India Black and the Widow of Windsor (15 page)

“’Allo, India,” the scamp said.

“And hello 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 hassassin 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 shaggin’ 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 . . .”

“Shagging 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 sexual 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.

“Would the Sons use Archie to assassinate the Queen?” I asked. “He needn’t care a fig for Scottish independence, just be suggestible enough to be persuaded by someone like the Marischal.”

French stroked his chin. “What do you think, Vincent? Is Archie’s hatred of the Queen sufficient to drive him to kill her? Or would he be a willing tool for someone else, perhaps someone he looked up to?”

“Are ye askin’ me if the man is stupid enough to do someone else’s killin’? Naw, I wouldn’t think so. ’E ain’t no fool, not Archie. I don’t think even Dizzy could talk Archie into doin’ somethin’ ’e don’t want to. But ’e might do it on ’is own. After the Queen dressed ’im down, the stable boys say ’e ain’t been the same. Spends all ’is time ravin’ that ’Er Majesty ain’t fit to run the country if she ain’t got better sense than to ’ang around with that bastard Brown.”

I had to admit to some general views along the same line.

“We have four suspects,” said French. “Not bad work in such a short time. Now we must decide how to proceed.”

“We’ve already got Robshaw on Vicker, Robbie Munro and your friend Red Hector,” I said.

“He might not find anything. Remember, the Sons of Arbroath are reputed to be well organized and very cunning. They will go to great lengths to cover their tracks.”

“So hit’s down to us, his hit?” Vincent wiggled like a setter pup. “We got to do some more investigatin,’ ain’t we?”

“We do,” said French. “We’ve got to see if we can turn up anything else, but we must go about it cautiously.”

“Search their quarters?” I asked.

“Yes, I think that’s our next move. Vincent, you’ll look through Archie’s room for anything that strikes you as suspicious. I’ll go through Red Hector’s things.”

“I’ll search Robbie’s room and Vicker’s as well. All the servants are at kirk today. This will be my best opportunity to toss some rooms.” I glanced at Vincent. “What about Archie?”

“Aye, ’e’s off to wear out the knees of ’is trousers, just like all the rest. I’d lay odds I could be done in ’alf an ’our.”

“I doubt Red Hector is contemplating his sins right now, though he might be committing a few. If he’s not off for a canter, he may be sleeping off last night’s excesses, but I’ll try my best.” French rose from the table. “Shall we meet back here between luncheon and teatime? After a heavy meal, I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole household doesn’t have a lie down.”

That sounded like the perfect way to spend a Sunday afternoon. I hoped I had time to grab a hot meal and forty winks between my bouts of breaking and entering.

 

 

 

I hightailed it back to the castle along the path, with Vincent and French slipping away in opposite directions. This seemed like an inordinate amount of skullduggery for a situation that had yet to prove dangerous, but I supposed French was correct and we should be on our toes. The Sons of Arbroath and the Marischal could strike at any minute, and it wouldn’t do for French, Vincent and me to be standing about with our mouths open and our thumbs up our arses. So I slipped and slid along the icy path, cursing the rocks and paying no mind to the scenery until the great pile of granite hove into view, and I stole in through the servants’ entrance, keeping a wary eye out for any other serfs who’d shirked the Sunday services.

I conducted a quick reconnaissance of the kitchen, pantries and buttery, and was about to mount the stairs to the servants’ quarters when I heard a clattering in the silver room, followed shortly by the sound of an expensive piece of the Queen’s silver crashing onto the floor and an oath that would have burned even Vincent’s ears. I stuck my head around the door to find Robbie Munro swearing a blue streak and trying to pick up the salver he’d just dropped, a task which was not made any easier by the fact that he was wearing a pair of white cotton gloves, smeared with silver polish. He’d just succeeded in getting a grip on the platter when I pushed open the door.

“Hello, Robbie,” I said brightly.

The tray slipped out of his hands again and hit the floor for a second time.

“Damnation,” said Robbie, spitting me with a glance. He fumbled for the salver, fingers sliding over the surface until he managed to pin it between his gloved hands. Gingerly, he lifted it to the table with all the proficiency of a newly ordained vicar conducting his first infant baptism. It slipped from his fingers just as he was about to set it down on the table, clanging loudly against the oak surface.

