Chapter 15

Fifteen

After making my feelings known the previous afternoon, I usually would have slept quite soundly, particularly with very few hours sleep the night before.

I didn't. And like the night before, I rose somewhere near four in the morning and returned to my desk in the front parlor.

I spread out everything that I had gathered regarding Dr. Bennett's murder and Brodie's investigation into Soropkin. Along with that cryptic message that had been intercepted and seemed to confirm what was planned by Soropkin.

I then read the notes Dr. Bennett had made for that second book that he would now never write. He had been fascinated with the possibilities of restorative surgery that included of all things… the possibility of full restoration of one's facial features.

It certainly seemed that he had been able to provide that for Ethan. However, between his notes and those ancient procedures written almost three thousand years earlier in those papyrus texts that Sir Reginald had been able to translate for me, I had discovered far more.

The ability to restore someone's features seemed almost too incredible to believe, yet according to those ancient procedures it seemed more than possible with descriptions of specific surgeries that had been performed and documented. What other possibilities might come from that?

Soropkin came to mind. He had been seen weeks earlier in London and followed to Aldgate where Dr. Bennett had set up that secret office. He had then disappeared, vanished, and Brodie, along with the resources of the Agency, had been unable to find him.

Was it possible that he had gone to Dr. Bennett for just such a surgery? The implications were horrifying, and yet… If I allowed myself to take that next step, past the impossible and the horror of it, the possibility was there.

With a different face, how easy might it be to move about without anyone the wiser?

"Bulldog with a bone" Brodie had said of me more than once.

I knew where it came from, the need to have order, to understand everything, to know the most minute detail, then examine it, find the reason— when everything seemed to spin out of control.

I thought of my father. Like it or not, the man had affected both my sister and I with his presence, and lack of; his lies and deceptions, and then the manner in which he ended his life. I had struggled with it most of my life it seemed, hating him for what he'd done. Then attempting to run away from it all as my great-aunt once suggested.

"What is… simply is," she told me after one of my episodes as she called them with great wisdom, when I had taken myself off into the forest at Old Lodge and not returned until the following day, in spite of her gamesman's warning that there were dangers there.

"You must accept what has happened, move on, and not waste time on someone that doesn't matter ."

That seemed so very simple at the time but hardly a salve for my anger at our father. There was more, she told us, as there usually was when Linnie or I seemed to be having a rough go of it.

"Ask yourself, can you change the sort of man your father was ?" she asked me at the time, and had then proceeded to answer the question herself.

" No, you cannot! You might wish to drag the man out of his coffin and kick him in the shins, or worse. But be done with it, child. Trust me, there are good men. I promise you."

It had taken me a while to absorb that. After all, I was only ten years old at the time. But I knew that she was right.

Brodie was a good man. I had known it from the beginning, even if it had taken me a while to acknowledge it.

Perhaps that was the reason the conversation the day before had infuriated me so… that he thought that I might "still have feelings for Sir James?"

Feelings that I knew were nothing more than admiration for someone who had traveled widely, was far more experienced and worldly than myself, and for those several weeks that we traveled together had indulged someone who quite simply, was not experienced or worldly.

It hurt that Brodie seemed to think so little of me.

If I hadn't been so angry at the time, I would have heard what wasn't said. There was almost a sadness in his voice, as I thought back on it. Perhaps fear that he might be right? It seemed that I had unknowingly hurt him as well.

The mantle clock chimed— half past eight o'clock, a reminder that the Queen's procession and dedication of the memorial was scheduled for two hours from now.

I knew from past events that people would already be gathering along the procession route the Queen was to take from Buckingham Palace to the memorial.

I could not stay here and simply wait to receive word of whatever might or might not happen.

I had already checked to make certain the revolver in my bag was loaded, then called for Mrs. Ryan as I went to the stairs to dress.

"Yes, miss?" she said, quite formal as she arrived from the kitchen where I had heard her earlier slamming a pot, then a dish, in somewhat of a pique it seemed.

"I will need a driver."

"Yes, miss…?" she said hesitant.

"Is that some of your wonderful coffee, I smell?"

"Most certainly, miss," she replied, the hesitance in her voice gone.

I dressed and had finished my second cup of coffee along with some of Mrs. Ryan's spectacular sponge cake— Rupert would have been jealous— by the time the driver arrived.

It had been a somewhat longer wait than usual, he apologized, as there were delays due to detours and road closures in preparation for the Queen's appearance for the dedication.

