India Black And The Widow Of Windsor Part 12

"Mrs. Greenhow was a prominent member of Washington society at the beginnin' of the War Between the States. All the politicians and generals, imbeciles to a man, trundled over to her salon, where she milked them of the details about federal forces and Northern war plans. Ye must remember that Washington was full of Southern sympathizers, and Mrs. Greenhow was one."

I stifled a yawn and thought I heard a c.o.c.k crowing from the castle farm.

"The lady turned over everything she learned to contacts in the Confederate government. She was exposed, eventually, as a Southern spy and was sent to prison, along with her young daughter. Are ye listenin', Ingrid?"

I must have dozed off. "Yes, ma'am."

"She was released after several months and wrote a book about her imprisonment. It was published in England in 1864, and Mrs. Greenhow visited the country then. That's when she had her audience with the Queen."

Fascinating stuff. My eyes felt as though they had been branded into my skull.

"What happened to Mrs. Greenhow?" I asked. d.a.m.ned if I cared, really, but if I talked, I could stay awake.

The marchioness cackled. "Got her comeuppance, she did. Drowned on her way back to the States from England, tryin' to run the Northern blockade."

"What a shame," I said. If I didn't get to bed soon, I was going to fall out of my chair.

"Not really," said the marchioness, settling back into her pillow. "She took a risk and paid the consequences. If ye're going to do something daft and dangerous like betray yer country, ye can't expect any quarter to be given." She yawned, her gums pink in the candlelight.

"Well, I'm ready for a kip. Draw the curtains, will ye, Ingrid? And don't slam the door when ye leave."

I did as instructed. Then I blundered down the stairs and out through the kitchen into the bracing air of a Scottish winter morning, heading for the stables.

By the time I tumbled into my bed, dawn was breaking. You would think I'd have fallen to sleep the minute my head touched the pillow, but I was nagged by the image of Robbie Munro in the corridor. He had seemed to vanish into thin air. What was he doing up at that hour? And where had he been going when I had seen him? It wasn't impossible that the handsome Robbie had made such an impression on one of the Queen's female guests that he had been invited to her room (and for that matter, I supposed, the Queen's visitors might include an aristocratic Mary Ann who had singled out Robbie for attention). Hard to credit, but who knows? The nights are long and cold in Scotland. A third possibility presented itself, and that was that Munro was up to his eyeb.a.l.l.s in the plot against the Queen and had been meeting one or more of his co-conspirators. I suppose there might be an innocent explanation: one of the guests had required a hot water bottle or a sandwich or a bedtime story read aloud. I would have to eliminate that possibility as well. I resolved to inspect the hall in the light of day, to ferret out which of Her Majesty's lodgers had entertained the footman last night.

The marchioness's behavior also disturbed me (not the explosions and floods that followed her ingestion of the evil weed-G.o.d knows the old p.u.s.s.y needed some consolation at her age), but her decided interest in tales of female deception. Perhaps I was being paranoid, but I was beginning to think Her Ladyship had smoked me out. But how on earth had she done so? Granted, when it came to pressing skirts and brushing on powder, I could manage, but no doubt I was a bit rough around the edges when it came to acting the servant. I was more used to barking orders at my wh.o.r.es than antic.i.p.ating when to produce a handkerchief. The marchioness, however, had the eyesight of a bat who'd never left the cave; she probably hadn't a clue whether her bodice was starched or not. Even if she had rumbled me, she didn't seem in any hurry to terminate my employment (not that a Bible-reading insomniac who could do hair could be found on short notice in the local village). Had someone let slip my real role at the castle? It could only have been Dizzy or French, or Sir Horace Wickersham, the poor devil who had forged my letter of recommendation, but to what purpose?

As you can see, I had a lot to ponder, so I tossed and turned while Flora snored, until I fell asleep just as the sun rose over the horizon. Predictably, the skirl of the Great Highland War Pipe followed shortly thereafter, jolting me awake with another tuneless ululation that pa.s.sed for song here in the north. No doubt the Scots found it stirring, but the only thing I felt inclined to do was close the window.