“Damnation,” he repeated. His face was pink beneath his golden red curls, and a bead of moisture had appeared on his upper lip. “I thought you were sick and couldn’t go to kirk. Why are you traipsing about, scaring the wits out of me?”

“I thought a breath of fresh air might help my headache. And why aren’t you over at the church with the gospel grinders? I thought the Queen made everyone go to services.”

“I volunteered to polish the silver for today’s luncheon.”

I didn’t believe that for one minute. Granted, sitting in a wooden pew for a couple of hours while some dreary padre droned on about fornication, death and gluttony (on second thought, probably not the appropriate topic when Her Royal Rotundity attended services) was worth avoiding at all costs, but not, I thought, by volunteering to do an extra bit of housework around the castle. Especially when one did not seemed particularly skilled at the job. Robbie looked like he’d been wrestling crocodiles instead of polishing candlesticks: his curls were tumbled, there was that faint sheen of sweat on his face, and his collar was awry. I suppose I have a nasty, suspicious mind, but I wondered if Robbie had been doing what I had been planning to do, namely ransacking someone’s personal belongings.

“Dull work,” I said, nodding at the pile of hardware laid out on the table.

“Yes, and it has to be done within the hour.” Robbie glanced at the clock on the wall and picked up the polishing cloth.

“Still, it must be exciting, working at Balmoral for the Queen.”

“I suppose it’s a step up from the marchioness,” Robbie said grudgingly. “Some might think it an honour to work for Her Majesty, but it’s not what I ever expected to be doing with my life.” He looked distastefully at the silver. “Especially working up a sweat putting a shine on all this.”

“You must prefer the outdoors.”

“What?” Robbie looked up from his perusal of a pepper pot. “Oh, yes. Rather be outside any day than stuck indoors.”

“Then why be a footman?” I asked. “Couldn’t you get on here as a ghillie?”

“Well, there’s my uncle, you see. He got me the place here, and I couldn’t disappoint him. He needed another footman. One of the others had left.”

“But if not for your uncle, you’d probably be building fishing traps or stalking stags?”

Robbie grinned. “That would be better than polishing fish forks.”

“But weren’t you a footman already, at Stirling, or was it Melrose?”

Robbie’s smile faded. “Right. Well, we can’t always do what we want, can we? Sometimes we have to accept our responsibilities.”

I’d pricked him, no doubt. But exactly why, I couldn’t work out. Because he didn’t want to be a footman? Or because he wasn’t one?

“I’ve got to finish this,” said Robbie, turning away abruptly. “Everyone will be back from kirk soon and ready to dine.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it,” I said, and did, but not before I caught him gazing thoughtfully at me as I made my exit.

With Robbie safely tucked up in the butler’s pantry putting a gloss on the chafing dishes, I ran upstairs to shed my coat and gloves, then hotfooted it down the corridor to Robbie’s room. There was no lock on Flora’s door, and I thought it likely the same was true of Robbie’s, Miss Boss being the type of housekeeper who believed privacy was a luxury reserved for the aristocracy. Robbie’s door swung open at a touch, and I closed it hastily behind me. The room was as plain as Flora’s, with a single brass bed that had seen much use, a dingy rag rug on the floor, a chest against the wall and a small table by the bed, which held a candlestick and a dime novel with a lurid cover (
Meehataska: The Scourge of the Mounties
). I suppose after a day of helping old duffers into their socks and pouring tea for the Lady Dalfads of the world, Robbie felt entitled to a bit of light relief. I flicked through the pages, looking for the sort of things assassins might hide in bad literature—notes of assignations, lists of co-conspirators and that sort of thing—but I was disappointed.

I moved to the chest and began rummaging methodically through each drawer. I’d rifled through a sparse collection of vests, drawers (should have kept the gloves for that task), socks, collars and shirts when my hand touched paper. Probably newspaper, used to line the drawers, but I pulled it out anyway, very gently so that I wouldn’t tear the thing, and found myself staring down at a political tract, cheaply printed in smeared ink on the flimsiest of paper. The cross of St. Andrew was emblazoned across the top, and under it, in bold letters, the headline proclaimed, “Arise, Sons of Arbroath, and Free Scotland from English Bondage!” The writer had added a verse from Robert Burns (a nice touch, I thought, if a bit heavy on the exclamation marks):