The park where the ceremony was to take place was not far from Buckingham Palace with Parliament a few blocks beyond— near the river.

The traffic on the street was abominable the nearer the driver approached the park. He was forced to take the long way around, then approached from Whitehall Road which was hardly better.

There were other coaches and carriages, along with those who chose to walk to the park that included properly dressed ladies and gentlemen, as well children and more than one pram, along with dozens of officers of the MET both afoot and astride.

From what Brodie had shared with me the day before, there were undoubtedly Sir Avery's people scattered among the crowd as well as the Royal Guard.

And somewhere among them were Brodie, Mr. Conner, and undoubtedly Munro. It did seem that every possible precaution had been taken.

The coach rolled to a stop once more and the driver called down.

"Sorry, miss. The way through is blocked."

I departed the coach then continued afoot toward the park, along with what seemed the entire population of London.

I eventually made it to the edge of the green, more or less pushed along by the crowd that always gathered when the Queen or any member of the royal family was out and about.

I managed to extricate myself from the crowd as they surged forward and found a place at the curb along the thoroughfare just across the way from the memorial.

As the crowd gathered, joined by more people, I eventually heard the expectant buzz of conversation from the crowd around me as the Queen's coach came into view down the thoroughfare.

Rather than the gold coach used for her coronation and other state events, she had chosen the simple black coach she seemed to prefer since the death of Prince Albert years before. The Royal Guard led the way with more mounted guards that followed.

As her coach drew closer, I searched the crowd nearby for any indication of an attack— any sudden movement, someone abruptly pushed out of the way as someone else attempted to get closer, or the sudden sound of alarm from the crowd. However, everything seemed quite calm.

There was nothing out of the ordinary as the Queen's coach rolled past then stopped in front of the memorial. Nor when she stepped down and was then escorted toward the memorial to make the dedication.

The ceremony was quite somber and brief, and soon ended as the Dean of Westminster Abbey provided the blessing.

The Queen remained for a time, exchanging conversation with him, then she was escorted back to her coach, a solitary figure in perpetual black mourning, the Royal Guard at attention with stoic expressions.

I scanned the crowd again, but there was nothing that indicated an attack or disturbance, no sudden sharp noises or someone running forward as the royal coach slowly circled back around the way it had come then departed for the return to Buckingham Palace.

Was it possible those involved had learned that Sir Avery's people were aware of their plans? Or was that information false?

Brodie had described Soropkin as methodical, perhaps even a genius, and completely dedicated to his cause. He was undoubtedly quite mad and extremely dangerous.

It obviously didn't matter that his plans to strike against all authority already had resulted in hundreds of senseless deaths and would inevitably result in millions more should all of Europe be thrown into chaos and eventually… all out war.

History would once again repeat itself and innocent men, women, and children would pay the ultimate price for that madness.

No, I thought. From what I had heard about Soropkin, he wouldn't merely set aside his plans if it was revealed that the authorities had discovered them. There had to be more, something we were missing.

As the crowd began to disperse, I watched others near the memorial searching for sight of either Brodie or Mr. Conner.

Many of those who had watched the ceremony, including what appeared to be several members of Parliament in their frock coats, returned now to Westminster Palace, that sprawling Gothic center of English government. So-called as it had once been the residence of the king, several hundred years past, and now where the houses of Parliament met.

It was then I saw Sir James. He was standing very near the memorial. As I watched, he turned and set off at a brisk pace toward the Palace.

Was he there merely to attend the session as it reconvened after the ceremony, with that invitation that Sir Robert Crosswhite was to have provided? Or was there something else at work?

Brodie had insisted that Sir James might very well be involved in Soropkin's plot. Impossible as that seemed and as much as I didn't want to believe it, it was possible and the urgency with which he crossed the green, then the street that ran before that sandstone behemoth of English history, suggested otherwise.

I thought again of what we knew:

Soropkin, a known anarchist and extremely dangerous, had been seen in London weeks before, and had then disappeared;

Dr. Bennett had been murdered in that secret office in Aldgate where he had performed procedures censured by the Society of Medicine.

Sir James had returned. Not from an extended travel of several months to Egypt and the Far East that he would have everyone believe, but more recently from Munich that Brodie had learned through communications received by the Agency. And further proof that he was in Munich at the time of the attack there;

Then, that cryptic message that had been intercepted in Luxembourg.

"Everything is in place" … and the date I had finally unscrambled— along with the eighteenth of December. Today's date.

There was more that I had not known until the day before.

