India Black and the Widow of Windsor (23 page)

“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 passage 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 passage 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 classical 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 passage, 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 aptitude. 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 embarrassing the cove.

I
was having a bite of luncheon with some of the other lady’s maids in the kitchen, spinning an elaborate tale of a tumble on the stairs and the consequent damage to my face, when Robbie Munro came rushing in, his curls askew and his cheeks flushed with excitement. He scanned the room until his eyes came to rest on me, and he bustled over with the all the urgency of a Viennese soldier come to deliver the news that the Saracens were at the gates.

“You’re to come at once, Miss Black,” he panted, skidding to a halt at the table.

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s the marchioness. She was dining with the Queen. There’s been an incident.”

“An incident?”

“Come along,” said Robbie impatiently. “I’ve been sent to fetch you and we mustn’t tarry. I’ll tell you on the way.”

I dabbed my mouth and straightened my cap and off we went, with Robbie galloping along in front of me, kilt swishing from side to side (offering a tantalizing glimpse of clearly defined hamstrings), and me struggling to stay up with him.

“What has happened?” I called to him.

He slowed to a trot. “The marchioness stuffed a wad of pepper up her nose. I saw her myself. You wouldn’t believe what happened next.”

“Yes,” I said wearily. “I would.”

“The Queen was not amused. You’re to take the marchioness away.” He grimaced. “You’ll have to do a bit of cleaning up. Of the marchioness, I mean.”

The dining room was unexpectedly quiet when we entered. There was the embarrassed silence among the occupants that one encounters at family dinners when Auntie Rose loses her false teeth in a wineglass or Uncle James breaks wind during grace. The marchioness sat sullenly at the table while a couple of footmen hovered over her, attempting without much success to mop up the table and sponge off the old lady’s dress. Her nearest neighbors had the dazed look of survivors of an artillery bombardment. I caught sight of French at the end of the table, grinning like a schoolboy with Red Hector. Lady Dalfad was rigid with disapproval, lips pursed. As for the Queen, her little pudding face was quivering with fury. She crooked a finger at me.

Damn and blast. So much for slipping into the room and extracting the marchioness without drawing attention to ourselves. I crawled up the room like an obsequious spaniel and dropped an inexpert curtsey. The Queen fixed me with a pale and murderous eye. She noted the developing bruise and scratches on my cheek (evidence to her, no doubt, of the kind of disreputable maid the marchioness would employ), but she was so infuriated that she did not comment upon my appearance.

“Have you been told what occurred here today?” Her voice was trembling with suppressed rage.

“I have, Your Highness.”

“We are not amused.” She pointed a plump finger down the table. “You will escort the marchioness to her room and remove that, that . . .
filth
from her clothes and her person.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“In the future, you will accompany the marchioness to meals. You will stand behind her until she has finished eating. Your attention to her will be
unremitting
, and you will see that nothing like this
ever
occurs again.” She waved her hand in dismissal.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

I collected the marchioness, and we skedaddled out of the room, with the marchioness holding her head erect, clutching my arm and teetering defiantly. I had to hand it to her; the old trout had pluck.

“It wasn’t my fault,” she rasped when we’d escaped the view of the scandalized diners. “Some fool put pepper on the table in front of me.”

“Anyone could make the same mistake,” I said soothingly.

This blatant lie mollified the marchioness.

“Indeed,” she said. She squinted at me. “What the devil has happened to ye?”

I gave her the same fallacious account I’d provided to the servants.

“Clumsy oaf,” she said, clutching my arm as we tottered along.

In her room I stripped off her gown and tossed it in the basket for the laundress to clean. Then I moistened a flannel and applied myself to removing the dried grains of pepper that had adhered to the marchioness’s face. This was as laborious as performing surgery, and my eyes were beginning to cross by the time I’d scrubbed her clean. The marchioness’s head was drooping by then, and I left her snoring comfortably under an eiderdown and headed to the kitchen for some refreshment. A cup of tea would be nice. A belt of brandy would be better.

Alas, there was no brandy in the offing, so I settled down on a bench beside Flora with a cup of a tea and one of Cook’s scones.

“I suppose you’ve heard the news,” I said. “My employer has disgraced the house of Tullibardine.”

“I hear the Queen threw a wobbly. I’d have given anything to see it.” She poked me in the ribs. “And I hear you’re going to attend the marchioness at meals. That should be a treat. I’d love to hear what the toffs talk about after a few glasses of wine. And I’d love to spend a couple of hours staring at that fine Mr. French over the table.”

“I hadn’t thought about it that way,” I said. “It might be entertaining, as long as I don’t forget my duties and let the marchioness stick any foreign objects up her nose.”

“Oh, do. I’d love to hear what the Queen does if it happens again.”

