India Black And The Widow Of Windsor Part 7

Just as I was about to collapse, French released me with a gentle shove. I stood gasping, wondering what to say, but French saved me from having to respond by taking my shoulders, turning me toward the door and saying: "Go on, my lovely. Go pet the old lady. We'll finish this some other time." And then the b.a.s.t.a.r.d slapped my a.s.s and pushed me out the door.

I stood in the hallway, leaning against a sixteenth-century bureau, my chest heaving and my knees wobbling like a day-old blancmange. I was quivering with rage. How dare the b.a.s.t.a.r.d treat me like . . . like . . . like a b.l.o.o.d.y housemaid over whom he was exercising the ancient right of droit du seigneur.

It didn't help that I could hear French and the Prince of Wales neighing and snorting like two randy stallions.

"Fast work, brother," said Bertie. I'd have liked to have given him a good one right in his toolbox for that. "I spotted her in the hall yesterday. She's a handsome wench. I'd have had a go at her myself if I hadn't walked in on the two of you wrapped up together. But since you've got first dibs, I'll step aside. Can't promise I won't look that little wagtail up later, though. What a fine filly."

That's the aristocracy for you. Or, come to that, men in general. They just a.s.sume that every maid they meet would be thrilled to drop her knickers for them, regardless of how bald, fat or stupid they are. It's a hard truth, ladies, but the sooner you learn it, the quicker you can get on with learning how to buffalo the old farts and turn their arrogant confidence to your advantage.

"There ye are, Iris."

I winced at the raucous voice. The marchioness. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. That was all I needed at the moment.

The old dame was tottering down the hall, peering nearsightedly into each room, like a laying hen just released from the coop and trying to work out where to find the corn.

"I need yer a.s.sistance, Iris. Now."

"Yes, my lady." My knees were still weak and my breathing ragged, but I followed her back to her room.

There, the marchioness collapsed into a chair and scowled up at me. "I heard male voices from that room. Were ye in there alone with two gentlemen?"

"Yes, ma'am. Mr. French and the Prince of Wales."

"Give me my snuffbox, Iris."

I handed her the box, along with a snowy square of linen. She waved the latter away. I shrugged. One can only try. So I beat a hasty retreat to the far side of the room until the ritual of dipping, sneezing and dripping was complete, then mopped up the aftermath.

The marchioness dabbed away a trickle of snuff. "Ye're new to my service, Iris, and also new to the Queen's residence. I feel I must warn ye. Ye should not, under any circ.u.mstances, permit yerself to be alone with any gentlemen here at the castle. They're likely to be friends with that bounder Bertie, and ye've surely heard what a scoundrel he is."

I didn't know whether I should admit to being au fait with the misdeeds of the Prince of Wales, as I was liable to get a lecture on gossiping with the other servants, so I merely nodded ambiguously and let the marchioness carry on.

She gave me a sharp glance from those rheumy eyes. "Ye keep to yerself, Iris. I don't want ye leavin' here with a bairn for a souvenir. Is that clear?"

"Yes, ma'am. Abundantly. And may I say that you need have no worries about that."

Truth to tell, I could probably have made the old lady's eyes bug out with the wealth of information I knew about this particular subject, but I didn't see the point of fl.u.s.tering her with knowledge that your average virginal maid should never acquire.

"You said that you needed me, Your Ladyship. Are you ready to dress for luncheon?"

"I'm havin' it on a tray in here. Then I'm havin' a nap. But ye should come back this afternoon. I'm havin' tea with Lady Dalfad, and I want ye to accompany me."

I nodded and took my leave, my spirits momentarily uplifted at the thought of seeing the marchioness partaking of snuff in Lady Dalfad's presence. Bound to be a show worth the price of admittance.

As I had antic.i.p.ated, tea with Lady Dalfad was a chilly affair. The marchioness toddled in on my arm, and the countess gave her a stiff nod in greeting. I wondered why, if the countess so disapproved of the old girl, she had bothered to invite her to tea, but the Upper Ten does things differently than we do. I wouldn't give the time of day, let alone tea, to someone I disliked, but the aristocracy has to nod and smile and pretend they're deuced happy to see all sorts of simpletons, wastrels and dullards, just because they have money, a t.i.tle, or an eligible son or daughter with one or the other.

Effie, the countess's maid, gave me an equally stiff nod. The gracious ladies seated themselves in chairs covered in that G.o.dawful Royal Stewart tartan, and the countess's maid and I were relegated to rigid wooden chairs along the wall, where we could keep an eye on our charges but they wouldn't have to spoil their tea by actually seeing us.

