An Uncrowned King: A Romance of High Politics

by Sydney C. Grier

His eye had caught a faint glimmer in the eastern windows of St Peter’s chapel, which could hardly be the effect of moonlight, and as he lay down he congratulated himself that he was not obliged to work all through the night at putting up decorations. For an hour or so he slept the sleep of the weary; then he was aroused by shouts and cries pealing through the palace.

“Another revolution!” was his first thought, as he jumped out of bed and groped for his revolver; but as soon as he threw back the window-curtains, a flood of light poured into the room. The chapel of St Peter was blazing furiously, and the courtyard was full of guards and servants, some staring stupidly at the flames, others tumbling over one another in eager but ineffectual efforts to take measures for stopping the fire.

“Put on some clothes and come out, Cyril,” said Caerleon’s voice at the door. “Those idiots there haven’t an idea what to do.”

Hastily obeying, Cyril found himself placed at the head of a band of water-carriers, while Caerleon took his stand close to the burning pile, and directed the throwing of the water as the buckets were passed from hand to hand. There were proper appliances all over the palace for use in case of an outbreak of fire, but the buckets were rusted into holes and the hoses were leaky; and if Wright had not organised from among the onlookers a force to fetch pails from the stables, it would have been impossible to procure a sufficient quantity of water. Even as it was, the flames were not finally vanquished until the roof and walls of the building had fallen in, and the morning light showed only a heap of smoking ruins. St Peter’s chapel was a total wreck, and the crown and other regalia of Thracia were buried under the débris.

When the fire had been practically extinguished, Cyril returned to his room, but not to sleep, for his mind was occupied with a very pertinent question,—What was the cause of the conflagration? To most of the household at the palace, the answer appeared obvious. Of course the men at work in the chapel must have dropped some sparks on the woodwork or the draperies, or have left a candle burning close to them. The sentry at the door had noticed nothing until his comrade at the opposite side of the courtyard, who could see the windows, had remarked that the workmen must be burning candles enough to light the whole of Thracia. Astonished to hear this, since he knew that all the workmen had gone home some hours before, the sentry had at once alarmed the guard, and the officer in charge procured the chapel key and opened the door. The place was already a mass of flame within, and the fire gained additional strength immediately, owing to the rush of air from the doorway, and burst forth from the windows. The guard raised the alarm at once, but nothing effectual had been done to extinguish the flames until Caerleon took command of the amateur firemen, and his help came too late to be of service. Over all these details Cyril pondered as he lay in bed. It seemed to him almost impossible that the fire should have been accidental, for its sudden outbreak and great strength alike appeared to point to its having been caused intentionally. Moreover, the time at which it occurred was a most fortunate one for the Scythian party in the State, for it was certain that the coronation must now be postponed, if only for a day. But if the conflagration were the result of a plot, where was the incendiary to be sought? Was he a traitor in the household, or a Scythian emissary who had passed himself off as one of the workmen? Cyril went down-stairs in the morning with his mind full of questions of this nature, and in the breakfast-room he found M. Drakovics, who was overflowing with the information he had already gained.

Immediately on hearing of the fire, the Premier had sent to arrest forthwith all the workmen who had been employed on the decoration of the chapel; and they had already been interrogated, with the result that it seemed certain that none of their number was the culprit. The antecedents of all of them were well known and satisfactory, and the contractor was able to show that he had purposely employed none but strong Carlinists on the work. The men were certain that they had left no lights behind them in the chapel, with the exception of the lamps always kept burning before the sacred pictures, and they venerated the place far too highly to smoke there, so that the question of sparks was disposed of.

“Now,” said M. Drakovics, triumphantly, “we have proved who did not cause the fire; but beyond that, I am in a position to inform your Majesty that the miscreant was undoubtedly an emissary of Scythia, and was either a woman or a man in women’s clothes.”

“If you can prove that already, your police must beat ours hollow,” said Caerleon. “Let us hear about it.”

“In the first place, your Majesty, I have been examining the ruins, with the aid of a detachment of sappers. We were searching for the crown jewels—which are now, alas! shapeless lumps of metal, their precious stones for the most part calcined—and we found distinct traces of petroleum in more than one spot. Does not that fact speak for itself? Petroleum is never used in lighting the chapel, and it is a favourite weapon of incendiaries. Upon making this discovery, I proceeded to interrogate the guard, who were all under arrest. Those who were posted at the gates last night were unanimous in declaring that no unauthorised person had passed in after the workmen had departed, with the exception of one woman, who said that she was the mother of one of the decorators employed, and that her son had left behind him his book of gold-leaf, which she had come to fetch. The sentries describe her as very old and bent, but with piercing dark eyes,—and wearing the dress of the respectable artisan class. The acting master of the household had not yet locked the chapel doors, and the woman was therefore allowed to go in and look for the book, which took her some time to find. She came out with it in her hand, and the door was immediately locked. The theory is that she carried in with her a supply of petroleum in a can——”

“Or perhaps in bladders hung round her waist, as brandy used to be smuggled into England,” put in Cyril, who had been following the details with much interest.