M. Drakovics bowed. “Very possibly, milord. Having saturated the woodwork behind the screen of the sanctuary with the oil, she would arrange a slow match which would not come in contact with it for some hours, and would then take her departure, provided with a book of gold-leaf to deceive the guard. The master of the household, looking in from the doorway, would notice nothing, and would lock the door and take away the key, leaving the match to do its work.”
“But why may not the culprit be the woman she gave herself out to be?” asked Caerleon.
“Because, your Majesty, the woman’s son and the other members of her family are all able to swear that from nine to ten o’clock, the hour at which the incendiary did her work, Nicola Stanovics’s mother was engaged in a violent quarrel with her daughter-in-law, who had left her infant at home while she went out to see the illuminations. The old woman met her at the door as she returned, and their dispute almost ended in blows. Moreover, the guard, when confronted with Marynia Stanovics, declared without hesitation that she was not the woman whom they had admitted.”
“Well, that seems to clear the old lady, at any rate,” said Caerleon. “Your work has been most successful in a negative direction. Have you any positive clue to go upon?”
It did not appear that M. Drakovics as yet possessed anything of the kind, although he was willing to detail the various theories which had been formed on the subject, but Cyril did not listen. His mind was occupied with a hypothesis of his own, the foundation fact of which was Madame O’Malachy’s headache of the evening before. Again and again he went through the details, for his suspicions at first seemed preposterous, but the more he thought over the matter, the more likely did it appear that Madame O’Malachy had slipped out of doors in disguise, carrying with her the necessary supply of petroleum, and successfully effected the firing of the chapel. His visit to the hotel with Caerleon had given him the means of reaching this conclusion, inasmuch as if they had not happened to call no one would have known that Madame O’Malachy was not spending the evening hours in the society of her family. The plot must have been maturing for some time, since both the disguise and the petroleum would be difficult to procure in Bellaviste without exciting suspicion, and it could not be doubted that its object was to delay the coronation,—although whether the lady had done her work in pursuance of orders from her Scythian employers, or with an eye to her daughter’s future, Cyril found himself unable to determine. It was not difficult to guess that she was playing a double game, and that whereas she had been commissioned to use every possible means to prevent Caerleon’s ascending the Thracian throne, she was not unwilling to assist him in establishing himself there, provided that her daughter shared his elevation. To pursue at the same time two lines of policy so diametrically opposed to one another might well need almost superhuman skill, and it appeared evident to Cyril that for the sake of placing her good faith to her employers beyond suspicion, Madame O’Malachy had taken a step so desperate that it bade fair to ruin her private schemes. Had he but overheard his brother’s parting conversation with her at Witska, he might have discovered that she had not yet found the problem of serving two masters an insoluble one. In spite of his ignorance of this factor in the case, however, he was filled with a lively admiration for both her resolution and her daring.
“What an actress the woman must be!” he said to himself. “What pluck, what nerve she has! But this sort of thing won’t do. She will think nothing of dynamiting us before long, if this is the way she begins. We shall be obliged to take a hostage from her. She doesn’t care a scrap for the girl; but if Louis, for whom she does seem to have a little natural affection, were safely installed here, she would think twice before blowing us up. I must get that settled.”
“There is one thing that makes me feel less regret than I should otherwise have done for the postponement of the coronation,” M. Drakovics was saying. “I have received this morning a despatch in cipher from my agent at Czarigrad, saying that he finds the Roumi Government far more favourably disposed towards Thracia and your Majesty than we could have dared to hope. He has even received a hint from a very high quarter to the effect that if we could put off the coronation for a certain length of time, so as to avoid anything that might have the appearance of a desire to force the hand of the Grand Signior, our right as a nation to choose our own sovereign would before very long be recognised. That would strengthen our position in Europe enormously. If Roum recognises us, Scythia can do little.”
“But Scythia will in the meantime bring pressure on Roum to refuse to recognise us,” said Cyril. “Surely you are losing a great opportunity for the chance of grasping at a shadow. Is it decided that the coronation shall be postponed?”
“What else can we do?” asked M. Drakovics. “The King must be crowned in St Peter’s chapel, and with the crown of Alexander the Patriot. The chapel is in ruins, the crown a mere lump of metal, and both must be restored before they can be used.”
“But this is madness!” cried Cyril. “Do you intend to wait for the chapel to be rebuilt? It will probably take months. After all, when it is restored, it won’t be the old chapel, so why not have the coronation somewhere else at once?”