India Black and the Widow of Windsor (16 page)

There were a half-dozen articles with titles such as “Scotland Betrayed” and “The Audacity of English Governance,” but the one that caught my attention was an article written by “Marcus Junius Brutus” (whoever he was when he was at home), which, if you know your Shakespeare, was not surprisingly a screed against the tyranny of Vicky, the present Monarch of the Realm, and a call to arms to exterminate Her Royal Highness for the good of the Scottish people. I dug under the clothes and unearthed a few more polemics, all of the same type, advocating that the Queen be dispatched with haste, along with any other English scum currently exercising dominion over Scottish affairs. I pondered the idea that the handsome Robbie Munro might be an ardent Scottish nationalist who saw himself as Brutus and the Queen as Julius Caesar. It would be a shame for such a handsome lad to end up on the gallows, and a waste of muscular calves, but I supposed it wasn’t that much of a stretch to see the chap as a potential killer. What did I know about the man, anyway? I’d have to tell French about the propaganda I’d found, and I’d have to keep a close watch on Robbie, which would be nearly impossible given my responsibilities with the marchioness. I was considering this dilemma, making a final sweep of the drawers and rooting through Robbie’s meager belongings, when my hand touched something that I recognized immediately: a revolver.

 

 

 

The Queen’s party and the servants had returned to the castle from kirk by the time I’d finished examining the .450 Tranter center-fire revolver hidden under Munro’s socks. He might be a sportsman, but no self-respecting woodsman would pot a rabbit with that weapon; there’d be nothing left but fluff. When I heard the carriage wheels in the drive, I hurriedly replaced the gun in the drawer just as I had found it and scampered back to Flora’s room, where I donned my uniform, smoothing my hair and pinning on my cap just as Flora walked in.

“Feeling better?” she asked.

I gave her what I hoped was the wan smile of a semi-invalid. “A bit. But I expect the marchioness will need me before luncheon.”

“You’ve plenty of time. It’s a madhouse downstairs. The Queen makes everyone go to services, then we have to sweat like slaves to get luncheon ready for her. She’s cross if she doesn’t get fed by two o’clock.”

That was welcome news, as it was only one o’clock now, and that meant all the servants would be engaged in preparing luncheon, with the toffs off to their rooms for a quick nap or a tot of sherry. Vicker would no doubt be occupied with all the details of serving the Queen a fortifying meal of a dozen courses, and I would have an opportunity to slip into his room and fish about for incriminating evidence.

I left Flora changing back into her working clothes and scurried down the stairs to the main floor, where Vicker’s room was located. I peeked into the kitchen, to see Miss Boss and Cook working like stevedores, the former bullying the maids and the latter bustling around with her cap askew, her usually genial expression replaced by one of intense concentration. I passed on, before Miss Boss noticed my appearance and dispatched me to the marchioness.

Outside the butler’s pantry the footmen were lined up, with McAra, the head butler, giving them the once-over while Vicker stood to one side, teeth clenched and his face pale, shifting nervously on his feet like a pugilist ready to step in the ring.

McAra consulted the paper in his hand. “And the buffet will include a game pie and a woodcock pie, as well as beef and tongue. For the fish course, the guests have their choice of turbot or sole.”

Vicker was fidgeting restlessly, his watch in his hand. “For God’s sake, McAra, can’t you move this along? We’ve got to be ready to serve in less than an hour.”

McAra turned toward Vicker, as slowly and stately as a transatlantic liner. “With all due respect, sir, I know what I’m about here. I’ve served the Queen these fourteen years, and we’ll have the food on the table and serve it up just as we always have, to Her Majesty’s satisfaction.” He turned back to his charges. “Now then,
éclairs au chocolat
for dessert.”

Vicker made a strangled noise in his throat and stalked off in the direction of the kitchen, where doubtless he would soon be irritating Miss Boss and Cook. The sweat on his bald head glittered in the light of the gas lamps. He was on edge, no doubt about it, but was it because he was here to assassinate the Queen, or had he just forgotten the place cards for luncheon?

