India Black And The Widow Of Windsor Part 15

French raised an eyebrow. "She looks more capable of tending to you at the moment." He touched my ribs gingerly. "Does that hurt?"

"Ouch! Stop that, you d.a.m.ned heathen."

"I believe you've cracked a rib." French probed carefully.

I winced, inhaling sharply. "Stop poking me. I'll be fine. And you need to get over there in the general melee and stop hovering over one of the servants."

"You need medical attention."

"I wouldn't have, except some well-meaning oaf poleaxed me when I wasn't expecting it."

French scowled. "That's the thanks I get for saving your life?"

I waved a hand, indicating our near surroundings. "I was twenty b.l.o.o.d.y feet from that block and tackle. There's no way it could have hit me."

French grunted. "Ungrateful wench. Rescue yourself next time." He pushed himself to his feet.

I don't know what possessed me. It must have been the effect of being flung about like a rat in a terrier's jaws and being deprived of oxygen for such a long time that the part of my brain that rendered me incapable of being nice to French had been damaged, but I reached up and caught his sleeve.

"French," I muttered, looking at his boots, "thank you."

He took my hand and pulled me to my feet. There was a ghost of a smile on his face.

"My pleasure, India." He trotted off in the direction of the Queen.

I tracked down the marchioness, who was haranguing one of the lesser n.o.bility, Lady Somebody or Other, who was weeping copiously and trembling like a frightened doe.

"Come on, la.s.s. Buck up. Show some of that English courage."

The girl continued to sob. The marchioness sighed in exasperation and gnawed her lip with one of her yellowed stumps.

"Are you well, m'lady?" I asked.

Her rheumy eyes gleamed dully. "Bit of a hullabaloo there. I thought the old girl had pegged it for sure, but that b.l.o.o.d.y man seems to have pushed her out of the way just in time."

"It doesn't look as though anyone has been hurt," I said.

"Not a scratch on any of us," said the marchioness. She looked contemptuously at the sniveling girl. "Although ye'd think someone had been smashed to bits, by the way this young b.o.o.by is carryin' on."

The marchioness rounded on me. "Where have ye been?" Her eyes narrowed. "Ye haven't been with the prince, have ye?"

"Of course not," I said, my dalliance with French in the loose box making me feel a bit guilty and, consequently, snappish. I mean, I know Bertie is a bounder of the first rank, but would he really use the opportunity afforded by his mother's near-fatal accident to drag a maid off into the nearest stall for a bit of the rumpo? Doubtless the fellow had other things on his mind at the time, such as just how close he'd come to laying hands on the crown and getting out from under Her Highness's thumb. The prince did look a bit disappointed, I thought, stroking his beard regretfully while John Brown petted his mama and the guests milled about.

The marchioness slipped her arm through mine. "I need a cup of tea, Irene. Take me back to the house. I wonder if this will delay luncheon?" she mused as we wound our way through the splintered timbers and around the block and tackle, now smashed to bits on the stable floor. We had nearly reached the door when the young lady the marchioness had been chiding issued a scream that would have made the witches of Macbeth envious. I whirled round in time to see Vincent stagger out of one of the stalls, his face pinched and white, his hand to the back of his head. French ran to meet him, and the little fellow made it as far as French's arms before he collapsed. French cupped Vincent's head tenderly, frowned, then examined his palm. Even from where I stood, I could see that it was covered with blood.

NINE.

"Course," Vincent said through a mouthful of cake,'C" 'twasn't about to tell anyone wot really'appened to me. I figured it 'twas better just to say I'd fallen out o' the loft and let 'em think I was a hidiot, than say I'd been bashed on the 'ead and halert the ha.s.sa.s.sins."

"Except that presumably the a.s.sa.s.sins are already on the alert, given that someone felt compelled to put a dent in your skull." I helped myself to some of the cake before it all disappeared down Vincent's gullet.

French, Vincent and I had repaired to the stone cottage before tea, the frightening accident in the stables having sent the Queen and her guests off to their rooms with cold compresses for a collective lie-down. The Queen had managed to choke down enough luncheon for a family of four before submitting to her attendants' demands that she retire to her room and rest. I know, for I was there, seeing that the marchioness didn't inhale anything she shouldn't. My employer did me proud, however, forging with abandon through the courses but otherwise behaving herself. After luncheon, I put her down for a nap and escaped to the hut.

"Tell us again how it happened," said French.

