India Black And The Widow Of Windsor Part 3

I settled into my own chair, glanced at the clock and smothered my dismay. French would be here any moment, and if Vincent learned that his hero's arrival was imminent, there'd be no dislodging him with dynamite. French and Vincent had struck up an unlikely friendship (well, I suppose it wasn't any more unlikely than my relationship with French, though I had the advantage over Vincent in looks, hygiene and literacy), with French admiring the boy's pluck and Vincent respectful of French's manly virtues. French had even gone so far as to upgrade the boy's wardrobe, replacing his habitual rags with a set of fine . . .

"Vincent," I cried, "where are your clothes?"

He looked at me, perplexed. "Got'em on, don't I?"

"I meant the ones French bought for you."

"Oh, those. They fetched a good price from ole Silverstein."

"You sold them?"

He shrugged. "They smelled funny. An' they hitched me."

"I hope you have a better explanation than that to give to French."

Vincent's eyes gleamed. "Is'e comin' 'ere? When?"

I opened my mouth to lie, but just then I heard the rap of a malacca walking stick on the front door, and Mrs. Drinkwater lurched past the study on her way to admit my visitor.

"That's 'im now, ain't it?" said Vincent, jumping to his feet.

Oh, h.e.l.l. I scurried after him, but it was too late to intercept him; he'd met French at the door and the two were shaking hands manfully and enquiring about each other's health. French's eyebrows had shot skyward when he'd first laid eyes on Vincent, but being the gentleman he was, he didn't enquire about the whereabouts of the clothes he'd bought or the aroma that enveloped Vincent (French had also arranged for Vincent to enjoy a weekly bath, which, in retrospect, had been a deuced optimistic prospect). I suppose all those years at public school with fellows nicknamed "Stinky" and "Grubby" had inured French to malodorous lads.

French handed his coat and hat to Mrs. Drinkwater and strode into the study, making for the fire, with Vincent on his heels like a newly hatched gosling.

"It's a d.a.m.nably cold day," French said, warming his backside. "And I'm famished. Superintendent Robshaw's entertainment allowance only runs to weak tea and stale biscuits."

"Robshaw. Ain't that the cove from Scotland Yard?" Vincent had made himself comfortable on the sofa. b.u.g.g.e.r. "You been to the Yard today? 'Ow come?"

Mrs. Drinkwater plunged into the room, her stained ap.r.o.n flapping and her hair askew. "Luncheon is served, Miss Black." She jerked her head at Vincent. "You can have some bread and dripping in the kitchen."

"Mrs. Drinkwater, set another place at the table, please. Vincent will join us for the meal." French bestowed a charming smile on my cook, which he no doubt used to great effect on the maids at his country home but which left Mrs. Drinkwater unimpressed.

"Suit yourself," she sniffed, and gave Vincent a dark look.

You will notice that the b.a.s.t.a.r.d didn't bother to consult me. I was in the bread and dripping camp with Mrs. Drinkwater, but French and Vincent were already on their way to the dining room, nattering away about knives and bra.s.s knuckles, from the s.n.a.t.c.hes of conversation I could hear as I followed them.

As I expected, the meat was charred beyond recognition, the potatoes boiled to mush, and the peas had been cooked into a sticky green gruel. French looked momentarily dismayed, but Vincent dove in with all the grace of a suckling pig on the sow, chewing with his mouth open and grunting softly in satisfaction. Vincent was not a critic of a free meal. No doubt French was wondering why I employed a cook as shockingly bad as Mrs. Drinkwater. His cook had probably been trained in Paris and could whip out a turbot sauce mousseuse without blinking an eye, but then French's chef didn't work in a brothel. I counted myself lucky that I'd found a cook willing to work with a gaggle of naked women and a score of priapic, inebriated gentlemen parading through the halls on a daily basis. Unfortunately, Mrs. Drinkwater insulated herself from these conditions by drinking copious amounts of gin, sherry, wine, beer and even the odd bottle of vanilla extract. As you can imagine, this did not improve her cooking.

Vincent helped himself to seconds while French pushed his potatoes politely around his plate. "So wot's up at the Yard, guv? Those blokes need us to sort out some trouble for'em?"