A footman waltzed in with a tray of sandwiches and cakes and a silver teapot. I was delighted to see that it was Robbie Munro. I could at least idle away some time in admiring his muscular calves (even the thick woolen socks couldn't hide those) and that handsome head of red gold curls. He looked as nervous as a schoolboy, treading carefully over the carpet (Royal Stewart, what else?) and placing the tray on the table before the countess with trembling hands. The china rattled and the teapot slid alarmingly to one side. Robbie recovered it quickly and replaced it on its lacy mat. Under the golden tumble of curls, his face was pink.

Lady Dalfad impaled him with a glance but said nothing.

The marchioness leaned forward, examining the food. "Smoked salmon. And those lovely fairy cakes. My favorites." She grunted in satisfaction, which made the countess wince.

Robbie served them, sloshing the tea and earning another glare from Lady Dalfad, but he finally succeeded in getting tea in the cups and sandwiches on the plates without a major disaster. He went to stand in the corner, ready to spring into action.

Lady Dalfad took a sip of tea. "You may go, Munro. If we require anything, I'll send Effie to fetch you."

Robbie inclined his head and retreated quickly. He caught my eye as he went and grimaced. I gave him an encouraging smile.

"What a clumsy oaf that man is," said Lady Dalfad.

The marchioness crammed a bit of toast and salmon into her mouth. "Is he?" she mumbled. "I hadna noticed. Good lookin' chap, though." She laughed boisterously, and the countess's lips tightened.

"You would think he'd never been a footman before," she said. "The Queen usually hires only experienced servants."

"She's a stickler for protocol," said the marchioness, slurping tea.

"Her Majesty has high expectations of her servants, which is entirely appropriate," Lady Dalfad said primly.

"Well, the footman may not be up to snuff, but the cook is first-rate." The marchioness helped herself to more salmon.

"I daresay I shall have to have a word with Vicker about that young man. He ought not to wait on the Queen until he's gained some polish."

"Who's Vicker?"

"The deputy master of the household. Wilkins, the master, is ill and had to stay at Windsor. This is Vicker's first time to perform the master's duties, and I fear that things are not as they should be. If Wilkins were here, that young footman would not have served anyone until he'd proved his competence."

The countess went on prattling away about the difficulty of finding good servants, unlike her Effie, of course, who was a paragon of virtuous servitude, while Effie preened herself in the corner and darted little glances in my direction, to be sure I was listening. I wasn't, of course, having latched onto something Lady Dalfad had said about Munro: "You would think he'd never been a footman before." I distinctly remembered Flora telling me that Robbie had been a footman at a great house somewhere in the Borders. I daresay the countess had lots of experience with footmen, being one of the Queen's ladies of the bedchamber and consequently used to consorting with those chaps on a regular basis. If Lady Dalfad suspected Robbie had never acted as a footman before, then perhaps the handsome lad was here at Balmoral under false pretenses.

The marchioness had moved on to the cuc.u.mber sandwiches and was shoveling them into her mouth at a rate that guaranteed the countess wouldn't be having any. Lady Dalfad carried on at such length about the dearth of well-trained staff and the consequent hardships suffered by their employers that I soon lost interest and began looking about for distractions. Where were Robbie Munro's knees when you needed them? I had resorted to a minute examination of the pattern on my teacup when Lady Dalfad ignited my curiosity with a remark.

"Eh? What's that ye said?" asked the marchioness, who'd obviously been paying as little attention to the countess as I had been.

Mistaking the marchioness's inattention for deafness, Lady Dalfad raised her voice. "I said, I was quite surprised when Vicker applied for the position as deputy master. I've known him for years, and his mother before him. She was an Erskine, you'll recall."

The marchioness spooned jam onto a scone. "An Erskine, ye say?"

"Yes. You see the difficulty?"

"Aye," said the marchioness, through a mouthful of jam and scone. "The Clearanthes."

I didn't see the difficulty, but then I was not acquainted with the family Clearanth.

"Indeed," sniffed the countess. "The Erskines lost everything."

Thank G.o.d for the countess. The marchioness must have been referring to the Highland Clearances, when Scottish and English landlords had driven many of the Highland clans from their lands to create room for more sheep. The English Crown had stood idly by, not daring to interfere as most of the landlords were supporters of the monarchy. A good many families had been ruined in this way and carried a longstanding grudge against the English government as a result.

"Vicker's mother was infuriated at the loss of the family home and their farms. I can't imagine that she'd countenance a son of hers working for the Queen."

"She had a son?" asked the marchioness, squinting at the a.s.sortment of cakes on the tea tray.

"Vicker," Lady Dalfad said irritably. "Vicker's mother was an Erskine. That's why I think it odd that he applied to work for the Queen; no self-respecting member of the family would do so."