The deception of our meeting for afternoon tea at the Grosvenor, where Sir James was not a guest after all as he had led me to believe, and our conversation, his comments about my abilities and my position as a member of a titled family.

While his compliments seemed like flattery at the time, I hadn't been impressed. As Brodie had pointed out in our conversation the day before, it did seem as if there might have been another motive.

It was very possible, he had insisted, that it was an attempt to persuade me to become part of some cause.

And then there was the part of the message that had so far eluded us:

P A R and L S

The more I thought of it, standing there at the edge of the green, the facts and clues were undeniable. I thought again of that last part of that message… then turned and looked for Brodie or Mr. Conner again.

Why had I not seen it? PAR for Parliament, not PARLS, that had confused me. And then LS.

Or perhaps I chose not to see it because of that old friendship.

The sound of my name pulled me from my thoughts and that stunning certainty as Mr. Conner and Alex Sinclair approached. I ran toward them.

"The target is not the Queen! It never was." I glanced back in the direction I had seen Sir James as he disappeared through the crowd.

"The target is Parliament and the Prime Minister! It was in those last letters in that intercepted message. And Redstone is here!"

"Dear God," Alex replied. "Are you certain about the message?"

I repeated the letters. "The target is Parliament— PAR, and the last two letters LS…"

"The Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury," Alex replied.

"Where did you see him?" Mr. Conner demanded.

"At the entrance."

"Then, he's already inside."

"Where's Brodie?" I asked.

"With Sir Avery and his men." Mr. Conner's expression was grim. "I'll find him."

By the time they learned that Redstone was there and what I was now certain of, it might be too late. And Soropkin? Was he somewhere inside Parliament even now?

"We have to stop him," I replied, and turned toward that massive hall that sat at the bank of the Thames.

"Foolish woman! Ye'll not go alone," Mr. Conner shouted after me, then, "go with her, lad! And don't let her out of yer sight, or we'll both answer to Mr. Brodie for it."

I didn't wait for Alex as I pushed my way through the crowd and followed the direction Redstone had gone.

He caught up with me at the main entrance to Westminster Hall as the returning members— hundreds of them, along with staff and guests, were forced to queue into a single crowded line at the clerk's desk at the entrance.

Alex looked about and then at me with new urgency.

"However will we ever find him?"

I had the same thought with the line before us. If Redstone had managed to gain entrance, we might not find him until it was too late.

The whole of Parliament was massive and filled the embankment at the river, a maze of what had once been a royal residence along with apartments for visiting dignitaries and members, and offices, committee rooms connected by lobbies and passages on multiple floors.

It all converged at the Central Hall that eventually connected to the House of Commons and House of Lords with private offices for members of Parliament that numbered in the hundreds.

To find anyone it was required to set an appointment, and then still be forced to wait for hours or return another time if Parliament was in an extended session as today with the dedication at the park.

Not finding Redstone was not an option.

There were the usual conversations among those who waited to sign back in, complaints about the delay and the late hour members would all be there, along with a conversation between two members.

"It will be even later into the evening," one of them commented, "with the P.M. to address the Commons."

Alex and I exchanged a glance. The Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury, was to speak at the House of Commons. We both knew the meaning of that, a perfect opportunity for anyone with a plan to attack Parliament and Lord Salisbury.

Alex nodded. "We have no time for this delay."

He reached inside his coat and I glimpsed the note he reached for, along with something most unusual. He was carrying a revolver!

He pulled out the note, then cut his way through the line ahead, with complaints and grumblings from those around him. I took advantage of his cut through the queue and followed him.

He ignored the complaints as he reached the clerk's desk.

"Where would Lord Salisbury be at this time?" he demanded.

Startled, the clerk was taken aback.

"I beg your pardon, sir. You must wait your turn."

"There is no time." Alex thrust the note at him. "We are here on behalf of Sir Avery Stanton and the office of Special Services."

In spite of the urgency, Alex kept his voice low.

"There has been a threat, and I suggest you make every accommodation." He again demanded, "Where is Lord Salisbury at this time? Unless of course, you wish to be arrested."

I would not have guessed that Alex Sinclair, with his codes and machines and that unruly mop of hair he was forever pushing back from his glasses could be so assertive.

And as for that note he had shown the clerk, I had caught a brief glimpse of an emblem at the top of the note, along with Sir Avery's signature at the bottom. It was a royal warrant.

"Not at all, sir," the clerk hastily replied and handed the note back to Alex. "That is, yes, of course. The Prime Minister would most usually be in a private office next to the members retiring room, preparing for his address before the members."

