India Black and the Widow of Windsor (17 page)

“Isadora?” the voice croaked again. The marchioness came weaving down the hallway, her cane thumping in a ragged rhythm against the stone floor. “Where have ye been? I sent for ye an hour ago.” She hacked up a clot of wet snuff and spit it on the floor.

I shot the prince a regretful glance, as if to say, “Sorry, Bert, maybe next time,” knowing full well that he’d never get a second chance at me, not without employing a few rascals to carry me off against my will. Bertie retreated sullenly, with a thunderous look at my rescuer, but he had the grace to nod his head at her as he passed her.

The marchioness waited until he was out of sight, then rounded on me, spraying snuff. “What did I tell ye about that man? Ye’re not tryin’ to cozy up to that ne’er-do-well, are ye? Ye’ll be sorry if ye do, just mark my words. Ye’ll end up with regrets, not to mention a fat baby to feed.”

“Oh, no, ma’am. I know my station in life. I wouldn’t dare make overtures to a member of the royal family.” Especially one who resembled a sperm whale (aptly named, that species, when compared to our Bertie). “His Highness stopped me in the hallway as I was on my way to your room.” I didn’t challenge the marchioness’s allegation that she had sent for me; she might very well have done so while I was busy tossing my suspects’ rooms. On the other hand, the old dear might have imagined she’d summoned me and gone lurching through the halls in search of her missing maid. Whichever the case might be, I was grateful for her intervention, saving me a quick (and, damn it all, free) session with England’s next king.

I escorted her back to her room, spiffed her up for a lengthy stay at the feed table and left her in the custody of one of the footmen. Then I took myself down to the kitchen and put on my own feedbag. Cook had laid out a sumptuous repast, and I fortified myself with rare roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and apple crumble with a slathering of yellow custard. It was a far cry from Mrs. Drinkwater’s boiled beef and cabbage, and I pondered the circumstances of life that entitled a podgy neurotic who communed with the dead to a chef of Cook’s caliber, merely because she was the British monarch, while I had to make do with a cook whose best dishes might only be appreciated by the inhabitants of a besieged city. After the meal, I wanted nothing more than to collapse on my bed for a nap, but there was still the marchioness to see to (I’d heard no report of explosions in the dining room, so presumably, the marchioness had refrained from dipping into her snuffbox with the Queen present). I trundled back upstairs and met the marchioness at her door, removed her shoes and dress, then wrapped her in a dressing gown and stuffed her into bed. I added logs to the fire and drew the curtains, and I hadn’t even left the room before she was snoring like an ancient bull mastiff.

Mercifully, Flora was nowhere to be seen when I returned to her room. Probably flirting with Robbie Munro, since the servants had Sunday afternoons off until teatime. I donned my outdoor clothes again (I debated adding Flora’s muffler and gloves but decided against it; I didn’t want her to find them missing) and crept out of the castle. I hoped Miss Boss had retired for a siesta; it would be deuced awkward to run into her and have to explain that while I was too ill to attend kirk that morning, I now felt up to a longish hike through the woods. However, I gained the outer door without incident and set off up the steep rise behind the castle.

Half an hour later, huffing like a steam train, I had reached the stone hut. Once again I followed French’s instructions, whistling softly to let him know I had arrived. The back door opened and French appeared, waving me inside. He still hadn’t lit a fire, but there was a bottle of whisky on the table and three crude tumblers of clay. Vincent was already nursing a drink, the tops of his ears and the tip of his nose a bright cherry colour from the cold.

“Did you have any difficulty in getting away from the castle?” asked French.

“No, all the servants were having a rest.”

“Or a snog,” said Vincent, sniggering.

“You’ve a nasty mind for a young sod,” I said. “But you’re probably right.”

“Would I be imposing if I asked you two to focus on the matter at hand?” French asked, rather superciliously, I thought, given that Vincent and I were doing this for free, not to mention chapping our hands in the process while French hovered around warm fires and depleted the Queen’s liquor supply.

“Righto, guv,” Vincent said. He swallowed some whisky and topped off his glass. “I got into Archie’s room with no trouble at all.” Vincent being an accomplished cracksman, I suspected he was telling the truth. “There wasn’t much there, only a shotgun under the bed that looks about a ’undred years old. A twentyeight gauge, so I reckon Archie uses hit for rats and crows and the like. It ain’t exactly the weapon I’d choose to kill ’Er ’Ighness, ’less you could get in real close, and then, ’er bein’ as fat as she is, I reckon the shot just might hirritate ’er.”