I prayed fervently that French would concoct some story about our involvement with Robshaw and the Yard, for if Vincent got wind of the plot against the Queen, he'd be in Scotland afore us, as the old song goes. But my prayers went unanswered (due, perhaps, to my never darkening the doors of a church); French launched into a summary of our meeting with Dizzy, which Vincent lapped up, hanging on every word and all the while forking food into his mouth as though he'd never eaten before.

"Blimey," he said when French had finished. "Wot do we do now?"

"India and I will go to Scotland tomorrow," said French.

He'd known that I would go, of course. I resigned myself to arguing with him later about his presumptuousness. Not to mention that music hall interchange between he and Dizzy regarding holidays with the French family, or was it the French family patriarch? French had some explaining to do.

"Wot about me?" Vincent cried through a mouthful of peas. I had to look away.

"There's no place for you at Balmoral," I said.

"But I could run errands for ya or deliver messages, or follow some of them ha.s.sa.s.sins around and report back to ya," he protested. A tiny glob of peas landed on my lace tablecloth.

"You look perfectly at home on the streets of London," I told him. "But in Scotland you would be as out of place as a donkey in the derby. The only people who will be there will be the Queen's guests and her servants."

"I could 'ide in the stables. They got stables there, don't they?" Vincent looked appealingly at French. I could see French was weakening.

"The idea is impractical," I said firmly.

"We'll discuss it later, Vincent," said French. "Now let me tell you what I learned from Superintendent Robshaw today."

On your own head be it, I thought. If French couldn't say no to Vincent, then French would just have to figure out what to do with the boy. Perhaps he could at least be persuaded to take another bath, being that he was going to be consorting with royalty.

French made himself comfortable, with a gla.s.s of wine at hand. "As you would expect, Scotland Yard keeps a watchful eye out for any individuals or organizations who pose a threat to the Queen. There's always some disaffected Irishman who's willing to take a shot at Her Majesty over the home-rule issue. And there has always been a small group of Scots who were pa.s.sionately committed to independence for their country."

French paused for a sip of wine. Now that the history lesson had begun, I could see that Vincent was losing interest rapidly; French would have to conjure up some tales of derring-do and swordplay, or the boy would be asleep with this head on the table before long. No surprise, really, given the amount of food he had ingested.

"Most of the Scottish nationalists have been ineffective organizations, consisting of a few crackpots who failed to attract many followers and ended up fighting amongst themselves. You know how the Scots are: a more cantankerous lot doesn't exist." French obviously hadn't spent much time behind the scenes at his local brothel.

"But in recent months, a new group has appeared, rumoured to have connections to the Scottish aristocracy and headed by a mysterious figure called 'the Marischal.' Where previous groups were content to issue broadsides and hold up the odd mail train, this new organization has not hesitated to use violence. They have claimed responsibility for the murder of two Scottish magistrates and an English judge."

This was more like it; Vincent's nose was quivering.

"My whiskers! And this 'ere marshal is the one who done it? Ain't a marshal got somethin' to do with the law?"

"Marischal," French corrected him gently. "And you're correct, Vincent. 'Marischal' does mean marshal in the Old High German language. The word originally meant 'keeper of the horses,' which was an important role, but over the centuries the position evolved into that of a marshal, someone responsible for keeping the peace. The word is also used to designate the highest rank in the military. It's an interesting word, with a fascinating etymology."

Vincent now looked wide awake, but my eyelids were drooping. French must have noticed, for he emptied his gla.s.s, refilled it from the bottle nearby and plunged on.

"The Marischal did not choose his name randomly. In 1320, fifty-one Scottish peers signed a doc.u.ment that became known as the Declaration of Arbroath, in which they a.s.serted their independence from the English king Edward I. You'll remember him, of course, as the 'Hammer of the Scots.' The king even had the phrase carved on his tombstone, in Latin. He is reviled in Scotland for the brutality with which he crushed Scottish attempts at independence. Robert de Keith, then the Marischal of Scotland and one of the most influential men in the country, opposed Edward and put his signature to the declaration."