"I was followin' Archie, just like you told me," Vincent obliged. "'E went 'round the corner of the stables and I 'urried after 'im, peekin' round to see where 'e'd got to. I saw 'im climbin' up a ladder to the loft. 'E went inside and I clumb up after 'im." He found a stray raisin on the table and put it daintily into his mouth. "When I got up there, Archie 'ad disappeared. I snuck round the place for a while but couldn't see n.o.body. Then I 'eard voices and right then, I 'eard a noise over by the block and tackle. I crept over there, quiet as a mouse, but there was no one about. I was lookin' down at the Queen through that there openin', and the next thing I know, I'm wakin' up in one of the stalls, my 'ead poundin' like I'd been drinkin' that swill Ned Palmer at the Helephant and Castle calls gin."

Vincent's wound had been cleaned and bandaged by Doctor Jenner, and he'd changed out of his b.l.o.o.d.y coat into a clean one. He looked rather cheerful, considering he'd been tomahawked and thrown into a stall down one of the shafts used to toss fodder to the horses.

French was turning a bun in his hands, staring absently at the wall. "It could be coincidence."

"First the poisoned cocoa, and now the accident with the block and tackle?" I snorted. "I think it unlikely under the circ.u.mstances."

"If the chocolate was poisoned," interjected Vincent. "Wot's ole Robshaw got to say about that?"

"Nothing yet. The tests at the laboratory aren't complete."

"Wish that bloomin' cove would get a move on," Vincent grumbled. "Wot's 'e waitin' on, anyway?"

French shrugged, shredding the bun into tiny pieces, which he dropped onto the table. "Suppose the incidents did not occur by happenstance. Does that strike anyone as odd?"

I hate it when French plays the b.l.o.o.d.y schoolmaster, as though we were all back at Eton, studying the cla.s.sics. I thought for a bit. There was something unusual about the episodes involving the Queen.

"Neither seems to have been a serious attempt to kill her," I said. "If you planned to poison someone, wouldn't you make sure there was enough of the stuff in the drink to do the job? And as for the block and tackle, well, it made enough noise to wake the dead when it fell over. Even someone as immobile as the Queen would have plenty of time to get out of the way. If the nationalists do have someone in the castle, why haven't they done as they've threatened and carked Her Highness by now?"

"Yeah," agreed Vincent. "'Ow come the ha.s.sa.s.sin ain't shot 'er or stabbed 'er? 'Ow come 'e's p.u.s.s.yfootin' about?"

"Good question, Vincent. The nationalists made it clear they intended to kill the Queen," said French. "We've a.s.sumed that meant a very public act, one in which the a.s.sa.s.sin himself might die, as a means of making a political statement."

"Instead, the attacks on Her Highness have been the kind in which the killer remains anonymous. Obviously, he wants to remain alive and undetected." I ate some cake and ruminated over a few things. "If these really were attempts on her life, the perpetrators are b.l.o.o.d.y clumsy, or the deeds weren't meant to be taken seriously."

"The nationalists' idea of macabre fun? Frighten Her Highness to death instead of killing her outright? If that's the idea, it hasn't been successful." French gathered his crumbs from the table and wadded them in his handkerchief for disposal. "The Queen refuses to countenance the 'absurd notion,' as she describes it, that anyone is trying to a.s.sa.s.sinate her here at Balmoral. She has complete trust in her servants and guests. Dizzy is about to pull out his hair. He's begged Her Highness to return to London, but she says to do so would contravene dear Albert's wish, and she refuses to go."

"So we have two incidents, which might be accidents or warning shots across the bow or actual attempts on the Queen's life. Which do you think it is, French?"

"The block an' tackle fallin' 'tweren't no haccident," said Vincent, "not with me gettin' clobbered on the noggin like that."

I had to admit he had a point. "So we eliminate the idea that the Queen has had a run of bad luck lately. Is the Marischal trying to put the wind up Her Highness's sails?" I adopted my best Scottish brogue: "Here we are, Your Majesty. We can come for you anytime we want, so we're having a bit of fun, watching you and your advisors squirm about like insects in a jar."

"Except," said French, "as I have already pointed out, she's not squirming."

"Dizzy is. And I'll bet Robshaw's not sleeping well at night. Have you spoken to him?"

"I see him every day, and I spoke to him after the affair in the stables this morning. He believes they were genuine attempts on the Queen's life. But it's his job to protect her, and hence you would expect the man to treat these occurrences as authentic."

"We were told the Marischal was intelligent and forceful, and the Sons of Arbroath were a dangerous organization," I said. "Is Robshaw's intelligence wrong? Are we dealing with a group of b.u.mbling clowns?"

"You may be correct, India," said French, which shocked me so much I choked on a bite of cake.

Vincent shot to his feet, overturning his chair, and gave me a thump on the back. "Ya want to watch them raisins. You can swaller one down the wrong 'ole and kill yourself."