"Lord," I moaned from beneath my covers.

Flora laughed and bounced out of bed. "Don't you ever wake up in a good mood, India?"

"Not since I started work for the marchioness. If I don't get some sleep soon, I'm going to collapse." I struggled upright and regarded the world through bleary eyes. A look in the mirror confirmed my fears: I was looking deuced haggard.

I washed and dressed and went downstairs for breakfast, where fried eggs and toast and a cup of strong tea revived my spirits somewhat. The rest of the servants tucked into their porridge with the appet.i.tes of Arctic explorers, but I declined to join them. I don't much care for warm, soggy oats in the morning, or at any time for that matter, and the thought of stuffing them into a sheep's stomach along with bits and bobs of internal organs and boiling the mess up for luncheon is a stomach-turner. After the meal I wearily climbed the stairs and stopped by the marchioness's room to see if I was needed, but my employer was asleep over her breakfast tray, with her stiff white braid dangling in the milk jug. I considered extracting it, but if the marchioness woke up while I was performing the operation, I might be stuck for hours. I closed the door quietly and crept away.

After only a few false starts, I found my way back to the main corridor that housed the guest rooms, where Robbie Munro had apparently dematerialized last night. I walked slowly along the hall, trying to visualize the scene in my mind and identify the room into which Robbie had vanished. I paced up and down, measuring my steps and estimating distances for a good while, keeping a wary eye out for the Prince of Wales and planning an escape route in the event he wandered down the hall. After several minutes of hanging about, I had narrowed my search to three rooms on the left side of corridor, one of which I knew to be occupied by French. The second and third were separated by a dusty, threadbare tapestry depicting a few bare-legged Scots routing an unidentified enemy. Well, I suppose a wall hanging showing the English victories at Bannockburn or Culloden would have been deemed tasteless by the locals.

I struck lucky at the first room; the door was cracked and a housemaid was stripping the bed, humming under her breath as she did so. I knocked softly and she started like a spurred colt, spinning round with a look of terror on her face. Her face sagged with relief when she saw me.

"Lord almighty, I thought you were the Prince of Wales."

We shared a laugh at that and introduced ourselves, though I promptly forgot the girl's name. There were dozens of servants at Balmoral; why waste valuable memory on one name?

"I know you. You're the marchioness's maid. I've seen you at tea in the kitchen. She's a funny old sort, isn't she?"

I bristled at this description of my employer, then gave myself a mental thump on the head. I rarely gave a tinker's d.a.m.n about anyone but myself, and it was inconceivable that I had developed any affection for a snuff-spraying, slack-jawed crone who suffered from the curse of Hypnos. The lack of sleep I had endured was beginning to play tricks on mind.

"She's a character," I said neutrally. "Actually, I was just looking for her, and I thought I saw her come into this room."

The maid shook her head. "She's not in here and likely wouldn't be, unless she got awfully confused. This is the Earl of Kinnoncairn's room. They haven't spoken in twenty years."

"Right," I said, nodding sagely as if I knew of the long-running feud between the two. "Perhaps the marchioness is next door," I said. "Do you know who occupies the room?"

"Oh, that's the prime minister's room. And his secretary is next door." The maid c.o.c.ked her head and smiled dreamily. "That handsome Mr. French. Have you seen him?"

"The chap with the black hair and the vacant smile?"

My sarcasm didn't make a dent in the maid's ardor. She nodded happily. I thanked her for her time and made my exit. In the hallway, I hung about, thinking over the information I'd learned. Lord Kinnoncairn had a chestful of medals from various actions in Afghanistan, the Sudan and the Gold Coast, and was a distant cousin of the Queen and a member of the Cabinet. He might be the Marischal, but if he was, his disguise as war hero, royal relative and loyal member of the government was a good one. That left Dizzy's room and that of French as potential destinations for Robbie's midnight ramble. Surely the PM had been asleep in the wee hours of the morning. A chill ran through me; what if Robbie had visited the old man's room with the intention of eliminating one of the hated Englishmen on the premises? But if something had happened to Dizzy, the news would have permeated the castle by now. That left French's room as a possible destination for Robbie, which made some sense as I had seen French downstairs in the billiard room not half an hour before I'd seen Robbie skulking through the hall. Robbie could easily have known French was not in his room; the footman might even have been up late attending to the gentlemen at their games and drinks. I mulled over the possibilities. There might be a perfectly reasonable explanation for Robbie entering French's room. French might have sent Robbie to fetch something, or Robbie might have been instructed to prepare the room for French's retirement. Or Robbie might have tumbled to French's masquerade as Dizzy's secretary and learned of French's real purpose in visiting Balmoral.

