India Black And The Widow Of Windsor Part 18

We swung away from each other, and the next time she glided past she gave me a meaningful glance.

"Don't spoil my chances, India. I loaned you that dress, remember?"

"Don't worry yourself, Flora. You can have him next, as long as you hand over Robbie."

What better way to keep an eye on the lad than holding his hand and laughing up into his eyes? His red gold curls and handsome knees were merely icing on the cake.

We did switch out on the next dance ("The Rakes of Auld Reekie," if I recall correctly), with Flora and I changing partners so deftly the two men looked surprised to find themselves in another woman's arms. I had thought French a distracted partner, but Robbie was worse. We whirled and jigged and stepped our way through dance after dance, but the footman never once looked at me. His eyes were constantly active, and he was as twitchy as a stag on the first day of the hunting season. Naturally, this made me suspicious, as he did seem to be the leading contender for the role of Marischal, but curiously, his attention seemed to be everywhere but upon the Queen, who had retired to the chair on the dais and was now fanning herself energetically, while Brown looked on with a lofty air.

After a blistering rendition of the "The White c.o.c.kade," the band finally cried off, pleading for drink, and Robbie bowed shortly and hurried away through the crowd. I followed him just long enough to see him safely ensconced at a table with some of the other servants, sinking a gla.s.s of the Scottish national drink. I refreshed myself with some of the same and was pleased to combine business with pleasure as Vicker had taken up residence behind the table containing the liquor (to ensure that none of the servants made an a.s.s of himself, I suppose), and I could watch the man while I sipped my whisky.

The dance floor had cleared, and now four of the ghillies marched into the center from the four corners of the room. They were strapping coves, with broad shoulders and st.u.r.dy legs beneath their kilts, and each carried a sword. Silence descended upon the merrymakers. The men faced one another, holding their weapons before them with the blades extended upward. Slowly, they raised the swords to the roof beams, once, twice and yet a third time. Then they knelt as one and laid the swords on the floor so that the points touched.

Jock MacBeath had reclaimed me (by bringing me another drink, and who was I to turn him away, even if you would have to stay out of range of his ears in a high wind).

"The ghillie callum," he whispered.

"Eh?"

"The Scottish sword dance. Have you ever seen it?"

I had not, but if all the performers were as grand-looking as those at Balmoral, I'd been missing something.

The band tuned their instruments, and at a nod from one of the ghillies on the floor, the piper commenced a slow, skirling tune. The kilted chaps simultaneously rose to their toes, then floated into the air and began to dance. I've seen some astonis.h.i.+ng performances in my life, including Ellen Terry the night she forgot her lines in She Stoops to Conquer, Fred Archer riding Spinaway to victory at Epsom Oaks and the war dances of the Zulus (more about that in a later volume), but I was knocked flat by those ghillies and their footwork. They capered about like young fawns, their feet barely touching their floor, kilts swaying and the muscles in their calves flexing, the sword blades twinkling in the candlelight, and the entire audience hardly daring to breathe as the dancers executed the intricate and ancient steps. Arms raised to the sky, skipping lightly among the blades and points, setting one foot down and now the other, they seemed to levitate above the swords. All the while the pipes droned, filling the ballroom with that eerie sound, at once resonant and electrifying.

When the chaps had finished, collecting their swords and bowing to the Queen, the place erupted. The audience clapped and shouted and whistled. Even I admit to an unladylike whoop, in response primarily to those extraordinary calves. Jock MacBeath was cheering like a mad man, his ears aflame. He gave me a wild grin, bursting with pride, and for the first time, I thought I might see some merit to being a Scottish patriot. We've plenty of tradition in England, but the Scottish brand will make your skin crawl, what with the blades and the pipes and the fine, strong men. Belatedly, I realized I had become caught up in the exhibition, and I spent a few anxious minutes tracking down my suspects. Vicker hadn't moved from his place behind the buffet tables; he was scowling at a stable boy who'd taken a rather too generous serving of boiled potatoes. To my relief, Munro had wandered over to the group that included Archie Skene and was now engrossed in a conversation with him. Vincent had edged close to the two men. He was gobbling a meat pie and pretending not to listen to Munro and Skene.

I thought I'd seen the zenith of entertainment, but I was proved wrong. As soon as the band members had refreshed themselves with hot punch and biscuits, they let fly with a savage tune that I thought would have the crowd on the dance floor in seconds. To my surprise, however, the only couple who stepped onto the floor was Her Majesty and John Brown.