I bobbed and ducked my way past McAra and the battalion of footmen, and once out of sight, I hared away to Vicker’s room. It was risky, with Vicker still stalking the halls, but I calculated that he would stay in the center of activity and not retreat to his room until luncheon had ended and the Queen was safely tucked away for a snooze. I could only hope that in his agitation, Vicker hadn’t wet himself, necessitating a quick trip to his room and a change of linen.

The deputy master of the household rated a far superior room to that allocated to the Marchioness of Tullibardine’s maid. The double bed looked comfortable and the quilts warm. Vicker also had a writing desk and a drinks table with etched crystal glasses and a half-empty bottle of rather superior whisky, along with a set of bookshelves and a cozy armchair near the fire in the inevitable Royal Stewart tartan. But the room had an air of seediness about it, as though the occupant wasn’t quite a respectable fellow. A dip pen and several sheets of writing paper were scattered on the desktop, and the stopper to the inkwell had not been replaced. A dirty collar hung over the back of the armchair, and one of the whisky glasses had been used, then set upon the polished surface of the bedside table. I picked up the glass and found it sticky to the touch; a thin ring of spilled whisky had eaten into the polish of the table. Perhaps Vicker was a drunk, which might go some way toward explaining the tremor in his hands, and his pale, perspiring face. I could not imagine, however, that the Queen (as persnickety as she was said to be) would tolerate a rum hound as deputy master.

I foraged through Vicker’s belongings at a flying pace, keeping an ear cocked toward the door in the event the poor bugger felt the need for another infusion of liquid courage to quiet the nerves. The wardrobe held only duplicates of the same getup Vicker wore every day: starched white collar and shirt, black necktie, waistcoat and suit. He had a pair of polished black half boots, a sturdy pair of hobnailed boots in brown leather, and a baggy suit of dusty green tweed (presumably for his rare moments of relaxation away from the confines of the castle). I perused the bookshelves, pulling out the volumes and letting the pages flutter through my fingers. There were a few improving books of sermons and essays on the moral condition of man (the pages had yet to be cut on these; apparently, neither the room’s previous occupants nor its current one were overly concerned with their immortal souls) and the complete works of Sir Walter Scott. I chose
Rob Roy
from the shelf and thumbed through it, but there were no hidden messages written in secret code, no underlining of words that marked the time and place of the Queen’s assassination. If owning a set of the laird of Abbotsford’s books indicated disloyalty to Her Majesty, then half the literate population of Britain would be considered traitors. I stifled a yawn and moved to the desk.

The sheets of paper I’d noticed earlier were wrinkled and blotted with ink, as though a schoolboy had been tasked with neatly copying out his lessons but failed numerous times. A drawing under the writing paper caught my eye. I moved the sheets aside to have a gander and found myself staring at an architect’s drawing of the castle interior, with the inhabitants of each room marked in pencil. A useful thing for an assassin to have in his possession but equally as useful to the deputy master of the household, who doubtless had to know where to send the chamber pots and which earl required a spittoon. I replaced the drawing and arranged the papers over it, taking a moment to hold them to the light to see if they revealed anything incriminating. I could make out a faint impression on one of the sheets: “Dear Mother.” I put it down and sighed. I suppose assassins can be dutiful sons, but somehow I couldn’t imagine anyone as dull as Vicker having the gumption to thrust a pistol to the Queen’s head and shout,
“Sic semper tyrannis,”
as he pulled the trigger.

One of the sheets had been crumpled into a ball and discarded in the wastebasket. I picked it up and smoothed it out on the desk. I might as well be thorough. With luck, I’d stumble across the killer’s to-do list:

But I found nothing so explicit. Vicker had indeed been penning a letter to his mumsy, but there was no way for me to tell whether he’d actually finished the missive and posted it. Certainly, the contents of the sheet I held in my hand were evocative.

“Dear Mother,” it read, “by the time you receive this letter I shall be gone, bound for South Africa.”