I stifled a yawn. I admit to sharing Vincent's views on history. Hangings and beheadings and torture are diverting, but my interest wanes when it comes to tales of sitting around a table and putting pen to paper.

"So the Declaration of Arbroath is the inspiration for a collection of fanatics bent on throwing off the English yoke?" I asked. "And they are killing government officials to achieve their objective?"

"Yes," said French. "And now they have targeted the Queen. Robshaw's men have heard that the present Marischal exerts a powerful influence over the Sons of Arbroath. He is charismatic, eloquent and pa.s.sionately committed to the Queen's death. Robshaw is convinced that the Sons and the Marischal const.i.tute a significant threat to Her Majesty."

"And Dizzy wants us to protect her. So what's the plan?" I asked briskly. I doubted that there was one; French had a preference for improvising, but I had been a partic.i.p.ant in some of his hastily devised schemes, and my predilection was for carefully planned enterprises that did not leave one staring down the barrel of a revolver.

"I suppose you'll go as yourself."

"Yes," said French. "As Dizzy suggested, I'll go along as his private secretary."

"And I suppose you've got me seducing various household servants and reporting back to you on their political views?"

French glanced quickly at Vincent, to see if this graphic depiction of my presumed role had reached his tender ears, but Vincent was chewing meditatively on a piece of burned meat and ignoring the conversation. Probably devising a means of hiding himself among French's baggage and joining us in the Highlands.

"I've arranged for you to act as a lady's maid to the Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine, a distant cousin of the Queen, who has been invited to spend the holidays at Balmoral."

"How on earth did you manage that, on such short notice?"

"Oh"-French waved a hand vaguely-"the marchioness is always in need of a maid."

My antennae quivered. "Am I expected to seduce the marchioness? Because if I am, I may just stay in London and send Rowena along with you."

French snorted, the most inelegant sound I'd heard him make in our brief acquaintance. "Good Lord, no."

"You seem inordinately amused by the idea."

"She's rather old, India. No, you will only be required to act as her personal a.s.sistant. In fact, the two of you share a similar personality. I expect you'll get along famously. Here," he said, handing me a packet of papers. "I've prepared letters of recommendation and a summary of your experiences as a lady's maid among various Scottish aristocrats. All of it false, of course, but it will add credibility to your story, India, if you can rattle off the d.u.c.h.esses and baronesses for whom you've worked."

"Presuming none of them are friends or acquaintances of the marchioness."

"Not to worry. None of the ladies listed there have any connection whatsoever with any of the guests invited to Balmoral by the Queen. And should anyone enquire, they are each prepared to swear that you were in their employment on the dates specified and that you were an exemplary servant."

"Should I bring the Webley?"

"I wouldn't. You'll have no privacy in the servants' quarters, and it would look deuced odd for a lady's maid to be carrying a revolver. I will, however, provide you with the necessary uniforms. Jot down your measurements for me, please."

I scribbled down some notes for him, hoping that the British government had a good supply of costumes in my size, and pa.s.sed it to him. He rose from the table. "I shall see you at the station tomorrow morning at nine o'clock. Wear something dowdy and servant-like. You do have something frumpy in your closet, don't you? It wouldn't do to arrive at the station in that sapphire silk gown you were wearing the other evening."

I a.s.sured him I would be sporting suitably cheap and practical clothing. I'd have to raid the bints' wardrobes, but no doubt there would be a few threadbare dresses and shawls tucked away from their days as fishmongers' daughters, milkmaids and flower peddlers. I escorted French to the door, with Vincent d.o.g.g.i.ng his steps and begging to be allowed to tag along to Scotland. Knowing French's resolve, I resigned myself to seeing Vincent somewhere in the vicinity of Balmoral. I trundled upstairs to conduct my scavenger hunt and to acquaint myself with my virtues as domestic help.

A few minutes before nine o'clock the following morning I pa.s.sed through the entrance to King's Cross for my rendezvous with French. At his instructions, I'd sent my luggage on ahead to be placed on the appropriate train. French was waiting for me on the platform beneath the arched roof, a newspaper tucked under his arm. He nodded approvingly at my drab appearance, noting the shabby brown wool dress and tweed coat I'd liberated from the brothel's occupants. He took my elbow and steered me into a nook in the wall, between the ticket office and a tearoom, where he handed me a parcel wrapped in coa.r.s.e paper and tied with string.

