India Black and the Widow of Windsor (32 page)

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 sturdy 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 astonishing 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 Wishing Well.” I wore my soles off to “The Dashing 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 title to each song, and then we were away, galloping giddily around the boards while the bystanders stomped and cheered.

I
t 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 sex”), 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 glass 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. Damn 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 God. She had leaned over to gossip with Brown and the assassin missed.” He was conning the room while he spoke.

“Munro?” he asked.

“Gone.”

“Vicker?”

“Vanished.”

He scowled. “Damn your eyes, India. You were supposed to keep them under surveillance.”

That stung. “Where the hell is Red Hector?”

“Damned 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, pushing 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 billycocks 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 passing 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 passageway.

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

Now it’s God’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 peacocks and pretend to be in charge. However, I will admit that when it comes to things like chasing down assassins, 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 lustrous 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 whores 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 grâce.

Munro glared up at me. “I’m from the Yard, you bloody 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 bugger, then?”

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

“Wot the bloody ’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 damned 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 bastard, 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 passage. 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.