"'Tis a hullachan," said Jock, who was clearly serving as my native guide to these strange rites.

It looked less like a dance than a skirmish. The Queen and Brown were hurling each other about with abandon. Her Highness's jowls were shaking like jelly, and she'd lost the tartan rosette she'd been wearing. Normally, she mooched about the castle like a sick dog, but here she was, leaping and cavorting like a spring lamb. Brown looked as blown as if he'd just completed the jog from Marathon to Athens, but he was giving it his best, prancing like a man half his age. The music ended (and a good thing it was, as I expected to see both the Queen and Brown keel over any moment), and the two bowed to each other and the crowd, the Queen a bit sheepishly, as if she'd done something unseemly, and Brown with all the natural arrogance of a barnyard rooster. There was a good deal of shouting and applause, and the Queen retired to her chair on the dais, flushed and perspiring.

The band (rascals, they were, as they wouldn't give us a moment's rest) began to play, and Jock MacBeath swung me out onto the dance floor again. That part of the evening is a blur, for we danced and danced and then danced some more, while my head swiveled constantly to keep Vicker and Munro in view. We danced to "The Dundee Whaler" and "The Westminster Reel," and then we slowed for a stately strathspey, to the tune of "The Wis.h.i.+ng Well." I wore my soles off to "The Das.h.i.+ng White Sergeant," "The Bees of Maggieknockater," "Lamb Skinnet," and "The Wee Cooper of Fife." Don't ask me the story behind the names; I barely had time to hear Jock's shouted t.i.tle to each song, and then we were away, galloping giddily around the boards while the bystanders stomped and cheered.

ELEVEN.

It must have been close on to one o'clock in the morning when the shot rang out. I had expected the Queen to have retired by then, but she was still on the dais, smiling at the shenanigans on the dance floor and leaning over to whisper into Brown's ear from time to time. It was one of those comments to Brown that saved her. She had inclined her head for a tender exchange when the bullet splintered the chair exactly where her head had rested not a second before. The music ended abruptly in a cacophony of screeches and groans, and the revelers stopped dead in their tracks. The sound of the shot echoed off the roof beams. Then some ninny screamed (there's always one woman in every crowd who demonstrates the truth of the phrase "the weaker s.e.x"), everyone began babbling, and suddenly, Lady Dalfad was on her feet, pointing at the minstrel's gallery and shouting, "Up there, on the balcony!"

I shoved Jock MacBeath and spun wildly, looking, concurrently, for French, Vincent, Skene, Munro and Red Hector. Skene was staring, gape-mouthed, at the balcony, his hand frozen in the act of raising his gla.s.s to his lips. Vincent had attached himself to the old duffer like a limpet. He caught my gaze and raised his chin, letting me know he had the situation well in hand. Vicker had left his post behind the buffet table and disappeared. I spent an anxious few minutes, my heart in my mouth, trying to spot the pale and harried deputy master of the household, but he was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Red Hector. Nor was Munro. d.a.m.n and blast.

French, tie askew and his black hair waving, shouldered his way through the crowd to me. He had to put his lips against my ear to make himself heard over the tumult.

"Lady Dalfad says a man appeared behind the musicians and fired a revolver at the Queen."

"Was she hit?"

"No, thank G.o.d. She had leaned over to gossip with Brown and the a.s.sa.s.sin missed." He was conning the room while he spoke.

"Munro?" he asked.

"Gone."

"Vicker?"

"Vanished."

He scowled. "d.a.m.n your eyes, India. You were supposed to keep them under surveillance."

That stung. "Where the h.e.l.l is Red Hector?"

"d.a.m.ned if I know."

Apparently, French seemed to think my lack of diligence was a fault, but his own indifference was nothing to worry about.

"I need to find Vincent."

"He's with Skene."

French gripped my arm. "Good. At least one of us is doing our job. Come with me."

We darted through the partygoers like a couple of London fingersmiths, dodging bearded coves and fainting maids, pus.h.i.+ng aside anyone in our path. Robshaw had blockaded the double doors into the ballroom and was roaring instructions to his men to escort the Queen and her guests to safety. A hefty chap in a hideous tweed suit hustled Dizzy out of sight; the PM looked displeased at being manhandled away from the action. Two more burly lads in billyc.o.c.ks and overcoats had the Queen between them and were dragging her along the floor, ignoring her protests.

French seized Robshaw's arm. "We must get through," he bellowed, and Robshaw waved us by.