I thanked him for his concern. Between French's exuberant rescue in the stable and Vincent's boisterous heroics just now, I was not going to be fighting fit in the morning. My ribs ached, and my spine felt as though Thor had been playing the scales on it.

a.s.sured that I would live, French resumed his professorial air. "I believe you were right when you said the killer wants to commit the deed and escape, er, scot-free, as the saying goes. There would be tremendous publicity value in killing the Queen and evading capture. Just think of the effect on government officials and politicians. They'd be terrified that they might be the next victims. The Sons of Arbroath could create a climate of fear that sweeps the land, and engender contempt for the government for failing to catch the Queen's killer."

Vincent nodded sagely, as if he discussed the effect of political a.s.sa.s.sinations on public opinion on a regular basis. "That ole Marischal would be pleased as punch if 'e could stir up people like that. 'E'd be a legend."

"Thereby attracting more supporters to his cause," I said briskly. "Now that we've figured out these were real attempts on the Queen's life and that the Marischal is behind them, let's deal with the most important issue: who is he?"

"Robshaw has not turned up any evidence that Vicker, Red Hector, Skene or Munro have any affiliations with the Sons of Arbroath," said French. "He finally heard from London this morning."

"You're joking," I cried. "I found nationalist tracts in Munro's room. Why would he keep them if he didn't have an interest in them? Robshaw's agents must be incompetent."

"Or perhaps they've found nothing because there's nothing to find. Someone might have given the tracts to Munro, and he's thrown them in the drawer and forgotten about them."

I sniffed. Munro didn't strike me as being too lazy to ball up a political leaflet and toss it in the trash. He must have kept it for a reason.

"I recognize that stubborn look, India. I'm not saying that Munro isn't a member of the Sons of Arbroath, only that Robshaw hasn't turned up any evidence that he is. There may be an innocent explanation for the pamphlets in the drawer."

"What about the revolver in Robbie's room? I still think we should keep an eye on him."

"I agree."

"And"-I looked at French-"if you were paying attention at the concert last evening, you'll remember that one of the verses of Burns's song that Red Hector sang is printed on the leaflet I found in Munro's drawer. You know the verse: 'Lay the proud usurpers low,'"I began.

"Yes, I recognize the verse, and it had not escaped my notice that both Munro and Red Hector are acquainted with it. But then, I would expect most of the population of Scotland to be, as fond as the Scots are of Robert Burns."

"That's true," I admitted. "Even the marchioness likes that ditty."

"Well, then," said Vincent (he'd consumed the last of the cake and was getting bored), "which one of them fellers is it?"

"The Marischal is reputed to be eloquent and charismatic," I said, recalling our briefing from Dizzy. "I should think that would eliminate Vicker and Skene. From what I've seen of them, I don't think either of them could inspire a thirsty horse to drink water. Vicker has the lineage and connections of a Scottish patriot, at least on his mother's side of the family, but he hardly has an air of command about him. Half the time he looks as though he'd faint if you said 'boo' to him. What do you think of Skene as our villain, Vincent?"

"'E's a nice feller, if you can keep 'im off the subject o' John Brown, but I don't think 'e's a natcherall leader, if you know wot I mean."

"Red Hector?" I asked French.

He shrugged. "He can gas on for hours about the evils of English rule and the plight of the Scots, but he's usually in his cups when he does so. He had a perfect opportunity to pull a pistol out of his belt or the sgian dubh from his stocking and go for the Queen last night, but he sang instead." His brow wrinkled. "I suppose I can see a group of inebriated Scotsmen following Red Hector to the nearest pub, but not to gaol, and certainly not to the gallows."

"'E's a blow'ard," Vincent piped up. "'Is stable boy says that all'e does is drink and talk, drink and talk, and when 'e gets tired of that, 'e takes out 'is whip and lays into the 'elp."

"That leaves Robbie Munro," I said. "Who looks like a leader, with that square jaw and handsome physique."

Both Vincent and French swiveled to look at me.

"What? I'm only saying that Munro cuts a fine figure. He has a soldierly look about him. I daresay he'd look a treat in a military uniform."

I could see that French was not even attempting to visualize this image.

"And on that basis, you think he is the Marischal?" Did I imagine that French's voice was the teeniest bit chilly?

"Don't be ridiculous. I was just pointing out that of the four men we suspect, Munro most looks the part. But I do not think we can discount any of them, except perhaps Skene. As a groom, he would have had a more difficult time than a guest or house servant in gaining access to the castle to poison the Queen's cocoa."

"The same theory applies to Vicker or Robbie Munro with respect to the stables; they'd have looked like fish out of water out there. Someone would surely have noticed the deputy master of the household or a footman fiddling about with the block and tackle." French's voice was still flinty.

"They could all be in league together. I have seen Skene with Munro." I related my tale of the meeting between the two men outside the stables. There was a lengthy silence as we all contemplated this possibility.

Vincent brushed the crumbs from his jacket and burped loudly.

