India Black and the Widow of Windsor (34 page)

I could almost hear French’s voice in my ear, telling me that now was the perfect time for a counterattack. I thought so too, but not because I’d had the odd lesson in fencing strategy. No, it was pure, unadulterated fear at the prospect of being spitted on Flora’s small sword that caused me to consider launching my own assault.

Flora was bobbing and ducking, looking for an opening, when I sprang off the wall, sword slashing upward. I found her blade and lifted it cleanly, but Flora was too fast for me to press home the advantage. She danced away from me before I could touch her, but I could see my attack had flummoxed her. She didn’t look half so cocky as when she’d had me pinned against the wall, and I was bloody glad to have dented her confidence. I feinted toward her, and she swung gracefully out of reach of my blade, then glided forward with her own extended. I stepped to one side and blocked her advance. Steel rang on steel and the blades quivered. Flora sprang away and I followed, slashing at her retreating figure. Her hands moved deftly, countering my every move.

By now I was winded, and I could see that Flora had lost a good deal of her spark as well. We conducted a slow waltz in that tiny stone room, orbiting each other like two dying planets. Now and then, one of us would skip forward, trying to lure the other into a fruitless charge, but neither of us wanted to take the bait. The room echoed with our labored breathing, our slow, measured footsteps, punctuated now and then by the thump of an unsuccessful foray and the grating and scraping of blade against blade. We’d been at it like that for a while, and I was wondering whether Flora would be amenable to calling it a draw, shaking hands and having a wee dram together in the spirit of good sportsmanship, when her head snapped up and her eyes were drawn to something beyond my shoulder.

“Marischal,” she breathed, a look of adoration on her face, which dissolved into puzzlement and then melted into a mask of disbelief. “No!” she cried, and I started to turn, to see what had horrified her so, when the world exploded.

The concussion from the shot sent me reeling. The damned gun must have gone off right in my ear; I believe I lost my hearing momentarily, for the room was quiet as a tomb, and the flash of the gunpowder had half-blinded me. I collapsed to my hands and knees and finally keeled over, like a ship that had been holed below the waterline. I rolled over onto my back, moaning loudly.

Then my hearing returned, though I wish it hadn’t, for the sounds I heard now, albeit coming to me faintly, were sounds I never wish to hear again. I don’t suppose many of you have heard the sounds of a woman dying of a sucking chest wound, and I hope you never will. I turned my head to see Flora stretched out beside me, the bodice of her blouse and jacket soaked with blood. There was blood everywhere, it seemed. My silk gown was spattered with the stuff, and for one crazy moment I dreaded the look on Flora’s face when I told her I’d ruined her second-best dress. Flora, however, was past caring. Her eyes were still open and she was still breathing, but it was a dreadful hissing noise I shall never forget as long as I live. She was staring with an unfocused gaze at the ceiling, as though she could see beyond the veil and didn’t much care for the view. Blood gushed from between those rosebud lips.

“Oh, my Christ,” I whispered, forgetting for a moment that I was not a practicing member of the C of E.

Over the ghastly sound of Flora Mackenzie’s last breath, I heard a footfall and the soft rustle of cloth. You’d think I’d have been glad to hear this tangible evidence of my rescuer, but some instinct stirred in me. No Good Samaritan would be so furtive. Turning my head painfully, I searched for my sword and saw it lying in a pool of blood, inches from my hand. I stretched out my fingers, and a slippered foot descended onto my wrist. I looked up into the face of Lady Dalfad. I was also looking down the barrel of a revolver.

“You!” I exclaimed, which was a bit lame, but it was all I could manage after being concussed by that explosion in my ear.

Those sea green eyes were as calculating and merciless as a panther’s. She kept her gaze locked on me as she lifted her foot from my wrist and used it to nudge my sword out of reach of my extended arm.

“That’s better,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to raise your hopes by leaving that sword nearby.”

“You’re a cool one, considering you just shot one of your lieutenants in cold blood.” I was rather surprised that my voice sounded almost normal but for a slight tremor and the tiniest hint of shrillness.

The countess spared Flora a glance and made a moue of distaste.

“I did hate killing the girl; she’s a damned sight more intelligent than half the peers in Scotland. But unfortunately, I had to sacrifice her. She’s one of the few people who could identify me as the Marischal. And, she’s rather upset my plans. I was expecting the Queen to die at Scottish hands, on Scottish soil. Now, I shall have to wait for another time.”