We pelted down the hall toward the door that led to the balcony. It was open when we reached it, and French dashed up the stairs for a look, returning almost as soon as he'd gone. He shook his head, but, of course, neither of us expected to find anything there. Only a colossal idiot would have hung about to observe the reaction to his attempt on the Queen's life.

"Which way?" I asked.

French glanced to his right. "That hall leads out to the garden. Robshaw's men would have intercepted anyone pa.s.sing that way."

We turned left and thundered off between the rows of stag heads and paintings of dear departed Albert. I was the first to see the revolver on the floor.

"French," I cried, and pointed at the weapon.

But he had spotted a bigger prize. Ahead of us, Robbie Munro was sprinting down the pa.s.sageway.

Without slowing his pace, French swooped down and scooped up the revolver, shoving it into his pocket.

Now it's G.o.d's truth that if only women had upper-body strength, they'd rule the world. As it is, they have to be content with letting men posture like peac.o.c.ks and pretend to be in charge. However, I will admit that when it comes to things like chasing down a.s.sa.s.sins, chaps do have the advantage. French put on a burst of speed that left me panting in his wake. Hearing the footsteps of his pursuer, Munro peeked over his shoulder. I heard his exclamation when he saw French on his heels. The footman turned the corner, followed by French in hot pursuit.

I was constrained to follow at a more leisurely pace, having perhaps imbibed a wee bit more tarantula juice than was advisable for a woman of my size. There was a tremendous crash in the corridor ahead of me, and I rounded the corner to see Munro and French pummeling each other like two prizefighters, neither of whom had made the acquaintance of the Marquess of Queensberry. Munro's fingers were probing for French's eyes, and French had a knee lodged in Munro's groin. They rolled over, grunting like two Russian boars, and Munro took his hands from French's face long enough to wedge them under French's knee and remove that threat to his manhood. French put his palm under Munro's nose and shoved upward. The footman shrieked in pain and grasped a handful of French's hair, tugging vigorously. French yowled and shoved a thumb into Munro's windpipe. Munro gagged and let go of French's l.u.s.trous locks.

By now both men were winded and gasping for breath. Blood trickled from Munro's nose, and there was a knot on French's temple that threatened to turn nasty. The two circled warily, each looking for an opening. I sighed. This could go on forever. I'll swear two wh.o.r.es could have accomplished more in less time.

I picked up a Chinese vase from the nearest dresser and advanced on the men. Munro's eyes flickered in my direction as I marched up to them. That was just distraction enough for French to slip in and launch a savage blow to Munro's kidney. The footman collapsed, moaning piteously.

I hefted the vase over his head, ready to deliver the coup de grace.

Munro glared up at me. "I'm from the Yard, you b.l.o.o.d.y idiots," he spat. "I'm Robshaw's man."

I thought French was going to hit him again. "You work for Robshaw?" he demanded. "Why didn't he tell us you were one of his?"

Munro shrugged, grimacing.

I tugged at French's sleeve. "You can take as long as you like when you kill Robshaw, but at the moment, we've other things to do."

French nodded reluctantly. He addressed Munro. "Did you see who fired the shot?"

"Just some bloke running down the corridor in front of me," Munro said through clenched teeth. He pointed down the hall. "He's there somewhere. I lost sight of him, of course, when you saw fit to drag me down."

Vincent careered around the corner and drew up short at the sight of us. "Wot's all this?" he demanded. "'Ave you got the b.u.g.g.e.r, then?"

I explained (briefly, as I was still hoping we could move on to the task of chasing the real a.s.sa.s.sin).

"Wot the b.l.o.o.d.y 'ell are you playin' at, mate?" Vincent sputtered, inches from Munro's face.

"We'll settle scores later," I said to Vincent. "Now, we've got to find the man who fired the shot."

"What about Skene?" French asked.

"Drinkin' like a d.a.m.ned fish when the shot was fired. I was right there with'im. I didn't leave'is side all night."

"Right," said French grimly. "We need to find our other suspects. Vincent, see if you can locate Vicker. I'll find Robshaw"-he looked murderous when he uttered the superintendent's name-"and tell him to search the grounds, and then I'm off to track down Red Hector."

"I'll check the secret tunnel," I said, to French's back.

French turned on his heel, with a look of alarm. "Don't do that, India. Robshaw's men will seal off the exit, and if our quarry is there, he'll have to return to the house. We'll get him then."

"Oh, very well," I said grumpily, looking vexed that French had quashed my plan. Naturally, I had every intention of proceeding to the tunnel as soon as he was out of sight. He hesitated, no doubt perplexed by my capitulation. He's a suspicious b.a.s.t.a.r.d, is French, although in this case he was perfectly justified.