The marchioness's hand scrabbled through the folds of her skirt. "Where's my snuff, Idina?"

I fished the box from the bag at my feet and sprang up, but before I could reach the old lady's side, her eyes had alighted on the sugar bowl on the tray. Before I could stop her, she'd removed the lid and raised a heaping spoon to her nose.

"Oh, dear G.o.d," said the Countess in horror.

Now, I have never inhaled sugar in my life, and I can a.s.sure that I never will, after witnessing that scene. When the sugar crystals. .h.i.t her sinus cavities, the marchioness blinked. Her head jerked back, and her eyes rolled upward until all I could see were the whites, yellow with age and threaded with thin red veins. She looked like a horse that had just had a pistol go off in its ear. Then her face twisted, and I knew the moment of reckoning was at hand. I seized the antimaca.s.sar from the back of the marchioness's chair and clapped it over her nose and mouth. I must admit the explosion was quieter than I had expected. Unlike the sneeze that followed the ingestion of the face powder, this one was almost subdued, sounding more like the crack of thunder than a blast of dynamite on a building site. Still, it was loud enough to render the countess mute with shock.

The marchioness sniffled and shook her head. "Lord, I must speak to that Mitch.e.l.l. This batch of snuff is singularly unnatural."

"You inhaled sugar from the sugar bowl," the countess said icily.

"Nonsense. What a remarkable thing to say." The marchioness looked offended.

"Well, you did."

Had the countess asked my advice (no chance of that ever happening, of course), I'd have told her to drop the topic, but Lady Dalfad had worked herself up into a rare state of revulsion, and she spent the next quarter hour haranguing the marchioness for her egregious lack of manners, while the old lady grew increasingly sulky and silent. The party broke up shortly after, as you might expect, with the countess and her maid Effie flouncing out, and me petting and teasing the marchioness until I was rewarded with a smile as I dumped her into bed for a short rest before dinner. I closed the door with relief, wondering how many small containers of various materials might be found around a house the size of Balmoral and how I would ever manage to keep the marchioness from inadvertently dipping into the contents of, say, the Queen's tea caddy. One thing I knew for sure: I'd have to keep the old bag away from the gun room; there was no telling what might happen if she filled her sinuses with a hefty dose of gunpowder. She might even level the castle.

FIVE.

I returned to my room to find an envelope bearing my name. I ripped it open and found a note from French, with instructions to feign illness and skip services at the kirk on the morrow, which was Sunday. For a moment I puzzled over this, wondering why the b.l.o.o.d.y man would ever imagine I'd spend the Sabbath sitting through a joyless service with a group of glum Scots, but then I recalled that Miss Boss had mentioned that all Balmoral servants were required to attend kirk. Accordingly, I woke up the next morning with a crippling headache and a bad case of diarrhea (imaginary, of course, but I've found that nothing works faster at clearing a room than a case of diarrhea). Flora heard the news, offered to bring me a cup of tea and looked grateful when I declined. After she'd gone, I rose and dressed, pulling on the hideous clothes I'd worn on the train, found a m.u.f.fler and gloves in Flora's drawer, and slunk silently out the servants' entrance.

French had included directions in his letter to our rendezvous, and just beyond the dairy barn I found the path he'd instructed me to take. It wound steadily upward along a steepish incline, the landscape littered with boulders and a stand of spruce trees soaring overhead. There was snow on the ground and ice on the path, and I picked my way carefully. It was dead quiet out here in the woods, except for the occasional raucous cawing of a rook (which, the first time I heard it, caused me to look over my shoulder for the marchioness).

After thirty minutes of hard walking, I topped a rise and stood for a moment, catching my breath. I suppose the view was superb, if you cared for scenery: snow-covered crags that towered into the sky, a sweeping vista down the hill I'd climbed, with smoke rising from the castle chimneys and the pale granite of the building gleaming in the sun, acres of windswept moorland, the shimmer of tiny, jewel-like lakes in the distance. The air was fresh and cold, and smelled of pine and wood smoke. I shudder when I think about it. It's abnormal, living where you can't see a pub sign from your window.

I tightened my m.u.f.fler against the wind and scuttled down the path. In the valley below stood a stone hut, thatched with heather. It looked cold and lonely and isolated, the latter state no doubt being the reason French had selected it as our meeting place. I looked in vain for a curl of smoke from the flue, but the place appeared deserted. I hoped French had at least brought along a bottle of whisky to keep us warm.

I circled around to the rear of the hut and whistled softly (not really my idea of proper etiquette when making a house call, but I had been directed to indulge in these antics per French's instructions). I was answered by a low trill, which meant French was in residence and no one else was about. Well, a knock on the door would have ascertained that just as easily. I sighed as I waded through the snow to the back door.