I needed a word with French. I paused at his door, looked left and right, and seeing that I was alone in the hall, knocked gently. There was no answer. I turned the k.n.o.b cautiously, but the door was locked. Probably breakfasting on deviled kidneys and nursing a hangover from last night. I'd have to run him to earth later.

Then a strange thing happened. I was facing French's door, with the tapestry of the battle scene hanging from an iron rod to the right of the door frame. Suddenly the tapestry billowed gently away from the wall and settled back into place. It spooked the h.e.l.l out of me, being the tapestrial equivalent of the eyes in a painting following you around the room. I sucked in a breath and waited for my heart to stop fluttering. My nerves were clearly shot from long nights reading to the marchioness. There had to be an obvious explanation for the tapestry moving. I hadn't felt a breeze through the hallway, and I had been standing at French's door, so my pa.s.sage along the corridor clearly hadn't created a draught of air that could stir the wall hanging. I inserted my hand behind the tapestry, pulled it gently away from the stone wall and peered behind it. I had no idea what I would say if I was discovered rummaging around behind the ornamentation, but I excel at the blarney and knew I'd think of something if the necessity arose.

Surely whatever force had made the tapestry balloon outward had come from behind the hanging. I probed the mortar between the stones, inching my way farther behind the tapestry as I did so. If anyone came down the hall now, I was b.u.g.g.e.red, as even the marchioness with her eyesight couldn't fail to decry the great lump moving about beneath the embroidery. My fingers traced the rough pattern of the stonework, exploring for cracks or openings of any kind. I had nearly exhausted my search of the area of wall that I could reach (and was ruminating on how to get a ladder behind the tapestry to complete the section I couldn't), when I heard the faintest susurration of air and felt a cool zephyr caress my fingertips. I probed the interstice between the stones where I had felt the breath of wind and discovered a slight irregularity in the mortar, a hairline crack running from the floor to just above my head. My fingers inched sideways and down, tracing the fracture in the mortar until I had outlined a door in the wall. Now, to locate the means of opening said door. This necessitated a great deal of pushing and pulling on d.a.m.ned near every stone in the vicinity, while trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, a feat nearly impossible to accomplish while rooting around behind a tapestry. But my luck held, and I finally stumbled onto the right stone, an irregularly shaped one at waist level that receded an inch into the wall when I prodded it. There was a satisfying click, and a section of the wall swung slowly open, revealing a dark pa.s.sage.

"Open sesame," I murmured, before ducking inside. It was black as pitch in there and musky as a badger's den. I weighed the merits of looking for a means of closing the door (and perhaps thereby consigning myself to die a lingering death of starvation if I couldn't get out again) or leaving the door open to provide a ready escape. Predictably, I opted for the latter option. If the tapestry flapped about like a sail in a hurricane, that was just too b.l.o.o.d.y bad.

I waited for a moment as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Those long Balmoral corridors were dim, and the tapestry had blocked out what little light might have come in from the hall. While I paused, I contemplated the uncharacteristic whimsicality of the secret pa.s.sage. Dear departed Albert had been a bit of a stick, always blathering on about science, learning and progress, and certainly not a bloke given to flights of romance. Who'd have thought the old boy would have commissioned a hidden tunnel in his Scottish home? Perhaps he'd been inspired by the decidedly anti-Teutonic sentiment expressed in the English papers when he'd married Vicky; a concealed route to freedom might have seemed like a good idea in the event the natives took an intense dislike to German accents and attacked the castle with torches and pitchforks in hand. But I digress.