French hid a smile behind his tumbler of whisky. “Well done, Vincent. There was nothing to connect Archie to the Marischal or the Sons of Arbroath?”

“I didn’t see nothin,’ and I went through the place hinch by hinch.”

“Well, I can’t say I was any more successful at turning up incriminating evidence in Red Hector’s room,” said French. “Naturally, he’s got weapons: one of those
sgian dubhs
the Scots love, and a brace of pistols in a fancy case. There’s no reading material in the room, other than some pornographic pictures under his combinations and a dozen reports from breeders with a wealth of detail about bloodlines, dams and studs.”

“Wot’s a skin do?” asked Vincent.

“A ceremonial knife, with a short blade and pommel. The Scots wear it tucked into their socks.”

Vincent mulled over this addition to his knowledge of the world’s weapons.

“And how did you fare, India?” French asked.

“I think I’ve done rather well.” I informed them of the letter in Vicker’s wastebasket. “He’s clearly planning on leaving the country, and soon.”

“’E could be ’avin’ a ’oliday,” said Vincent.

“A man of his class would more likely spend it in Brighton than South Africa.” I sipped the whisky and found it very fine. So far, it was the only thing I’d enjoyed in Scotland.

“I shall get Robshaw on it right away,” said French. “Did you find anything else of value?”

I told them about the house plan with the names of the guests lettered on it. “It’s suggestive but not terribly suspicious. As deputy master of the household, I think it’s something Vicker would likely use.”

“’Less there was a big ole ‘X’ on ’Er Majesty’s room, hit probably don’t mean nothin’.”

“As much as I hate to acknowledge your perspicacity, Vincent, I expect you’re right.”

“Wot’s that mean?” Vincent bridled.

“She’s flattering your intelligence, Vincent, although in a rather oblique way,” French said. Vincent’s brow wrinkled at the word “oblique,” but as it had been issued by his hero, he did not demand an explanation.

French twirled his tumbler in his hands. “What about Munro?”

“Ah, there’s an interesting lad.” I informed the two of them about the reading material and the revolver I had found among Munro’s possessions.

“Hit’s ’im,” Vincent pronounced firmly. “Got to be, with all that hincriminatin’ evidence.”

“He’s almost too perfect as the villain,” mused French. “Robshaw shall hear of this immediately, of course. In the meantime, India, you’ve got to keep a close eye on the man.”

“And how am I supposed to do that? Remember, I’m the zookeeper for the marchioness, and it’s not as though I could follow Robbie around anyway, even if I had free time on my hands.”

French dismissed these rather serious obstacles with a vague wave. “Oh, you’ll figure out something. You always do. I’m not concerned about what he’s doing while on duty, but rather what he gets up to when he’s off the clock.”

“I don’t think servants ever get off the clock. I shall have to inform the marchioness that I am unavailable after midnight and before breakfast.” I tipped my cup at French. “When Munro is on duty, you’ll have to see that he doesn’t get close to the Queen. I mean, if you’re not preoccupied with pinching the maids and getting sozzled with Bertie and Red Hector.”

French gave me the glare that comment deserved.

“I s’pose you want me to follow Archie around and see that ’e don’t get up to nothin’ with that shotgun of ’is?”

“Yes, Vincent. If he slips off, try to follow him. But be careful. We don’t know yet what we’re up against. One or more of these fellows could be members of the Sons of Arbroath, and they could be in league together.” French drained his whisky. “I’ll get on to Robshaw as soon as I return to the castle. It certainly looks as though Munro is our most likely suspect, but we cannot afford to ignore the others. Let’s keep our wits about us.”

I
t was fully dark by the time I’d navigated my way along the path and down the hill to the castle. The kitchen was bustling with preparations for tea, and I slipped in during the hubbub and reached the safety of Flora’s room. I shed my coat and slipped into uniform, then hopped it down to the kitchen again where I found Flora and Effie, Lady Dalfad’s maid, sharing a table and a cup of tea. Effie wasn’t my first choice as dining companion, and I had been hoping to speak to Flora alone, to see what additional insight she might provide into Munro’s background, but that would have to wait for the moment. I poured myself a cup of tea and buttered some bread. Flora was regaling Effie with a tale about a hapless laundress who had burned a hole clean through the Earl of Roseberry’s best dinner jacket with a hot iron, which made Flora giggle and Effie purse her lips sanctimoniously. Did the woman ever smile?