“Probably consign the marchioness to the Tower and lop off my head.”

Flora clapped her hand on my arm, sloshing tea onto the floor. “I almost forgot to tell you! There was a robbery last night in Ballater.”

“Oh?” This would not be news in London, but apparently Ballater did not see much criminal activity beyond the theft of the odd ewe.

“Someone broke the window out of the chemist’s shop and cleaned out the place. They say whoever did it made off with enough medicine to kit out a hospital.”

“Fancy that,” I said. “Do the authorities have any clues?”

“Not a single one. Of course, that’s no surprise. Grant, the constable in Ballater, is dimmer than a dying candle. He’ll never find the thief.”

“Pity,” I said. I finished my tea and wiped the crumbs from my apron. “Well, I’ve a few minutes before I have to wake the marchioness and beautify her for dinner. I think I’ll step outside for a breath of air.”

I popped out of the servants’ entrance, prepared for a blast of searingly cold Highland air in my lungs, only to be met with the eye-watering aroma of curry. In a corner of the courtyard, a pair of shivering Hindoos huddled over a wood fire, stirring a vile yellow swill in a blackened pot. I pulled my apron up over my nose and hurried around the corner, where a stiff breeze from the Cairngorms brought the tears to my eyes and scoured the odor from my nostrils.

I found a bit of shelter behind one of the turrets that dear departed Albert had added to the exterior of the castle, and surveyed the grounds. Except for the visits to the stone hut in the woods, I’d scarcely been out of the castle since arriving, and I was getting heartily sick of swabbing down the old lady and reading the Bible until the wee hours. A bit of fun wouldn’t go amiss, and I set to wondering about the ghillies’ ball and whether the dour Scots race was capable of throwing a party that didn’t involve a lot of morose, bearded coves comparing notes on sheep. However, Flora had indicated the ball would be festive, and she looked like a miss who enjoyed getting oiled and sharing a romp on the dance floor with a likely lad. She’d made clear her intention to dance with French at the ball; although, I’ve had the pleasure of waltzing with the bloke, and I could have told Flora not to bother as the man was about as attentive as a ten-week-old fox terrier. But at the time we’d shared our dance at the Russian Embassy, French had been playing serious-minded government agent. Now that he was masquerading as an aristocratic boob, he might be pleasant company.

I was gazing aimlessly around the grounds (which, at this time of year, were not at their best), wondering why on earth the Queen would choose to vacation in this frigid clime when the contents of the royal treasury were available to her, when a black blur caught my eye. I watched with interest as Robbie Munro slunk furtively from the castle. At this time of day, he should be polishing silver or laying cutlery in preparation for dinner. I perked up at the prospect of following him; this was real espionage work, unlike playing nursemaid to a dotty member of the Upper Ten. Munro walked rapidly, hugging the wall of the castle, head swiveling as he scanned the area. He was clearly nervous, checking over his shoulder every few seconds to ensure he wasn’t being followed. I applied myself to the granite as well, ducking in behind turrets, pillars and bowed windows (thank God, Prince Albert had been inordinately fond of such decorations and piled them on with a heavy hand), keeping a close eye on the footman.

Robbie turned the corner and exited the courtyard, glancing behind him as he did so. I found refuge behind a buttress until my quarry was out of sight, then rushed forward, gathering up my skirts and skating over the slippery cobblestones. At the corner I paused and cautiously inched forward for a peek. Munro was in view, hands jammed in his pockets, nervously describing circles at the side of the stables, out of sight of the main entrance and the horse stalls. He pulled a watch from his pocket and looked at it anxiously, then resumed his nervous pacing. He kept a sharp lookout, peering back at my hiding place from time to time, making it difficult to stay out of sight. As he was clearly waiting for someone, I cooled my heels for a bit, tucked up behind the corner. After a few minutes, I took a gander and found that Munro’s appointment had arrived: Archie Skene.

The two had their heads bent close together while Munro talked and Skene listened, nodding now and then and tugging thoughtfully at his beard. I conned the area between me and the men, but there was no way I could get any closer, unless I just sauntered out and joined them, which of course would have meant the end of the conversation I so wanted to hear. I waited impatiently as the two conversed. Munro did most of the talking, jawing away while Skene looked up at him from under those furry eyebrows of his. Skene shook his head a couple of times, once vehemently, at which Munro looked frustrated and spoke sharply to the older man. Skene drew himself up to his full height (which wasn’t much, as he could just about look over the withers of a Shetland pony when he did so) and tapped Munro on the chest. The footman took a step back, then raised a placating hand to Skene. Well, if Munro was the Marischal and Skene the lackey, the Scots clearly had different ideas about the deference due to the leader of the cabal.