I had delayed my exploration long enough. I took a tentative step, my hand sc.r.a.ping the wall of the tunnel, and using it as a guide, I inched my way forward. I hoped there weren't rats. Or spiders. G.o.d, I hate spiders. The wall felt gritty under my fingers, and my feet sc.r.a.ped over the stone floor. I put one foot in front of the other, moving slowly and counting my footsteps as I went. Just as I reached thirty-three, the wall fell away from my hand and the pa.s.sage took a sharp left turn. I tottered for a moment, having lost my balance when the wall disappeared, then my outstretched fingers found stone again and I regained my feet. I did a cautious survey of the area around me, to be sure that the tunnel had not branched into more than one direction, but it followed a single line. I moved forward counting steps.

At fifty-six, the wall again vanished from beneath my hand. This time, I turned right, took three steps forward and banged my forehead into the wall. I reeled backward, clutching my temple and moaning. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. No doubt a qualified government agent would have come prepared for anything, with matches and a bull's-eye lantern tucked into her maid's cap, but I had plunged into the darkness without a second thought. There was no need, I thought, to mention my absence of forethought to French when I told him about the tunnel. I ma.s.saged my head and then pressed on. I felt my way around the wall, discovering as I did so that I had entered a small room, empty of furniture or adornment, whose purpose I could not discern. I did locate an opening opposite the one by which I had entered the room, and I groped my way through it and into the pa.s.sage beyond. I had lost track of time by now and wondered if it might be getting on toward luncheon. My stomach rumbled at the thought of food.

At eighty-seven steps, the tunnel turned once more, but as I rounded the corner, my spirits lifted. Ahead of me I could see a faint luminescence. I must be nearing the end of the hidden pa.s.sage. Fresh air (even b.l.o.o.d.y cold Scottish winter air) sounded wonderful. I picked up my pace a bit, not bothering to cover the ground as slowly and prudently as when I had been deprived of light. The radiance ahead of me in the tunnel grew steadily brighter as I moved forward, eagerly antic.i.p.ating a release into the thin sunlight of a Balmoral morning. I blame myself for what happened next.

I was steaming along, not paying much heed to my surroundings, just antic.i.p.ating the pleasure of emerging from this damp pa.s.sageway, when it occurred to me that the illumination before me was more yellow than white, more akin to a lamp or candle than the natural light of day. I halted and stood warily, straining to see down the tunnel. I listened intently . . . and heard a muttered oath. The candle flame (for such it was: I could see it clearly now) oscillated, and a dark figure loomed.

I am not a fanciful person. I don't believe in ghosts or phantoms or any other kind of spirits, save those I can drink. But even I must admit that my knees quavered a tad as I surveyed the form in the tunnel. There was a shadowy, brooding intensity to it that made me instantly and distinctly wary. Thank G.o.d I'd been wise enough to leave the door open behind me. Discretion being the better part of valor, it would be best, I thought, to leave my exploration to another time, when the Stygian figure before me had returned to his lair, and I had a candle (and some sort of weapon) in my hand. Stealthily as a fox leaving the henhouse, I reversed direction and headed back the way I'd come. I tiptoed along at a glacial pace, fingertips grazing the wall, and trying to remember how many steps to the first turn. Was it fifty-six or eighty-seven? Was the first turn to the right or to the left? With that kind of memory, it was going to be deuced difficult for me to earn my official espionage credentials.

At least I'd had the presence of mind not to run right into the fellow holding the candle. My navigational skills in the darkness might leave something to be desired, but my instincts had kicked in when needed and disaster had been averted. I glanced over my shoulder, expecting to see the pale yellow light growing fainter. What I saw sent an icy current down my spine. The glow from the candle had not receded into the distance. Instead, it had grown brighter. Even in my present state of befuddlement (d.a.m.n the marchioness and her insomnia), I recognized the significance of that fact: the sinister figure with the candle was following me.

