“Thereby attracting more supporters to his cause,” I said briskly. “Now that we’ve figured out these were real attempts on the Queen’s life and that the Marischal is behind them, let’s deal with the most important issue: who is he?”
“Robshaw has not turned up any evidence that Vicker, Red Hector, Skene or Munro have any affiliations with the Sons of Arbroath,” said French. “He finally heard from London this morning.”
“You’re joking,” I cried. “I found nationalist tracts in Munro’s room. Why would he keep them if he didn’t have an interest in them? Robshaw’s agents must be incompetent.”
“Or perhaps they’ve found nothing because there’s nothing to find. Someone might have given the tracts to Munro, and he’s thrown them in the drawer and forgotten about them.”
I sniffed. Munro didn’t strike me as being too lazy to ball up a political leaflet and toss it in the trash. He must have kept it for a reason.
“I recognize that stubborn look, India. I’m not saying that Munro isn’t a member of the Sons of Arbroath, only that Robshaw hasn’t turned up any evidence that he is. There may be an innocent explanation for the pamphlets in the drawer.”
“What about the revolver in Robbie’s room? I still think we should keep an eye on him.”
“I agree.”
“And”—I looked at French—“if you were paying attention at the concert last evening, you’ll remember that one of the verses of Burns’s song that Red Hector sang is printed on the leaflet I found in Munro’s drawer. You know the verse: ‘Lay the proud usurpers low,’”I began.
“Yes, I recognize the verse, and it had not escaped my notice that both Munro and Red Hector are acquainted with it. But then, I would expect most of the population of Scotland to be, as fond as the Scots are of Robert Burns.”
“That’s true,” I admitted. “Even the marchioness likes that ditty.”
“Well, then,” said Vincent (he’d consumed the last of the cake and was getting bored), “which one of them fellers is it?”
“The Marischal is reputed to be eloquent and charismatic,” I said, recalling our briefing from Dizzy. “I should think that would eliminate Vicker and Skene. From what I’ve seen of them, I don’t think either of them could inspire a thirsty horse to drink water. Vicker has the lineage and connections of a Scottish patriot, at least on his mother’s side of the family, but he hardly has an air of command about him. Half the time he looks as though he’d faint if you said ‘boo’ to him. What do you think of Skene as our villain, Vincent?”
“’E’s a nice feller, if you can keep ’im off the subject o’ John Brown, but I don’t think ’e’s a natcherall leader, if you know wot I mean.”
“Red Hector?” I asked French.
He shrugged. “He can gas on for hours about the evils of English rule and the plight of the Scots, but he’s usually in his cups when he does so. He had a perfect opportunity to pull a pistol out of his belt or the
sgian dubh
from his stocking and go for the Queen last night, but he sang instead.” His brow wrinkled. “I suppose I can see a group of inebriated Scotsmen following Red Hector to the nearest pub, but not to gaol, and certainly not to the gallows.”
“’E’s a blow’ard,” Vincent piped up. “’Is stable boy says that all’e does is drink and talk, drink and talk, and when ’e gets tired of that, ’e takes out ’is whip and lays into the ’elp.”
“That leaves Robbie Munro,” I said. “Who looks like a leader, with that square jaw and handsome physique.”
Both Vincent and French swiveled to look at me.
“What? I’m only saying that Munro cuts a fine figure. He has a soldierly look about him. I daresay he’d look a treat in a military uniform.”
I could see that French was not even attempting to visualize this image.
“And on that basis, you think he is the Marischal?” Did I imagine that French’s voice was the teeniest bit chilly?
“Don’t be ridiculous. I was just pointing out that of the four men we suspect, Munro most looks the part. But I do not think we can discount any of them, except perhaps Skene. As a groom, he would have had a more difficult time than a guest or house servant in gaining access to the castle to poison the Queen’s cocoa.”
“The same theory applies to Vicker or Robbie Munro with respect to the stables; they’d have looked like fish out of water out there. Someone would surely have noticed the deputy master of the household or a footman fiddling about with the block and tackle.” French’s voice was still flinty.
“They could all be in league together. I have seen Skene with Munro.” I related my tale of the meeting between the two men outside the stables. There was a lengthy silence as we all contemplated this possibility.
Vincent brushed the crumbs from his jacket and burped loudly.