"Go on," I said, giving him a brisk shove. "We've got to find this fellow."

He waggled a finger at me. "Behave yourself, India."

I dutifully followed him back to the entry hall, where I waited until he had snagged Robshaw by the sleeve (with a bit more force than was strictly necessary to get the man's attention) and was engrossed in a conversation with the superintendent, then I sidled away and slipped up the stairs to the main corridor, where I raced off in the direction of French's room and the door to the secret pa.s.sage. I was moving at such pace that I nearly crashed into the couple tottering down the corridor toward me: a ponderous under butler escorting the marchioness to her room. The marchioness's hazy eyes focused, looking directly at me.

b.u.g.g.e.r.

She waved her cane at me. "Here, girl! Where have ye been?"

"No time to talk, my lady," I panted, and attempted to squeeze past.

The marchioness deftly inserted her cane between my legs, and I crashed to the floor, my face skidding across the Turkey carpet. I rolled against the wall and glared up at her, rubbing my bruised s.h.i.+n.

The marchioness looked at me accusingly. "Ye disappoint me, Idina."

It was hardly the time to listen to complaints about immoral behavior or indolence. "I took ye for a clever la.s.s, but I see ye've missed the point."

"The point?"

"Ye want to know who the Marischal is, don't ye? Ain't that why ye're here?"

"What do you know about the Marischal?" I jumped to my feet, rejuvenated by this unexpected news.

"More than ye, my girl. F'r instance, I'll bet ye're runnin' in circles right now, lookin' for the man who tried to shoot the Queen."

"I am. And I've no time to waste talking to you about it."

The marchioness cackled. "Suit yerself. But ye'd do well to remember the stories we've been readin' this past few days."

I am not a patient person, and the marchioness was trying what little quant.i.ty of that characteristic I possessed.

"Whatever you're trying to say, just say it. I can't wait around all night while you flap your gums."

The marchioness turned regally and put her hand on the under butler's arm. "Ye give it a think, while ye're harin' about the castle, lookin' for the man ye're after."

She lurched off down the hall. I shook my head and trotted off toward the tunnel, fuming and sputtering like a Catherine wheel. I had a wily Scottish nationalist to find, and the dotty old bird wanted me to cogitate about the Scriptures. And Rose O'Neal Greenhow. And how, by all that was holy, had the marchioness known about the Marischal? Despite my inclination to hurry, I found my pace slowing as my mind raced. What had she been trying to tell me? I'd been certain she had learned my true ident.i.ty and wanted me to know she knew, hence those stories about wh.o.r.es and deceitful women. As far as I knew (though there were no doubt some amateurs in the building), I was the sole professional at Balmoral. I certainly didn't consider myself the only liar in the pack; I was a dilettante in deceit, compared to all the b.l.o.o.d.y politicians on hand.

By now, of course, alert readers will have deduced the theme that the marchioness had been harping on since she'd instructed me to read to her for the first time. I can only plead a lack of mental clarity, brought about by an almost complete absence of sleep since arriving at the Queen's Highland home. But it came to me now, and I stopped dead in my tracks and slapped my forehead with my palm. Treachery and treason. All the ladies I'd been droning on about to the marchioness had betrayed someone or something: a lover, a city, a country. What the marchioness had been trying to tell me was that the Marischal was a woman. I thought I had detected some sarcasm when the marchioness had referred to the "man ye're after."

I actually smiled when I realized I was hunting one of my own s.e.x. There isn't a woman alive who frightens India Black. I've held my own on the streets of London, when another bint and I have gone toe-to-toe over a customer, clawing at each other like two cats. I've vanquished a half-dozen other madams intent on stealing my customers or my s.l.u.ts. And I've sparred for my life with that d.a.m.ned Russian agent, Oksana. When it comes to fighting another damsel, I'm hot pickles and ginger. I didn't care what kind of political fanatic the Marischal might be; she couldn't hold a candle to a wh.o.r.e when the chips were down. I bustled off cheerily, already antic.i.p.ating the surprise on French's face when I delivered one Scottish nationalist and failed a.s.sa.s.sin to his feet, trussed like a Christmas goose.

Two of Robshaw's men were in the hall, opening bedroom doors and darting in and out, searching for the Marischal. It would take hours to search every room in the castle, and by the time the job was done, our a.s.sa.s.sin could have doubled back and found a refuge in some part of the building already searched by Robshaw's men. This, however, was not my concern. I waited until the boys from the Yard had disappeared into one of the guest rooms and then flashed past the open door and around the corner. I might be on a wild-goose chase myself, but I was determined to search the secret pa.s.sage. Call it woman's intuition (or, in retrospect, sheer bad luck).