"Pardon me," he said, "but hit seems to me that we ain't any closer to findin' this 'ere ha.s.sa.s.sin than we were when we rolled in'ere. Wot're we gonna do next?"

"We continue as before. Keep watch on the suspects, and alert each other if something unusual occurs," French said with authority, but even he seemed a bit downcast at our inability to lay hands on the Marischal. All it would take was one more "accident," and the whole lot of us might be going back to London in disgrace, not to mention that we'd be accompanying the Queen in her coffin. It was a glum prospect indeed.

Our meeting broke up then. As we were putting on our coats, I pulled Vincent to one side. "Haven't you got something for me?"

He grinned. "Aye. 'Ow much will you give me for hit?"

Cheeky sod. "I expect you carried off enough stuff to flog in London that you'll be living like a king when we get back there. Now, give it to me."

"You ain't payin'?"

"It would serve you right if Superintendent Robshaw got an anonymous tip to search the stables," I hissed.

"Oy," said Vincent, feigning terror, "I'll 'and it over, India. Promise me you won't rat me out." He extracted a bundle from his pocket, and I slipped it into mine.

French caught the motion from the corner of his eye and opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it.

That evening I brought the marchioness a cup of warm milk. The old dear grumbled a bit as she preferred her usual dram of whisky, but as I'd laced the cup with brandy, she greedily sucked it down and smacked her lips once she'd tasted it, pointing at the Bible and asking me to find a pa.s.sage or two I thought might be appropriate for the evening. I selected something from the New Testament (the Apostles are so much more uplifting that those wild-eyed prophets from the Old). I'd read only a few verses when I looked up to see my employer's eyes closing and her head bobbing on the pillow. I shut the Good Book, pulled the bedclothes up to the marchioness's chin and blew out the candle. I smiled in antic.i.p.ation as I shut the door to her room. I hadn't had a decent night's sleep in ages, but I would tonight. In addition to the brandy, I had added several drops of laudanum to the marchioness's milk, courtesy of Vincent, who'd lifted the drug for me from the chemist's shop in the village.

It certainly hadn't been my idea for the lad to clean out the place; all I'd wanted was the laudanum. Vincent, however, was a disciple of the temple that believed that the trouble with resisting temptation is that it might never come your way again. He also had an eye for the main chance and a nose for profit that would have done a Rothschild proud. I'd no doubt that stashed under Vincent's cot in the stables was a sack stuffed with enough morphine, laudanum and chloral hydrate to render the entire population of Edinburgh unconscious. Vincent could have any price he asked in London. I can't say that I blame the boy for taking the lot and selling it, as there didn't appear to be any benefactors lining up to help the little b.u.g.g.e.r off the streets.

I, therefore, went off to dreamland with a clear conscience. Between sleuthing during the day, babysitting the marchioness at every meal, and renewing my acquaintance with Holy Writ into the wee hours of the morning, I was fair knackered. I fell into bed like a toppled oak, prepared to sleep the sleep of the righteous (and I'll thank you not to point out that my claim to such status is dubious).

The sound of someone hammering on the door woke me. I shot upright, head spinning. My first thought was that I had perhaps overestimated the amount of laudanum necessary to render an ancient crone unconscious and had inadvertently killed the marchioness. That would look bad on the old curriculum vitae, not to mention being a criminal offense. Then the voice at the door penetrated the fog in my brain.

"Miss Black, Mr. French has summoned you."

Even through the thick wood I could hear the disapproval in the words. I stumbled to the door and opened it to find a footman named Grant (or MacBeath or Macdonald-who remembers or indeed cares?), one of the elder statesmen among the crowd of servants employed at Balmoral. He was an evangelical Kirk o' Scotland man-I could tell by the sour frown on his face and the disgust with which he informed me that a male guest of the Queen had requested my presence in his room. I could have informed him that French leaned toward the lesser offenses of blackmail, conceit and the odd white lie in the service of duty but had little interest in the sins of the flesh (at least to my knowledge, which, admittedly, was minimal in this area, French being as loathe to talk about his background as I was). I yawned in the footman's face and informed him that I could find my own way to French's room, which scandalized the fellow even more. He went away with his handlebar quivering, grumbling about Jezebel, Sodom and Gomorrah, and the morals of the aristocracy.

Flora was as still as a mouse under her covers, and I took care not to wake her. I found my traveling clothes and slipped them on in the dark, then took my coat and scarf from the wardrobe, and carrying my boots in my hand, slipped out the door. I felt my way to the servants' stairs and lit the candle, s.h.i.+elding the flame with my hand. I sat on the top step to lace up my boots and then hurried through the silent corridors. The coat and scarf were a precautionary measure; the last time I'd shared an escapade with French, we'd spent a fair bit of time freezing off our fingers in a blizzard.