulled back his dinner jacket. His white dress shirt was soaked in blood. ‘Get me something to stop the bleeding,’ the King of Marakovia snapped, as Lillian started forward with a groan.