"Your uniforms," he said.

"I hope they fit, French."

He shrugged impatiently. "You needn't worry. We know how to do these things."

"For your sake, I hope you do."

"Now, look over there," he said, gesturing over his shoulder. "That's the Queen's train. Her coach is in the rear. The coaches in front will be occupied by some of her guests and the servants she is taking along from Windsor."

The Queen's train looked like any other except for the rear coach, which was painted a glossy black and bore the Queen's coat of arms in gilt upon the doors, and the great-coated army of grave-faced coves patrolling the platform around it.

"Robshaw's men?" I asked.

"Yes. In addition to the men you see here, he'll have operatives on the train itself and at each station along the way. Agents from the Yard will inspect every inch of track between here and Balmoral. No one gets on this train without a special pa.s.s."

He rummaged in his pocket and produced a doc.u.ment. "Here's yours. You'll be in No. 14, in a private compartment. Normally, you'd be expected to travel with the other servants, but since the marchioness will join the train at Perth, I thought you should enjoy the comforts of a first-cla.s.s carriage alone while you can, without being subjected to speculation and inquisitiveness from the other servants."

"Thank heaven for that. I'm not sure I'm up to the task of making conversation with the Queen's equerry just yet."

French pointed down the platform. "There's Robshaw. Just as well that you see him now. Once he's at Balmoral, he'll be occupied with securing the perimeter of the castle. We won't catch a glimpse of him then."

Robshaw was a tall, thin chap with a supercilious nose and a set of luxuriant side whiskers the colour and texture of a seal's pelt. His trousers were sharply creased, his hat was freshly brushed, and the shine on his boots was blinding at twenty paces. He tipped his hat to a pa.s.sing gentlewoman, displaying a pair of spotless dove grey gloves, glared at a flying s.m.u.t that had dared to land on his forearm and brushed it disdainfully away. If he cared half as much about Vicky's security as he did about his appearance, the Queen was safe indeed.

"Looks a bit of a fusspot," I said.

"He's got an eye for detail, which is just what one needs in his job. Never leaves anything to chance and always has a trick up his sleeve." French checked the time. "We'll be leaving soon. When the train arrives in Perth, the marchioness will be escorted to the carriage and introduced to you by Sir Horace Wickersham. He's provided a letter of reference for you to the marchioness."

"I confess to having some doubts about this. It's not really my nature to toady to the upper cla.s.s."

"I have my doubts, as well," said French, fixing me with that cool grey stare of his. "Remember our fencing lessons; control the point. Don't let your emotions get the better of you. And for G.o.d's sake, don't tell the marchioness to b.u.g.g.e.r off no matter what she does."

"b.u.g.g.e.r off, French."

He smiled. "One other thing." He removed the newspaper from under his arm and handed it to me. "You'll want to read this. The Marischal has published a letter on behalf of the Sons of Arbroath. They have announced that they intend to kill the Queen and pursue a campaign of public executions until the government of England capitulates and emanc.i.p.ates Scotland."

"That ups the stakes a bit."

"Considerably."

"And I'll bet Vicky's pantaloons are in a bit of twist."

French's lips twitched. "I'll see you in Scotland."

"Wait. How will we communicate?"

"Not to worry," French called over his shoulder. "I shall be in contact with you."

"You b.l.o.o.d.y well better be," I muttered, and headed for my carriage, studiously avoiding looking directly at any of Robshaw's men. You never know but what one of these steely-eyed fellows from Division A of Scotland Yard had once been an ambitious youngster walking a beat around Lotus House. Being a woman it was difficult to forget, I thought it best to keep my head down and my gaze averted. Sometimes my profession can be a liability, but as it affords me a great deal of money and the liberty to do what I like with it, I can endure the occasional inconvenience.