I'm not easily frightened; I've had too many experiences fending off muggers and cutpurses and the occasional bloke whose tastes I didn't care to accommodate. True, I'd have felt better with the heavy weight of my Bulldog in my hand, but I would have to rely on my native skill and cunning in dispatching the gent now bearing down on me like the devil searching for stray souls to shanghai off to the abode of the d.a.m.ned. The thought of Hades spurred me to action. I wasn't entirely sure my ticket was punched for that destination, despite what the local curate might think, but why take the chance?

I wheeled round, intending to be as soft-footed as a monkey, but d.a.m.ned if I didn't catch my toe on the slightest protuberance in the stone floor. I pitched forward, crashing over with a noise akin to a yew tree being felled on a quiet summer day. There was a m.u.f.fled shout from the pa.s.sageway as the fellow with the candle realized he was not alone, then the sound of footsteps ringing on stone as he rushed toward me. I scrambled to my feet and fled, using my right hand on the wall as a guide and my left stretched out in front of me to cushion the blow if I missed a turn and crashed into the wall.

The candlelight danced on the walls as my pursuer gave chase, and my shadow jittered wildly, like a drunken sailor just out of the tavern. The cove behind was gaining on me; his footsteps thundered down the pa.s.sage, and I could hear him snorting as he ran. Then the flame went out. It had proved impossible to run with a lighted candle, and my heart leapt at the unexpected reprieve. Except it wasn't much of a reprieve, if you thought about it, as all the fellow had to do was follow the tunnel and he'd eventually find me, unless I moved with dispatch, which I proceeded to do. I set off on tiptoe, determined not to make a sound that would reveal my position to the ruffian in the tunnel. It was d.a.m.ned hard going, moving so slowly and cautiously, not to mention that I was blowing like a cavalry mount that had survived the Charge of the Light Brigade. If the fellow with the candle stopped and listened, he'd have no trouble finding me in the dark. I resolutely put that thought from my mind and carried on.

It has always seemed most unfair to me that the Maker of Men sees fit to punish you just when you're doing your d.a.m.nedest to avoid trouble. So it was in this instance. I was shuffling along rather well, putting some ground between the brigand and me, when my right hand fell into empty s.p.a.ce and I yawed dramatically, floundering around and making an unG.o.dly amount of noise as I tried to retain my balance. I had stumbled upon (literally) the small room I'd pa.s.sed through earlier.

The cove was on me like a jaguar, throwing an arm round my neck and pressing his forearm into my windpipe while he dragged me to the ground. I twisted as I fell, but I still managed to plant one side of my face into the stone floor with a shocking jolt. This did not improve my state of mind, but it did have the salubrious effect of making me mad as h.e.l.l. One does not trifle with India Black's appearance without repercussions. I'd been lying quietly, stunned by the blow to my face, which had caused my attacker to relax his hold round my throat by a fraction. More fool, he. I put up my hands and groped until I found his, then dipped my chin and sank my teeth into his hand with the energy and devotion of a she wolf protecting her young. There was an infernally loud roar, which, being loosed directly into my tympanic membrane, was deafening. Then the chap compounded the problem by boxing me on the ear with his unbitten hand. Constellations danced at the edge of my vision. I tried to stagger to my feet, but I was felled by another blow.

"Help!" I shouted, but it came out as a croak.

At the sound of my voice, my a.s.sailant stopped pummeling me about the head and paused. "India? Is that you?"

"French," I rasped.

"What are you doing here?"

"The same thing you are; following the secret pa.s.sage to see where it goes."

"You should have told me you planned to do this."

"I stumbled across the tunnel," I said irritably. "I hadn't planned to go exploring today. How did you know about the pa.s.sage?"

"I found the castle building plans in the library."

He was still lying on top of me.

"Get up, will you? I can't breathe."

"Oh, I beg your pardon."

He rolled off me and I sat up tentatively, nursing my jaw where it had hit the floor and fingering my ear where French had landed a blow.

"You've bunged me up, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"You bit my hand. No, you b.l.o.o.d.y well mutilated it." He sounded hurt.

"Well, you attacked me first." I had him there; he had instigated the whole affair.

"I thought you were the Marischal."