I’m no Socrates, but even I grasped the logical implications of that statement: if the countess was to have another crack at Her Highness, India Black would have to be removed from the picture.

“You can’t escape, you know. Superintendent Robshaw’s men are everywhere.”

The countess smiled mirthlessly. “I don’t intend to escape, Miss Black.”

“But, what . . .”

“I intend to kill you. Then I shall run from here in hysterics and raise the alarm. No doubt the prime minister and Mr. French will be thrilled to hear of your gallant effort to prevent the Marischal’s escape. Unfortunately, you died trying. I happened upon the scene not long after the Marischal had shot you, and I grasped at once that here was the villainess who had attempted to assassinate my Queen. I was too late to save you, but I did fling myself upon Flora, and by sheer luck, I managed to turn the revolver upon her and kill her.” She looked down at her ball gown. “Pity, I’ve always liked this dress, and now I shall have to ruin it by smearing it with Flora’s blood.”

“Your story is weak,” I sneered, but I was glad the light was dim; with luck, the countess might not notice my lips flapping like a ship’s pennant in a stiff breeze. “How did you know about the passage, and why did you decide to venture into it alone? Why did you assume Flora was the Marischal? I can think of any number of questions you’ll be asked, and you won’t have any answers to them.”

Lady Dalfad’s nostrils flared. “You stupid girl. Do you think anyone will presume to challenge my statement? I am a lady of the bedchamber, the Queen’s trusted confidant. No one would dare imply that I was involved in the plot against the Queen, least of all that fat, silly, selfish wretch who dares call herself a monarch.”

“I agree the Queen leaves a bit to be desired in some areas, but then none of us are perfect. Is it really necessary to scribble the old girl?” I didn’t expect a rational answer; it was clear the countess had stepped over the thin line dividing “dedicated patriot” to “one sheep short of a flock.” I just hoped to keep her talking until help arrived, for surely someone in the castle had heard the gunshot and should even now be rushing to the sound.

Lady Dalfad’s face contorted into a mask of disgust. “The Queen isn’t fit to rule Scotland. She dresses her servants in tartans like they were dolls. She cannot venture into the countryside without an army of servants to carry her tea and her sandwiches. She covers the walls with thistles and tartans and she thinks that makes her a true Scot. She has no appreciation of what it means to be born in this country, to live and die here. And have you noticed that fake Scottish brogue she affects? Just yesterday, she was saying that the Baroness of Kirkcudbright is ‘woon prood wumman.’ I could have screamed with disgust. For her Scotland is a fairy realm, and the Scots are picturesque rascals who cater to her every whim. Just look at me, a member of one of the great families of Scotland, reduced to stirring her cocoa and sitting in on séances while charlatans play upon her gullibility. Thank God for her stupidity, though. It was dead easy planting the idea that Albert wanted her here at the castle.”

She shook herself then and leveled the revolver at my heart. “But I’ve wasted enough time talking to you. Good-bye, India Black.”

“Lady Dalfad!” The voice belonged to French. “Pray put down that revolver, my lady. If you surrender, it will go much easier for you at the trial.”

The countess spun and fired in the direction of French’s voice. For the second time that night, the chamber rocked with the concussion of the explosion. I heard shouts from the passage, including an agonized cry that chilled me, but there was no time to lose. I rolled to my side and swept my leg in the direction of Lady Dalfad. My shin connected with her ankles, and I felt her stumble. The revolver in her hand waved wildly, then with an effort she steadied herself and aimed the weapon at me. There was despair in her eyes, the hollow anguish of someone who knows that the battle is lost. But there was hatred, too, and there was murder. I closed my eyes. This was the point where I presumed I should have a quick word with the Chairman of the Cosmos, but as he and I weren’t on familiar terms, I thought it might be a bit presumptuous on my part to bother him with my present situation.

As it turned out, I was spared the indignity of having to cram my confession of sins into the seconds I had remaining (God knows, I wouldn’t have been able to account for many in that amount of time), for there was an almighty bellowing from the other side of the room. I opened my eyes in time to see Vincent launch himself at Lady Dalfad, cutting her down at the knees and seizing the hand that held the revolver. The countess screeched and clawed Vincent’s face like a wildcat, but the little pagan hung on grimly and did not let go of the weapon.