“Pardon me,” he said, “but hit seems to me that we ain’t any closer to findin’ this ’ere hassassin than we were when we rolled in’ere. Wot’re we gonna do next?”
“We continue as before. Keep watch on the suspects, and alert each other if something unusual occurs,” French said with authority, but even he seemed a bit downcast at our inability to lay hands on the Marischal. All it would take was one more “accident,” and the whole lot of us might be going back to London in disgrace, not to mention that we’d be accompanying the Queen in her coffin. It was a glum prospect indeed.
Our meeting broke up then. As we were putting on our coats, I pulled Vincent to one side. “Haven’t you got something for me?”
He grinned. “Aye. ’Ow much will you give me for hit?”
Cheeky sod. “I expect you carried off enough stuff to flog in London that you’ll be living like a king when we get back there. Now, give it to me.”
“You ain’t payin’?”
“It would serve you right if Superintendent Robshaw got an anonymous tip to search the stables,” I hissed.
“Oy,” said Vincent, feigning terror, “I’ll ’and it over, India. Promise me you won’t rat me out.” He extracted a bundle from his pocket, and I slipped it into mine.
French caught the motion from the corner of his eye and opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it.
That evening I brought the marchioness a cup of warm milk. The old dear grumbled a bit as she preferred her usual dram of whisky, but as I’d laced the cup with brandy, she greedily sucked it down and smacked her lips once she’d tasted it, pointing at the Bible and asking me to find a passage or two I thought might be appropriate for the evening. I selected something from the New Testament (the Apostles are so much more uplifting that those wild-eyed prophets from the Old). I’d read only a few verses when I looked up to see my employer’s eyes closing and her head bobbing on the pillow. I shut the Good Book, pulled the bedclothes up to the marchioness’s chin and blew out the candle. I smiled in anticipation as I shut the door to her room. I hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in ages, but I would tonight. In addition to the brandy, I had added several drops of laudanum to the marchioness’s milk, courtesy of Vincent, who’d lifted the drug for me from the chemist’s shop in the village.
It certainly hadn’t been my idea for the lad to clean out the place; all I’d wanted was the laudanum. Vincent, however, was a disciple of the temple that believed that the trouble with resisting temptation is that it might never come your way again. He also had an eye for the main chance and a nose for profit that would have done a Rothschild proud. I’d no doubt that stashed under Vincent’s cot in the stables was a sack stuffed with enough morphine, laudanum and chloral hydrate to render the entire population of Edinburgh unconscious. Vincent could have any price he asked in London. I can’t say that I blame the boy for taking the lot and selling it, as there didn’t appear to be any benefactors lining up to help the little bugger off the streets.
I, therefore, went off to dreamland with a clear conscience. Between sleuthing during the day, babysitting the marchioness at every meal, and renewing my acquaintance with Holy Writ into the wee hours of the morning, I was fair knackered. I fell into bed like a toppled oak, prepared to sleep the sleep of the righteous (and I’ll thank you not to point out that my claim to such status is dubious).
The sound of someone hammering on the door woke me. I shot upright, head spinning. My first thought was that I had perhaps overestimated the amount of laudanum necessary to render an ancient crone unconscious and had inadvertently killed the marchioness. That would look bad on the old curriculum vitae, not to mention being a criminal offense. Then the voice at the door penetrated the fog in my brain.
“Miss Black, Mr. French has summoned you.”
Even through the thick wood I could hear the disapproval in the words. I stumbled to the door and opened it to find a footman named Grant (or MacBeath or Macdonald—who remembers or indeed cares?), one of the elder statesmen among the crowd of servants employed at Balmoral. He was an evangelical Kirk o’ Scotland man—I could tell by the sour frown on his face and the disgust with which he informed me that a male guest of the Queen had requested my presence in his room. I could have informed him that French leaned toward the lesser offenses of blackmail, conceit and the odd white lie in the service of duty but had little interest in the sins of the flesh (at least to my knowledge, which, admittedly, was minimal in this area, French being as loathe to talk about his background as I was). I yawned in the footman’s face and informed him that I could find my own way to French’s room, which scandalized the fellow even more. He went away with his handlebar quivering, grumbling about Jezebel, Sodom and Gomorrah, and the morals of the aristocracy.