I filed away the information to report to French, crushed the letter in my hand and dropped it back into the wastebasket. I made a final survey of the room, rummaged under the mattress, tapped all the stones on the fireplace for secret hiding places and searched the oak floorboards for the same. Satisfied that I had missed nothing, I poked my head out of Vicker’s room and scanned the hall. Damn and blast! At the end of the corridor, the deputy master had waylaid a footman and was barking instructions at him like a drill sergeant. It wasn’t the footman’s plight that aroused my anxiety, but the fact that he and Vicker were positioned so that I’d have to squeeze past them to return to Flora’s room, and I had no real reason to be loitering in this particular hallway. There was no choice but to bugger off in the opposite direction and take a circuitous route back to my sanctuary. To my right, just steps from Vicker’s doorway, was a convenient corner to disappear around. Of course, if Vicker happened to look up and see my back vanishing down the passage, it might occur to him that I had to have emerged from one of the rooms that lined the hall, and it might have been his own room I had just exited.

If I lingered any longer, Vicker would finish his tirade against the footman and turn toward his quarters. It was time to go. I took a deep breath and edged out of the room, closing Vicker’s door gently behind me. I was torn between the urge to bolt and the desire to appear completely innocent of tossing Vicker’s room. I adopted a nice compromise, I think, moving purposefully but with speed, as though I had just gotten a summons that Vicky needed me to spoon up the pudding. I fairly flew along the hall, my feet skimming the floor, until I reached the corner and was home free. Then I took a moment to collect myself and consult the rather hazy plan of the castle I carried around in my head. From what I could recollect of the layout of the place, the quickest route back to Flora’s room was a shortcut through the guest wing. I wouldn’t look out of place mucking about there; I could always claim a summons from the marchioness if I was seen.

I was pattering along the main floor of the guest wing, wondering if I might bump into French (which reminded me that I still owed him a punch in the chops for taking liberties with my person) when the portly figure of the Prince of Wales stepped into my path. It was French’s fault; if I hadn’t been fulminating over the way he’d slapped my bum, I’d have been on the lookout for Bertie. It was common knowledge that you didn’t want to be caught alone with the heir to the throne, as you were liable to be dragged into a broom closet and impregnated. I added this latest issue to the list of those that I meant to take up with French the next time I saw him.

“It’s Miss Black, isn’t it?” Bertie asked in a jovial voice. “Friend of Mr. French’s, I believe.”

I tried to blush and look virginal, which as you can imagine is infernally difficult for me. “I’ve made his acquaintance, sir, but we’re hardly friends.”

This turned out to be the wrong thing to say. Bertie raised his eyebrows and smoothed his whiskers with a thumb. “Ah, so I wouldn’t be stepping on the old boy’s toes if I offered my own friendship to you?”

Bugger, bugger, bugger. How to play this? Saucy and pert, a flirtatious promise of a later assignation (that would take place when Hades iced over)? No, that would likely just inflame the randy chap. Shy and demure, a maid uncorrupted by men? From what I’d heard of the prince, he liked nothing better than deflowering the innocent. So, I was bound to rouse the old boy’s predatory instincts either way.

“I’d indeed be honoured if you bestowed your friendship upon me, Your Highness.” I edged away from the plump lecher, trying to put some space between us. Where was Miss Boss when you needed her?

The prince erased the distance between us, moving with surprising quickness for a prize porker. He touched my cheek with one plump finger, stroking it lightly.

“I’ve a nice bottle of champers in my room. I was planning to have a glass before luncheon. Care to join me?”

I ducked my head. “Oh, sir, I couldn’t. The marchioness is expecting me.”

The prince was beginning to look impatient. Apparently, I was taking rather longer than a maid should in succumbing to his charms. “Damn the marchioness. Come on, girl. I’ve only a few minutes before I have to be downstairs.”

He encircled my wrist with his hand, put his arm around my shoulders and began dragging me toward the nearest room. Now, I had no doubt that I could make him stop this behavior in an instant; all it required was a swift blow to the conkers and Bertie would be collapsed on the floor, gasping like a hooked trout. But what that might mean for my future, I could easily guess.

I was just about to capitulate gracefully, resigning myself to a brief contemplation of the state of England (Bertie had said he had only a few minutes) when a raucous cry split the air.

“Christ,” said Bertie, bounding away from me like a scalded cat. His head swiveled as he searched for the source of that piercing scream. No doubt he expected to see his mater bearing down on him, flourishing a riding crop and ready to use it on her wandering boy.