Munro arrived, with a look of grim determination on his face, and fell on the heaving pile that was Vincent and Lady Dalfad. More men of Robshaw’s appeared, until we were having a veritable lodge meeting with all the Masons in attendance. The superintendent himself followed shortly. He was clutching his arm, and the sleeve of his tweed coat was dark and wet. It’s the least the bugger deserved, in my opinion, for leading us astray and making our job that much more difficult. In a moment, Munro had wrestled the revolver from the countess’s hand and Vincent was counting the furrows in his face left by her fingernails. I looked round for French, and then I felt his arms encircling me. His hands roamed my body, searching, I presume, for wounds.

I shoved him aside. “Bloody hell, French. I’ve had less intrusive exams by my doctor.”

“Are you alright? Did she hurt you?”

I remembered Lady Dalfad’s eyes, the cold green of the North Sea, and shuddered. “She was about to shoot me.”

French pressed my face into his chest, his hands in my hair, murmuring soothingly in my ear. “It’s all over,” he said. “She can’t do anything to you now.”

I sat for a moment, inhaling the pleasant smell of sweat (he had been tussling with Munro, as you recall), tobacco and whisky. His fingers moved slowly through my hair. Was I swooning? My reverie was fated to end.

“She’d ’ave plugged you, India, if I ’adn’t shown up.” Vincent squatted on his heels next to us. “Look wot she done to my face.”

“If anyone asks, you can tell them they’re dueling scars,” I said, disentangling myself from French. It had been pleasant there, in the cocoon of his arms, but Robshaw’s men, having subdued and carted off the countess, were now looking at French and me with entirely too much interest.

I
t was a far jollier carriage ride from Balmoral to Ballater, where we caught the train for Perth, than the trip from Ballater to the castle so many days ago. We weren’t traveling with Lady Dalfad, naturally, as her transport back to England had been arranged specially for her by Superintendent Robshaw. Effie, shocked to the bone by her employer’s treason (or so she said—I never did trust that girl), had been reduced to sobs and was last seen being comforted by one of the under butlers, who, I was reliably informed, had been carrying a torch for her lo, these many years (poor fellow). The marchioness and I shared a carriage with Red Hector, who turned out to be a charming chap, being only half-drunk at this time of day. He and the marchioness gassed on about foaling stalls and stud fees and proper conformation, and when they were finished with the equine world, they moved on to canines, and I had to listen to a lengthy panel discussion of distemper and worms that left me breathless with boredom.

It wasn’t until the marchioness and I were settled in our carriage for the journey back to Perth, and Red Hector had seen us off with a cheery wave and an invitation to the marchioness to visit his breeding kennels in the summer, that I had a chance to bounce the old girl about Lady Dalfad.

“Alright, my lady, time to come clean. How did you know about the Marischal?” I demanded.

“We’ve got newspapers in Scotland. O’ course I knew the Marischal and the Sons of Arbroath were collectin’ English heads and blatherin’ on about killin’ the Queen. And ye’d have to be a prize ninny not to know there was a ruckus brewin’ at the castle. When the Queen said she’d be comin’ to Balmoral for Christmas, I saw the hands of those Scottish traitors in it. Her Majesty’s a great creature of habit, she is, and if she comes to the Highlands in the winter, ye know somethin’s afoot.”

There were several largish leaps of logic in that statement; I was not convinced. “Are you sure someone didn’t tell you the Marischal would be at the castle?” I could think of some likely culprits, namely Dizzy, French or even Robshaw, though I found it difficult to imagine the superintendent exposing a spotless tweed suit to Her Ladyship’s presence long enough to brief her on the nationalist plot.

The old trout gave me a crafty look and wagged her finger. “I canna tell you that, lass.”

Was it possible my employer was also an agent of the government? Hard to credit, I know, but if the prime minister could employ a tart, he surely wouldn’t balk at a decrepit aristocrat dripping snuff. If the marchioness was in the Queen’s employ, I’d extract the information from French and make sure it was a painful exercise. Or was the marchioness herself a disaffected member of the Sons of Arbroath, who’d grown tired of Lady Dalfad at the helm? Well, even if she were, I didn’t like to think of the old crone in a cold cell, trickling snuff over her straw mattress.