The bare-legged Scots on the tapestry were swaying gently when I arrived. I slipped my hand behind the wall hanging and felt a gentle breeze, as cold as the Thames in January. I groped for the stone that triggered the locking mechanism. The door swung inward, and I craned my neck around the opening. A soft yellow glow filled the tunnel. I tamped down the excitement rising in my breast; the bearer of the light could easily be one of Robshaw's men, for surely the superintendent knew of the tunnel. Still, with luck, I might lay hands on the Marischal.

I was halfway through the door before it occurred to me that I needed my own light, so as not to be left stranded in the dark again. More important, I needed a weapon. I s.n.a.t.c.hed a candle from one of the half-dozen candelabras scattered on chests up and down the hall, and rummaged through a half dozen of those before I found a box of matches. The weapon proved easier to find. I had only to take a few steps to find myself in front of one of the numerous martial displays that dotted the castle walls. I scanned the board swiftly. The great two-handed claymore caught my eye, if for no other reason than it looked intimidating as h.e.l.l. Unfortunately, wielding it effectively would require the strength of Hercules, which I did not possess. I took down a sgian dubh, weighing it in my hand. I could certainly handle this, but I'd have to move in close to the Marischal to use it, and I didn't fancy that notion. I tossed the little weapon to the floor, wis.h.i.+ng fervently as I did so that I had been allowed to bring my Webley Bulldog along. It looked as though the a.s.sa.s.sin had discarded her revolver in the hall, but that didn't mean she didn't have another. If the Marischal had a revolver, I would be wandering the Elysian fields before dawn, and it would be just my luck to b.u.mp into dear departed Albert there and have to natter with the poor soul about Vicky and Bertie and all the rest. Well, there was no use standing here all night, dithering about which edged weapon would best protect me from a bullet. I s.n.a.t.c.hed a Scottish broadsword from the wall, waggled it experimentally and took some solace from the comforting sound of the double-edged blade swis.h.i.+ng through the air. Then I plunged into the tunnel.

The glimmer of light could still be seen, though it had receded some distance into the pa.s.sage. I didn't bother to light my own candle, not wanting to give myself away to my prey, so I edged forward cautiously, scarcely breathing. It was tedious work, following that murky gleam down the stone-walled corridor, and it seemed to take forever. I occupied my mind by imagining the various scenarios that might occur and calculating how best to ambush the woman in the limited confines of the tunnel. It was deuced cold in the pa.s.sage at this time of night, and my teeth began to chatter like castanets. I clamped my jaws together and hurried stealthily onward. The sooner I ran the Marischal to ground, the sooner I could have a stiff drink and crawl into a warm bed. Perhaps if I captured the Marischal, I'd receive an appropriate reward: six pieces of coal instead of three.

The conclusion of the chase came sooner than I had expected. The pale golden gleam of the light ceased moving, flickering over the walls of the small room I'd found in my earlier exploration of the tunnel. I sucked in a breath and glided forward. I moved as silently as a Red Indian, albeit one wearing a silk ball gown, the rustling of which sounded like a typhoon approaching. Too late, I remembered my earlier vow (made while hunting those d.a.m.ned Russian agents) to acquire a pair of trousers for use in chasing spies, hand-to-hand combat and similar pursuits. But luckily for me, the figure I now saw was too preoccupied to hear the whispery fluttering of my skirts.

A slender form stood before me, dressed in tartan trews and a short, dark jacket, a Balmoral cap perched on its head. A black woolen cloak lay discarded on the floor. The figure bent over, rapidly untying the laces of a pair of stout boots. I was tempted to retreat, find the marchioness and bash her over the head with the b.u.t.t of my broadsword. I'd been expecting to find a woman; now I'd have to take my chances with a member of the male s.e.x, who looked lithe and fit as a champion hurdler. The sensible thing would be to silently retrace my steps and summon help, but I find it infernally difficult to do the sensible thing when my blood is up, as it was now. I could hear French's posh voice in my ear, telling me not to be rash, but I shut it out. I had two things going for me: the element of surprise and an aversion to fighting fair.

"The Marischal, I presume?" To my relief, my voice was steady.

The figure spun to face me, mouth agape. A mouth shaped like a rosebud.

Good Lord, that couldn't be . . .