I handed my pa.s.s to the joker guarding the door to my carriage and waited while he scrutinized it with the avidity of Shylock reviewing his accounts. There was a tremendous commotion around the Queen's train, with crates of wine and parcels of provisions being trundled aboard and red-faced men shouting instructions, and even, I noticed, several Thoroughbreds being loaded into a horse carriage. The steeds were plunging and stamping at the noise and the steam, and a few grim-faced lads were hanging on to their halters. Some swell must be making the trip under the erroneous impression there were no horses in Scotland.

I watched idly for a moment, and then a striking figure caught my eye among the toffs and their stable boys. It was French, but he was no longer the sober gent with whom I'd just conversed. He wore a vermilion frock coat with a black velvet collar, a low-cut brocade waistcoat and slim-fitting trousers the colour of smoke. He strolled languidly around the edge of the crowd, watching the horses and twirling his malacca walking stick in his hand. Somehow he had contrived to alter his appearance: his thick black hair was tousled and his eyes heavy lidded, as though he had just arisen from his bed in the nick of time to catch the train (or, perhaps, never made the acquaintance of the bed at all last night). I watched with interest as he sidled over to a staid gentleman in an elegant black suit and leaned over for a confidential word. The somber fellow looked startled, then vexed and finally positively outraged. He said something blistering to French and stalked off, leaving French with a look of impish delight on his face. What the devil was he up to? French usually conducted himself with tedious rect.i.tude (barring the odd case of blackmail, as I've previously noted). Now he looked like a louche member of the Upper Ten (Thousand, that is, being a reference to the creme de la creme of English society, which, of course, contains its share of rotters and scoundrels, only they're the richest rotters and scoundrels in the land and, therefore, above the law). French yawned and consulted his watch, then shouted instructions to one of the lads, who was holding a fine grey gelding and waiting his turn to lead the horse onto the carriage. I can't say I was surprised to see Vincent, decked out in a new suit of clothes. I wondered what the secondhand clothing market was like in the Balmoral area.

I won't bore you with the details of the trip from London to Perth. I'm a Londoner, born and bred, and I get vertigo if I have to leave the Big Smoke. Green fields and clear blue skies are fine for some folk, but a steady diet of cows, clover and quaint little villages is not to my taste. What do people do out here? I wondered. Besides churn b.u.t.ter, make sausage and polish the bra.s.s at the church, of course. If I'd had the misfortune to be born somewhere rustic, I'd have died of ennui by the time I turned thirteen. Consequently, I didn't glue myself to the window and admire the scenery like most travelers would. I browsed through the newspaper French had given me and noted the hysterical threats against the Queen by those infernal Scottish nationalists. I briefly contemplated a perusal of the Bible I'd brought along to impress the old battle-axe to whom I'd soon be apprenticed, but it's never been one of my favorite books: too much fire, brimstone and punishment, and shockingly rude things to say about harlots. In the end, I closed the curtains in my compartment, put up my feet and stretched out for a long snooze. I figured sleep would be a rare commodity once the marchioness got hold of me.

Many hours later, we pulled into the station at Perth. Jolted awake, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and drew back the curtains. There wasn't much to see, other than a bustling train station that looked much like any other. I noticed a few well-dressed ladies and men on the platform, waiting to board, and concluded that other members of the Queen's party besides the marchioness were boarding here. French had instructed me to wait in the carriage until Sir Horace arrived to introduce me to my employer, so I cooled my heels and hummed a few songs, killing time, until I heard some timorous footsteps in the hallway and a gentle knock upon the door.

"Miss Black?"

I rose to my feet and smoothed my skirts. "Come in."

Sir Horace Wickersham was a ruddy old squire with a cast in one eye, a halo of fluffy white hair and the confidence of a bullied mouse.

"h.e.l.lo," he mumbled. "h.e.l.lo. Very nice to meet you. Very nice indeed." He glanced briefly at me and blushed. His eyes skittered away from mine and toured the compartment. "Did you, um, have a nice journey?"

"Yes, it was fine."

"Good, good." He stared with some fascination at my Bible. "I asked, you see, because the rails are sometimes quite uneven, and the journey can be most uncomfortable."

"It was tolerable," I said.