India Black and the Widow of Windsor (30 page)

“
I
do not allow my servants to sit idle and spend their time gossiping,” sniffed the Queen.

The marchioness was hanging on every word, her fingers inching unconsciously toward the sugar bowl. Well, whatever happened, it was bound to make Her Highness angry, so I resolved to bear the burden and sprang to my feet, seizing the marchioness’s hand just as her twitching fingers had found the handle of the sugar bowl, and reaching for her water glass at the same time.

“Your medication, my lady,” I said smoothly, and prayed the old trout would cotton on. The marchioness snarled at first, but I waggled an eyebrow at the sugar bowl and she took the hint, muttering, “Thank you, Ima,” and pretending to swallow the imaginary capsule with a copious draught of water to wash it down. I returned to my seat and tried to ignore the daggers being flung at me by the Queen and Lady Dalfad.

“Those dreadful nationalists,” one of the other ladies of the bedchamber said. “Whatever is wrong with them? Why, it’s not as though the Queen had anything to do with the Act of Union.”

“Besides,” another of the grannies added, “the Queen
adores
Scotland.”

“And my Scottish subjects,” the Queen added unctuously.

“Some of your Scottish subjects apparently do not return the sentiment,” said Lady Dalfad. “Are you quite sure, Your Highness, that you should appear at the ball tonight?”

The Queen swelled with indignation, looking like a displeased dumpling. “Lady Dalfad, you forget yourself.”

The countess inclined her head under the weight of her monarch’s wrath. “Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, Your Highness. But believe me when I say that I do so only because I have your best interests at heart. The country and the Empire would flounder without your steady guidance.”

The Queen settled back, mollified by the abject flattery. Lord, I thought, what a job, smoothing the old kite’s rustled feathers every time she gets her back up, which, with Vicky, was a frequent occurrence.

“I thank you for your concern, Lady Dalfad. But I assure you that the incidents you mentioned were mere accidents, and even if they were not, I am well protected here, among my faithful servants and my invited guests.”

I shuddered a bit at that, as I never like to tempt fate, but the Queen just looked defiantly around the table.

“I shall go to the ball,” she said firmly. “I shall lead the grand march, and I shall dance a reel or two with Mr. Brown, and I shall watch my servants enjoy an evening of amusement.”

That seemed to settle matters, and it was a good thing, as the marchioness was getting restless, her gnarled hand jumping like a tarantula on the table. I didn’t know how long she could hold out; if I didn’t get some snuff in her soon, there was bound to be some sort of dustup at the dining table. Luckily, the party broke up on the Queen’s pronouncement of her intentions. I hustled the marchioness into the nearest cubbyhole and satisfied her nicotine addiction, wondering as I did so if the Queen’s last words would be “Et tu, Brute?”

 

 

 

The marchioness retired for a nap, which sounded like a grand idea to me, but I figured that I’d been sent to protect the Queen, and as the stubborn fool was planning to put herself on display to all and sundry at the ghillies’ ball, it would be best to conduct a recce of the ballroom and check on the preparations for the event. So I wandered down to the main floor, sidestepping carpenters and tradesmen, and ambled to the ballroom for a looksee. The place was bustling with footmen and maids, setting up tables and chairs and fussing with hothouse flowers and tartan bunting (would there be any other kind?). The room was a long one, with a raised dais in the middle of the floor against one wall, where an elaborate carved chair served as the Queen’s throne during the festivities. At the end of the room a minstrel’s gallery jutted out from the wall, just below the great oak beams of the roof.

I noticed Robbie Munro assiduously laying silver, and I ambled over for a chat.

“It looks like it will be a grand night,” I said. “I hear the Queen goes all out for these shindigs.”

Robbie aligned a fork and knife. “No expense spared. We’ll eat like kings tonight and dance until we fall down.”

“I’ve heard a rumour that there will be whisky and ale.”

Robbie leaned toward me conspiratorially. “
And
brandy. A whole cask, just for the servants.”

I glanced idly at the balcony. “Where do you find a band around here?”