"I need to speak with the Home Secretary immediately," Alex insisted. "And we will need someone to take us to that office."

"The Home Secretary is presently scheduled to meet in the House of Commons," the clerk informed us.

"I don't care if he's meeting with the Queen," Alex replied. "You're to send for him now! Or there may well be no Parliament. Is that clear?"

We were asked to stand apart as I wondered where Redstone was and what had been planned.

Eventually Secretary Mathews, the Home Secretary, appeared, quite agitated.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

Alex pulled him aside and quickly explained the reason we were there. Secretary Mathews looked up with a tight expression.

"I know Sir Avery quite well," he said. Then asked, "Where did you last see Redstone?"

"Crossing the green and then at the entrance," I replied. "He disappeared inside. And there is a man that is also part of this— Dimitri Soropkin."

By the expression on his face, he obviously knew of Soropkin. He immediately went and questioned the clerk, then returned.

"There is no note of Redstone's arrival. If, as you say, he managed to get past the desk, he could be anywhere." The Home Secretary looked at Alex.

"You're certain about the threat?"

"Most certain," he replied.

I explained how Sir James might have been able to gain entrance without being questioned or required to sign in.

"He's to be the guest of Sir Robert Crosswhite by special invitation."

The enormity of the threat was not lost on the Home Secretary. He motioned to the officer who had accompanied him.

"You are to take Mr. Sinclair and Miss Forsythe to the office presently occupied by the Prime Minister and remain there. Go quickly and as quietly as possible," he added. "We need to clear everyone from the building, and I don't want people in a panic situation. Is that understood?"

He intended to clear as many people as possible from Parliament. A daunting task to be certain. And the amount of time that would take? Surely Redstone and Soropkin would take notice. What then?

Alex took me by the arm, and we followed our escort down the Commons hallway to the offices in the adjacent passageway where there were more offices along with that private office that had been set apart for Lord Salisbury.

The officer knocked at the door then opened it. "There is a situation, sir," he announced as we entered the office.

"The Home Secretary has asked that you remain here. These people will explain."

"We've uncovered a situation, sir, that could be extremely dangerous," Alex then went on to tell the Prime Minister.

"There is the possibility of an attack against you as well as the members of Parliament. Precautions are being taken," he continued.

I saw the faint twitch at the corner of Lord Salisbury's eyes, the way the light from the overhead chandelier gleamed almost unnaturally on his forehead and cheeks above his side whiskers.

There was something different about the man I had encountered briefly in the past at a handful of society functions that I was unable to avoid with one excuse or another.

"I see," Salisbury curtly replied with amazing calm, then a glance at the uniformed officer who had accompanied us.

"I must leave," he suddenly announced, and headed for the door.

"Sir! I must protest! It could be extremely dangerous…" Alex moved to stop him with a hand on his arm.

As the Prime Minister reached the door, the sleeve of his coat pulled back ever so slightly at his wrist.

He immediately pulled it back into place and would have insisted on opening the door. Alex stopped him.

The Prime Minister's gaze abruptly met mine. He knew what I had seen.

There was a mark on his wrist, a tattoo. A very distinct tattoo!

I was no stranger to them. Point of fact, I had one of my own, acquired on one of my travels. But this one had specific significance.

It was a tattoo of a black hand, the anarchist's symbol that I had seen on that banner in Budapest, a tattoo that Soropkin supposedly also had as well as those loyal to him!

"Get out of my way!" Salisbury demanded.

"Sir, you must remain here!" Alex repeated.

The blow caught Alex by surprise. It was a glancing blow to the face, momentarily surprising him.

"Stop him!" I told the officer who had accompanied us. "He's not the Prime Minister, he's an impostor!" And a very dangerous one.

The officer was slow to react, or possibly didn't believe what I was saying. Lord Salisbury, or the man who wanted us to believe he was Salisbury, would have bolted out the door if I hadn't caught him by the back of his coat.

I had the advantage of height. He had the advantage of greater weight as he turned with a revolver in his hand.

I struck it away, landed the blow to his left cheek, then swept his feet out from under him.

He landed hard, then scrambled to retriever the revolver. However, I was able to reach it first.

The "Prime Minister" pushed to his feet on a flood of curses and would have escaped if Alex hadn't grabbed him by the front of his coat.

He glared back at me through the swollen eye above his cheek that bled profusely.

I stared at the damage, not the same sort as the blow I had given Brodie, barely a bruise that had already faded.