Flora was as still as a mouse under her covers, and I took care not to wake her. I found my traveling clothes and slipped them on in the dark, then took my coat and scarf from the wardrobe, and carrying my boots in my hand, slipped out the door. I felt my way to the servants’ stairs and lit the candle, shielding the flame with my hand. I sat on the top step to lace up my boots and then hurried through the silent corridors. The coat and scarf were a precautionary measure; the last time I’d shared an escapade with French, we’d spent a fair bit of time freezing off our fingers in a blizzard.
A thin wedge of light spilled out from under the door of French’s room. I knocked softly and he opened the door immediately, drawing me safely inside and conning the hall to see if anyone was about. He was dressed for the outdoors, in topcoat and muffler. I congratulated myself on my intelligence in foreseeing just this possibility.
“Vincent was here,” he whispered, pulling on his gloves. “Archie Skene and one of the other grooms slipped out of the stables an hour ago. Vincent followed them long enough to be sure he could stay on their trail, then raced back here to tell me. We’re to join him in the stables.”
“What’s happening?”
“A meeting of sorts, in the woods. Vincent will tell us more. Now hurry.” He shoved his hat firmly on his head. “We must get there as soon as possible.”
Vincent was hopping silently in place, blowing on his hands, when we found him at the rear of the stables.
“There you are, guv,” he said. “I scouted out the territory whilst you and India were puttin’ on your duds. Archie and the other fellow met up with some blokes out there in them trees. They got a fire goin’, and there’s people comin’ from all over to join ’em. I saw four or five slip out o’ the castle, too.”
“Maybe they’re off to have a drink together, away from the house,” I said, thinking of my warm bed and not relishing at all the prospect of a stroll through the snow.
“They may be ’avin’ some whisky, but hit ain’t a social affair,” said Vincent. “You’ll see when we get there. We’ll ’ave to be quiet as cats to get up close enough to ’ear wot’s goin’ on. Follow me.” He slipped away into the dark, and French and I fell in behind him.
The night was moonless, with a cold wind blowing off the icy peaks of the Cairngorms, scouring the snow on the ground and rustling the boughs of the spruce trees overhead with a devilish whine. It was not, in my opinion, a fit night for a party, unless it was being held indoors in front of a raging fire. I gathered my coat about me and pulled my scarf tighter. Vincent had struck out on a straight line due north from the stables, away from the trail the others had taken. We walked briskly for several minutes, covering rocky ground patched here and there with a light skiff of snow. We reached the tree line behind the castle, where the ground began to ascend, and the walking became more difficult. We inched up a rocky slope, brushing aside snow-laden branches and scrambling over and around granite outcroppings, some as large as a house. The cold air made it difficult to breathe, my ribs hurt like the devil, and I was winded in no time. We struggled on like that for a bit, with Vincent pausing now and then to correct our course, and me sobbing for breath at the rear of the column. You’d think an urchin from the streets of London would be lost within sight of the castle, but Vincent had the instincts of a Pawnee scout and the night vision of an owl (how else do you think a boy his age managed to survive in the Big Smoke?), and we trekked on unerringly, until ahead of us a tiny light gleamed in the darkness, and Vincent crouched low and crept forward slowly for a distance of twenty feet or so (it felt like a mile, waddling forward in the that thigh-burning posture), then halted abruptly, dropping to his haunches behind a waist-high cairn of rock, which afforded us an excellent vantage point of the scene below. French and I knelt, and peered over the edge of the cairn.
“There they are,” Vincent whispered.
We had topped the crest of a ridge and were looking down into a shallow clearing, littered with huge boulders. Someone had lit a bonfire fit for Vulcan, with sparks leaping high into the air and giving off a great light that illuminated the two dozen figures gathered around the flames. The crowd contained mostly men, but there were six or eight women among them, easily marked by their skirts and bonnets. In the weird, flickering light the faces of the watchers were white and waxen, but for the few whose faces were shadowed, their eyes ringed with black. I shook my head, wondering if I’d accidently imbibed some of the laudanum I’d intended for the marchioness and was having a nightmare, having spent too much time chasing assassins and too little sleeping. But the mystery solved itself when I looked closer; the figures round the fire wore masks of varying shapes and sizes. I scrutinized them closely, and after a few minutes I was able to nudge French and Vincent and point out Skene, whose bushy eyebrows rested on top of a black mask like a dead mink draped over a curtain. I scanned the crowd, looking for the figures of Red Hector or Vicker or Robbie Munro, but I could not be sure if any of them were among the group.