“Local lads, all of them. But I’m told they’re quite good. We’ll have nothing to complain about.” He surveyed his work with satisfaction and dusted his hands. “There’s that job finished. Now I’d better find Mr. Vicker and see what else I’m to do.”

Vicker looked ill. I wondered if he was feeling the aftereffects of the cocoa or just the pressure of putting on a ball on a couple of weeks’ notice. His mustache bristled with effort, and his collar was stained with sweat. He had a sheaf of papers in his hand and was flipping through them furiously. A queue of builders, joiners, maids and footmen had lined up before him, stamping their feet impatiently. One fellow pulled out his watch and consulted it, sighing theatrically. Vicker was doing his best, but every question left him goggle-eyed and openmouthed.

“Poor fellow,” said Robbie. “He insists on checking everything personally. There are too many decisions for one man to make. He should have handed some of it over to Miss Boss.”

I heard bleating and scuffling from the hallway. The band had arrived, a pack of ruffians by the look of them, with long beards and country attire. I doubted that we would be waltzing to the latest tune from Vienna tonight.

Robbie saw my face and grinned. “They don’t look impressive, but I’m told the fiddler is first-rate, and the rest of the boys aren’t far behind. There’ll be country dancing tonight.”

“The Queen said she intended to dance a reel with John Brown.”

“I’ve heard they’ll share a dance,” said Robbie neutrally. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll offer to show the musicians the stairs to the balcony. Vicker’s got more than enough on his hands at the moment.”

Robbie marched off, his kilt swaying mesmerizingly. What a damned looker he was. I hoped he wouldn’t turn out to be the Marischal; it would be a dreadful waste of a handsome man. Robbie put a hand on Vicker’s arm to draw his attention, and Vicker shied violently. Good Lord, the man was on edge.

Vicker cocked an ear to listen to Robbie, then shook his head vehemently. He’d obviously nixed Robbie’s proposal to guide the musicians to the gallery where they’d be playing. Instead, Vicker hailed the fiddler, a twinkly man who must have been a hundred if he was a day, and instructed him to fall in behind and be dashed quick about it. The old codger looked affronted at the brusque command but waved down his fellow musicians and trailed after Vicker, who led them out of the ballroom. A few seconds later, they appeared in the gallery.

There was obviously an entrance to the gallery in the hall, and I considered that it might be useful to know its location. I exited the ballroom and strolled slowly along the hall, until I saw Vicker emerge from a paneled wall. He brushed past me, reeking of perspiration, his face as wan as a typhoid survivor’s. I glanced around to be sure no one was watching, then searched the oak panels swiftly until I found a metal latch, half-hidden behind a hideous portrait of Prince Albert lording it over a dead stag in a mountain meadow.

After locating the entrance to the gallery, I retraced my steps to the ballroom, noting all the entrances and exits from the room, the possible hiding places for the nationalists (could Archie Skene fit behind that potted palm?), and otherwise thinking about where I was likely to conceal myself if I were going to take a shot at the Queen or leap on her with dagger drawn. There were two points of access into the room: a set of double doors off the main hall, through which the grand march would enter the ballroom, and a smaller door at the opposite end of the room, for the use of the servants. One end of the room was jammed with tables and chairs, and the dance floor occupied the other. Counting guests and servants, there might be a hundred people in the room tonight, with the Queen seated smack in the middle where the revelers could see their monarch and bow obsequiously when the occasion demanded. It would be bloody difficult to keep an eye on everyone but not impossible if Vincent, French and I went about our business in a professional manner. And even if the assassin was one of the crowd, it would be confoundedly difficult to get close to the Queen, whack her like old Caesar and then scamper off without being brought down by a dozen hirsute Scots in kilts. My conclusion, at the end of twenty minutes of poking around, was that any assassin worth his salt wouldn’t dare try to pot the Queen tonight, at least if he wanted to escape alive.

French had entered the room and was making a great show of admiring the decorations and arrangements. He ambled past Flora, twirling his stick and brushing against her. She emitted a little shriek and simpered at him, and the ass simpered back. Must have pinched her bum as he wandered by, I shouldn’t wonder. He caught my eye and jerked his head and in a moment we were secluded in a corner, while I fiddled with the flowers on the nearest table (spilling most of them onto the tablecloth—floral arrangements are not my forte).