This was different and quite ghastly as blood seeped from a hair-thin scar that had barely healed and had ruptured open, a flap of skin sagging away from his cheek. Grafted skin peeling away.

Mr. Brimley had spoken of the possibility of such a surgery during our visit with young Ethan after reading Dr. Bennett's notes, and that ancient Coptic text that Sir Reginald had translated. Procedures over three thousand years old practiced by the Egyptians that Dr. Bennett had lectured on and was then censured for. A new face in place of the old one.

In Ethan's case to restore a young boy's features after he had been horribly burned.

What was I staring at now? An entirely new face to hide one's identity?

"Good heavens!" Alex said, equally stunned. "You needn't have struck so hard."

"I didn't," I assured him, then introduced him.

"Meet Dimitri Soropkin."

Alex looked at me as if I might have taken several steps away from sanity.

"You don't mean…"

"At the inside of his right wrist you will find a tattoo of a black hand. It is the mark of the anarchist and those who follow him."

"Hold him!" Alex ordered the officer. "Do not let him escape."

"He said that you were quite extraordinary," the man I was now certain was Soropkin said in a scathing tone.

"A woman!" he spat out as the officer produced manacles and snapped them shut about his wrists.

"Intelligent, fearless, someone who understood the injustices that are all around us. He believed that he could persuade you to join us."

By that, I assumed that he meant Redstone.

His English was almost perfect, just as that face that Dr. Bennett had given him was almost perfect. But not quite.

"He was wrong. You see, I remember Kosta Resnick." The man who had led the assassination attempt against the Prince of Wales in that first inquiry case with Brodie.

"And Marie Nicola who was responsible for killing an innocent young woman," I added, the memory still painful. Mary Ryan, my housekeeper's daughter who was brutally murdered, and my sister might very well have been their next victim.

"So, you see, it was never possible to persuade me."

"Where is the Prime Minister?" Alex demanded.

Soropkin smiled, a gruesome expression given his now distorted face.

"You must know that your scheme has failed."

Again there was that slow smile, as if what Alex was telling him didn't matter.

He'd been caught and was now in police custody. His scheme had failed. Or had it? And I suddenly knew the reason he was smiling.

Redstone. He was still out there somewhere in the rabbit's warren of offices, meeting rooms, and passages in Westminster Hall. The question was— what was the rest of it?

"I have no hesitation shooting you," Alex then told Soropkin.

"And deny your people the satisfaction of seeing me hang?" the anarchist viciously replied. "It will never happen!"

"Where is the Prime Minister?" I demanded.

The confidence, the arrogance, the certainty, and that smile…

The sharp report of the revolver was deafening as Alex fired, and Soropkin dropped to the floor, screaming with pain as he clutched his left knee.

I stared at Alex, his expression most serious. He was most certainly full of surprises.

"You won't need that leg to stand up on the gallows," he coolly informed Soropkin as more curses filled the air.

"Or the other knee as well," Alex suggested. "Tell us, where is the Prime Minister?"

As expected, there was no answer. An anarchist to the end, I thought. However, a badly wounded knee would hinder any attempt to escape.

"Where is Redstone?" I then asked. I saw the faint look of surprise in those cold eyes at the realization that we knew a great deal more than he might have hoped.

"It's too late. You will never find him," Soropkin spat between teeth clenched at the pain.

Additional agents had arrived. Alex nodded in recognition. He explained what had happened.

"You need to find the Prime Minister. He's undoubtedly nearby." He paused. "If he's still alive, you need to get him to safety. And Soropkin…" he paused with a glance at the man at the officer's feet.

"He's wounded but make no mistake he is dangerous. He cannot be allowed to escape." His meaning was quite clear.

The hallway outside the office was in chaos as we left the office. A clerk accompanied by the police went door-to-door and announced to Parliament staff that there was an emergency and they were to leave immediately.

They left their offices en masse, some pausing to retrieve a coat or some personal item, then fled down the hallway toward the Central Hall.

We quickly followed and stepped into chaos as those hundreds of members of Parliament, staff, and guests who had returned after the ceremony now made their way toward the main exit and a handful of others that were now manned by the police and more of Sir Avery's people.

Alex held onto my arm or I might have been swept along as people pushed past us. I looked around and finally saw Mr. Conner.

"We have Soropkin," Alex informed him as he pushed his way toward us. "But we were unable to learn anything about Redstone and anything else they have planned."

"Where is Brodie?" I demanded.

Mr. Conner nodded grimly.

"He's gone after Redstone."