French ushered me into the kitchen of the hut, after scanning the countryside to ensure I had not been followed. Vincent was at a wobbly table in the corner, wolfing bread and cheese and drinking tea from a flask.

"'Allo, India," the scamp said.

"And h.e.l.lo to you, Vincent. Is there any more of that tea?"

He shoved the flask across the table. "'Elp yourself. French brought it along."

"And I'm glad he did." I found a tin mug on the windowsill (cold as ice, it was) and poured myself a cup. The tea was tepid at best, but I drank it anyway, grateful for even the slightest warmth.

French sliced more bread and cheese, and we tucked into our Sunday repast. He was looking a bit peaked, as if he'd spent the evening before quaffing copious amounts of liquor, breathing cigar smoke and laughing at asinine jokes. How I wish I had been there. He pulled himself together, though, like the dedicated agent he was, and chaired the meeting for us.

"We've each had a couple of days to form some impressions and take note of any peculiarities," he said. "I thought we should share our initial information and discuss our next moves. Why don't you go first, India?"

For Vincent's sake, I repeated what I had told French about Vicker and Munro. "There's a bit more to add," I said, and launched into my account of tea with Lady Dalfad and the marchioness.

"I'm sure that Flora said Robbie had served as a footman before, but Lady Dalfad wasn't convinced. And the information about Vicker being descended from a Highland family done out of their inheritance is suggestive. Have you heard anything from Robshaw yet about Robbie or Vicker?"

"Nothing," said French. "But then I only told him yesterday, after we met."

The mention of our "meeting" (if one could call the mugging I had suffered at French's hands such) reminded me that French and I had unfinished business. Unfortunately, with Vincent sitting there, it was not the time to discuss it. I gave French a scowl, though, just to let him know he was not getting off lightly.

French ignored the scowl. "And, of course, I've heard nothing more from Robshaw about Red Hector." He described the seventh Baronet of Dochfour to Vincent while the boy chewed ruminatively on a crust of bread.

"Blimey," he said when French had finished. "Them ha.s.sa.s.sin fellows are all over the place."

"Any out in the stables?" I asked.

"I got one suspect. Archie Skene."

"The fellow with the eyebrows?" asked French, and I remembered the old bloke with the caterpillars over his eyes who had stepped forward to help Vincent with French's horse on our arrival at Balmoral.

"Aye, that's 'im. 'E's a groom at the castle. 'E used to be the 'ead groom. 'E saddled the Queen's pony and led 'er around the castle grounds, makin' sure the ole bat didn't fall off, but then this Brown bloke comes along and pushes ole Archie out of the way.'Pears the Queen likes this Brown bloke so much that she lets 'im do whatever 'e wants, includin' takin' over from Archie. Least that's the way Archie tells it."

I reached for a slab of cheddar. "And that made Archie mad enough to kill the Queen?"

"There's more to it, o' course. That Brown 'as a nasty temper, plus 'e's pickled 'alf the time, and 'im and Archie got into it real bad one day. I guess Archie 'cused Brown of s.h.a.ggin' the Queen"-French's eyebrows climbed his forehead, but Vincent ploughed on, unfazed by the facts of life-"and Brown went off like a firecracker. 'E and Archie climbed into one another, and pretty soon there was blood all over the yard and the 'orses were thrashin' about and the stable boys were takin' bets and all the maids 'ad run out of the 'ouse to see wot all the blather was about."

Vincent stopped for breath.

"Goodness," I said. "I'm surprised Archie's still employed. I thought anyone who crossed Brown did so at his peril."

"That's wot everyone says about Brown. Them stable boys and grooms 'ead in the other direction when they see 'im comin'."

French broke in impatiently. "Finish your story, Vincent. What happened between Brown and Archie Skene?"

"Brown went straight to the Queen and told 'er that 'e and Archie had been into it, and she oughter fire Archie. So the Queen called Archie in and give 'im a tongue-lashin' 'e says 'e won't soon forget. Then Archie acted all sheepish and 'pologized about a 'undred times, and the Queen said 'e could stay, but 'e couldn't be'ead groom no more."

"Brown must not have told her that Archie accused Brown of, er . . ."

"s.h.a.gging her," I said, finishing French's sentence for him. I am amazed at how even the doughtiest of men can't bear to refer to the act of s.e.xual congress without stammering or blushing.

"If Brown had, I expect Archie would have been out on his ear," said French.

"Instead he's still here, nursing a grudge against Brown and presumably the Queen. Is it a grudge strong enough to provoke him to kill the Queen?"

"And is it merely personal animosity, or is there a connection to the Sons of Arbroath?" French mused.