Victoria appeared from inside the palace, attended by her son Leo and Brown. John Brown lifted the queen in his arms up and into the brougham, then climbed in after Leo. Byrne stepped back into the shadows and waited until the carriage had moved away down the drive toward the gate.
Byrne turned and rushed through the palace doors the queen had just left. Less than a hundred yards down the hall he reached the first of the royal offices. One of the queen’s secretaries sat at his desk, just outside her private inner-office.
Byrne stopped and smiled at the man. “I hope I haven’t kept Her Royal Majesty waiting.” He smiled apologetically at the man.
The secretary squinted at him, looking confused. “Oh dear.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve just missed her, Mr. Byrne. She only now left here for her carriage. Brown is riding with her though, so you needn’t worry.”
Byrne shook his head in mock consternation. “She told me she needed my report by this morning, as early as possible.” He did his best to sound panicky. “You don’t suppose you could flag her down before they get out the gate, do you?”
The secretary was already up and out of his seat. “It must have slipped her mind to tell me you’d be here. I don’t even have it on her calendar. She’s doing that more and more often these days. Forgetting things, not keeping me informed. I’m so sorry.” He rushed out the door, his words trailing after him. “Wait right there, sir.”
Not bloody likely.
Byrne spun toward the closed door leading to the queen’s private office. He tried the knob. It turned; not locked.
Byrne let himself in.
He crossed the room that had become familiar to him over the months he’d been detailed to the palace as a member of the queen’s Secret Service. Although he’d seen a range of file cabinets across one wall of the outer office, he suspected that anything as delicate as the queen’s personal medical records would be kept by her alone, away from the prying eyes of clerical help.
He bypassed the double desks facing each other in the middle of the room. Neither had collected a speck of dust although one hadn’t been used in all of the years since Prince Albert’s death. Victoria insisted on her husband’s blotter, inkwell, writing instruments, and framed portrait of her remaining on his desk, just as they’d been while he was alive and they’d worked here together.
Sure he’d noticed a file cabinet somewhere in the room, Byrne looked around. And there it was. Between the two tall windows, a small three-drawer mahogany chest. He squatted in front of it and pulled at the top drawer. It was locked, as were the two beneath it.
Byrne drew a slim leather wallet from his inside coat pocket. It held assorted fine-tipped metal picks. He selected one. Thirty seconds later, he was into the first drawer, flipping through neatly labeled file folders A-G. He moved to the second drawer on the theory that M for Medical should be there. It was.
Shouts wafted up from the courtyard. The secretary, calling out to the sergeant at arms to stop the carriage. How many minutes before the secretary, or an angry queen, appeared at the door?
He grabbed for the folder marked Medical. His eyes skimmed dates at the top of pages, moving back through the years—1870, ’69, ’68, ’67. He slowed down. Nothing in any of them about Louise or any of the other children. In fact, there wasn’t a word on any of the pages about anyone in the family but Victoria. Frustrated, he knew the most he now could hope for was the name of the doctor who had delivered the queen’s children. Did a gynecologist do that? He didn’t know.
Beatrice was the last of the babies in the royal family, and she was now fourteen. He looked in the appropriate year, found Victoria giving birth on 14 April 1857, at Buckingham Palace.
And there it was. The baby was delivered by a Dr. Charles Locock.
Locock. The name hit him with the impact of John Brown’s fist. He didn’t even have to stop to think about why it sounded familiar.
Was it mere coincidence that Louise’s friend Amanda had married a Henry Locock?
He fumbled the pages back into order. Closed the file. Shoved it into its place. Shut and locked the drawer.
The sound of a door opening in the outer office sent him rocketing from a crouch to his feet. Footsteps approached. Hesitated. “Mis-ter Byrne?” came