“How do you assess the situation?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t give Flora any encouragement, or you’ll spend the evening trying to fend her off.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Of course it wasn’t. I filled him in on my survey of the hallway and the ballroom, and my conclusion: an attack might come, but if it did, the perpetrator would be bent on suicide.

French gnawed his lip. “We can’t discount that idea. It would make the perfect political statement, demonstrating the sacrifice of true Scottish patriots. The press would have a field day.”

“What of Robshaw? Will he have anyone on duty in the ballroom?”

“He’s got trouble enough securing all the entrances to and exits from the castle, as well as patrolling the grounds. We’ll be on our own tonight. I’ll stay close to Red Hector, and you can monopolize the dashing Robbie Munro.”

“Which leaves Vicker and Skene on the prowl, not to mention dozens of other servants and a score of guests unaccounted for.”

“You and I will share the burden of tracking Vicker tonight, and I’ll put Vincent onto Skene. As for the others, we’ll have to watch the crowd constantly and be alert for anything out of the ordinary. It’s not ideal, but we must play the odds and focus on our suspects.”

I had forgotten that Vincent would be attending his first royal soiree. “Do you think he can stay away from the buffet tables long enough to watch Skene?”

French smiled humourlessly. “I shall issue strict instructions.”

I could have informed French that to Vincent strict instructions were as water over the proverbial duck’s back, but there are some things a man must learn for himself. And to be fair to the young scallywag, when he took on a task, he generally saw it through, unless, of course, tempted by cake or gewgaws he might flog or any sort of liquor at all. Well, I’d have enough to worry about tonight, between making sure that the marchioness didn’t inhale the dry mustard set out for the sirloin of beef, keeping tabs on the delectable Munro and scanning the crowd for signs of incipient violence, so I went off for a bit of a kip, leaving French to skulk around the ballroom and poke his walking stick into the aspidistras in search of hidden weapons.

 

 

 

The marchioness elected to have her dinner in her room, so that she would be fresh and lively for the dance, a decision that I applauded as it meant I didn’t have to spend a couple of hours standing behind her at the dining table. I went to spruce her up as the hour for the dance approached and found her puttering about her room and practicing a few steps. As wobbly as she was when she perambulated, you would expect this exercise to be disastrous, but the marchioness proved surprisingly light on her feet and managed a brief caper before she crashed into the bedpost and keeled over onto the mattress, where she lay laughing and spitting (she must have just inhaled a prodigious amount of snuff, to judge by the quantity of the stuff that was streaming out her nose). I got her upright and mopped her clean with a wet flannel.

“Are you looking forward to the ball tonight, my lady?”

“Indeed, I am. It’s been as gloomy as a mortuary around here. A dance is just what we need.”

“Do you think the Queen is in any danger? Lady Dalfad seemed to think so.”

The marchioness honked loudly, which necessitated another swipe with the flannel. “Time was when the aristocracy had more backbone.”

I didn’t know if this was a jab at the countess or the Queen, but I doubted the marchioness was inviting my assessment, my being a member of the lower classes, you see. So I held my tongue, and my employer maundered on about cowardly types who went about tampering with cocoa and shoving machinery onto unsuspecting persons, and the equally timorous souls who now saw traitors lurking among the bushes and behind the curtains.

After she’d finished this tirade, it was time for another; this one directed at me. The marchioness lifted her cloudy eyes to my face. “It’s time we had a talk about tonight, Irene.”

“Ma’am?” I dragged the comb through a tangle of hair and she winced.

“Ow. Take some care, ye bloody fool.”

“Yes, ma’am.” It would be easier to snip off the snarl with a pair of scissors, but that would leave the marchioness with a noticeable bald spot. I withdrew the comb and tried a flank attack.

“There will be heavy drinkin’ tonight, which sometimes leads to perverse behavior.”

Finally, I thought, a bit of fun.

“Not,” the marchioness hastened to add, “that I have ever personally witnessed such activities. No, I have only heard of ’em, from unimpeachable sources.”