"I thought you were the Marischal."

A match sc.r.a.ped on the stones and a flame danced between us. French pulled the stub of a candle from his pocket and lit it. He let a few drops of wax fall to the floor and set the candle upright in the wax. He gazed at me across the light and his brow wrinkled.

"d.a.m.nation. You look like you've been in the wars."

"I feel it." I touched the side of my face and winced. "Is my cheek scratched?"

He leaned forward and put his fingers under my chin, turning my face this way and that.

"A little," he said. "I'm so d.a.m.nably sorry, India. You're going to have a h.e.l.l of bruise, not to mention a bad sc.r.a.pe."

His hand lingered on my skin. His fingers were cool, and his breath caressed my cheek. I felt the startling urge to forgive the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

His thumb moved along the line of my jaw. His mouth opened slightly. He had very white teeth. A good feature in a man, I thought. I admire a man with excellent choppers. And his lips. He had fine lips, did French. Not thin, like so many men seem to have, but proper lips. One might even call them feminine, they were so soft and inviting. I swallowed hard. I admit that I imagined (if only for the briefest of moments) what it would be like to kiss . . .

"Er, French," I mumbled.

"Eh?"

"Do you suppose we should . . ."

"What? Oh, yes, yes. I suppose we should."

His hand jerked away, and we both sprang to our feet (I can't say how French felt, but I got up feeling as the though the First XV had gang-tackled me), brushing off our clothes and looking everywhere except at each other. He stooped to pry the candle from its bed of wax, and when he faced me, he'd resumed his mask of indifferent politeness.

"Shall we see where the tunnel leads?" he asked courteously.

"By all means," I replied.

He led the way while I told him about my observations of Robbie's disappearance from the hallway last night and how I'd discovered the tunnel. He in turn had his own news to impart.

"I had a chat with Doctor Jenner this morning. It seems that Vicker also had some of the cocoa that Cook prepared. One of the footmen brought him a cup about half an hour before Munro took the Queen's cocoa up to her room."

"Did Munro deliver Vicker's chocolate?"

French shook his head. "No, not Munro. Another footman."

"I suppose the two could have been in league together," I said.

"It's possible. Of course, Vicker might have ingested a small dose of poison to divert attention away from himself." He stopped to examine a crack in the stones, holding the candle up to the wall. He probed the fissure with a finger until he was satisfied no secret pa.s.sage existed behind the wall, then he resumed his progress.

"Do you recall if the house plans Vicker had in his room showed this tunnel?"

I cogitated for a moment, trying to recall. "I can't remember. I only glanced at the plans for a few seconds."

"Perhaps you should make some enquiries among the servants, to try and find out whether the existence of the pa.s.sage is well-known." French glanced over his shoulder at me. "Have you noticed that the tunnel has been descending? I believe we're underground now."

We emerged from the tunnel by way of an ancient oak door, crossed with iron, which led into a stone grotto at the edge of the castle grounds. It was tiny, no more than six feet by six, with a stone bench and a marble statue of some cla.s.sical type, looking out of place here in the Highlands in its thin drapery. In the summer, the grotto would have been cool, dark and ferny, but in winter it was as cold and desolate as the grave. The door into the tunnel had merged into the back wall of stone, covered with moss. You could find it if you knew it was there, but a casual glance into the grotto would reveal nothing.

"If the plans you found in the library included the pa.s.sage, then I should think everyone would know about it."

"Not necessarily," said French. "The plans were locked away in a cabinet, not lying about for just anyone to peruse."

"What a terrible houseguest you are," I said. "Picking locks and going through the owner's private effects. How did you know the plans were there?"

"I flattered the Queen by admiring her late husband's architectural apt.i.tude. He designed Balmoral, for the most part, though he did hire an architect from Edinburgh to handle the details. I merely asked the Queen if she had any plans of the castle, and she told me where they were kept."

"Devious devil. Surely she would have shown them to you if you had asked."

French smiled. "I'm sure she would have, but I like to practice my skills as a screwsman."

I bit my tongue at that; no point in embarra.s.sing the cove.

EIGHT.