“How are you feeling, India?” Flora turned her attention to me.

“Much better, thank you. I had a good rest and now I’m fit as a fiddle.” I selected a sandwich from the platter. “And how did you two spend your time off today?”

“I read the Bible,” Effie announced. “It is my custom to do so on the Sabbath.”

Lord, what a twit.

“What did you get up to, Flora? A walk with handsome Robbie? Or more than a walk?” I grinned conspiratorially at her.

“Och, wouldn’t I have liked that?” Flora sighed theatrically. “Alas, the dear boy wasn’t anywhere to be found today.”

This was interesting news. “I saw him polishing silver before luncheon,” I said.

“Did you now?” Flora looked at me sharply. “I thought you were resting this morning.”

“Oh, I was. But it seemed a little close indoors, and I thought a breath of air would settle my stomach.”

“He must have had something to do, as he wasn’t in his room nor anywhere around the castle,” said Flora. She snickered. “I should know; I went looking for him.”

At this news, Effie looked shocked.

“He wasn’t with you, was he?” Flora was smiling at me, but there was an edge to her voice.

I didn’t want the girl to imagine that I had fixed my sights on Munro, and I hastened to assure her that my beau back in . . . (bugger,
where
had I supposedly worked before joining the marchioness?) well, my beau was the man for me, and I had forsaken all others.

“Robbie is a catch,” I told Flora. “How lucky for you that his uncle lost a footman and Robbie was available to take on the job. Although Robbie told me he’d rather be out in the fresh air than serving soup to the swells. I wonder why he became a footman. Did he ever tell you?”

Flora shrugged. “He’s not said a word to me about his job. I just assumed he’d been brought up to be in service, like most of us here at Balmoral. You know, his father was a valet and his mother a housemaid, that sort of thing.”

“Do you know his uncle well?”

“Old Murdoch, the under butler? He’s a fine gent. He was ever so fond of Prince Albert, and he’s totally devoted to the Queen.”

“Did you know he had such a luscious nephew?”

“If I had known, I would have been after him to hire Robbie before now,” Flora simpered.

“I wonder how he occupied his Sunday afternoon,” I mused, sipping tea. “Maybe he went for a walk, being the type that prefers the outdoors.”

“Perhaps he found a secluded place where he could smoke,” Effie contributed.

A look of suspicion had taken lodgings on Flora’s face. Clearly, I had exhibited too avid an interest in the whereabouts of Robbie Munro. It was time to direct the conversation elsewhere.

“I understand Lady Dalfad is one of the Queen’s ladies of the bedchamber.”

Effie swelled noticeably with pride, as though she inhabited the role along with the countess. “Indeed she is.”

“And what, pray tell, does a lady of the bedchamber do?”

Effie looked shocked at my ignorance. Well, I could have informed her that there were “ladies of the bedchamber,” and then there were ladies of the bedchamber, and while I could give her quite an education on the role of the latter, I had no idea what the former got up to.

“The countess acts as a companion for the Queen, taking tea with her, or meals. If the Queen desires, she accompanies Her Majesty for outings: a ride in the carriage, perhaps, or a walk, or sometimes she will keep the Queen company while she’s sketching or listening to music.”

Sounded deuced dull to me, especially since Vicky looked like she’d be about as much fun to be around as a funeral director after Judgment Day.

“And how does one become a lady of the bedchamber?” I asked.

“One is invited by the Queen,” said Effie. “It is a great honour.” She paused a moment, then added, “Although Lady Dalfad does not always seem to think so.”

Flora bit into a fairy cake. “Really? Why is that, I wonder?”

I could have given my own theory (see above) but remained silent.

Effie frowned, either because she was truly puzzled over her employer’s lack of enthusiasm for her position with the Queen, or because Effie herself had spilled the beans and wished she hadn’t. “I’m not sure,” she said hesitantly. “Sometimes she finds it all a bit tiresome, having to do what the Queen wants to do, when the Queen wants to do it.”